Killian: the Story of Your Birth

Preface: Sorry this is practically a novel, but hey - there are photos to break it up! Also, I am an avid scrapbooker, and I tend to write journaling on the pages directly to my children. This is written to Killian.

This isn’t the birth story I wanted to write for you. I wanted, more than anything, to be able to tell you that you were born in the same birth pool as your big brother Bram, caught by your father’s hands, surrounded by those who loved you before they even saw you. I wanted a gentle, peaceful transition for you coming earthside. I wanted the first hands to touch you to be ones of kindness, for us to spend the sweet hours after your birth nursing in our bed. But this isn’t that story.

Instead, it’s the truth. Painful, raw reality that I’ve been avoiding dealing with since your birth 5 weeks ago. If your arrival has taught me anything, it’s been a lesson in expectation. Nothing has gone as I planned. Everything about you has been a surprise, and I’m a planner. It’s been a struggle for me.

But let’s back up a bit. Though I haven’t really said it aloud to anyone, I’ve been uneasy for the majority of the pregnancy with you. I’ve had more anxiety with this pregnancy – with you, my 6^th son – than I did with any other pregnancy, including your oldest brother, who was born just before I turned 17. Something felt different to me, and in hindsight, your father has told me he felt the same. Perhaps if we had mentioned something to a doctor, we could have known before your birth. We would have made different choices if we had known beforehand that you carry a little something extra.

The Sunday before you were born, April 5^th, storms rolled through our area. My body tends to like storms to start labor, and it was no exception. I spent hours that day with contractions every 3-5 minutes that would stop me in my tracks, wake me from sleep. But they didn’t get more intense, and it was early in the pregnancy to go into labor. My previous pregnancies were longer, each longer than the last, so I thought there was a strong possibility I’d be pregnant into May, despite your April 21^st “due date.” I also was used to contractions that would stop and start, but these felt different. Unfortunately, when Dad checked my cervix, they didn’t appear to be making any progress. Eventually they petered out, as I expected, and I made plans for the following weekend. I needed to have something to look forward to.

The following Wednesday, April 8^th, the day before you were born, there were more storms. Again I had spent the night being awoken from sleep from intense contractions, ones that made my cervix feel like it was ripping open. Different than any other contractions I’ve experienced with the 7 other tiny humans I’ve brought earthside, but I figured that every labor is different, so it didn’t concern me.

What was new for me too was the bit of bloody mucus I had first thing when I went to the bathroom that morning at 6 a.m. I texted that to your dad, who was already at work. We were both just watching and waiting for more signs that maybe it was really baby day. The storm continued to intensify, and with it so did the contractions. They were more spaced out than on Sunday – every 15 minutes – but very insistent. So much so that by 8am, I told your dad I thought it was it, you were on your way, but wait a little bit to come home just so I could be sure.

Dad must have been excited to wait and told me he was wrapping things up at work and would be home soon. By then, the storm was roaring, and my body was responding accordingly. Contractions started coming harder and closer together, and when your dad showed up in our driveway, we were in the middle of a hailstorm. The marble sized hail stones pelted your father as he rushed inside to see me. We looked at each other, nervous and excited that our 6^th child might be arriving sooner than any of our others. A quick cervical check confirmed that things were happening – I was now 2cm and 75% effaced. We decided to wait another hour to do another cervical check before calling in our birth team – midwife Debbie, her assistant Amanda, and our birth photographer Jessica.

Soon after, the storm passed and the rest of the morning was clear skies. At the 10am check, there was no more progress, despite the persistent contractions. As my night had been rather sleepless, we decided a nap would be a good idea, so I laid down on the couch to rest while Dad cared for your older brothers. I managed to sleep hard for about an hour and a half. It was desperately needed and I did feel better when I awoke. Contractions were still there though, about every 10 minutes.

Dad and I spent the next 2 hours trying to decide what to do. I spoke with Jessica, who reminded me not to chase labor, because it would happen in its own time. Hearing that is comforting yet frustrating when it seems your body isn’t agreeing with itself. By noon, there was still no change, so we decided Dad should go back to work to save time off for after your arrival.  There was little chance you would be born before he’d return from work.

I have several Facebook groups of lovely ladies I only know virtually, but over the years I’ve known them, they have been an indescribable support for so many things. I had been updating them as to the possibility of real labor, but when your dad returned to work, I needed to make that update. I felt like The Girl Who Had Cried Labor. My body was all confused – painful contractions that I felt nearly entirely in my cervix, plus I was still spotting every time I went to the bathroom. All I wanted was for things to pick up or go away so I could rest. This in-between time was horrible.

Luckily, they slowed down after that for most of the day. Between noon and 7pm, contractions had fallen back to every 20-30 minutes. Still happening, but I could rest a little and accomplish a few things – starting loads of laundry, general tidying. I didn’t want to give birth in a dirty house and I needed to keep my mind off things.

By 9pm, they were every 10 minutes for the past couple of hours. I was still spotting bright red. It seems super unusual to me, but it wasn’t a ton so I still didn’t find it too concerning. I updated my facebook groups and my birth team, and went to bed by 11pm. I really, truly needed rest if this was real labor, because I was already feeling worn down. I had never experienced early labor taking this long and I wasn’t prepared, mentally or physically, for a prolonged labor.

So I went to bed, wishing for as solid a night of sleep as I could get sharing a bed with your dad and 2 of your brothers, but it wasn’t to be. Contractions maintained a 10-15 minute interval, waking me from my fitful slumber, for hours, until around 2am. Then they picked up to every 7-10 minutes. My cervix was still yelling at me, but now my back was in on the game. I needed to breathe through them now, wanting to wake your dad up to comfort me but knowing he’d need rest to support me better later on.

3am on Thursday, April 9^th,  I got out of bed. I am a fairly vain person, as your dad will tell you, and I knew I’d want to shower and shave before laboring. This girl needed to look pretty for birth photos, so I filled the bath tub to soak and shave. I spent a lovely hour in the steaming tub, and all the while the contractions continued. I knew it was truly baby day at that point because ordinarily they would slow down or stop after soaking in the tub. This was the same thing I had done during labor with your brother: rising early in the morning to “test” my contractions in the tub. These were the last quiet moments: a silent house, a warm bath, alone with my thoughts. I was truly in labor at 38 weeks, 2 days pregnant, the earliest I’ve ever had a baby. I was ready to meet you, but I had projects I still wanted to accomplish! Reorganizing the pantry would have to wait many months because with a new baby, something like that is too hard.

I returned to bed at 4am, after my bath. Contractions had picked up to every 5 minutes and were definitely uncomfortable, but not painful other than my cervix. I pulled your big brother Bram close to me and snuggled with him, for the final time, as the baby in our family. Yesterday, we referred to him as “The Baby,” but tomorrow he would be just Bram. Soon he would be a big brother. It’s amazing how quickly that changes.

By 5am, the contractions were harder for me to work through and I decided I needed your dad now. He wasn’t hard to wake up – pretty much as soon as I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s baby day,” he was up. Another cervical check… 4cm and 75%. Yes! Stuff was happening! I could take solace in the fact that all my work was doing something and my cervix wasn’t screaming at me for nothing. We both tried to lay back down, but sleep wasn’t found. We spent the next hour with quiet whispers over your sleeping brothers’ bodies about how everything was going to change… you were on your way.

6am was time to wake your biggest brothers up for school, so we got everyone moving and told them and the birth team that today was the day. The kids thought they would get to stay home from school, but no dice – someone would pick them up when things got closer. Everyone wanted to witness your arrival and see you take your first look at the world. Milo & Bram were promised cutting the cord, and Xander would get to announce your gender to the room.

I was still spotting, more than yesterday and still bright red, but I figured it was just my cervix being irritated from being checked so much. Contractions kept coming and coming, for hours, never increasing. I attempted another nap at 10am but was less than successful. I felt so worn down from the hours upon hours of early labor with no end in sight. It felt like a repeat of the day before.

Around noon the contractions had slowed down again and I was stuck between 4-5cm. More hours of contractions with little change. It was discouraging to say the least. I spoke to Jessica again – who is more than a birth photographer and doula, but a dear friend who always brings great energy wherever she goes – that I could do one of 2 things… continue to try my best to rest and reserve my energy, or I could try several things to speed the contractions back up again.

After some discussion, your dad and I chose the latter. We left your brothers Milo and Bram with Grandma and we went for a long walk around the neighborhood. There may have been some lunging involved. It was about a mile or so walk, and when we returned home I was a sweaty mess from the humidity… and contractions were 2-3 minutes apart. I took a quick shower while Tom called in the birth team. This was it, for better or worse, ready or not.

The team arrived around 1:30-2pm and I realized that Bram has a low-grade fever. He wasn’t feeling well so he was clingy and wanted me, and I just didn’t want to be cuddling him right then. He needed me though, so I sat down on the floor and tried to comfort him. Jessica joined me and we talk, though I can’t remember about what anymore. While sitting there, I felt a gush in my underwear.

“Either my water just broke or I’m bleeding more,” I announced. I was wearing a cloth pad for just this occasion, so I couldn’t really tell when I go to the bathroom. Debbie followed me in, saying more water will come out during a contraction if it is indeed my water. Nothing happened with the next contraction, and I had made the unfortunate choice of a red cloth pad, so we couldn’t tell how much blood there was. Debbie said it looks like a normal amount to her though, so naturally I assumed that it was okay. She knew better than I.

By then, I just wasn’t feeling much like a birthing goddess. That’s what I was hoping for with this labor, but it was so not the case. Everything felt off to me. And apparently, Jessica could tell I felt down too, as she told me later while she helped me process your birth. I was incredibly uneasy but didn’t know why, so I attributed it to nerves or hormones. After all, we were getting ready to have our SIXTH child.

Around 5:30pm, I took a drink of water and it went down the wrong tube. I started coughing and gagging but worked it out, laughing at myself for my ridiculousness, almost hysterically. Dad hugged me and looked in my eyes: “Are you okay?” Hysterical laughter turned to hysterical crying and I collapsed on the couch in a fit of tears.

“Is it time to fill the birth pool?” I couldn’t even form words through my tears, so I just nodded. I was encouraged to eat something at this time, because I hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before. I had been trying to snack on things, and each time I would throw it back up again. I was running on fumes by now – no sleep, no food equals no energy. At this point, I had been in labor for 35 hours.

By 6pm, the tub was full, birth playlist started, and I could finally get in. Almost instant relief and I smiled again for what felt like the first time in hours. I could manage the contractions again, for a little while, though periodically I would get out and go to the bathroom. Contractions actually felt better sitting on the toilet, but every time I would go to the bathroom, there’s more blood. Sometimes it’s enough the water in the toilet bowl is all red. Sometimes there’s a large clot in the toilet, one time as big as my palm.

 

I mentioned the blood to my birth team each time I got out of the tub, but Debbie reassured me that it’s within the realm of normal. Again, I figured I’m just being nervous because I’ve been anxious for months. I’m not the expert here.

Everything just kept getting more intense from this point. By 7pm someone suggested a cool washcloth since I felt like I was overheating in the tub, despite the water helping the contractions. Your big brothers kept popping in and out of our bedroom, where the birth tub was set up. Xander would silently watch. Felix and Milo wanted to come and talk to me about absolutely everything. Everyone was excited to finally meet you. They were taking bets on whether you’d be a girl or a boy.

Around 8pm, I began vocalizing loudly. My cervix, which had been painful to me for the past 37 hours, felt like it was going to tear my entire body in two. I tried to keep my vocal tones low to help my cervix open, and so I wouldn’t scare your brothers, but it was hard. I could hear myself sounding more frantic, and that’s how I was feeling. It was so hard, and I was so tired, and I just wanted it to stop. But the only way out is through, so I labored on. Debbie checked your heart tones, which were a little lower than they had been through the rest of the labor – around 130 bpm, I believe.

 

Someone suggested we should check my cervix, so Debbie did. I was 9.5cm with a lip, just like I had been with Bram. So I got out of the tub to go the bathroom again, hoping that laboring in a different position for a bit would help get you in a better position.

This time, when I went to the toilet, Dad followed me. He saw how much blood was in the toilet and I saw the fear in his eyes. “It’s been like this for hours,” I told him. He called Debbie in to see, and I watched her brow furrow but she said nothing.

I returned to the tub to labor more. Heart tones are assessed again, except they’ve dropped more: 112bpm.

“We need to transfer, don’t we?” I asked, knowing the answer. “Let’s try to push on the bed while I hold back the lip.”

At 9:17pm, I hobbled to the bed on top of a chux pad and I tried pushing, but it was just not working. I went back to the tub for a little bit longer because on land the contractions felt so much worse. Heart tones are assessed again at 9:36pm: 80bpm.

Last photo taken at home

We needed to leave.

Dad had to find clothes for me to wear, as up until then I was just in a sports bra. I was crying by this point: big, ugly tears that shudder through my entire body. Jessica held me up as Dad helped me into pants.

“I’m so scared,” I told her.

“I know,” ever the voice of reason. Jessica’s energy was the calm amidst my hysteria.

I grabbed my cell phone as we leave: 47% battery. In the loft outside my bedroom, Grandma and the kids waited. They thought the baby would be arriving soon, but instead we were leaving. As I walked down the stairs, cervical pain still crippling me, Grandma was calling the nearest hospital to us to tell them we were on the way for a birth emergency.

I managed to grab my purse as we head out the door to our van. I heard Debbie say she is going to ride with us in case I deliver on the way. There are car seats installed in our van, and Dad just unclipped and tossed them into the yard. There was no time to put them away. The three of us – me, Dad, and Debbie – get in and Dad began driving.

Contractions are coming every 1.5 minutes and they freaking hurt. My cervix was still screaming at me but I had no urge to push whatsoever. As Dad ripped through the neighborhood and onto the highway, I updated my Facebook groups again at 9:56pm: “Heart rate dropping. Transferring. Pray for us.” I also somehow find the sense to text Grandma that there are car seats in the front yard, if she could take care of them.

I fought against the contractions while the van caught air from Dad’s speedy driving. A police car passed us and Dad wished for them to stop us so we’d have an escort, but it doesn’t happen. Debbie continued to listen to your heart tones, still fading, until we pulled into the emergency room parking lot at St. Francis Hospital in Mooresville. Dad turned an 18 minute drive into an 8 minute drive.

A Labor & Delivery nurse met us at the door with a wheelchair, and she pushed me to the maternity unit to their “ready room,” so called for just these situations. All the while I vocalized, probably scaring the patients I was passing. Truly, I was scaring myself too. Once in the room, I was placed in a gown and crawled onto the bed.

Monitors were hooked up. An IV was placed – the absolute worst part for me, because my veins are not suited to it, and it’s worse than my contractions. A rough cervical check happened during a contraction and I just wanted to crawl out of my skin and run away. This couldn’t be happening to me. This wasn’t right.

Heart tones are low, the nurse told me, but we knew this. That is why we were there and not home. They wanted me to push hard now, and they force me to curl up in the crappy way that they like women do in hospitals, the way that as a doula I know is not the best way to birth a baby.

I didn’t want to, and I tell them so, dropping some f-bombs in the process. My mind couldn’t function anymore and I kept repeating, “It’s not supposed to happen like this.” Where did my gentle birth go? Why did I have to be there, with them?

A nurse, attempting reassurance, told me, “Any one of us would trade places with you if we could.” “Bullshit,” I tell her, “none of you would.” Why would they? I sure wouldn’t. Then I’m told to grab the backs of my knees and stop talking. Just push.

And I just don’t. Want. To. Do. It. “Just cut me open. This needs to be over! I’m done. I can’t!” My body felt like it was made of jelly and too weak to perform. I just needed a moment to breathe, but you didn’t have a moment. You needed to be out already.

I grabbed the backs of my knees and hated it. Hated myself, hated where I was, hated that I was having a baby. I wanted to be anywhere else but doing this. Nurses try to “coach” me vocally into better pushing, but I’m not moving fast enough for them. So one stuck her fingers inside of me and forcefully pushed to my bottom, trying to “direct” me how to push, and I started sobbing.

God, this was not what I wanted.

I grabbed behind my knees again and pushed until capillaries in my face broke. Finally, your head started to crown and the nurses realized my water hadn’t yet broken. The sac bulged, and as a nurse went to pop it, Debbie stopped her. I have always wanted a baby born in the caul, and Debbie thought that though I wouldn’t get my water birth, maybe I could have this. The sac broke as your hips slid out, but we’re going to say you were born in the caul. All of nurses said it’s the closest they had ever seen to it.

Immediately relief after the sac broke and your body slipped from mine. I am given a shot of Pitocin to slow my bleeding, since I had been bleeding all day long already. The nurses are talking transfusion.

And then I saw you, in profile, between the bend of my legs.

I saw your almond eyes and I knew immediately. My baby has Down Syndrome. My baby has Down Syndrome. My baby has Down Syndrome. My mind was racing. There had been no signs at your anatomy ultrasound. The doctor had refused to run the early blood test I requested. Just… how?

Before I could hold you, a nurse cut your umbilical cord took you away to the warmer. Dad follows you to take photos. You were having trouble breathing and were placed on a C-PAP. I hear a nurse say “floppy” and “eyes,” but not to me. I knew enough about Down Syndrome to be worried about your heart, as over 50% of those with DS have cardio defects. My mind started running through all the issues I know that people with DS can have.

A nurse then told me to push the placenta out. All I wanted was to rest and let it come on its own, but apparently we had an abruption and it was coming out right behind you, along with a short umbilical cord. This is why I bled so much. This is why we were struggling, why we had such a tough labor. We were lucky things went as well as they did, because we could have lost you.

The doctor walked in finally, followed shortly after by the anesthesiologist. Both missed the birth, but if I hadn’t delivered you by then, you would have been born by c-section. The doctor asks multiple times if I had had prenatal care and if I had any tests done. He wants to see my test results. Why would he need test results? I wondered, and realized it’s because he wanted to know if I had had the quad screening done or something similar.

But none of this was what I wanted. I wanted to just be at home, nursing you, my newest son. Instead, a nurse says you need to go to the nursery for monitoring.

 “Please, can I hold him for just a second first?” The nurses reluctantly handed you to me and I finally got a look at you. Looking at your sweet face, there was no doubt to me that you had DS. “Tom, take a picture,” I said to your dad. He snapped a few with his cell phone. Seeing them now, I can see how bewildered I look. You just weren’t what I had pictured in my head.

Birth time is called at 10:22pm, 10 minutes after we arrived at the hospital. I told Dad to follow you to the nursery so you won’t be alone.

As you are wheeled away from me, instead of in my arms, Jessica and Amanda joined Debbie and me in my room. I told them what I thought, and they just listened. I cried, and they listened. I cried because I didn’t have my water birth, because I wasn’t at home, because I would never have a daughter, because you weren’t in my arms with me, because you had Down Syndrome and there were so many unknowns. Because nothing had gone the way I wanted. You were here and I was still scared.

Dad returned back to me by 11:10pm, and the first thing I said was that you looked like you had Down Syndrome to me. He had thought the same thing and asked a nurse, who agreed that you looked like you might have DS. Yet still no one “official” was talking to me about it. Then Dad left to get some food, since I still hadn’t eaten anything in 41 hours. I was left in my thoughts with my worries, with my cell phone and its dying battery, updating Grandma with what was going on.

When Dad came back, we ate our food and talked. And we cried, because we just didn’t know what our future would be like now. It’s hard to bond with a baby you can’t touch, and I don’t even know if I had processed I even had had a baby. Everything felt so surreal.

Around 11:45pm, Dad wheeled me into the nursery in a wheelchair. There you were, hooked up to so many tubes and wires, struggling to breathe. I held your little leg and cried because you deserved so much better of a welcoming to the world than I had given you. You deserved kindness and cuddles in my bed and nursing and all that is wonderful about those precious early hours.

Instead we were separated and I was left to worry and wish.

I wish I could say that I instantly accepted you, with your unexpected Down Syndrome, immediately and without hesitation, but I can’t. It was hard for me to fall in love with you because I couldn’t hold you. And there was nothing I wanted more in the fiber of my being, but I couldn’t. I just wasn’t dealing with anything. I would have had a hard time just processing the hospital transfer, let alone this surprise.

Seeing you there, in the nursery, we hadn’t yet decided on a name. You were supposed to be Atticus, Elliott, or Ulysses, but none of these seemed to fit. When I remembered that Killian means “little warrior” and “small but fierce,” Dad said he felt it was the right one for you, but it was up to me.

By half past midnight, I returned to my room and started making texts and posts. “6lbs 15oz. We think he has Down Syndrome. I had a placental abruption and a short cord. He is having a lot of trouble breathing. They're doing blood work and chest X-rays. My heart hurts.” Along with a photo of you. It was all I could muster.

I hadn’t found the joy yet. There was too much unknown.

At 2:30am, I sent another message that we had decided on your name: Killian Robert Oakenshield, the name for you, our little ass-kicker. After that, I tried to sleep as best I could on the crappy hospital bed. Mostly though, I was googling on my phone everything I could think of about Down Syndrome. Complications, life span, photos… everything.

It was the longest night, not knowing. Dad got some sleep but my mind wouldn’t shut down. It would have been so much better if I could have just held you, instead of having this idea of what raising a child with Down Syndrome would be. You weren’t yet a baby to me, but a diagnosis, and not even an official one.

6am on April 10^th, Dad left to get your big brothers off to school and to pack me a hospital bag, since we were utterly unprepared for this situation. I mindlessly watched HGTV and messed around on my phone, watching my battery drain until it died. Then I just watched TV.

At 8am, the on call pediatrician entered and pulled up a chair.

Crap. That’s never good.

“What do you know about what’s going on?” He asked me.

“I think my baby has Down Syndrome,” I said to him, wishing for me to be wrong.

Instead, the doctor confirmed it – he’s 99% certain, but a blood test is needed for an official diagnosis. He spouted off a bunch of testing they are doing. You have two holes in your heart, but the biggest concern right then were your platelets; they were dangerously low. He then said that it might be leukemia or that my body was attacking you as an invader because you were “wrong.”

Talk about mommy guilt. The choice is between leukemia or my own body trying to kill you?

It was too much to process. The doctor left and eventually Dad returned, and I had to relay this heavy information to him. And we cried because we still didn’t know what was going on. There were too many things to process and it was easier just not to. We spent the rest of the day visiting with you and messaging back and forth with family and friends.

It wasn’t until the next day, April 11^th, that I could find the words to officially announce your arrival to the world. I didn’t want to announce until I could find the joy in your arrival, and it came after snuggling your sweet body against mine. Your platelets were going up and it was looking like you did not have leukemia, thank goodness. Your risk for it is 20x higher than a typical child because of the Down Syndrome, but for right now, you are good. It felt safer to announce after we knew things were on the upswing.

There were only sweet words from friends and family. Everyone was supportive and kind and strong when I couldn’t be. They knew your kind soul even before they met you. They marveled at your beauty and compared you to your brothers, though it took me a while to see that you all have the same nose (mine) and earlobes (Dad’s). All I could see was your diagnosis, unfortunately. Their words lifted my spirits and my hopes for your future.

Remember what I said at the beginning, about you teaching me about expectation? Yes, your birth experience and these early weeks are nothing like I anticipated.  No home water birth, no breastfeeding (though hopefully that’s temporary), more appointments than every other brother combined. Everything has been different and it’s been a struggle to let go of my hopes and plans. Some days are easier than others. But I think maybe that’s going to be your thing – defying expectation. You have been full of surprises from the start, and I hope that continues for the whole of your life.

Photo credit: Rachel Anne Photography

You are Killian, my little warrior, my little ass-kicker. As my dear friend Lori said, you are going to move hearts and mountains.