The labor story, part two.

Within five minutes of the nurse telling me I was in active labor, I was being wheeled into the delivery room. Before I even had a chance to catch my breath the epidural was ordered and countless family members were on the way.

The plan was to administer the epidural and then let my doctor, Dr. Graves, break my water. I barely had to suffer through three more mind-numbing contractions before the anesthesiologist entered the room, reading off page after page of risks--everything from spinal headaches to death. I gingerly signed the papers.

Jason sat in the corner of the room while they put in the epidural--a process I didn't realize takes at least 15 minutes. I tried my best to focus on his face the whole time. He skillfully managed to pretend to be at ease.

It was uncomfortable and scary (I've heard too many horror stories of enduring headaches and back pain and failures to even work) but it didn't come close to living up to my fears. A half hour later and I was lounging back, pain-free, choking down ice chips like they were going out of style.

The hospital is in Nashville, about 45 minutes from our apartment and our families' houses in Murfreesboro. But I swear it only took 10 minutes until the room was flooded with visitors. My mom got there first--she rushed to leave work, also in Nashville. I've never seen her, or anyone, really, in such a tizzy. Jason's parents got there shortly after and his sister and my best friend Erin, along with several cousins and aunts and family friends. Once they put in the epidural I didn't have a minute to myself. And thank God, because that would have required thinking, and realizing, and soaking in what was about to happen. The hustle and bustle of visitors and well wishes and "Are you ok's?" kept me sane.

I felt my water break before Dr. Graves even got there. Again, for all my googling trying to figure out what water breaking feels like, I can definitively say that it feels like water breaking between your legs. There is no mystery to it.

By the time Dr. Graves walked through the door, still her usual temperate self, I was dilated to a 6, almost 7. She told me I'd have a baby by the early morning. It had been five hours since I got to the doctor.

Up to that point I can't say how I felt or what was going through my mind. And I don't think it's that the memory is already clouded. I think I just honestly didn't allow myself to think much at all. I focused on the facts, the minutiae of the event. How many centimeters that contraction might have dilated me. How we were going to get my dogs to my parents' house. How we were going to get our hospital bag. If my dad, who was on a flight back from a conference in Germany during the whole ordeal, was going to make it in time to meet his grand-daughter. It was all business, no emotion.

But then it all started happening too fast.

An hour after my water broke, Dr. Graves found me dilated to an eight and decided to go get something to eat. Because isn't that always how it has to happen--things have to start snowballing the second the doctor leaves?

She told me to keep an eye out for any "pressure," but said that it would still probably be at least a few hours before I was ready to push (Note to self, and anyone else who is pregnant: doctors, even the best ones, are often wrong). So she left, and Erin, her parents and grandparents, Jason, my mom and I sat around talking. Erin tried desperately to keep me distracted. We talked about Kourtney Kardashian, and our friends, and relived funny memories from high school. It was right in the middle of a conversation with her that I felt something weird, some vague "pressure," from my abdomen.

I called the nurse, who ushered everyone except Jason and my mom out of the room. It had been fifteen minutes since Dr. Graves left. I was dilated to a 10.

That's when the facts and minutiae went out the window and emotion took over. I wasn't ready. How was it time? How could I possibly be on the brink of pushing a human out of my body? How was I--or anyone--supposed to do this? How can I expect my daughter to be healthy and my labor to be drama-free when there are so many millions of things that could go wrong?

The nurses paged Dr. Graves to hurry back. Within 20 minutes she was in her scrubs and my legs were in the stirrups. My mom was on my right, her hand on my head. Jason was on my left, his hand in my hand.

I'd read about the labor shakes--and although I still felt little pain my body had taken over. Every single ounce of me was shaking. Out of fear, out of exhaustion, out of pure emotion-overload. I shook so badly Jason had trouble holding his grip. I shook so badly I could barely talk, barely get out the words "I'm not ready," which I struggled to repeat over and over.

I started pushing at 9 o'clock. And everything--all the silly, little things--I feared about labor were nowhere to be found. I didn't care if I peed, pooped, or threw up on that table (for all of you, who like me, gave this a lot of thought, I'll tell you that even though I pushed with every tiny bit of my strength, nothing came out except a baby. And now I wish I'd spent all that time I worried about that on something more productive, like learning another language. I could be bilingual by now.)

Pushing was the hardest part. Not painful, although they dialed back the epidural enough that I could feel the twinge of each contraction. But I pushed so hard I was coughing, gagging, gasping for air. And still, a barrage of nurses and my doctor and Jason and my mom never stopped telling me to push harder, to just give it a little bit more. And I had nothing left to give.

After forty minutes of pushing, I heard the thump thump on the heart rate monitor slow down. This is the moment in all of the Baby Story shows and horror stories that the woman is raced into an emergency c-section, when the dramatic music kicks in. Adelyn's heartbeat had slowed to 50. She was having trouble getting past my pelvis.

But luckily for me I wound up with a dream doctor, one who deserves infinite praise. A c-section was never mentioned. Instead, calmly, she told me she was going to have to cut the smallest incision (another one of my biggest fears about labor, episiotomies) and bring out the vacuum. I had no reason and no will left to argue at this point; I simply nodded and shut my eyes tighter, gripped Jason and my mom's hands with a little more force.

Ten more minutes of pushing with the assistance of the vacuum and Dr. Graves took a break. She told me that during the next set of pushes, it was more important than ever that I listen to her carefully. She said she would tell me to push gently, and the second she said to stop, I had to do it. So that's what we did--for what seemed like another hour. Dr. Graves slowly pulled Adelyn past my pelvis, and I felt--not with pain, but with pressure--her head, her shoulders, her abdomen coming out.

Months ago I sat down with Jason to tell him that when the time came, I wanted him by my side. I didn't want him looking. Call me a prude, or unappreciative of the naturalness of birth, but whatever. I didn't want to see it, let alone him. So being the amazing partner that he is, he listened. He stood by my head, helped the nurse hold my leg up, and stared directly into my eyes. His gaze never wavered.

The nurses and doctor all started chirping together to look down and watch my baby come out. Again, I had no intention of looking. But they all sounded so excited that I reluctantly lifted up my chin and looked down. And there she was--remarkably unbloody, arms outstretched, beautiful. It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

"Look at her!" I said to Jason. He kept his gaze on my eyes locked--he knew how serious I had been about the no-look policy.

"But you told me not to!"

"Look at her!" I said again.

And he finally did. I saw his eyes fill up with tears. Seconds later they put Adelyn on my chest. She cried and we cried and I felt the biggest surge of relief I ever could imagine. My daughter was perfect. After months--years--of fear, of convincing myself that my health would never allow such a miracle, of letting myself believe in every negative aspect of my malfunctioning body. She was perfect.

Jason went to the opposite side of the room with the nurses while they cleaned her up, and I watched as Dr. Graves worked to deliver the placenta. I didn't see it come out--I was too focused on my new family. But as I saw her stitching me up in my pereferal I saw Jason hold Adelyn for the first time. He didn't think I was watching. He held her to his face and mouthed, "I love you." It sounds cheesy, but that was the best moment of this whole nine months. I'd done it. She was here.

Adelyn Belle. 7 pounds, 5.2 ounces. Born at 9:48 PM, January 25, 2010.

Jason and his dad.

Aunt Erin.

Great grandparents.

My mom.

The most beautiful girl in the world.

The first day home.