To fully appreciate this story, I must first give you the cliff notes of our first birth. You see, Elisha Calista took FOREVER to make her grand entrance into this world. She came two weeks late. I labored for forty-eight hours–I needed to spell that number out for it to hold its full weight. After the first 12, when I thought it was hospital time, they sent me home for failure to progress. I wept in the car. Failure and I are not friends. 12 hours later they admitted me out of pity having only gained another centimeter. Then came the epidural I was sure I didn’t want along with a butt load of pitocin. Then that epidural failed on one side of my body every 45 minutes like clockwork, and I got to feel the full might of never-ending-pitocin-induced contractions until the anesthesiologist made his way back in. Then we finally got to 8 cm which felt like victory, but my stubborn-from-conception daughter decided to try for a better view in the birth canal and turned her head transverse. If I pushed, it could snap her neck. And that’s when the doctor blew the whistle, called off my plan for a natural birth and wheeled me into the OR. I’d like to tell you, I embraced this change of plan and had a beautiful c-section, because I know those exist. But that, my friends, would be a lie. It was traumatizing. My crappy epidural necessitated a spinal block for surgery which shouldn’t have but did essentially paralyze me: couldn’t move my arms or my neck, couldn’t feel myself breathing so I was sure I wasn’t. (Clearly anesthesia and I do not get along.) I was in a full on panic attack and Liam hadn’t even made it in the room yet. I don’t remember much outside of that. I don’t remember her being lifted over the drape. The shining silver lining was Liam announcing it was a girl–yes we are those weird people who wait 40 42 weeks to find out the sex of their baby, and praise the Lord we did because that is still my happy moment in this story. But all in all, our first birth suuuuuucked. And I don’t feel guilty saying that. I’m a birth photographer. I LOVE birth–however it comes. I’ve wanted to be a mom since I could spell it. But that was not a happy birth. It was one full of fear and anxiety and pressure–and I ain’t talking about the ring of fire.

So you bet your ass I vowed the next time would be nothing like the first. I was NOT getting cut open again. I was not giving pain meds a second chance. I was pushing this baby out on my terms. We found a group of midwives whose VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) rate was 90%, at a hospital with birthing tubs. We hired an incredible doula to be another support system in the room. I even sucked up my massive fear of needles and got acupuncture to bring on labor. (Spoiler alert: that works.) But here’s the thing: that crapfest up there, yea that was our only point of reference for how my body did birth. Late. Long. And slow. And that is fully what we were expecting again. So I gave no thought to the five days of prodromal labor that I had not felt at all with Elie. And then came New Year’s Day. I was 39 weeks and 1 day. Zero parts of me thought I was going into labor that day. So when the contractions started hard and fast at dinner time, I chalked it up to Braxton Hicks and headed to my office to work. That was 6:30. I FaceTimed my sister, aka The Birth Factory, and chatted with her for awhile and she brought up the obvious fact that I was seated and the contractions were not letting up. This was not Braxton Hicks. This was labor. She also informed me they were three minutes apart. Around 8:00 I went upstairs to kiss the kids goodnight and told Liam this might actually be it. I texted my doula and she recommended I go take a bath. If contractions persisted through that then it was definitely go-time. And so I sausaged myself into our too tiny bathtub where the water couldn’t even clear the mountain of belly. I gave that nonsense about fifteen minutes before deciding that A. This was definitely labor and B. I wanted to be standing this time. I was gonna labor this baby down because, again, I thought this would take awhile.
I also have to mention we were in the middle of a glorious two week period where our favorite photographer and our favorite babysitter (who happen to be sisters) were back in town for Christmas break. In those entire 14 days, there were only two days that they had plans to attend a youth conference in DC. This was obviously opening night of the conference. So around 9:00 I sent them a text apologizing for my terrible timing but telling them this was happening tonight, and like the awesome people they are they ditched the concert and started the long metro trek back up. Liam was frantically packing a bag and trying desperately not to need to ask me what to bring. Around 10:00 I called into my midwives and admittedly probably downplayed it a little bit. But y’all. I was so afraid of being sent home again. This hospital was 40 minutes away. Sent home was not an option this time so we were not going early. Based on my history and my downplaying, she agreed that I could probably keep laboring at home for while longer. And so I told my doula to get some rest at her place because she had just finished a birth. I got in the shower and ran out our tiny hot water heater. (Note to Liam: get a tankless before the next pregnancy.) I paced our room a bunch. I tried laying down to rest and immediately hated it, so I decided to do my makeup instead bc hi, I’m me. At that point I couldn’t keep still enough to do my brows, contractions went very quickly from 2-3 minutes apart to less than a minute apart, and I went very quickly from “we’ve got all the time in the world” to “holy shit we are not even going to make it to the hospital.” Praise Jesus, Ellie and Eliza arrived right then, and we left Eliza, took Ellie and headed straight for the hospital at about 12:30 telling our doula to meet us there.
I remember texting her as we were leaving asking what I could do to make the car ride bearable. She doesn’t sugar coat–it’s one of the things I love about her–and she replied “Nothing. This will be the absolute worst 30 minutes. You just have to get through it.” Y’all. She was right. This was transition…in a Prius…and it was hell. I screamed. I felt utterly out of control. I was sure I was traumatizing Ellie. (FYI this was her first birth.) I knew I was being the meanest to Liam I ever had been. I mean that man was flying and made that drive in nineteen minutes, but I was still threatening to get out and run faster every time he stopped. Side note: the power of prayer is REAL y’all. We live in the northernmost part of the burbs and our hospital was in the south corner of DC. In traffic that drive could take two hours easy. But I prayed every day for a weekend or midnight delivery. Thank you, Jesus. And yet, on minute eighteen when he stopped at the red light outside of the hospital at 12:48 in the morning when NO ONE was there, I think I might have threatened to divorce him. I definitely tried to get out of the car. Sorry, babe. You were a champ.

The next hour was a blur of hospital intake: people forcing me to sit in wheelchairs and lie in beds when all I wanted to do was stand. I got checked: NINE CENTIMETERS–yea, we probably could have left a little while sooner, but hey! They weren’t sending me home!! My midwife was incredible. Another no bullshit kind of woman, she gave it to me straight: I did the awesome thing, I labored at home and progressed all that way, but now I had to endure all the protocol crap at a reeeeeaaaaaally uncomfortable time. I was ready to push and yet they were trying to get the IV in (VBAC precaution) and the insurance guy was there telling me policy and having me sign mid-contractions. (Definitely illegible…really doesn’t seem legally binding.) It was a freaking circus, but we have come to expect nothing less of our life. I was still intent on standing until I found out what those silly socks they make you wear are truly for. They’re not to keep your feet warm–you’re in the literal heat of labor. No, they’re to keep you from slip-sliding all over the floor in your own cervical fluid. I did not have time or patience for the socks. I felt like Bambi on the ice. And so before my legs totally gave out they convinced me to lay down with the promise of pushing. Now up to this I felt totally frenzied. It had happened so fast, and I just felt like it was a tornado I couldn’t keep up with. But when I started pushing something changed–at least in my head it did. I should probably ask Liam how it looked from the outside but the pushing was so focused and intense, and then in those seconds in between I would close my eyes and it’s like my head completely cleared and the most random and awesome and hilarious thoughts came in in the absolute calmest, almost stoner-esque fashion. Between one set of contractions I’d think “Do we really want more kids? I think this is probably enough,” and then between the next it was, “Was the epidural really that bad last time? I could probably do one of those again,” and then the next, “Why did I not want another c-section? I think that’d be fine.” Y’all, I was loopy.

And somewhere in the middle of that loopy Liam decided he was Dad MD and volunteered to deliver our baby. Like I closed my eyes after one push with him next to me, and I opened them to find him in the midwife’s seat. I was so game for this. He was so excited, which made me so excited and even more sure that I COULD DO THIS. It was just us, and we were going to bring our baby into the world. I thought I’d have to push for awhile. Again, we hadn’t even made it to this part last time, but I knew it was totally normal for first time laboring moms to push for an hour or two. So when the midwife said, “Just a couple more!” I thought she was joking. But then after a couple more she was telling me to reach down and a head was out and there were arms flailing and I reached for them and pulled my baby to my chest and in a complete self-admitted cliche I can say it was the most miraculous moment of my life. It was literally every single thing I had dreamed of, but what I was instantly caught off guard by was the flood of opposing emotions.


See this was our second birth, but our third pregnancy. In between Elisha Calista and Aurora Eliza, there was our son, Gabriel Jonathan. I had these same dreams of a miraculous redemptive birth with Gabriel. I started planning the same way: the midwives, the doula, all of it. But those plans were cut very very short. Gabriel was due in January too, just a year earlier. And so right when our baby hit my chest and all the relief in in the world swelled in, the grief surprisingly came right along side it, and I went straight into incoherent, 18-chins, ugly girl sobs for probably a solid 15 minutes. I was OVERCOME. Not just with every perfect ounce of her—honestly I didn’t even know she was a her yet because that’s just how quick the flood came: I pulled her out, pulled her straight to my chest and lost it. But it was also every single thing that came before her. And one of my first thoughts was him, my sweet Gabriel. Even in that moment holding my perfect glorious rainbow of light, my heart still longed for that same moment I was robbed of with him. That is miscarriage. That is how I continue and will always wade through the grief of it. It’s winding and confusing. It comes both from where you expect it but also from absolute blind spots. It did not take away from that experience, just made it a bit more complex, for he is as much a part of me as she is. For in the same moment I was longing for him, I was also thanking him for helping build me into the woman I was right then. In the same moment I wished to be holding him, I was rejoicing that he is in the arms of our Savior. In the same moment I was wishing she could meet her brother, I was grateful knowing he will watch over her always. Safe to say it was a lot of emotion to process all at once.


It felt like we laid there forever. I pulled myself together enough to actually look at her, saw she was a girl and lost it all over again. Liam cut the cord, something he missed out on last time. It was all strange and awesome bliss. All I could do was kiss her and rub her. I remember thinking she was the softest baby in the world, like velvet. (When we got home and Elie got to hold her the first thing she said was “Mom, she’s so softey!” and she was right! To this day, girl’s still got skin like butter!) She latched on and nursed a bit, then Liam took her to get measured and have some skin to skin time. I took in the scene and had a gigantic smile glued to my face. We had done it. My body was capable of what doctors said it couldn’t do three years before, what it hadn’t been able to do a year earlier. It carried our sweet girl for 39 weeks and one day. It labored for eight hours. It pushed a baby out in eighteen minutes. It was FREAKING AWESOME.




Aurora Eliza Ramsammy
1.2.2018 2:22 AM
9 lb 3 oz 21.5 in