What We're Waiting For

Recognizing the signs of labor

"Think of ripples on a pond," Robert quotes as we walk. "A flower opening."

He's referencing the hypnobirthing book, putting images in my head that are meant to be helpful for labor.

"No," I scoff. "That's for the down breathing part."

Labor has two main stages: the long hours of early labor, where the upper part of the uterus contracts ("surges," in the hypnobirthing parlance) and positions the baby; and the short bit at the end when the baby actually comes out. You're supposed to practice breathing and visualizations for the first part ("up"), because the second ("down") will come more naturally.

"Okay," Robert concedes, "What do you do for the up part?"

"Things that go up," I quip dryly. "Bubbles. Sunrise. Hot air balloons."

"Drones. Picture the rotors spinning up. Jet engines."

"Yes, very peaceful. What are those airplanes that take off straight up?"

"Harrier jets," he nods.

I watch a video of a harrier jet takeoff later. With the sound off, it actually is surprisingly gentle. I suspect we've not quite followed the spirit of the hypnobirthing practice, but I'm not in labor anyway.

There are various signs of labor we're expecting, not necessarily in a particular order. Braxton Hicks "practice" contractions can feel like cramps, or hip pains, or not much at all. They could go on and off for weeks before labor. Am I feeling these? Maybe.

I could lose my mucus plug as the cervix opens. It's possible this has happened without my noticing. It's not unusual for it to happen anywhere from weeks in advance to just before labor.

Finally, there's the water breaking: a rupture of the amniotic sac that could be a gush but could just as easily be a slow leak. This sometimes doesn't happen until you're already in labor. It also doesn't necessarily trigger labor—but when this does come, birth is imminent either way; we'd be advised to induce. The risk of infection goes up.

Birth, especially first birth, is generally long and slow. It's about ninety seconds on, and a variable amount of time off between: I'm meant to get sleep, eat, relax in the early part.

It's irregular, then settles into a pattern. As the surges get closer together, at least according to the literature, I'll zone in: breathing, long showers, TENS machine. Candles and calm are recommended.

The hospital doesn't want to see me until I've been getting three contractions every ten minutes for an hour and a half. Our doula agrees; labor should progress more rapidly anyway in a familiar environment that we control. The ride to the hospital is likely to regress labor: lights, interactions, check-in process. Oxytocin tells the body to birth; adrenaline tells it to wait.

We're doing what we can to signal to the body that this is a good time, a safe place.

We're also getting the apartment fixed up: scheduling a stream of tradespeople as a cascade of weird issues crop up. We report them diligently to the property manager, who tells the contractors to schedule with us: a plumber to unblock our drains. This works but springs a leak under the kitchen sink.

The leaking faucet in the bathroom gets replaced, but it still drips because our water pressure is missing a pressure regulator valve. They order one to install.

One morning, all the switched lights in the apartment suddenly stop turning on: a fuse issue, maybe? I have to take my phone flashlight to pee at night.

Luckily, "tomorrow" is usually available to schedule the fixes. "But fair warning, I might have to cancel if I go into labor."

In the meanwhile, I'm just trying to stay rested, fed, hydrated, with my body in reasonable shape.

It's a bit like knowing I'll run an ultramarathon sometime in the next few weeks, but on an unspecified day. It's hard to train for.

In the meanwhile, that relaxin hormone just keeps releasing into the joints. My poor feet are a swollen bundle of loose bones, plantar fascia desperately overworked trying to support my weight.

Some of the hormones are triggerable. Every time I harvest colostrum, the fetus squirms.

"It's for you, kid," I project to it. "You just have to come out here and get it."

But it's happy in there, warm, constantly fed. Who could blame it for staying?

Previous: Thirty-Nine Weeks | Next: One Hundred Percent (Still) Pregnant