Emalia’s Birth Story - Part 1

 Birth Story — Part 1

Every bone and muscle in my body aches of trauma.

Imprints of hands and instruments where they shouldn’t have been.

My body did not welcome them there.

And yet without them - she would not be here.

Why does my throat and chest hurt? I got intubated? When did that happen? 

My stitches burn in pain reminding me. 

How did everything go so wrong in an instant? 

I was powerful. I was doing it. One contraction at a time. 

Contractions all week. Contractions all day. I endured, each one bringing me closer to her, I said. 

1/18/25

8:15 pm “Josh, get me a towel. It feels like my water is about to break.”

Towel is placed just as I feel the pop!

Progress, I proudly tell myself. 

The fluid looks funny. Is that meconium? Should I be worried?

Contractions immediately intensify like a freight train. My unmedicated, natural dream birth was just around the corner. 

Or so I thought. Or so I hoped. 

Something about each contraction feels wrong.

No.  I can do it. I can do this. I am doing this. 

10:00 pm

Let’s go. Call Kaiser L&D, tell them we are coming. I must be nearing transition, I think. 

“The entrance on Punahou St?” I hear my husband say to the nurse on the phone. 

What the hell? Kaiser is in Moanalua. What is this? 

“They’re full. All patients are being diverted to Kapiʻolani Hospital.”

No. No no no no. I have a plan. I want Kaiser. I want a midwife. I want a birthing tub. Are you kidding me? Tears stream down my face. 

“Unassisted home birth, or go to a new strange hospital full of strange new people?” I cry. Contraction. I am angry. Contraction. Through tears, “Let’s just go,” I say. 

The car ride there is excruciating. Every 3 minutes, I am roaring, trying not to scream. Keep it low. 

10:30

Finally. We’re here. Pull up to ER entrance. 

Contraction. 

Get wheeled in a chair by security. 

Contraction. 

Register. 

Contraction. 

“Dad, wait here while we take mom to check her in triage.”

Why are they separating me from my husband? This is wrong. I want him by my side. 

Contraction.  I can’t speak. My doula is parking. 

Check weight. 

Contraction. 

Get on the bed to check heart rate. 

Contra—ALARMS start blaring. 

“Arianna I’m having a hard time getting baby’s heart rate I need you to turn over onto all fours.”

I roll over. ALARMS

“Page the OR let them know to prep for emergency c-section”

WHAT. WHERE IS MY HUSBAND. WHAT IS GOING ON—CONTRACTION—SCREAMING—CRYING—I NEED MY HUSBAND

I don’t move. They keep wheeling me to the OR, still on all fours. Trying to process. “Where is my husband? I need my husband!” 

We’re suddenly in the OR. Somewhere I had never been in my life. I am healthy. Never had a surgery. I am all alone. 

“You need to move off the bed onto to the table. Lay on your back.”

My eyes dart around the room as what feels like 50 people rush in doing a million things asking me a million questions and yelling instructions at each other. 

A masked doctor peeks above my head. “Arianna your baby is in distress we need to get her out now.”

BUT WHERE IS MY HUSBAND

“I’m sorry he needs to wait this needs to happen now okay we’re going to take really good care of you.”

Someone else shoves a gas mask over my nose and mouth and I feel claustrophobic. 

They strap my arms down. 

Roughly wipe down my whole stomach with something wet. 

My legs are wide and they shove a catheter in. It hurts. 

I’m terrified they’ll start cutting me open before I’m knocked out, so I try to speak through the gas mask. 

“I’m still awake.”

It’s muffled. No one seems to hear me. 

I’m all alone. I am powerless. I am not the lioness I was 2 hours ago, vocalizing and moving through contractions. 

I am now just an object being operated on. 

With no husband, and no doula, I am alone except…I briefly think of my Savior and feel a Ministering Angel nearby. 

Please Heavenly Father don’t let me die. Please don’t let my baby die. 

 I hear, “Let me know when I can push the drugs.”

And then…

Blackness.