With my first pregnancy, very little went to plan. I developed severe preeclampsia three weeks before my due date. My blood pressure was over 200 and there was protein in my urine. Less than a half hour after my obstetrician told me she would have to perform an emergency C-section, I was on the operating table. My son and I recovered well from the experience—a fact for which my husband and I remain tremendously grateful every day—but I could not help but feel that this cold, clinical, and crisis-driven delivery was not something I wanted to repeat.
So when I got pregnant for the second time, I hoped that I could try for a delivery experience that was the opposite of my first: an unmedicated vaginal delivery with a doula by my side. But though a doula can be an invaluable companion for many women, I’m very glad that I ultimately trusted my own instincts—not the doula’s. If I hadn’t, I probably would have had to deliver our baby in the car or at home.
I imagined a doula as part coach, part cheerleader—someone who would make suggestions, based on her experience at other births, to help me get through the pain of contractions.
To prepare for my second birth, I read a number of books about unmedicated childbirth, researched doulas in my area, and interviewed potential candidates. Though my doctors were supportive of my desire for a VBAC (vaginal birth after C-section), I thought a doula would increase my chances of achieving an unmedicated one. I imagined a doula as part coach, part cheerleader—someone who would make suggestions, based on her experience at other births, to help me get through the pain of contractions.
While all the doulas seemed to have the requisite experience and knowledge, I ultimately chose a woman whose sense of humor seemed to jive with mine. I met her in person when she came to my house to discuss my goals for an unmedicated VBAC and to give me some tips for pain management during labor. She also suggested that I stay home through early labor and into active labor, allowing things to unfold naturally in a comfortable environment. My research suggested that arriving at the hospital after labor was well established would decrease the chances of interventions as well as pain medication like an epidural, so her advice made sense to me and I agreed with this plan.
When I went into labor a few months later, things advanced very quickly. Around 6 p.m. I started to feel cramping that started and stopped. Slowly, the cramps became more regular, and I realized that I might be having weak contractions roughly 20 minutes apart. Based on the advice of my doula and the books I had read, I acknowledged these signs of potential early labor but carried on with my evening.
Soon, my husband started our son’s bedtime routine. Quite rapidly—over the next 45 minutes or so—my contractions intensified in strength and got much closer together. I started the contraction timer app on my phone and was confused when it indicated that contractions were now only two to three minutes apart. My husband was taking what seemed like an eternity to read our son his bedtime story as I paced around our house. I finally interrupted them, hissing, “Put… him… to… bed… NOW!” A look of recognition appeared on my husband’s face.
Making a difficult decision was the last thing I wanted to be doing—and, in fact, I had intended to rely on the doula and my husband to make decisions while I just focused on getting through labor—yet I decided to trust my instincts.
At 8 p.m., we called the doula. My contractions were now roughly two minutes apart and 30 seconds long. The doula told us she wanted to make sure that the contractions stayed regular and that we should call her back in an hour. I tried sitting in the bathtub and walking around, both of which only intensified the contractions. The only thing that seemed to help was to put my head down on the bed as each contraction started, with my husband pressing his hands into my lower back. Through the fog I heard him calling our neighbor to ask her to come over and stay at our house while our son slept.
Soon I felt a “pop,” like a bubble breaking inside of my body, and water gushed out. I couldn’t believe that my water had actually broken like in a scene in a movie, but the evidence was unmistakable. We called the doula back at 9 and let her know my water had broken. She listened to me breathe through a contraction and spoke with my husband about the timing of the contractions. Ultimately, she recommended that we not go to the hospital until the contractions were only a minute apart and had increased to more than 30 seconds in length.
Hearing this advice, I instinctively knew that she was wrong. Dead wrong. Though I had never before been in labor, and it was impossible to think clearly in the moment, I was certain, somehow, that it was no longer a good idea to stay home. Making a difficult decision was the last thing I wanted to be doing—and, in fact, I had intended to rely on the doula and my husband to make decisions while I just focused on getting through labor—yet I decided to trust my instincts.
In my mind, I released a series of expletives. Out loud, I used just one: “F—— the doula,” I instructed my husband, “I want to go to the hospital.” My husband called my OB, who confirmed that we should hightail it the labor and delivery ward.
Though my doula was purportedly the expert who had attended many births, and I was the labor newbie, I had been right to trust my gut.
When we arrived at the hospital, I was eight centimeters dilated, meaning that I was in very advanced labor. By around 10:30 p.m. I was fully dilated and began the process of pushing. My doula and the OB both arrived after I had already started pushing. I remember seeing the doula and briefly wishing that she wasn’t there, because I had lost trust in her judgment. At 11:20 p.m., my daughter was born.
Later that night, I lay in the hospital bed and reflected on my experience as my husband and daughter slept near me. While the doula and I had exchanged pleasantries after my delivery, unspoken tension hung in the air: If I had listened to her advice, I would have had to deliver my child without the help of medical professionals. My doula’s advice—to labor at home to ensure that my labor was well established by the time I made it to the hospital—had been sound in theory. Yet, in practice, my labor had advanced precipitously, and I couldn’t help but resent the fact that she hadn’t noticed this unusual circumstance from our phone check-ins. Though my doula was purportedly the expert who had attended many births, and I was the labor newbie, I had been right to trust my gut.
Now that I know that I am prone to very fast labors, I would not hire a doula again. Yet through this experience, I was also validated in trusting my own instincts and judgment. As parents, we are often called upon to make decisions based on little prior experience. Looking back on the day of my daughter’s birth, I feel empowered to make decisions that feel right for me, for her, and for our family, even if others may have a different opinion.