The story of Shep’s birth

In the end, inasmuch as something as miraculous as a birth can be ordinary, Shep’s was — and that in itself was a miracle. That is the story I have to tell you today.

When last we left off in my world of birthing, I had delivered our daughter via c-section a few days earlier than expected. Throughout my pregnancy with June, I kept my hands open — doing what I could to prepare for an unmedicated birth (hiring a doula, taking a birth class, reading up on all the things), but also realistic that I had no idea what the experience of labor would be like and that I might well choose to get an epidural. I felt fine either way, and sure that my worth wasn’t tied up in either outcome. What I never saw coming, however, was a c-section, and when June presented breech at 38 weeks, that’s exactly what I got.

Our doctor’s pronouncement of an immediate surgery (because of low amniotic fluid) sent me reeling — with panic, fear, powerlessness, and sadness. The birth I had been anticipating was plucked from my hands and set out of reach, leaving me grasping for a reality that was no longer mine. That day I sat outside the doctor’s office and sobbed — because I didn’t feel ready, because I was anxious about our baby girl, because I was terrified of a c-section, and in mourning for the experience of giving birth I had been anticipating.

If you’ve read June’s birth story, you know that a kind nurse’s casual remark was the spark that finally stemmed my tears: “You can always try for a VBAC next time!” she said. At once, all the possibilities I was reaching for seemed to come rushing back to me, and I was able to set aside my thoughts about the future and focus on the task at hand, secure in the knowledge that what I had so recently thought was gone forever was back within reach. It was confirmed in my mind — the next time around, I would be trying for a VBAC if at all possible.

And then I gave birth to June, and I recovered from surgery – not without pain, but surprisingly quickly and easily. Nursing was smooth. My scar healed and was hardly visible. Nothing I was worried about seemed to come to fruition.

Traci Huffman

Over the many months that followed, I would occasionally and idly wonder about that next time around. I found that I was no longer set on trying for a VBAC at all costs, given what ended up being a largely positive experience with June’s birth. I mostly kicked that can down the road, but I did take the step of switching OB/Gyn after my six-weeks-post-birth appointment, since the doctor that delivered June did not do VBACs (also he was terrible, so that was an easy decision!).

And then the test came back positive, and what was once theoretical was now imminent. And boy was I conflicted. Based on the reason for my previous c-section (breech positioning) and my lack of other risk factors, my doctors were happy to have me either schedule a c-section or attempt a VBAC. They would not induce me, however, and if I hadn’t gone into labor naturally by 40 weeks, they would move forward with a c-section on my due date.

So I had those parameters, but otherwise the decision was up to me (and also John, but he understandably felt I should take the lead).

My pregnancy was mostly uneventful. It was, however, marked by almost constant unrest over how Shep’s birthday would play out.

This time and last time, all I wanted was a healthy baby and a healthy mama. I’m not alone in this, but others usually say this to mean they are fine with any delivery outcome. I, however, was in the position of having to choose the type of delivery, with the knowledge that my choice could have an impact on just how healthy mama and baby would be — and that often felt like a crushing amount of pressure.

There are risks and benefits to both c-sections and VBACs, and every week, it seemed, I would get a new bit of information or insight that would send me swinging from one side to another. I prayed often for God to make it clear which option would be better, or even to take one option off the table (by, for example, giving me another breech baby!). I even point-blank asked my favorite doctor at one appointment what she would do if she were me, but she stuck to the party line that both were good and safe options. Harrumph.

I knew what I didn’t want: hours of intense laboring, and then having to have a c-section anyway. My recovery with June was better than most because I went into it fresh, not exhausted from many hours of labor. If I was going to have another c-section, I didn’t want to labor before it.

At 21 weeks, I read that half of all TOLAC (Trial of Labor After Cesarean Delivery) result in c-sections. That seemed excessively high to me, so I swung toward scheduling a c-section.

At 24 weeks, my doctor explained that were I to attempt a TOLAC, they would be monitoring me closely because of concerns about stress to my uterus, and wouldn’t let me labor as long – so even if I had to have a c-section, I’d still have a good amount of strength. I swung back toward wanting a VBAC.

At 27 weeks, a different doctor explained the risk of scar rupture. It’s 1 in 200, which again, seemed absurdly high to me for a pretty major complication. Back to scheduled c-section.

The questions chased each other for months.

What if we want more biological children? VBACs aren’t as recommended after two c-sections, and three c-sections are done but not necessarily encouraged.

Was I choosing convenience, the “easy” route? Was there virtue or reward in choosing the “harder” route? From whom?

Would people think less of me? Would I think less of myself?

Would I never experience my water breaking, contractions, that “this is it” moment, rushing to the hospital at midnight, or laboring with John at my side?

In the end, I scheduled the c-section for as late as possible while still being on a day my favorite doctor was on-call. (Though I liked all of the OBs at my group practice, I had an AWFUL experience with my first doctor and was determined to have a joyful doctor-patient relationship this time around!) If I went into labor before then, I would do everything in my power to have a successful VBAC.

I clung to advice from a dear friend’s mom – to make a decision, and then make it the right one. There was no perfect answer here, and no way to know how things would unfold from either starting point — what complications I might or might not experience with either type of birth. All I could do was make the best decision I could with the information I had, and then leave it behind me (and ask God for His grace over all of it!).

As July 31st approached, I had not even a hint of impending labor – I wasn’t dilated at all, and I hadn’t felt anything even remotely close to a contraction. I wrapped everything tidily up at work on Friday (a luxury I hadn’t had last time!), and spent a leisurely Monday with June at my side – going to the hospital for intake blood work, picking out books at the library, an afternoon nap, and a walk around the neighborhood in the summer heat. We picked up my Mom at the airport that evening.

My surgery was at 11, which meant we needed to arrive at 9. We took one last photo as a family of three outside our house (my hospital bracelet already on!), then John and I dropped June off at school before heading to the hospital. There was no need to hide tears when we recreated a photo from June’s birthday outside the entrance, and no tears when we greeted our nurses.

What was the same as last time? The peace I felt as I sat on the operating table, about to deliver June. After months of restlessness, doubt, and worry, I suddenly felt sure that I had done everything I could, that the choices I had made were the right ones, and that my baby boy and I were in good hands. I am so grateful for that.

The most painful part of the next two hours of prep was when the nurse-in-training tried to put my IV in multiple times – ouch! They eventually had to switch to the other hand and let the experienced nurse have a go. (She got it in the first time and I hardly felt it – but I had to put an ice pack on my other hand! Maybe a sign I would have gone for the epidural?!). Much of the rest of prep was the same as last time – listening to our boy’s heartbeat, talking to the anesthesiologist, drinking the nasty reflux preventative, the brief separation at the operating room door while John suited up in sterile gear.

With June, I felt detached from the bustling operating room and remember it as blessedly peaceful, a stark contrast to my painful morning. This time around, it felt like a party. My doctor put on beach music and laughed with the nurses while the nurse anesthetist asked me about June. The spinal block went in (not painful!), I was lowered onto the table, and the surgical drape went up (clear this time – a change since 2016).

Before John even got into the room, I was already starting to feel nauseous, and would go on to gag into a basin as they got started with the surgery. Unlike with June, where I felt uncomfortable kneading on my stomach, I didn’t feel anything when Shep slipped out – our sweet boy was a little fish! He entered this world at 12:06pm and held his breath for a few beats just to keep us on our toes — then immediately peed on the drape! John squeezed my hand before going to our boy in the warmer, then popped back around to assure me he was cute and all in one piece. 7 pounds, 3 ounces, 20 inches long.

I let out a breath I had been holding since November.

John cut the cord (he reported it was “gummy”), and, after a quick towel-off, Shep settled in on my chest while they finished out my surgery. I was still battling some nausea, so John and I passed our new baby boy back and forth – which was okay by me, since I had a better view of him when he was being held by John :)

We made our way back to the delivery floor, and then to our recovery room. I remember so clearly the feeling of being swathed in sheets and hospital blankets with my Shep tucked up against my chest, snuggled in a little nest.

He was, and is, the sweetest baby boy. I am so grateful for his birth, and that in the end, it was just an entry point into this wild and beautiful world. The real adventure has only just begun.

P.S. The meaning of Shepherd’s name