Three years since.

I think of my birth experience with Danny often; sometimes even daily. I’ve never been the same. It changed me as a person, as a woman, as a mother. It gave me such a glimpse of

what it means to have a body (and soul) designed by God. This experience was holy for me.

The week Danny was to arrive, my mom had come to stay with us. She came to ease the passing of the long last days of pregnancy. We had a sweet time together, playing with Morgan, going to lunch, reading books, playing outside. She cooked and cleaned. I rolled around from couch to bed. We were waiting for little bear to arrive.

Friday afternoon, I began having sweet little contractions around five pm, or so. I sat on my birthing ball. I rocked my ripened body, not believing this was anything significant. When you’ve been pregnant for forty+ weeks (weeks that feel like years), you can’t comprehend the reality of the beginning of real labor; the beginning of the end. So I sat. I walked around. I fixed my hair.

I called Mr. Keller, who was golfing with a friend. I told him my belly hurt. He said he’d be home in a while, both of us doubting this would turn into anything certain.

I walked around the house more, becoming more anxious, as time slowly went on. My mom was timing contractions with her phone. I called Mr. Keller again. And then again fifteen minutes later, telling him I needed him home. He said he would be coming soon.

'Soon' was too long. I called him again and heard his friend in the background say, "I think we better leave." Mr. Keller later told me he explained that we'd done this before, and it would be hours before it was actually time. 

When Mr. Keller finally arrived, we decided to call in to see if anyone would be willing to check my progress before we headed to Idaho Falls.

There were, at the time, just two doctors in town that would allow me to try to deliver vaginally (after my c-section with Morgan), and both of those doctors were out of town and not available. We knew in advance that this would most likely be the case, so we lined up another doctor in Idaho Falls who would allow us to labor naturally and try for a vaginal delivery. And that plan was in place. We planned on heading there.

But we didn’t want to head there too soon. With my forty-one hour labor with Morgan, we expected a long labor again.

When I was checked at 7pm, I was dilated to two centimeters. Exhaling, we came home. I climbed in bed and breathed. The pain was coming in waves; small, but precise. I was laying on my side when I audibly heard (and felt) my bag of waters break and immediately, I was devastated. It was 8pm. The anxiety of this labor had been with me since conception. The outcome was so unknown. We still, to this day, feel the sting of our long, failed labor with Morgan. My water broke very early on with him, as well, and with broken waters now with Danny, I remember melting there on the bed. I remember feeling defeated, and immediately, I was emotional. I called for Mr. Keller who was eating in the kitchen. He came running and I began sobbing, explaining my broken waters. “I can’t do this”, I told him. He reassured me that it would be okay (although he thought I was crying over the soaked bed!).

The pain, of course, became greater then. I always wonder why women want their waters broken early on. It’s such a gift from God to sway the pain. And those babies born in the caul! What a dream.

I was in a warm bath now, breathing and crying. Mr. Keller was coming in and out of the bathroom, bringing me drinks of water, ice, dinner, oils. Dinner didn’t stay down for too long.

The time was passing fast and slow. We didn’t know what to do. Neither one of us. We expected hours would come and go before we would need to leave to Idaho Falls.

Soon, the pain was excruciating; swift and unbearable. Still in the bath, I remember us looking at each other, and realizing Idaho Falls was out of the question. I knew with the pain as it was, the ride would be too long to handle. We prayed to know what to do. And I so clearly remember thinking I had to give to God the dream I had of giving my baby a natural birth. I had to give it to him. I had to let it go. This dream I had held in my heart, the one had I had planned, prayed and prepared for. I had to give it away. And so I did.

Mr. Keller called our hospital here in town and told them to prepare for us. We had confirmed a few hours earlier that the on-call doctor was not one who would allow us to try to deliver vaginally, so we knew if we went to Portneuf, we were headed for a cesarean. Mr. Keller later told me the nurse had heard me in the background screaming through contractions and telling him she thought I was going through transition. They would be prepared for us when we arrived.

I stood in the bathroom bent over. Mr. Keller had already put our bags in the car, where my clothes were. He ran out to get the bag. He brought the wrong one. He ran outside again. When I think of him on that night, I only see him running. He was running everywhere, like the frantic expectant father on all some dramatic Lifetime movie. We were that couple. I was so loud, in so much pain. And he was running around, sweaty, bags in his arms, his white golf shirt still on. I put on a nightgown. Mr. Keller was trying to hold my underwear up for me to step into. I couldn’t. I could laugh and laugh about how concerned he was about me not wearing anything but the nightgown. He could’ve carted me off naked and I would not have cared. We were having a baby.

I remember the drive feeling so long. It was ten minutes. I remember Mr. Keller trying to speed, but me telling him to slow down because every bump in the road he hit made the pain so much worse. And I remember screaming so loud I was hurting my own ears. I remember Jared was on the phone again with hospital. I remember passing our favorite restaurant, sitting at the stoplight, driving the onramp to the freeway, and then the off-ramp a mile later. I remember turning into the hospital parking lot and Mr. Keller trying to park the truck. I remember thinking (and maybe saying), ‘What the hell are you doing?! I can’t walk!”.

So, he pulled up to the doors and the halls were empty. It was 9:22 on a Friday night. Finally he found a wheelchair and ran out to get me. I sat in the chair, and he left the truck and all the doors open. This was happening. Finally someone must have heard me screaming. A lady came running out and quickly took over the wheel chair while Mr. Keller ran (again) to park the car. I remember seeing people in the waiting room staring at me. I was outside my body, thinking so loudly, above the screaming and above the pain, I was so alert.

When we arrived on the right floor, I was met by a flustered team of nurses. They stripped me down and laid me on a bed in a triage room, since they hadn’t had time to prep a labor and delivery room. The dark haired nurse knew my name and I thought she must have been the one Mr. Keller was talking to on the phone. He was so upset in the truck with how rude they were to him. She kept asking me over and over, “Are you pushing?”.

I didn’t know. This pain was foreign to me. It was blinding. Never, even after hours on Pitocin, did my labor with M organ ever feel like this.

I remember so clearly her checking my cervix with one hand, and her holding a phone up to her ear with the other.

“She’s 9 ½ and pushing” she said.

I could not believe what I was hearing. I had dilated from 2 cm to 9 ½ in a matter of two hours and twenty-two minutes. How could this be?

They assured me the doctor would be arriving soon. He was golfing on the other side of town.  

Mr. Keller hadn’t come back yet from parking the car. He finally ran (again!) to my side. He was shocked when they told him how dilated I was.

When the doctor arrived, he was red faced and angry. Since we had left the house, I remember telling myself over and over, “Just make it to the hospital and the pain will go away.”

I was longing for the cesarean prep now. I wondered what was taking so long.

I remember hearing them talk about the anesthesiologist. I finally yelled out, “Where is he?!”.

The same dark haired nurse got close to my face again and told me he was in the OR with a little boy who was bleeding out. That gave me perspective. I thought of Morgan.

Someone brought in a blue colored apron and put it across the doctor’s chest. I can still hear him snapping his white gloves onto his hands. He turned to my legs spread wide and said to me, “I guess we will just let you push.”

I have so much emotion that comes to me when I think of that line. Anger is the first, primarily. For so many reasons, because really, my body has safely brought me here to this point, and you guess you’ll just let me push? The second emotion I still feel, just as I did that night, is disbelief. As in, “I can’t believe they’re going to let me do this.”

I could not believe it (and still cannot). If you understand the unfortunate politics behind VBAC deliveries (especially in Pocatello), disbelief makes sense. It was shocking.

I remember trying to digest what was happening. I was in such blinding pain, and such disbelief. I remember struggling to change my state of mind from, “Numbness is coming!” to, “Here’s your dream. You’re going to do this! Now go!”.

Now go. I pushed. I pushed so hard. And it hurt so bad I literally thought I was dying. For an hour and half I pushed. Mr. Keller lifted my back and I pushed. I squeezed the nurse’s hand. I pushed. Screams came and came, though I didn’t recognize the voice. I was outside my body. I thought of many things. My thoughts were so clear. I thought of how incredible it was to be thinking so calmly, but yet feeling so out of control, so overcome with pain. I remember feeling baby move, the further down he became, I felt him still. His body was full of life. I was bringing him here.

I couldn’t believe my body. My wonderful, miraculous, perfect body doing exactly what I had dreamed it would do. I was giving birth to my own child. My body was doing this. Then he came. He came!

There are no words for this experience. I often think to myself there is nothing on this earth that I could do that would ever compare to this. It was the most holy experience I’ve ever had. There is such parallel in giving birth; the excruciating sacrifice of one’s body to bring about new life. There is such intention there. Such intention in the experiences we all share in birth, death, and all that’s in-between.

God gave this experience to me. I know this. His hand was there, moving all the odds and making way for me to be given this experience, this natural birth. I had prayed for this birth. I had dreamt it over and over. I had prepared my body for it. And here was my baby. At last! I had conceived and nourished this perfect little body, and my body had brought him from inside of me, into my arms.

Looking back, this is such a miracle to me, the way it unfolded. God, with his hand, moved the odds away. They were so stacked against us that night. Between the politics at the hospital, the on-call doctor being particularly against VBACs, then the anesthesiologist not being available to prep me for a c-section, and me arriving (nearly) fully dilated and ready to push. This was handed to me. I’m so, so thankful.      

Last night, we watched our home video of that night. Danny Jared Keller was born at 11:02pm. Both grandmas arrived at 11:23pm, which is when my mom began recording.

It brought back such a sweet emotion. I was wearing a crown. The spirit was so strong, and I remember feeling so loved. I have never felt more loved than I did that night. The room felt like it was glowing. I felt such angelic strength and such peace. I had felt such presence behind me, urging me on. And here was my sweet chunk of a boy, with such bright eyes, taking it all in. I was struck last night, as I was the night he was born, by how alert he was, and how calm I was, when 25 minutes before, I was at the very height of all pain, bringing him into this world. We had passed through this together, Danny and I. And here, at the end, all was well. How amazing birth is! What a privilege it is to be a woman. How our Heavenly Father loves us to grant us these experiences.

"Childbirth is an experience in a woman’s life that holds the power to transform her forever. Passing through these powerful gates – in her own way – remembering all the generations of women who walk with her… She is never alone.” – Suzanne Arms   

I’m so thankful for my Danny boy. I often think to myself he’s always just what we need; all three of us. He brings such joy and laughter into our home. He is light, easy, hysterical and delicious. And so, so irresistible. He is such a gift. I love him so.