Prologue: The following essay is the story of my first child’s arrival into the world. It is a sacred story you only get to live once: it’s the birth story that made me a mother. This story is about the welcoming of another soul into the world, including my own soul’s transformation to motherhood. Reflecting on Forrest’s birth story every year has become a gift to my motherhood. Though I have sat with his story for a few years, I’m grateful to finally share it with you.
Knowing and Not Knowing in the Waiting: The Birth Story Prologue
I woke up on August 1, 2023 and said, “Oh yeah, I’m definitely meeting my baby this month.” He was due on a Saturday in the smack middle of the month, so one way or another, even if it meant an induction at 42 weeks, I had just turned the calendar into a month that would be in our family’s history books.
We prayed he would come the weekend of his due date, or that we’d at least be laboring then. I couldn’t fathom my body carrying another ounce and felt eager to see the face of this baby I’d only pictured in my dreams.
The Last Work Day
As if by design, I was willing to do whatever it took to bring this baby into the world. I suppose that carrying a child in the scorching heat of a Tennessee summer – while coordinating a youth summer program for some 100 kids – increased my stamina for the labor journey that was to come. I loved pregnancy with a deeply seeded joy, but I knew the time was nearing. My body felt prepared for the close of this season and the opening of a new one.
The day before his due date, I sat in the office chair I’d been in for over half a decade. It was quiet and sunny in the office that day, and I was the last one there when my supervisor came to say goodbye for the weekend. We hesitated, letting the awkwardness of a life about to change hang in the air. I had requested to work up until I went into labor to save my precious maternity leave, which was a good idea on paper, but proved challenging as we sat in the continuous Not Yet that is the third trimester. Oh, how often had I worried about my water breaking at work and ruining a perfectly good office chair!
I couldn’t describe it, but my body felt different that day. My muscles loosened, as if my joints were becoming stretchy and malleable, and I felt like Gumbo getting up from my desk and walking to the car. I almost missed it, but my body knew. I didn’t dare say it outloud, but I knew in my gut that I had just started my maternity leave. I was ready to write my birth story.
Due Date Date Day
A friend advised me early in pregnancy to do something special on our due date if we were still waiting for the baby. She shared with me the toll it takes, mentally and physically, to reach a due date and to live in it. It’s something to celebrate, the endurance of pregnancy and waiting for the baby to make its debut.
The Due Date felt like a holiday that we circled with hearts on our calendar nearly a year go. We resolved to enjoy the day free from any pressure or hope of what it might bring. In these tender last days of Travis and I alone, we committed in our hearts to spend our time together with whole hearts. To me, this outing was no small detail. I see it as an integral part of our birth story, though I wasn’t in labor yet.
Going Out with a Bang (And a Bumpin’ Belly)
Because I wasn’t in labor on the Saturday he was due, we took my friend’s advice. Travis and I moved forward with a full day of fun together, primarily through eating and walking. Nourish this baby, walk him out, and laugh along the way. That was the plan.
We tapped into some college-era nostalgia with brunch at Fido. Storm clouds covered the sky as we cozied up beside a window, and when it was time to go, we threw our rain jackets on and ran (hobbled?) to the car. The start to our day was such a success that we came home to nap while it continued pouring rain outside. Pure bliss.
When the sun came back out, we headed to Music Valley Drive for antiques window-shopping, as well as the Troll House Cottage. We walked and walked down narrow aisles filled with valuable goods, and I tried to maneuver my belly around it all. I’d casually check myself in front of mirrors to make sure my water hadn’t broken, knowing full well that I would indeed know if this happened. Our last stop of the day was at JVI Secret Gardens where Travis snapped photos of me in front of the plants. I remember thinking, “If I don’t get this photo today, I might not ever.”
All day people asked me when I was due. It was worth everything to see their faces when I replied, “Today!”
On our way home, we ordered pasta for dinner from Nicoletto’s. I ordered my favorite green chile mac, hoping the spice would start labor, and we went to sleep bellies full – in more than one way – and happy.
I Slept, The Lord Worked
Going to sleep that night felt as if we had truly just had our last hurrah. We had enjoyed a wonderful and lavish pregnancy, but making it to our due date felt like turning a corner. I knew I would not wake up tomorrow morning the same, because the margin between my pregnancy and birth was ever thinner. Whether or not I had realized it, I wanted to make it to my due date. And now that it was past us, we were coming to a moment of needing to shift our focus on getting this baby out.
If I look closely, the signs were there. I was so paranoid about my water breaking all day, something I’d never worried about before. My walk felt different, as if my entire being was loosening for the labor to come. I smile looking back on it now, because my body knew that our birth story was already being written.
The Dream I Lived
Just after midnight on Sunday morning, I sleepily woke up to do one of my many nightly restroom runs. I sat there with my eyes closed in the dark when I felt and heard a pop! followed by a rush of fluid into the toilet. I jolted awake – eyes suddenly wide, I thought, Did I just dream that?
And there I was, just half an hour past our due date, questioning whether or not I was in labor. I called for Travis and explained the situation, as if he might be able to tell me what just happened. We both examined the toilet searching for signs (we can laugh about that now). It sounds crazy thinking back, but I did not know if I had dreamt it or not, so I trusted my gut and called the Midwife.
(Sidebar: I had not needed to call during my pregnancy, so when the operater with a gentle voice answered and I frantically said, “I think my water just broke??” She replied, “Is this an emergency?” and I was like “I literally don’t know.” I laugh so hard at myself thinking about that now.)
The Fateful Call to the Midwife
I explained the situation at hand to my midwife, and she informed us that if my water had indeed broken, then we had just started a 24-hour clock. Once the waters erupt, baby is more vulnerable and unprotected, and the risk of infection goes up as labor continues. She gave us instructions, and stated that if I was not in labor within the day, they would recommend coming in to augment labor.
We texted our doula, scheduled final work emails to be sent, and checked our bags. Every gush that escaped me erased by doubt and confirmed we were getting ready to meet our baby. Though it felt counterintuitive, we went back to bed, not wanting to sleep but knowing we’d need our rest.
Getting This Party Started?
The next morning we woke up, brewed a pot of coffee, and made breakfast. We turned on our church’s livestream, and tried to pay attention. Though contractions had not started yet, I was on guard waiting. We kept our phones out of sight while I moved on my yoga mat and ball. I wanted to look back and remember our full presence in our birth story. We spent the morning easing into labor and trying to get regular contractions going.
By about lunch time, we let our core group of people know what was going on. I would later regret waiting so late to fill them in, but I have learned to meet that younger version of my birthing self – who was trying to make sense of what was happening to her body while on the cusp of the greatest physical transformation of her life – with so much grace and compassion.
We had spent months preparing for an unmedicated birth. I worried the potential of being recommended induction would disrupt my plan. The clock ticked loudly as we tried to get the contractions going at home. If we weren’t rocking and rolling by the time the midwife expected us at the hospital, we’d have to use interventions. Fearing a cascade of interventions, I prayed my body would do its thing unassisted.
And though I knew that we needed to get oxytocin flowing to get contractions rolling, there was a real part of me that felt afraid to move forward. That is the greatest and most humble confession I can share about my birth story: I was scared. In my heart, I meet that younger, more vulnerable me in that moment with a hug. “Sweet girl, you are held and loved,” I want to whisper to her, “Your birth story will be beautiful because birth in all its forms and ways is beautiful.”
Unlikely Comfort
I found comfort in knowing that no matter, I would be at the hospital by midnight, regardless of how contractions were going. Regardless of my birth plan. Regardless of what I’d envisioned. That gave me a simultaneous feeling of relief and dread.
As the day continued, we went back and forth with our doula and midwife most of the day. I napped here and there, snacked on my birth ball, and worked through the miles circuit. By dark, I had thoroughly decided that contractions were not going to start on their own.
My mom, dad, and sister stopped by just to give me a hug. I remember them knocking with some hesitation, not being sure what they were about to step in to. But on the outside, Travis and I appeared normal. (On the inside we were freaking the crap out).
We left for the hospital just a few minutes after. It feels so plain and ordinary to write that, but that was the next page in our birth story. Driving toward the downtown skyline felt so ordinary, but we knew we would not come back the same.
The Verdict that Disrupted My Plan
In line with our unmedicated birth goals, I had hoped to deliver in the birthing center. Unfortunately I was still too cheerful to be admitted – an obvious sign I was not progressed enough.
But I came in, choosing to surrender any disappointment I felt about my “birth plan” going awry and ultimately feeling eager anticipation that we would meet our little one sooner rather than later. I knew that coming to the hospital meant that we were truly in this now, and that thought comforted me.
“The” Check
We sat waiting in the OB emergency room. Our dark room lay in silence as Travis held my hand and our faces glowed from the light of the monitor. The midwife eventually came in and coached me through the check, the first one I’d ever had.
The verdict? Three centimeters, 80% effaced, and –2 station.
She placed her hand on my leg and gently recommended Pitocin to get contractions going. She shared some of her own birth story with me, and assured me that we could still have the birth experience I had wanted. We just needed help to get started. It was the intervention that I feared would start the cascade of interventions, but the midwife felt like an advocate for me, not only championing my goals but also the health of my baby. She encouraged me to believe in the hope I still had for this birth story.
I texted my disappointment to my doula, and she encouraged me, “You have no control over what the body decides to do. Remember you’ve put in full effort to try all the things to get going. Just focus on being intentional, listening to your body, and having mental control on how you react to your body during this labor. You have got this!”
All the Feels
There was some deep down, distant part of me that felt too broken to give birth unmedicated as I’d hoped. Some degree of shame had walked with me this whole day (pregnancy?), testing my body to see if it would kick into gear and do the thing that everyone says it’s designed to do.
There was also another part, perhaps not as deep down, that was anxious from the waiting. Choosing to move forward with the midwife’s recommendation felt like a sure path to get out of the grueling waiting.
I was so ready to meet this baby boy.
And it was there, in that heart space, that I said yes to the Pitocin and the deviation from my birth plan. Nothing was more important to me than holding my baby in my arms at the end of this birth story, so I lovingly surrendered this birth.
The Calm Before the Storm
By the time we got through triage and assigned to a room, it was about 2:00am when I started Pitocin.
The nurse tried her darndest to attach a wireless heart rate monitor, a device required and recommended to monitor baby when using interventions, on my belly. I can still feel the sandpaper-like material scratching my belly to create a rough spot for the monitor directly on my skin. The nurse’s cross necklace gleamed off the light, and though my situation felt bleak, I felt hopeful. Eventually we decided to forgo the wireless monitor, and I had to settle for the belly band.
I looked down once it was placed and saw the situation I was in, and wondered how on earth I was going to labor around the room. I hadn’t realized the Pitocin drip would limit my ability to move about the room freely. Here we go down the cascades, I thought.
Not According to My Plan
As she left the room, I told her I felt like I should be up and moving, but she smiled and told me to rest while I can. In another great act of surrender, I listened. This birth story would unfold as it was meant to.
I dozed off, in and out of sleep. I’d wake up every so often and wheel my Pitocin tower to the restroom, only slightly annoyed. Eventually my wakings were accompanied by a pain in my belly as the Pitocin worked. Nurses come in and out to check on me as I drifted in and out of sleep.
I started Pitocin at 6 IUs, not realizing that the nurse was upping the Pitocin dosage as she came in and out. Though I slept through those visits, but if they were following hospital protocol, this happened every half hour or so. (This was something I learned in my next birth. That story is reserved for another day.
By 5:30 AM I awoke angry, unable to sleep through contractions anymore, with who knows how much Pitocin flowing through me. Doubt gave way: I was in active labor.
Go, Baby, Go
Travis, baby, and I labored together with the Lord’s help in the early hours of the morning. Labor, not surprisingly, demanded every ounce of my mental, physical, and spiritual energy. I sat on the birth ball, holding onto the edge of the bed. I breathed through contractions, eager for the wave of relief at the end of each one. All the while Travis communicated with our doula, who was on her way to the hospital.
As we went on, my own birth plan angered me. Example: Travis put on a playlist (that I had created for this exact moment) and I suddenly hated the perfectly fine song that played. I could barely muster up the words to explain that, so I simply said, “Stop that.” And that’s how we ended up laboring the following hours in total silence.
The Pitocin tied me to a tall rolling tower of fluids. I had envisioned moving around during labor, but lugging the tower hindered my freedom of movement. I primarily stayed on my birth ball, where I would doze off between contractions. (Travis still talks about this like it’s the craziest thing because it kinda is.)
Shakes and Sways
Eventually my minute-naps turned into chills and the shakes. (Oh girl, IYKYK). Travis draped a blanket over me, and I vaguely remember a nurse asking at one point, “How long has she been doing that?”
Later I stood up to sway with Travis. His presence was sturdy and brave as I labored. My fluids tower stood beside us as we rocked back and forth, and at some point in all of this, I demanded the Pitocin be turned off. “It’s obviously done it’s job!!!!” I wanted to yell in agony.
My eyes kept drifting toward the clock, both seeking to find stability in the movement of time but also not in a headspace to fully process it. At some point that made me mad too, and I asked whoever was listening in the room, “Can we take the clock down.”
These little details are what I could not have written in my plan, but make up my birth story. The movement of this birth was comprised of all these little moments and ways that I was in my primal, mama-bear brain.
Dad Doula For a Bit
I kept asking Travis when our our doula would arrive. She was driving into town on a Monday morning during rush hour, and was giving us live updates as she crawled closer toward us. In wise discernment, Travis didn’t share every update with me. Labor had rapidly gained intense traction just during her drive to us. Boy, when she walked in, I was both mad at her and deeply comforted to see her.
Though we had stopped the Pitocin drip by this point, I was still connected to that terrible tower. That was our doula’s first order of business. She helped me to the bathroom, and then immediately asked the hospital staff to get the tower off me so that I could labor in the tub. She coached me through different positions as we waited, assuring me I’d get some relief in the tub.
Nearing My Limits, Which is Usually a Good Sign
I was nearing a point where I feared I couldn’t do this. No one told me, which is probably a grace, but I later learned that Pitocin-induced contractions are a whole other beast. I slowly came to a place of wanting to try pain management, starting with nitrous oxide.
The nurse tried to talk me out of another cervical check, reminding me that I was at risk for infection. To which I shortly replied in all caps, “YES, I KNOW, DON’T CARE, DO THE CHECK.”
When the diagnosis was about 9.5cm, I saw a glimmer of hope. “We’re almost there. I can do this,” I breathed, knowing I was living a birth story I’d never get back.
Pushing: The Longest 2 Hours and 45 Minutes of My Life
Around 9:00am, (I think that’s what they told me, but who knows, time passes differently when you’re laboring and someone listened when I demanded the clock be taken off the wall), I felt ready to push.
The IV tower had just come off and there was no time to hop in the tub, even if my body would have allowed me. I had never been more excited to see my midwife than when she walked in the room for this step of the process. “Cherish!,” I sighed when I saw her.
I felt gratitude to be past solely working through contractions and encouraged that our labor up to this point had not been in vain. I could physically and mentally feel myself gearing up for the next phase, what I hoped would be an easer segment of this all-consuming birth story.
What I didn’t anticipate is just how long it would take.
I pushed for over two and a half hours. Listen, I know I was a newbie. But dang, son.
Travis was by my side, speaking words of love and encouragement over me, even as I nearly strangled him with my angry grip. Our doula, nurse, and midwife surrounded us and supported me. I lay on my side as the team around me held my legs. There was no pain alleviation, and I felt the stuck-ness of this baby.
Pushing challenged me beyond preparation. Learning how to listen, feel, and respond to my body in real time was intense. There were moments when, though I was exhausted, I realized I could not stop. There were no breaks. I could not sit this contraction out. There was no other option but to push this baby into the world. He was too low and we were too deep in the process. He had to come out, and I felt every step of his journey down as the pressure gradually built. The team cheered me on throughout, “You got this, Bri! There you go! Yes, girl!”
I focused on aligning my breath with my push. I closed my eyes, but the gaze of my heart stayed fixed on helping this baby into the world. He was relying on me for that. And though I clutched Travis’ neck, inside my grasp was firmly on the Lord.
The Grueling Truth of Birth That Makes it Beautiful
I always thought birth would be wrapped in sweet prayers. You see photos of birth surrounded by scripture and soft music, but my birth story felt gritty and angry. It took all my strength to simply muster, “God, help.”
Finally, the pushes changed. His final descent jolted within me, and I instinctively rolled over on my back to complete the final pushes. I didn’t care how badly it burned or how many stitches it would take. I needed to get this baby out into the light of day.
And at 11:45 AM, with the sun pouring into the room, Forrest Haddon Persinger came crying into the world.
Baby Unicorn
He was put on my chest, and I tried to look down at this face I’d only dreamed of. Travis cried beside me, but no tears or laughter escaped me. I smiled weakly, overwhelmed by the many emotions washing over me. Relief, soreness, gratitude, exhaustion, wonder, pain, wonder. To it all, I said in my heart, “Thank you, God, that is over.”
He arrived with his hands by his face, exactly like the images we’d seen of him on ultrasound images. We had called him our unicorn baby throughout the pregnancy. As if he’d heard us, and insisted on keeping us true to our word, he came out with his hand by his head. Apparently there’s a name for this, and it’s not Baby Unicorn; it’s Nuchal Hand, and it’s a form of compound presentation. “Well, that’s why it took him so long,” the Midwife would later say.
I held the fruit of my labor, my body battered yet exhilerated, as motherhood drenched me in those first vulnerable moments with my baby boy resting on my chest. This is my birth story, I thought in my heart.
Golden Hour in the Mid-Day Light
Travis tells the story that he could see the color and calm return to my face immediately as I held Forrest. Life returned to me as I greeted the new life I held.
I was exhausted and vulnerably exposed. But I have never felt more courageous and intelligently designed than I did in that golden hour. Travis cut the cord several minutes after birth, and I continued holding Forrest as Travis notified our families. I lay there getting stitched back up as this precious, vernix-covered baby lay sticky on my chest.
My Needs Still Mattered
As I lay there catching my breath, I felt my brain transition out of the mammalian mode I’d been laboring in and return to the neocortex again. I began talking and recognizing the other needs I had. Oh yes! I need water, snacks, and ChapStick please! I said.
We eventually learned that our little man weighed in at 9 pounds on the dot.
The nurse walked me to the bathroom, and I thanked her profusely. God bless the nurse who helps moms for that first restroom trip while everyone else tends to the baby. When I came out, my mom and sister were in the doorway with plates of barbecue. They had been hanging out in Midtown all morning, casually waiting for the call.
We all sat in the early afternoon sunlight, relishing in the gift swaddled in our arms and inhaling the best plate of BBQ I’ve ever eaten. Shortly after we headed down to our overnight room.
A couple hours later, we took a trip down to the nursery for an appointment with the pediatrician. As I sat on the doughnut cushion in my wheelchair, gazing in awe at my baby on the other side of the glass, another man began talking to us. He pointed to his baby through the glass, and we congratulated him before small talking.
What I Couldn’t Forget
At one point in the brief interaction, Travis pointed to me and said, “She just went through all of it without an epidural.”
The man replied, as if he hadn’t heard us clearly, “Yeah, [my wife’s] grandmother talked about going all natural and I’m just like ‘what’s the point? What are you trying to prove? Why do you think you’re better than everyone else?’”
As if on time, the nurse returned Forrest to me, and we wheeled down the hallway, back to the safety of our room.
Not to be dramatic, but this is the first part of a two part series. I did this to best honor the story without sacrificing meaningful-to-me details or cramming it all on a page. Read the next part of the story coming soon.