Life, as they say, often has a way of derailing even the best-laid plans. I had initially intended to share my deeply personal birth story right after Mother’s Day, a heartfelt tribute to the incredible journey of motherhood. However, the beautiful chaos of welcoming a newborn into our lives meant delays. Every detail felt precious, every moment significant, and I simply couldn’t rush the recounting of such a transformative experience. So, while this post arrives a week later than planned, it’s a testament to the new rhythm of life, one where I’m slowly but surely learning to “roll with it.”
Before diving into my own narrative, I want to echo a powerful message I encountered recently. My friend Stacy from Not Just a Housewife shared an inspiring post about Every Mother Counts, an extraordinary non-profit dedicated to making pregnancy and childbirth safe for every mother, everywhere. Their work is vital, and I felt compelled to dedicate this space to raising awareness and contributing to their incredible mission. I haven’t been compensated for this — my motivation is purely to shine a light on the crucial work they do.
My Unforgettable Journey to Motherhood: A Raw Birth Story, Early Challenges & A C-Section Delivery
Adjusting to Parenthood and the Decision to Share
The transition back into the world of blogging has been slow, and I owe immense gratitude to my friends who stepped in to help us navigate the exhilarating, yet exhausting, initial weeks of parenthood. No book, no amount of advice, can truly prepare you for the sleep-deprived, emotion-filled days and nights that become your new reality. But I’m happy to report that, against all odds, we are surviving – and even thriving in our own unique way.
Many friends and readers have reached out, eager to hear the full account of Ryder’s arrival. After careful consideration, I decided it was time to share and document those incredible, intense 22 hours leading up to his birth. Be forewarned: this is perhaps the longest, most personal, and at times, most graphic post I have ever written. I am opening up about one of the most private and vulnerable periods of my life. If this isn’t for you, I completely understand – feel free to skip ahead and rejoin us in a few days for a new DIY project. For those who stay, prepare for an unfiltered journey.
As a passionate blogger, documenting life’s moments is second nature to me. So, even amidst the whirlwind, I made an effort to record fragments of my birth story from the hospital bed. Jon, my amazing husband, also contributed his perspective, ensuring that one day, Ryder will have a comprehensive account of his grand entrance into the world.
The Fragile X Scare: A High-Risk Pregnancy Journey
What I haven’t shared publicly until now is the incredibly challenging start to my pregnancy journey. The first 20 weeks were a rollercoaster of emotions, with the initial 12 weeks shrouded in deep uncertainty about whether our baby would survive. It felt like a constant battle, with weekly, sometimes even daily, doctor’s appointments for ultrasounds and lab work. The day before we were scheduled to leave for Haven, I was at another appointment, wrestling with the doctors’ concerns about potential miscarriage and their strong recommendation against travel. But we made a conscious decision not to let “what if’s” dictate our lives. We embarked on the long eight-hour drive to Atlanta, putting on brave faces, despite my debilitating morning sickness and the gnawing fear that our little one might not make it.
We are incredibly fortunate to have excellent health insurance, which covered every test imaginable – including advanced screenings that many don’t opt for. Believing that knowledge is power, and perhaps a little naively thinking everything would be fine, we agreed to all additional testing. We couldn’t have been more wrong.
A Devastating Diagnosis and an Agonizing Wait
The phone call came during my 13th week of pregnancy. It was from my doctor’s office, urging us to come in immediately. When I questioned if it could wait until our scheduled appointment the following week, the urgency in their voice confirmed my deepest fears: “No, you need to come in this afternoon.” I instantly called Jon, my heart pounding with dread. I knew, without a doubt, that something was seriously wrong. Why else such insistence?
It turned out that one of the additional tests had come back positive – a screening for Fragile X syndrome. This is a rare and often unrecognized genetic condition, with limited research due to infrequent testing. Essentially, one of my X chromosomes was mutated. Leaving the doctor’s office in a state of disbelief, we immediately scheduled an appointment with a genetics specialist. The three-week wait felt like an eternity, but that consultation proved to be a whirlwind of information and profound learning.
We learned that I was incredibly lucky to have even conceived. If we were having a boy, there was a 66% chance he would inherit my mutated X chromosome; for a girl, the chance was 29%. By this point, we already knew we were having a boy, and the 66% probability hit us like a tidal wave. We were devastated. The specialists offered an amniocentesis, which would provide 99% accuracy, but the results would take another 3-5 weeks. Only one lab in the entire United States performed the specific test required, involving growing extracted cells to analyze the X chromosome. A number below 200 indicated the baby hadn’t inherited the mutated X chromosome; mine was 84, an elevated level bordering on transmissible to the next generation. After four days of agonizing contemplation, we decided on the amnio. The “not knowing” was far more unbearable than the procedure itself. We felt that being prepared, no matter the outcome, was essential.
The Amnio and the Relief on Our Babymoon
The amniocentesis, surprisingly, was not as terrifying as I had anticipated, especially coming from someone with a lifelong fear of needles. And then, we waited. We canceled our gender reveal party, as celebration felt inappropriate given the circumstances, and we hesitated to share the gender publicly. We informed our parents and immediate family that weekend, requesting they keep it confidential.
Four agonizing weeks later, our phone rang while we were on our babymoon, strolling the picturesque beach in St. Thomas. I happened to have my phone for photos, and my heart leaped when I saw the doctor’s office number. Jon urged me to answer. With a hesitant breath, I did. The news brought an overwhelming wave of relief: everything came back negative. Our baby had received my healthy X chromosome. In that moment, the world seemed to stand still; it was just us on that beach, enveloped in profound gratitude. It was a feeling reminiscent of Jon’s proposal on that very same beach six and a half years prior. The remainder of our vacation was a true celebration. That afternoon, before leaving St. Thomas, we bought our baby his first stuffed animal – the very first item I had purchased throughout my 20-week pregnancy. It was a tangible symbol of our renewed hope.
This explains why it took us so long to prepare the nursery, and why, even now, it remains a work in progress. We simply couldn’t, and didn’t want to, start working on his room until we knew with certainty that everything was okay. It was our way of coping, of protecting our hearts through the uncertainty.
The Crazy 22 Hours of Labor: My Birth Story
With that significant backstory finally shared, let me take you through the intense and unpredictable 22 hours of labor that followed.
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The Prelude to Induction
Our journey began at 8 AM with a visit to our midwife, Mary Kay – a truly exceptional woman, far surpassing any cosmetic brand association. It was our routine 40-week sono appointment, designed to measure amniotic fluids and ensure the baby was moving well. Predictably, our fluid levels were low – a concerning 5.1, just above the danger zone of 5. My blood pressure was elevated again at 138/90. They had me lie down, and through meditation, I managed to lower it to 124/90, still considered high. During the check, there was clear progression: from 2cm dilated, 60% effaced, and -2 position on Wednesday, I was now at 2-3cm, 70% effaced, and -1 position on Friday morning. Mary Kay reviewed everything, advised us to go home and rest, and promised to call if induction was deemed necessary for that day.
We headed to Target for a new nightgown for the hospital – little did I know, I wouldn’t actually wear it. We called our mothers to update them. Back home, Jon wisely decided to take the day off work. He channeled his energy into building the garden beds and assembling the mini shed he’d recently bought from Costco. I worked remotely, tying up the last few blogging tasks, and reheated our shrimp boil leftovers from the night before. Around 1:30 PM, we savored lunch on our back porch, enjoying the cool breeze, unaware of the impending shift in our lives.
The Call to the Hospital
After cleaning up, I returned to a blog post, then stepped out to ask Jon about a project title. Five minutes later, Mary Kay called. My lab levels weren’t good; protein was detected in my urine, and they wanted me at the hospital immediately. Simultaneously, my mother-in-law messaged me. I promised to call her back. Walking out to Jon, he instantly recognized the determined grin on my face. “Stop building,” I told him, “grab a shower, we’re going to the hospital.” Amusingly, I’d asked Mary Kay if Jon could finish the shed, and she’d replied, “He can, but someone else will have to drive you.” Absolutely not. The shed could wait; I needed my incredibly strong husband by my side for support.
That’s when the emotions began to surge. Inside, I called my mom, then my mother-in-law, and finally informed my boss that my maternity leave was officially commencing. I messaged a few coworkers and my best friend, who was also due any day now. Setting my out-of-office replies for both blog emails, I sent off my final few messages before shutting down the computers for what felt like an indefinite period of maternity leave. Jon emerged from his shower, and I completely lost it. I couldn’t hold back the tears. We embraced, and he gently comforted me, assuring me that “we could do this. I could do this.” I decided to take a quick shower, just to feel fresh, knowing it might be a luxury for a while. Crying under the warm water, the immense anxiety, the pressure, the profound realization that “wow, I’m going to be a parent; our whole lives are about to change” – the next chapter of our book – finally hit me with full force. I hadn’t realized how much I’d taken the simple act of jumping into the shower for granted.
We gathered the last items for the hospital bag. Lola, our Yorkie, sensed the impending change, clinging to us more than usual. I realized I hadn’t taken any bare-belly photos, so Jon quickly snapped a few. We sat on the bed, spending our last moments as a family of three, cuddling Lola one last time. It was a cherished moment, etched forever in my memory. Jon loaded the car, I watered the patio plants, secured the patio, and prepared Lola’s things. We took one final walk, just the two of us and our pup, a super special moment I knew would be rare in the coming future.
I drove us to my parents’ house to drop off Lola. I shared a long, tearful hug with my mom, both of us crying tears of joy, nervousness, and anxiety. Jon joined in, and it became a shared moment of raw emotion. My mom and I took one last photo together, capturing the bump one final time.
Leaving my parents’ house, Jon and I made a quick stop at Chipotle. Several people commented on me “having that baby right here.” When I told them we were heading for induction after eating, they were all shocked. I wasn’t really hungry, but forced myself to eat a little. Jon had a beer to calm his nerves. As he ate and drank, he just stared at me, his eyes filled with awe. We didn’t speak; the world felt like it stood still, and tears streamed down my face. Jon held his back, raising his beer, and I clinked my paper cup of water against it. It was a silent toast – to closing the chapter we’d enjoyed for the past 12 years and simultaneously to opening an entirely new one.
Arrival at the Hospital and the Onset of Labor
We arrived at the hospital at 5:08 PM, just missing the admissions office closing. After a 15-minute check-in at triage, we were escorted to the second floor, the labor and delivery unit. We waited until 7:00 PM for the nurse shift change before finally being assigned a room. It took a while to find a suitable vein for my IV, a minor discomfort in the grand scheme. My midwife wasn’t on call; instead, Dr. A would be covering all weekend. At 8:30 PM, I received Pictocin, and by 9:00 PM, I started feeling a subtle pressure.
By 11:30 PM, my contractions were coming every 3-4 minutes, accompanied by mild cramping – nothing too intense yet. I managed a half-hour snooze, only to wake when my IV battery died. By 1:20 AM, the contractions intensified significantly, demanding focused breathing. It felt as though my ovaries were being ripped out – a sensation I now know was merely a prelude to the true intensity of labor. The nurse checked me: the baby had dropped, but there was no change in dilation. I requested a birthing ball, finding immense relief compared to lying in bed. I had foresightedly downloaded a birthing meditation CD, which I began listening to, simultaneously monitoring the strength of my contractions on the screen while Jon attempted to sleep on the recliner. At 2:00 AM, the Pictocin was increased to 9 milliunits per minute, up from an initial 3. During those early morning hours, I even found myself chatting on Facebook with some of my blogging friends, trying to distract myself.
At 3:00 AM, I woke Jon, needing his unwavering support through a barrage of contractions. We moved back to the bed around 4:45 AM, resting briefly between each wave. At 5:15 AM, Dr. A checked me again, confirming no progression. It was time: my water was broken. The Pictocin dosage was immediately upped to 10. And this, for me, is where my hospital documentation ceased – because after that, things got real.
The Intensifying Labor and the Epidural Decision
Once my water broke, the intensity of my contractions escalated dramatically. They came fast, furious, and with an unimaginable sharpness. By 6:45 AM, we called for the anesthesiologist; I needed an epidural. I silently prayed not to get a rookie, hoping for someone with extensive experience. My prayers were answered: the most seasoned anesthesiologist on staff that morning, with 20 years of administering epidurals, was assigned to me. However, there was an unforeseen hurdle – my blood work had expired. Apparently, fresh blood work is required every six hours. I pleaded for it to be rushed, and they complied, though the wait felt interminable at the time.
I fought through each excruciating contraction, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Each wave left me feeling paralyzed. I remained on the birthing ball, as it was the only position offering any relief, alongside walking and sitting on the toilet. During each contraction, I would rest my head on Jon’s shoulder, pressing into him. He was my rock, an indispensable source of strength and comfort. I stared at the contraction monitor, wanting to see every spike, every wave, to mentally prepare for the next. Turning away made it feel ten times worse, unlike many friends who preferred not to look. I needed to see what was happening.
My new blood work finally came back at 8:00 AM. We had initially discussed a “walking epidural” to allow me to continue using the birthing ball. But by the time the anesthesiologist arrived, I was utterly spent and opted for the full epidural. I remembered friends describing it as a “miracle drug” that allowed them to sleep. All my body craved at that point was rest. Although I doubted I could stay still during a contraction for the administration, I did. As Jon likes to put it, I was “back to being myself” in no time. After 11 long hours of natural labor, I finally threw in the towel. I tried my absolute best, and to this day, I do not regret getting the epidural one bit. My only wish was that I had been more dilated at that point – I was only 4cm, aiming for at least the halfway mark. Oh well. Had I known the intensity of contractions after my water broke, I would have sought the epidural much earlier.
The Unexpected C-Section Decision
For the next five hours, I continued to progress. I encouraged Jon to go down to the cafeteria for lunch; he had planned to wait for my parents to bring him food around 2 PM. I’m so glad he went when he did, as his lunch was cut short by hospital sirens announcing a tornado warning. The weather outside was dismal – gray, gloomy, windy, and pouring rain. Despite assurances that the windows were shatter-proof, I insisted they close all the curtains in the room. My bed faced floor-to-ceiling windows, and with an epidural, I felt utterly helpless, especially at the thought of a tornado ripping through. I frantically texted Jon, demanding he come back immediately. My biggest fear was that the floor would go on lockdown, and he’d be stuck downstairs, missing our son’s birth. As soon as he heard the announcement over the PA system, he rushed back to my room. By 1:00 PM, I was at 7cm, progressing perfectly, and all seemed well. My blood pressure remained a little high, but there were no other immediate concerns.
On a side note, a pleasant perk of my delivery location was that my friend Natalie, a labor and delivery nurse, happened to be on shift. Though not my assigned nurse, she frequently checked in on me. The first time she entered my room to say hello, I broke down – labor, for me, was a profoundly emotional experience.
A few more hours passed with no further progression. I tried everything – turning from side to side every half-hour, placing a peanut-shaped exercise ball between my legs – but nothing helped. Around 4:30 PM, my parents arrived. I invited them into the room; labor and delivery typically allow up to three visitors, and since nothing was happening, I preferred them in the room rather than waiting hours in the lobby. The rule was clear: they had to step out if doctors came to check me, a courtesy I appreciated. Around 4:00 PM, I started spiking a fever, shivering and freezing yet burning up according to the nurses. They applied cold washcloths to my forehead and neck, and I ate ice pops for relief. At 5:00 PM, I again urged Jon to go downstairs for dinner, as I had no idea how much longer this would stretch. I was now nearing 21 hours of labor. The doctor came in, confirming I was still at 7cm, and informed me we would monitor hour by hour, but any further fever increase would necessitate an emergency C-section. At this point, I texted my midwife, who called back, agreeing that I had likely done everything I could, and further progression was improbable.
I was devastated.
A C-section was never part of my plan. But deep down, I knew it was likely the right decision. I preferred to choose it proactively rather than face an emergency situation. When Jon returned from dinner around 5:30 PM, I shared the lack of progression and my conversation with the midwife. I told him I thought it was time to “throw in the towel” – no progress for hours, a spiking fever, and persistent high blood pressure. He agreed. Coincidentally, minutes later, the doctor checked on me again, and we informed him of our decision.
I swear there was an invisible button the doctor pushed, because in less than a minute, ten nurses flooded my room, prepping me for surgery. It all happened so incredibly fast. I wished I could have screamed for everyone to leave, just for a minute, to have a moment with my family, with my husband, before our baby arrived. Jon, still in pajama pants, scrambling to pack the remaining hospital bag items and change, was in a frenzy. Thankfully, my parents could hold onto some of our belongings, as space in the operating room was limited. What felt like mere minutes, they gave instructions to my parents, then to Jon, and then I was wheeled away. Approximately five minutes later, once I was prepped, Jon was brought in. The position on the operating table made it almost impossible to look at my spouse. All I felt was pulling and tugging, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the intense, bone-chilling cold. I couldn’t stop chattering, feeling as though I was in Antarctica wearing only a bikini. In hindsight, Jon reminds me that I was quite exposed. I had asked Natalie to assist during the C-section, but she was too busy. She did, however, step in for a brief moment, holding my head and giving us a play-by-play. I distinctly remember her saying, “Okay, the baby is about to come out…”
Ryder’s Arrival and the First Moments of Motherhood
Then, a minute later, we heard it: “the cry” – the sound every parent eagerly anticipates, signifying life. They held him up, and Jon stood to peek over the curtain. His immediate exclamation to me was, “10 fingers and 10 toes! He’s perfect!”
Soon after, Jon left my side, and at that moment, an overwhelming sense of loneliness washed over me. I understood he needed and wanted to be with our baby, but I desperately needed someone with me too.
Why do they only allow one person in the delivery room for a C-section? It’s a question that still puzzles me. In that instance, I would have unequivocally wanted my mom there, by my side, continuing to reassure me that everything would be okay. I tried to glimpse the baby and Jon to my left, but equipment obstructed my view. I strained to hear his weight. At one point, I asked a nurse, who promised the information was coming. Then, I heard “six pounds,” followed by “nine ounces.” I knew we were going to have a small baby! My mom had guessed 6.5 lbs, and she was almost spot on. All those people who insisted I’d have a massive baby because of my own size were so wrong. We had an itty-bitty little boy. Part of me, I admit, felt a thrill in proving them wrong – is that so bad?
Side note: Hearing “itty bitty” instantly brings Jon to mind. In high school, when we played tennis, Jon hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt in 10th grade, and our coach affectionately nicknamed him “itty bitty”!
After announcing his weight, the nurses called out his length. I had expected him to be 20 or 21 inches, given his tall father. Instead, he was 19 and 1/4 inches long – still quite tall for his small weight.
Moments later, Jon came back to my side, and they placed our baby on my chest. A nurse kept her hands on him as we quickly snapped a few photos – our very first as a family. Shortly after, Jon and our son, whom we proudly named Ryder Thomas, went to meet the grandparents.
The Grand Introduction and The Meaning Behind His Name
A few days later, curious about how it all unfolded outside the operating room, I asked Jon, but he only vaguely remembered. So I turned to my mom for the full story. She recounted that after I was whisked away to surgery, she and my dad returned to the lobby. They informed the receptionist about the C-section and were given a pager, much like one from a restaurant waitlist. No sooner had they sat down than Jon’s mom arrived (his dad was at work), spotting my parents. Less than a minute later, the pager buzzed! They rushed up to the C-section area of labor and delivery, waiting in a carpeted hallway. A few minutes later – which my mom said felt like hours – Jon emerged through the double doors, proudly pushing his newborn son.
My mom described Jon as looking “like a kid on Christmas morning,” beaming with an ear-to-ear smile. The moment he reached our parents, tears began to flow from everyone. What many don’t know about Jon is his deeply emotional nature; he’s not afraid to cry, and it’s one of the many qualities I adore about him. My mom recalled everyone taking photos, and then she finally blurted out, “What’s his name?!?” We had kept his name a secret throughout my entire pregnancy. People guessed for nine months, and not a single person got it right – not even making it into our top five!
Jon proudly announced, “Ryder Thomas.” He then proceeded to share the beautiful story behind the middle name. My mom instantly recognized Thomas as a family name from her side. But what they didn’t know was its dual significance. Jon proposed to me in St. Thomas. Then, last November, during our babymoon, we learned the incredible news that Ryder’s Fragile X test results were negative while walking on Meagan’s Bay in St. Thomas. At that moment, Jon proclaimed St. Thomas a “very lucky place” for him! As we walked along the beach, he uttered “Ryder Thomas,” and we knew, then and there, that would be our son’s name. Why Ryder? I’m not entirely sure – it’s a name I’ve loved for years, and when we found out I was pregnant and started discussing names, I brought it up. Jon loved it immediately, and it remained at the top of our list throughout my entire pregnancy.
Post-Delivery Fears and the First Breastfeeding Experience
Let’s rewind to when Jon left with the baby. I was alone. Completely by myself, and utterly terrified that I was going to die right there on the operating table. The fear that I wouldn’t be there for Jon, or that I wouldn’t see Ryder grow up, consumed me. Throughout my entire pregnancy, the poignant ending scenes from “Steel Magnolias” had haunted my thoughts. I simply could not, would not, die.
I was extremely drowsy, and all I wanted to do was close my eyes, but a chilling fear gripped me – what if I closed my eyes and never woke up again? Ever again. So, I made a conscious effort to stay awake. I’m sure the nurses thought I was the most annoying person they’d ever encountered. I just babbled, trying to talk, believing that if I kept talking, I would stay awake and thus not die. Yes, this was my very drugged-up logic. Aside from the uncontrollable shaking and shivering, everything went well.
As soon as they were finished, I was wheeled into recovery, where Jon and Ryder were waiting for me. The first thing I remember Jon saying was, “He is so hungry – I’m so glad you’re here. He’s hungry and wants to eat.” The nurses gently guided me through breastfeeding Ryder for the very first time. He latched on perfectly, suckling contentedly until he was full and sleepy. Soon after, I was moved from recovery to my room, and Ryder was taken to the nursery on the same floor for a check-up and to be cleaned. He stayed in the nursery that first night due to low blood sugar and because he needed antibiotics since I had spiked a fever. While I’d love to say we got plenty of sleep that night, I certainly didn’t. Jon, perhaps. But I was sore and in pain from the surgery. We spent three more days in the hospital, with Ryder continuing to receive antibiotics via IV every eight hours for his first 48 hours of life.
Reflection and the Blessing of a Healthy Baby
And so, in a nutshell, that is my birth story. I am simply overflowing with happiness and gratitude that we have a healthy baby. After everything we endured – everything I went through – I now truly understand why people always wish for a “healthy baby.” Because you can never, ever take for granted that your baby will arrive without complications. It’s a profound blessing.
In the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing the incredible photos our dear friend, Christy Buonomo Photography, captured for us, along with Ryder’s adorable newborn photos. Stay tuned for more glimpses into our new life!