I Gave Birth in a Subaru
And look who’s racing now
I’d been having contractions all day, but the midwife said they were “prodromal,” meaning they weren’t advancing anything. This could go on for days, she warned.
But then I took a hot bath and suddenly we were on an accelerated schedule. I called her again to report the increased frequency and intensity of the contractions. Okay, she said, meet her at the clinic, which was across the street from the Durham hospital—more than a half-hour drive from our Chapel Hill home.
I needed my husband’s help to get up from the toilet and make it to the door of our apartment. Once outside Neil propped me up against the wall of the mailboxes in front of our garden apartment complex. While he was moving the car to get closer to our sidewalk, my water broke. Oh boy. I knew what that meant.
I‘d completed the childbirth classes although this wasn’t my first child. Nine years had passed since our son, Paul, was born, and his birth took place in another language (French) and country (France), so I figured I could use a refresher in English. We’d made up a birth plan like the rest of the soon-to-be parents. Everything would be just so: no drugs, no episiotomy, no immediate cutting of the umbilical cord, yada yada.
