Armed with suitcase and medical records, we went to our friends' house and watched the rather disappointing series finale of "Lost." I was having contractions throughout, but the interval between them was getting longer (30 minutes once!), not shorter. So, back home we, our suitcase and our medical records returned.
At this point, after about 15 hours of contractions, I was losing focus. I was starting to forget everything about childbirth that I'd read, and was beginning to feel like I really should be in a hospital. I started thinking silly thoughts, like "What if the contractions are hurting the baby?" (As though babies aren't made to endure labor.)
So once we got home, I decided to call a midwife friend. She didn't answer, so I called my mom. While I was on the phone with her, Eric perused "The Birth Partner," and once I hung up, he was able to assure me that what I was experiencing was totally normal. Between calls, I paced the kitchen. Eric suggested moving into the living room, but for some reason, I only wanted to be in my comfy kitchen.
I made one more call, to a close friend, who told me that labor with her second started, stopped for a night, and then started again. She recommended trying to get some sleep, in case I had another full day of labor ahead of me.
That seemed wise, so I told Eric I was going to take a shower, and then I'd try to rest. I didn't even get the water turned on before my contractions jumped to every five minutes. It was hydrotherapy without the hydro! We timed just a few, and then felt like we really needed to call the birthing center. By the time we talked to a doctor, it was five of midnight. I know because he asked me my due date, and I said, "Tomorrow," looked at the clock, then clarified: "I mean, in five minutes."
We could have hitched our own ride to the birthing center in a taxi, but the cost of an ambulance was included in the cost of the birth, so we opted for the ambulance. Plus, we figured an ambulance was unlikely to dump us on the side of the road if birth appeared imminent.
About 30 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. (Quick cultural aside: Ambulances here are called "Quick help," and the joke is that they are neither quick nor helpful.) Dietrich was asleep, so we asked them not to come up to our apartment to get me. We rode the lift down. (Whether to trust our lift in a medical situation is a conundrum I frequently contemplate. Thankfully, it didn't get stuck. This time.) Immediately upon entering the cool night air, I was hit with a contraction that forced me to drop down and hang on to the stair rail while Eric went ahead and loaded our stuff into the ambulance.
I think that rather-public contraction scared the EMT, because as soon as we got into the ambulance, we had the following conversation:
"How long between your contractions?"
"Five minutes."
"WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG TO CALL?"
"The hospital said to call when they were five minutes apart."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Do you think we waited too long?"
"YES!"
"Well, do you know how to help me if I need to have the baby here?"
"Yes."
"OK, then. Let's go."
And away we went. It was just after midnight, and the streets were fairly deserted, so we made it to the birthing center in about 30 minutes. Evidently the ambulance turned on its lights to tell a car to pull over at one point, but I was totally unaware of this. My handy timer and I were totally occupied with contractions, which (I imagine to the EMT's utter dismay) were coming every 2-3 minutes. I couldn't even talk as they started; I would just hold up my fingers to indicate how much time had passed. It was intense.
In all my prenatal visits (which were many), I never once saw a woman in labor come into the birthing center. I figured there must be a back door. But they brought me right into the shiny, white, cavernous lobby. And there we waited: me, Eric, the EMT, another ambulance person and the night watchman. They were silent. I was making bovine-like sounds every two minutes. And they echoed. I was quite happy when the nurse finally arrived to take me to a less-echoey room.
My first stop was an examination room, where the doctor declared me to be at five centimeters. "Five - that's pretty good," I said. "I mean, I was hoping for eight, but five's OK."
And to the delivery room we went, stashing our suitcase in a locker along the way.
