Ever wondered what is a precipitous delivery?

Now you’ll know.

I didn’t need to look to know.

Can you see her head? The dispatcher on the line asked Chris.

She’s COMING!! I gasped before a groan traveled up my belly and throat, and I braced through another excruciating contraction. Then I pushed with all my might. (So that’s how you know when to do that…!)

How is my son not waking up in the other room? I thought.

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Around 10:30 Sunday night, I just couldn’t sleep. Surprise surprise. It’s week 39 plus 3 days. I placed headphones in my ears and hit play on my new favorite album. Adjusting the long pillow under my large belly, I settled in for another sleepless night.

Then intense pressure gripped my lower belly and I had to wrap my arm under and breathe out long and hard. This didn’t feel like the contractions from those other nights. But surely these would pass, too. Right?

But they wouldn’t.

I should probably take a shower, I realized. But before I jumped in, I woke a sound-asleep Chris and then texted our babysitter.

It was 11:45 pm. Seriously, who’s up at this hour?

My shower took forever between all the crouching down to breathe every few minutes. And it wasn’t getting any easier.

Then yes, I put on makeup simply because I needed something to focus on. I stopped so many times to cling to the countertop through the eternal minutes. I even felt like I had no control over my voice.

At some point Chris asked me if I wanted him to dial 911. I couldn’t say yes or no to anything as any calm minute was simply to catch my breath.

The 911 dispatcher kept us both calm and prepped Chris to get some towels and a shoelace. A shoelace?! Is this real life or a movie??

They just turned unto your street, the dispatcher informed us and for some reason I had the urge to say Hurry UP! and pushed again really hard.

There was something so empowering FEELING the need to push! And by now, I was pretty sure her head was all the way through.

I opened my eyes and there were three medics in the room. For a solid minute they stood there sanitizing their hands, snapping on their gloves. Assessing the situation.

Then I started writhing again in pain. I vaguely remember pushing one or two more times.

And there she was.

Purple and perfect, laying on what used to be white sheets.

Her tiny feet. Her little balled up hands. She was crying.

I was weeping.

Where was my phone to capture this moment??

There was my husband and all I could say through sobs was, Chris.

My eyes never left her but I was aware of every little thing. The elder medic was on my left. The younger sprawled out on the bed to my right. The woman was at the end of the bed. She came around to support me when Evvy was delivered.

One of the medics cut the rubbery cord. The other explained how to get to the stretcher down the hall without messing up our brand new carpet.

Apparently, our hallway wasn’t built for emergency situations.

We made it safely to the tile but as we shuffled down the hall I thought, Aw man, this looks like a crime scene.

Once I was on the stretcher and buckled up, they handed me the tiny body wrapped up in one of our massive grey towels. And I couldn’t look away.

In the back of the ambulance I used a corner of my dress to wipe away any mascara that might’ve been running down my face. A medic came in and he said, You’re perfect.

Riding in the ambulance, I kept thinking about how much my son would be enjoying one of his favorite trucks. The medics made sure Evvy and my heart rate and oxygen levels were stable. They teased each other about being so ugly and making the baby cry.

We got to the hospital and they carted me through empty dark corridors. Then we turned a corner and there were at least 8 female nurses all masked up, expressionlessly looking at us. Finally one piped up and said Congratulations.

I’m guessing this wasn’t a sight they saw every night.

Then round two was coming on. Hello, placenta. Dr. Nix and a lovely RN named Tonya helped with that.

And then the stitches. I was afraid to ask how bad it was because they spoke softly and used words I couldn’t understand.

By then my whole body was shaking with hormones and the Pitocin. I could hear my baby fussing as the pediatric nurse looked her over and wrapped her up in the smaller room.

There was my man again and he got to hold the swaddled-up bundle. Somehow we both got through this.

The ladies started wiping off the blood and I began to weep. Again. A most personal act of service after one of the most miraculous life events on earth.

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Did I choose to deliver at home?

Absolutely not. But what an experience that was.

And would I choose unmedicated next time?

Although I’ve already forgotten what the pain feels like, ask me again in three years.

Precipitous labor, also called rapid labor, is defined as giving birth after less than 3 hours of regular contractions. https://www.verywellfamily.com/what-you-should-know-about-precipitous-labor-4174105