To God be the glory: Isaiah Brendan Joseph's birth

There is a prayer of St. Catherine of Siena that has been on my heart since Monday afternoon, the day our beautiful little baby made his entrance into the world.

Oh tender Father, You gave me more, much more, than I ever thought to ask for.

On Sunday, May 15th, I woke up after a fitful sleep determined that I was going to shake the pregnancy grumpiness I was experiencing. I had realized my bitterness wasn't helping me go into labour, but was merely making myself miserable along with everyone else around me.

I headed off to Mass with my little family and then came home to a nice brunch. We then went into the city so I could attend a shower for my cousin's wife-to-be. I had a lovely time. As I was leaving, my aunt, the mother-of-the-groom, reminded me that her daughter went into labour where the party had just been, at Christmas time. Maybe I would receive good

birthing vibes too, she suggested. I smiled but felt very doubtful. Not until later next week, I thought.

We headed home, and Noah fell asleep in the car. I stared at him in his carseat, looking just like he did when he was an infant and got teary-eyed. "Patrick, what if this is the last night he was our baby?"

Prophetic words.

After putting him in bed and changing out of my party clothes, I decided to go for a little walk. I paced around, feeling awash with so many emotions. I stared out onto the ocean from our yard and prayed. I carried my fears about the birth, my discouragement about my body's seeming unwillingness to get ready for labour, the myriad of worries that any woman would feel when hoping to deliver vaginally after a caesarean. "Can I do this?" "Is this even safe?"

But I felt God's peace enfold me as I stared out onto the water. I felt the courage to surrender to His will and not be anxious. In my fears about motherhood and birth, God reminded me I was still entitled to be a child. His child.

So with new strength, I returned to the house and did a bit of housework. When I realized it was approaching 10:00, I knew I should head to bed, even though I felt a strange surge of energy and wasn't tired. I figured I had a long day ahead of me, so I should at least try to sleep. Funnily, I thought my long day was simply going to involve homemaking, not birth. I seemed to "know" what was happening while still being in denial.

At midnight I woke up with strange cramps and an ache in my lower back. I went to the bathroom and came back, and the pain subsided. Yet it kept coming back sporadically. Since I only ever went through labour via Pitocin, I didn't know what a 'normal' contraction felt like. I doubted it was the real thing, but woke Patrick up anyway to at least get some sympathy for the pain I was in.

All throughout my pregnancy, Patrick was much more convinced than I that I was capable of a vaginal birth. So despite having pretty intense sensations, I still was in denial that I was in labour by this point. I'll probably need to be induced again, I thought. Patrick, however, started to time my contractions and noted they were coming more regularly.

I began to believe, to hope, that I was going to be having the baby soon.

We called our family. We called our doula. We made arrangements to get to my in-laws where I would labour (we wanted a home-like environment as I went through early labour, but since we live about 35 minutes from the hospital, we thought it best to be closer when we needed to be seen by a doctor).

We got in the car and headed towards my in-laws. The whole world seemed so alive with promise. I noticed the statue of Christ outside the church as we drove by, and realized that my strongest prayer intention for this birth was that I could experience what it was to go into labour spontaneously. I told Patrick, "God has already given me what I wanted; I'm at peace with whatever else comes."

Saying goodbye to Noah was definitely met with mixed emotions. There was our little boy, still a baby to us in so many ways, becoming the big brother. Yet there was something so holy, so exciting, about knowing our baby was going to be born soon that prevented me from crying as he went off with my parents. It was 4am.

We went into my in-laws house and I stayed in my sister-in-law's room while labour progressed. I mostly stood or paced during the contractions, but sat down on the bed and dozed in between. How freeing and different it felt this time around, where I wasn't in a hospital at this point, confined to a bed with an IV in my arm. I was able to manage the pain much better since I wasn't stuck in one spot.

With each contraction, Patrick told me how proud he was of me. It was such a source of strength to hear as the pain increased.

Soon our doula arrived and it was such a blessing to have her. She encouraged me so well, and suggested ways to manage the pain. I was continuously experiencing an ache in my lower back that was so intense, but didn't subside between contractions. She suggested that our chiropractor might do an adjustment for me then, while in labour, that could help with this pain. I thought it was worth a try.

When Patrick went to call and see if we could get in to the chiropractor, my doula noticed a statue of the Madonna and Child on my sister-in-law's shelf. In a moment of inspiration, she placed it in front of me and said "This will be you soon, Jenna! You'll be holding your baby!"

It was soon time to go the chiropractor. I can only imagine what a sight we were when we arrived. It was shortly after 10am and I was dressed in my pajamas and a housecoat. The reception area was full, and yet there I was with my husband and doula, swaying and rocking during contractions and making noises like a Tibetan monk. One woman recognized Karen, our doula, and saw the commotion I was making and said, "Oh she's in labour! Hurray!" Despite being slightly embarrassed by this as I recall it now, at the time I felt like a marathon runner, and she was cheering me on.

The chiropractor did a quick adjustment on me, as it turned out my sacrum (the bone at the base of the spine) was twisted. As soon as she was finished, the intense lower back pain was gone. When I stood up, I felt an indescribably intense pressure, and my doula commented later that she literally saw my belly drop inches. The chiropractor whispered, "Her labour might progress much faster now." She was certainly right.

We arrived at the hospital and went into admitting. Patrick pulled a paper number to wait in line, and I gripped the wall, making louder and louder sounds as I rode the waves of my contractions. It's funny because when the nurse said, "Next!" Patrick gestured to the woman sitting comfortably and reading a magazine to go ahead of us. Ever the gentleman! The nurse frowned, pointed at me and said I obviously should go next. We didn't fill out any paper work; she could tell I needed to get in right away.

We got into a labour assessment room and waited some time to be seen by a nurse. The hospital, apparently, was just abuzz that morning with many women labouring. Finally when a kind nurse did come in, she told me to lie down so she could see how much I had progressed. I was terrified of lying down because I knew how my mobility was key to coping with the pain, and now my contractions were less than three minutes apart.

When she had done her exam, she said smilingly, "My dear, no wonder you're in so much pain. You'r 9 1/2 centimetres dilated!" My doula, Patrick and I all said in unison, "What?!" (in actual fact, I think I said "What the hell?") I had already thought to myself, this is so intense, I'm frightened, I can't go on much longer, and I seriously thought of giving in because I was convinced I was about to be told I was only 5 or 6cm. Imagine my surprise!

They called my doctor as soon as I arrived in the delivery room. Funnily enough, he had previously told me it was a great idea to labour at home for a while to avoid interventions, "but don't do anything crazy like arrive at 9cm!" Obviously I hadn't intended to disobey him, but it worked so well to my advantage. Patrick ran off to park the car, as he had parked in the drop-off spot out front of the hospital, and I held onto my doula, praying he and my doctor would make it in time. Thankfully they both did.

Dr. Andrea arrived, took one look at me, and without doing any exam said, "You can push when you're ready."

That was the moment all of my strength disappeared. Up until then, I felt capable, mostly, and so proud of myself. I felt God giving me the courage to bring His child into the world. But now, I looked at my doula and bawled.

"I can't do it! I can't do it!" I wailed. She looked at me intensely and said, "Yes you can! You already are!"

I recalled that this day was the feast of St. Brendan the Navigator. I didn't know anything about him, except that he was Irish and the patron of sailors, but I prayed to him fiercely amidst my tears to help 'navigate' this baby out of me safely.

I pushed for about thirty minutes, hearing all the while the encouragement of Patrick who I could tell was completely amazed at what was happening. "Jenna, I am so proud of you!" he told me over and over.

Our nurse suggested I get off the bed, where I had been kneeling, and try sitting on a stool on the floor. The idea of moving seemed dreadful but my doula and the rest of the people in the room encouraged me and helped me get up.

As soon as I sat down on the stool, I felt like the baby was coming out right away. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. I resumed pushing when the need took over but the doctor had to tell me to stop, because he didn't have his equipment at hand. (This was the second time I had gone against the doctor without meaning to; at a prenatal appointment he said he was happy for me to push in an upright position, but as soon as the baby crowned I would need to move to the bed for him to catch the baby.) But here was our little joy crowning already. The nurse quickly brought him his clamps and so on, and a few pushes later, to my absolute astonishment, our Baby Isaiah was born.

My doctor caught him, and laid him on a pile of blankets on the floor for a moment while his colour flushed his face. I screamed and cried, "It's my baby! It's my baby!" and I kept looking up at Patrick who's face was simultaneously reverent and elated. "We did it! We did it!" I cried. I could barely believe it.

Our doctor scooped up our baby and had Patrick cut the cord. Meanwhile my dear husband told me, in a trembly voice, "It's a boy!" I cried and said, "I knew you were a boy!" just like I had told Noah only 25 months and one day earlier.

I got up in the bed and they handed him to me so I could hold him skin-to-skin. I kept thanking everyone in the room over and over between tears, and telling Patrick I loved him. I looked at our little boy, and told him he was perfect, he had an amazing big brother that he would meet soon, and that we couldn't be happier. I am pretty sure I was blubbering although I felt so lucid, and on top of the world.

I still can't believe how beautifully everything went. I was so cautious in hoping for a VBAC, because I knew that complications could arise at the last moment that would make it impossible. Really, though, the main reason I was afraid to hope was because I doubted I had it in me to push a baby out. Despite the support from my doula, my doctor who never treated me like I was high-risk, our great nurse, the chiropractor who moved things along amazingly and of course, my wonderful husband, I didn't really believe it was possible.

I think it was because I doubted myself that I see so much more God's grace at work. In reality, I know I couldn't have done it without so much support, so many prayers, and ultimately -- obviously -- God.

When I had Noah, I had hoped for an empowering birth. What I got was a humbling birth; basically everything was out of my control and I had to surrender it to God. Somehow I thought if I could deliver this baby vaginally, I would then be able to have my 'empowering' birth. Yet once again, the process of birth, of my baby's littleness but of course my own littleness, took me by surprise.

I did not do something heroic at all; I cried and shouted and slapped my husband in anger at least once. I contemplated taking drugs, I prayed it would end soon. In short, I saw my weaknesses sprawled out everywhere.

The wonder and awe of this birth, in fact, was all God. It's true, He used me as His instrument, but every answered prayer, every little miracle that took place as I brought Isaiah into the world, showed me God's power, not my own.

I am so, so grateful.

Motherhood implies from the beginning a special openness to the new person...

In this openness, in conceiving and giving birth to a child,

the woman 'discovers herself through a sincere gift of self.' -- John Paul II