Can it possibly be seven years ago yesterday that I gave birth to my first child?

And why does seven strike me as such a momentous anniversary? None of her other birthdays have affected me this way, but suddenly, I have a seven-year-old daughter, and the world feels like a different place.

This little marvel of a child who can read and write, add and subtract, make friends and good decisions on her own — that I had a hand in the making of her — that has blown my mind.

I’ve spent the last few days (in-between all the hustle and bustle of birthday parties and their aftermath) slowly digesting the fact of her birthday; really now entirely her birthday, and not the anniversary of the day I gave birth (at least not to anybody but me anymore).

But since this blog is about me, I’m going to indulge this instinct to revel not only in her beautiful and marvelous seven-ness, but also to indulge in the reminiscence of the day of her birth. So, we go back in time: seven years and three days ago, to the late evening of October 25, 2000, Year of the Golden Dragon.

We are watching Star Wars: The Phantom Menace on TV. Just before bed, the contractions begin. Short, widely spaced but regular. I’m so unbelievably excited and energized that sleep is positively out of the question. My husband, faithful partner that he is, rubs my back and times each pain. Looking over notes from prenatal classes, he regretfully informs me that I must be in pre-labour. A little bubble bursts as I realize he is of course entirely correct.

We try to sleep. We are too excited to sleep. My mother, who is with us for the birth, comes to join us. She knows, as a former labour & delivery nurse– not to mention having done this herself three times — that sleep is a necessity; but there is such an energy in the house that none of us can succumb.

We must have slept, on and off, but by the wee hours, labour is here and we are all awake. Eventually, morning arrives, I am cajoled into eating scrambled eggs and drinking Gatorade, and we page the midwives. We talk a little, and Bobbie (who is on call) tells me it is early yet for her to come. Try to rest; try to eat; she’ll be by later.

Later she comes and with her the contractions that had been coming with such regularly vanish altogether. She suggests several postures to encourage them to return, and our chiropractor phones to ask if labour has begun. After our somewhat ambivalent answer, she arrives at the house and stays for the entire duration of labour. Our midwife leaves but promises to phone and check in again soon.

The day progresses, with contractions coming and going and then settling in for good. Bobbie returns with a TENS machine to help ease my back pain, and following an internal exam announces that baby is posterior (which goes a long way in explaining the slow and stalling labour, as well as the terrible back pain). The TENS machine doesn’t seem to bring any relief, granted I am not using it properly, as I remove it frequently to get into a hot bath, which definitely brings some relief.

Slowly, slowly, labour progresses, and my cervix dilates. It takes on average two hours for my cervix to dilate one centimetre, making my labour roughly double the average length. Sometime in the afternoon I feel overwhelmed by the pain. Bobbie announces she’s going home for a while. My Mom bursts into tears, asking her not to go. I remember seeing Bobbie on the couch, hugging and consoling my otherwise stoic mother as my husband ushers me outside to walk circuits of the backyard (it is a remarkably sunny, warm Indian Summer afternoon).

Still slowly, labour progresses. I don’t remember when Bobbie came back, but suddenly she’s there again in my memory. I’m most comfortable in the tub, on my side, belly and back submerged in the hot water. Dana — our faithful chiropractor — presses on my hips with amazing strength during each contraction: without her counter-pressure I would not have made it.

I am seven centimetres dilated, and I cannot control the urge to push. I am asked to change positions to encourage this baby to turn around so its head can fit properly into place, encouraging labour into its more normal course. For six more hours I will fight, with each contraction, the uncontrollable need my womb has to push this baby out – this womb that does not seem to know the way is not yet open enough for the baby to come out.

I remember them making me walk up and down the stairs, two at a time. By this time, I keep my eyes mostly closed, am making wild, wild, dying animal sounds, and cannot support my own weight. I remember them making me sit backwards on the toilet, resting my head on a pillow on the back. My legs fall asleep. My arms fall asleep. I fall asleep. I wake up; a contraction underway, and panic. Wild animal vocalizations become a near-scream and that is when I first lucidly think to myself: I must go to the hospital and have an epidural.

I remember squatting in the shower, supported on a stool, with my husband holding the showerhead against my back. It brought nowhere near the relief of the bath, so back I went. Somewhere amidst all of this, we decide (my husband, Bobbie and I) that we will try to speed up labour by rupturing the membranes. In the end, this seems to have little positive effect.

I know, in my heart, that I can’t do it. I can’t possibly accomplish this unmedicated homebirth. I simply must have an epidural. But I can’t yet say it out loud. The disappointment is too intense, and I’m not yet read to give up the dreamed-of peaceful, powerful, meaningful homebirth.

A breakthrough! I am nine centimetres dilated! Now I know I can do this. I can take one more hour…just one more hour…then I’ll be able to give in to the pushing urges that are so incredibly hard and painful to fight. I am renewed.

I remember seeing the clock: 10:50 p.m. My husband says, “Kath: do you have any idea what time it is?” “10:50″ I answer. Everyone laughs. I have been in labour for nearly 24 hours.

“I want to go to the hospital for an epidural.”

But this is in the birth plan. I am to be gently discouraged from seeking pain relief. I am persuaded to wait half an hour, to give it another try. I agree.

After an hour I ask, “how far am I?” “Nine-and-a-half”, Bobbie replies. My heart sinks. My husband comes into the room. “How far?” he mouths; “Nine”, she mouths back. I see it. I am defeated.

“I want to go to the hospital for an epidural.”

This time, somewhat to my surprise, there is no argument, only a flurry of activity: Bobbie phones the hospital and her partner, Diane. Dana packs up her table and says she’ll meet us there. My mother and husband dress me (ridiculously) and grab my bag, the baby’s bag and the car seat, all prepared and ready to go, just in case.

In the car, I cannot possibly sit on the seat, on top of this sunny-side-up baby. The mere thought of it is painful. So I kneel on the front passenger seat, holding on to the bars of the headrest, my mother nearly begging me not to push as I grunt and groan through several contractions as we drive. My husband runs one or two red lights, and we are there.

Somehow we get to the labour and delivery unit. We are the only patients there. I am given nitrous oxide, which beautifully takes the edge of my contractions. We also discover that the baby has turned around and will be born in the usual fashion: facing downwards. There is only a small lip of cervix remaining which Bobbie deftly (albeit painfully) pushes away during the next contraction. I am permitted to push. Glory!

Under the influence of nitrous oxide, I tell everyone how much I love them, and make a bad joke about Grateful Dead concerts. The anaesthetist arrives and I thank him but decline his services. I can manage just fine without the epidural now that I am allowed to FINALLY push!

And push I do, for over an hour. Finally, just after 1:00 a.m. and amidst a scream, a tear and a wild, mind-blowing internal jumble of jostling knees and elbows, she is born. We are elated and relieved. I delcare:

“I feel like a million bucks!”

A few hours (and four stitches later) we are discharged, returning home around 7:00 a.m. on October 27th.

The birth is over: the life begins.