A shared philosophy

In some ways this post will be a departure from the norm in that a large part of what I’m going to talk about has to do with pregnancy and childbirth rather than MS—but never fear, MSers, it’s relevant to you too.

When I first started thinking about what I wanted having children to look like, a million maybe 15 or so years ago, I knew that most of what I wanted fell outside of the mainstream. These things included:

  • as much of a “hands off” and non-“managed” pregnancy as possible, including infrequent (if any) ultrasounds, infrequent (if any) vaginal exams, limited prenatal testing and limited interference from my healthcare provider—who would preferably be a midwife, not an OB
  • not being in a hospital or being delivered by an obstetrician, who is a medical doctor and by definition thereby “medicalizes” the process
  • no unnecessary interventions or procedures, including an epidural or any other anesthesia, induction or augmentation of labor, electronic fetal monitoring, frequent checks of my cervix, restriction of movement during labor and/or demanding a certain position in which to give birth, and certainly no unnecessary episiotomy or C-section
  • limited interference with both baby and I after the birth, including leaving the baby with me after the birth and not taking him/her away to perform necessary examination (which can be done right next to me); no immediate bathing of the baby; leaving us mostly alone to skin-to-skin bond and breastfeed unless I ask for help

The more I researched and read and learned over the years, the more important these things became to me. Of course I know that fluid and flexible processes such as pregnancy and childbirth can’t necessarily be predicted and thus my wants were not guaranteed. That’s one area where MS is related—I’m living with one of the most unpredictable medical conditions in existence where nothing is guaranteed. But the above was so important to me that I was going to do everything under my control to make sure it happened. And it did happen—all of it! and it was wonderful!—but recently I got to thinking about my husband’s role in all this and how helpful it was that not only did my care provider and I see eye-to-eye—after all, that was on purpose; she wouldn’t have been my care provider had that not been the case—but that also did my husband and I.

What on earth, I wondered, must a woman’s experience having a baby be like if she and her child’s father aren’t on the same page? My husband and I were perhaps unique in that we talked about our future family plans VERY early in our relationship (we had baby names picked out within 6 months of dating) but I doubt this is the case for every or even most couple(s). I was also fortunate that my husband, although he possessed less knowledge about the process, seemed to fully share my common-sense, organic views on pregnancy, birth, and child-rearing in general. I can’t imagine having gone through the process with someone on the fence about—or worse, openly hostile or resistant to—my views.

He was such a help and support to me, especially throughout the marathon of labor, that having that been otherwise is unthinkable. Although I was very confident in myself and very sure of my choices, thereby not needing his or anyone’s validation, I would assume that it would have been a lot harder and less enjoyable had there been contention between us in how we wanted and expected things to go. I’m sure there are pregnant women out there who, for example, want the holistic, natural, homebirth or birth center experience with midwives while their partners are dead set on the perceived greater safety and support of a hospital and a doctor. And although in that it’s the woman having the baby and thus likely the final decision-maker of what route she will take, certainly opposition from her partner wouldn’t be helpful and probably would be harmful, if only emotionally.

As far as relates to my MS, my husband is similar to me in how he views that, too—as a minor inconvenience, not a major disaster, and not at all a source of stress or a cause of aggravation. He supported me when I took the Rebif injection, and supports me being off it until we’re finished having children. He sympathized when I had a relapse but looked at it as optimistically as I did, seeing it as a minor bump in the road rather than a tire-popping pothole. It’s a blessing to have a partner with a shared philosophy as pertains to health, medical, and body issues.

A Labor Story

My due date of February 18th came and went. This was no surprise as I knew that a “due date” is nothing but a general guideline. I was told to have an ultrasound before my next appointment, which would have been at week 41, just to ensure that all was normal, Baby Glotzbach (gender unknown) was still doing well, amniotic fluid levels still good, etc. As I hadn’t seen my baby since the 20th week, I was happy to comply. I scheduled it for the following Wednesday, the 24th.

On Monday the 22nd, very late at night, I started to shed my mucus plug. I’d had Braxton Hicks contractions the last 12 weeks of the pregnancy but the contractions had become more like real labor ones as of late, so the beginnings of the loss of the plug didn’t surprise me. Finally, we’re getting things going, I thought.


Late Monday night/early Tuesday morning of that week was also when the early labor contractions got strong enough that I had trouble sleeping. I took the first of many middle-of-the-night showers then; the hot water helped soothe the discomfort.

My contractions were less strong during the day Tuesday; I was able to nap a little and take my usual walk around the neighborhood that afternoon. I also hoped that walking would move the process along with the combination of exercise and gravity. Tuesday night was a repeat of Monday night: increasingly intense contractions and more hot showers.

Wednesday morning I was fatigued and uncomfortable to the point that my husband called both the radiologist’s office to cancel the ultrasound and the birth center to advise that I was in labor. They told him to have me call back after noon if there was much change. By that point, as had happened the previous afternoon, I was more comfortable so I didn’t call.

Wednesday night was the worst yet; no sleep for either me or hubby and 4 (or maybe 5) hot showers where I had to lean against the shower wall and breathe deeply through contractions which ranged from 5-10 minutes apart. I was counting the hours until 11 a.m. Thursday and my next appointment at the birth center, where I’d already determined I wouldn’t be leaving without having had the baby!

Thursday morning: going on day 3 of little to no sleep and facing an hourlong drive to the birth center, I was crabby and exhausted already and little did I know how much more of a marathon awaited me! My midwife was waiting for me, already in her scrubs, and the first thing I said was, “Hi! I’m not leaving!” When she checked me she said I was 7 centimeters dilated and the amniotic sac was bulging—nope, not leaving! I could tell I’d made progress over the week, but I was surprised (and excited!) that I had made that much.


We unloaded the car of all our luggage—I don’t use that term lightly; we had the bag for the baby, the bag for me, the bag for my husband, my (large) purse, and a cooler of food and drinks; we looked as though we were moving in—and went to get lunch up the street and take a walk by the lake. In the restaurant, of course being hugely pregnant, patrons asked the usual question: when are you due? I replied “A week ago, and I’m actually in labor right now!” I got a kick out of people’s reactions.

Once we returned to the birth center, I spent the next several hours in the jetted tub. It felt so good, almost good enough to not be bothered by the increasing contractions. They were intense and painful but I didn’t doubt I could deal, especially since I (mistakenly) assumed that since I had been at 7 cm at 11 o’clock, things would progress quickly. Oh, the things us naïve first-time moms tell ourselves. I really thought—and this was bolstered by my midwife’s opinion—that I’d have a baby by that evening.

After a few hours in the tub, I got out and walked around the room some, trying to get more comfortable. I tried leaning against the bed; I tried kneeling on the bed; I tried lying down ON the bed—that was pretty bad, because I was so tired that all I wanted to do was lie down, but the contractions were the most painful in that position. My water still hadn’t broken and my midwife asked if I wanted her to do it, but I said absolutely not—I was still insistent on NO intervention at all. And, ok, I was afraid it would hurt—a rather silly fear, given that I was in the middle of a natural drug-free childbirth, but I’ve been known to be irrational on occasion and sleep deprivation didn’t help matters.

By 4 a.m. Friday morning, I had not had the baby and I’d started to feel like pushing, which I attempted to do in a somewhat all-fours position on the bed. My midwife checked me, found I was 9+ centimeters….and while she was up there, ha-ha, casually went ahead and broke the sac. You guys….the amount of amniotic fluid that POURED out of me was UNREAL. It gushed and gushed like a faucet! I totally screamed out loud, out of sheer surprise—of course, obviously, I’d never felt anything like that sensation in my life. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror; my bump had literally deflated like a balloon.

Once the water had broken, did the real contractions ever start! The intensity ramped up instantly. For the next several hours I continued to dilate—the cervix had receded a bit because the amniotic sac had been holding it open—and tried to rest between contractions if I could, which didn’t amount to much rest at all. By this point I’d basically been awake, save for cat naps earlier in the week, for 96 hours straight. I was more dead tired than I’d ever been, and for an MSer with incomparable fatigue at various times, that was saying something.

Finally at around 7 a.m. Friday I began to push in earnest. Despite emptying my bladder at regular intervals, it continued to empty itself, vigorously, onto the bed as I pushed—if I wasn’t so tired I would have been horrified—I was a little horrified anyway, and was just thankful it wasn’t poop. (I did end up being part of the like 5-10% of laboring women who did manage NOT to poop at all during delivery, thank the Lord, Mary and Joseph.) As baby was not making his or her appearance in the position I was attempting, on all fours on the bed, my midwife suggested we try something else. She suggested I sit on the toilet, which I tried for precisely ONE contraction, then said no more—it was very painful and I didn’t have any leverage, anywhere to put my hands to brace my arms—it was a no go. So she suggested the birthing stool, which I agreed to; gravity would help but I’d have a way to brace my arms as I pushed.

And, the stool was the ticket—at 9:18 a.m., on Friday, February 26th, a GIRL was born—Kira Elizabeth, 7 pounds, 4 ounces of perfection. She flew out of me with the final push after her head came out, born with eyes wide open, and cried right away. She was nothing but smooth and wet and slippery; no vernix, no wrinkly skin (which amazed me given the amount of water she’d been swimming in!). After 3 days of early labor and 22 hours of active labor, she was finally, finally here. (And did I mention perfect?!?)

Save for the time it took (I never expected such a long labor, given how active and in shape I was), the whole process was exactly what I’d always wanted: a completely normal, uncomplicated pregnancy; a relatively calm birth without intervention, management, or manipulation by other people; and a gorgeous, healthy daughter (by far the best part of all, since I had badly wanted a girl). It was the experience I’d always dreamed it would be, well before multiple sclerosis was ever a factor in my life. I’m so grateful that having MS didn’t impede my ability to experience this, and so glad that having kept up my physical and mental strength since my diagnosis enabled me to endure and persevere!
Thanks to my loves at Heart 2 Heart Birth Center in Sanford, Florida, and especially special thanks to my midwife Karen Bove—without whom this could not have been possible. ❤️