All six of my children had been born naturally, in the comfort of our home. I knew the natural ways to induce labor—walking, evening primrose oil, a bowl of pineapple chunks, a warm bath. I was a pro at breathing rhythms and the most comfortable delivery position. By child number seven, I knew what I was doing. But after 35 hours of labor, my home-birth doctor sent me on to the hospital.
“You need advanced medical attention,” he said. “Your labor isn’t progressing.” I didn’t know if I was more disappointed or scared.
My husband, Michael, helped me to our old blue Mercedes van. We’d already made arrangements to deliver our baby at the hospital in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, if I had any complications. The eight-mile drive from our home in Teton Village should have been easy. But a blizzard was underway. As we inched down the winding Rocky Mountain road, the snowfall was so heavy we could hardly see. I had to roll my window down to help navigate just so we wouldn’t slide into a ditch. Meanwhile my contractions were lengthening, the pain more intense.
Read More: Angel in the OR | Guideposts