Belle V. D
My VBAC story begins with my first birth. Like most first-time moms, I was a bit naïve, eager but unaware of what the experience would truly hold. This was the summer of 2019. I’d taken a birthing class at a local birth center, where they emphasized that fewer medical interventions often led to “better” outcomes. I was determined to have a natural birth. I specified to my doctor that I did not want an epidural as I wanted to labor freely, in full movement and not be stranded to a hospital bed. His response to me was “I give all my mom’s epidurals because it’s 2019 and I don’t think any women should have to feel the pain of birthing a child.” That should have been a red flag to me, but again, I was naïve.
Labor started around 3 a.m. the day before my due date. I stayed home as long as possible, wanting to avoid the confinement of a hospital room. My mom, sister, and husband were there, and together we braved hours of labor until, finally, by 7 p.m., the contractions were so intense I fell to my knees, throwing up on the living room floor. That’s when I knew it was time to go in.
At the hospital, I was seven centimeters dilated. After 18 hours, I felt hopeless, thinking if I was only at 70%, it would take another eight hours to reach full dilation. My doctor arrived soon after and announced, “I’m going to break your water.” At the time, I didn’t understand what that would mean, but he assured me it would speed things up. What he didn’t tell me was how much more intense the contractions would become—or that it would make it harder for the baby to reposition. Just ten minutes later, I was screaming for the epidural.
Once the epidural was in, I couldn’t move my legs. I felt helpless, stranded on the hospital bed, unable to shift or change positions to help the baby along. By midnight, I was fully dilated, but I was utterly exhausted. The doctor decided to give me an hour to rest, hoping I’d regain some strength to push.
At 1 a.m., I began to push. Three hours went by, and the baby still hadn’t budged. Between 30-second contractions, I would fall asleep, only to wake up and try again. By 4 a.m., my doctor called for a C-section due to “failure to progress.” I was so tired I could barely process it; I just wanted to hold my baby.
In the operating room, it took less than a minute from the first incision until my baby was born. The feeling was surreal; under the morphine haze, I felt like a butchered animal, more a body than a person. And while I was overjoyed to finally hold my daughter, there was a lingering feeling that I had somehow “failed.”
The baby blues crept in, lasting for three months. At my six-week checkup, I learned that my doctor had been dismissed from his practice; his C-section rate was too high.
A year later, I was pregnant again. I was determined not to repeat my first experience. With a toddler at home, I knew a second C-section recovery would be even harder. So, I dove into research, devouring VBAC stories, podcasts, and studies. I switched doctors twice, avoiding anyone who seemed too quick to suggest surgery or epidurals. I started going to a prenatal yoga studio, led by a doula who also ran her own birthing center. She recommended a doctor named Dr. Sancetta, saying, “If you want a VBAC, he’s the one.” At 35 weeks, I switched providers again.
Dr. Sancetta was straightforward, with an old-school and holistic approach. He gave me a list of things to prepare my body for birth: eat dates, walk three miles a day, avoid lying on my back. With his advice, my yoga practice, and regular chiropractic adjustments, I felt more confident this time.
Three days before my due date, on the Saturday before Easter, labor began. I texted my yoga teacher to let her know, and she encouraged me to come to class anyway, so I could stay moving, relaxed, and opened. Afterward, I walked a block to my chiropractor’s office for an adjustment. As she saw me contract and felt the baby, she confirmed, “Today’s the day.” On the way home, my husband picked up a sandwich, and I devoured it with the appetite of someone about to run a marathon.
Back home, the contractions grew stronger. I took a warm bath, hoping to ease the tension, but soon found myself yelling for my husband: “call my mom!” My mom arrived 10 minutes later to watch our toddler, and as we left, I felt an overwhelming urge to push. My mom urged my husband to rush.
The car ride was intense, with me on all fours in the back seat, with AirPods on listening to soothing music, trying to breathe through contractions while my husband navigated traffic.
We finally get to the hospital and get to the maternity wing’s triage. I am told at the time that my husband can’t come to triage with me because of COVID and he would only be allowed in once I’m admitted. I was boiling inside knowing I’m about to go into a hospital alone but tried to keep my temper down to save my energy. I went in and called my husband and left one AirPod on so I could have him with me.
Triage was empty. I was the only patient there. The triage nurse told me since I’m a VBaC patient, I need to lay in the triage bed for an hour strapped onto monitors so they could get readings on the baby. Between major contractions and unable to stay still, I laughed and said “there’s no way I’m laying here for an hour on my back”. Seeing how frantic I was, she said she would check me. After her check, she was quiet and stepped outside. Somehow through the commotion, I lost my AirPod and couldn’t hear my husband. I was in triage alone and going through what must have been “transition” because the contractions were so intense, I thought I was dying. Alone. How does a nurse just leave? I thought this must be bad news. I immediately remembered my first birth when I thought I was ready but was told I was only 7cm when I got to the hospital. Now though, this nurse was quiet. She came back into the room. I asked her: “how far along am I?” She replied: “10cm and 100% effaced and baby’s head is crowning.” She called out to the hallway: “get Dr. Sancetta here now.” The doctor arrived in what felt like seconds. I was screaming and yelled “I need to push!” I remember Dr. Sancetta shouting to the staff: “get dad here quick, he’s going to miss it” and then my water broke right there on the triage floor. The staff finally got to my husband and 2 pushes after he arrived, the baby was born.
I felt an immense sense of empowerment. My body hadn’t failed me, not then and not before. The “failure to progress” label from my first birth was a reminder of the all-too-common practice of rushing labor. That experience had taught me so much about trusting my own instincts and being my own advocate.
Now, three years later and 37 weeks pregnant with my third, I’m hopeful for another VBAC. I trust myself and my body, and I know that whatever happens this time, it will be with grace and understanding, on my terms.
Belle V.D
Mama to two beautiful girls & currently pregnant with her third