The labor and delivery team swarmed in again, the surgeon and midwife sat at my bedside, and they had the look on their faces; I could tell, even through their masks.

Babies only have a reserve of oxygen in the womb for up to 10 minutes, so we had only seconds to decide.

I looked back at my husband; we didn’t even have time to discuss what was happening.

As my contractions continued to ramp up, my doula stepped up to the plate with essential oils, homeopathic remedies for tension headaches, acupressure, robozo, and massage (seriously, get you a Doula if you can - I don’t know that my home birth experience would have been nearly as manageable without her).

At 3:30am, after three days of labor, the delivery team engulfed the small space in my hospital room for a second time to address my son’s rapidly decelerating heartbeat.

At 3:30am, I looked into my husband's sleep-deprived eyes, then at the nurses, midwives, anesthesiologist, and surgeon staring back at me, awaiting my decision - and finally, at the doppler on the monitor telling us that it was now or never.