I don’t know that I’m going to go through every measure of my labor. In terms of the nitty gritty, I think Scott’s post encapsulated what happened, from the arduous stops and starts to the actual go time on the 27th to what happened after. I don’t know that you need my version of those events from that chronological perspective. Besides, my concept of time is a bit warped, and I don’t think it’s as important as this:
I labored long and hard and ended up with a gorgeous, healthy baby girl who, as everyone and their brother has said, is the spitting image of her Mama. And in between that time I discovered two things about myself and this process:
1) I am fucking hard core strong-willed and determined, and I will never, ever doubt that about myself again.
2) I have serious doubts that I will go the unmedicated route again.
Let me preface this by saying that, you know, I’m only a week out from the experience and still pretty raw. Evolution’s magic has not cast it’s spell on me just yet, and so I remember quite vividly what that pain felt like. And for me, the origins of why I can make the first statement are rooted in the process I experienced, so as they say, “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…”
I have appreciated every one of your comments and messages. Holy smacks. I don’t know who is showing up here or how but you’re all kind souls who are super sweet and supportive to the new Mama. So it’s in this spirit that I mention this: I am OK. Truly. I am frazzled and I am emotional, but I am OK. When I wrote my update post, I felt like it was important to be honest about what was going on, but I think I failed in communicating that I was very much “hanging in there.” I continue to have moments, of course. Yesterday in particular was a doozy. Abigail refused to sleep, we lost a Blackberry to the downstairs toilet, the dog puked on the rug, I ate practically nothing and then a man walking down the middle of our street, with a shopping cart filled with cardboard boxes, decided to stop in front of our house and stare into it for five minutes as though he were casing the joint.
I called 911. They were so sweet. I’m really not kidding.
Anyway, so I’m good. It remains understandably surreal that I am someone’s mom, but from an instinctual perspective I can’t believe there was a time I wasn’t. This has served to be a good and bad thing – I can already see within myself a propensity to pick up awful habits that I’ve always sort of deplored in others. I’ve been taking careful notes to cut out certain behaviors as I observe them because really, I don’t want to be that mom, but I’m still being gentle on myself for those missteps. However I imagine I’ll find myself much more forgiving of others because WOW. It’s really easy to do the things you always said you’d never do without realizing that you’re the asshole who is now doing them. Sometimes it just happens that way.
So on to our story…
Labor was everything and nothing like I expected it. It began gradually, once it really began, and then progressed to a point where all modesty and care flew out the window. I was told that biologically that would happen, but it was interesting to note the point in which I cared about what my doula saw me in to the point where I just walked into the alternative birthing center, not giving a shit about who was in that room, and stripped down so I could labor comfortably.
For a woman with body image-issues, I remain shocked by how biology in this process tosses all of our little Westernized, bougie little hangups out the window where they rightly belong. Who gives a shit if you can see the dimples on my ass when I’ve got a little girl fighting to make her way out of my body?
I think the turn for me came at home, as I labored in the tub, Scott pouring cup after cup of warm water over my belly to help soothe each surge. Tricia, our doula, brought those not-a-candle candles, and set them up around the tub. She set up an infuser with lavender – really, it was all very spa-like and calming and for as much pain as I was experiencing, I was managing just fine.
And then. KABOOM! FLASH!
Chicago, and other parts of the country, saw a February peppered with “thundersnow,” which if you ask me was just a whole new way to keep us on Twitter at length. The combination of winter storms with thunder and lightening has been far too much for us to handle, and it’s been an entertaining backdrop. As Sunday was turning to Monday, the thunder and lightening came rolling in, and from the dark, not-a-candle-candle-lit bathroom, me laboring in the tub, I said to Scott:
“Of course our kid is going to come into this world on the heels of lightening and thunder in February.”
This should have been a signal to me as to how this was all going to go down. And I know every parent marks something from the night their kids are born as something special, something unique, it was hard for me to ignore, and the dopey, cliched hack in me loves it.
I remember the entire time laboring that I wasn’t the me anymore that I’ve finely tuned for public consumption, but was rather the me that is most true to who I actually am. Tricia said that it’s true: women reveal their most “true” selves when they’re in labor. I was calm. I never once really yelled at anyone, though the amount of weird guttural noises I emitted was intense, and I know a couple of times I had to specifically ask Scott not to be so encouraging and positive and to just be quiet. But for the most part, I wasn’t scared. Despite rolling waves of pain after pain after pain, I was never scared about what was happening or what would happen. I was never one of those silent, quiet hypnobirthing ladies, but it did help a great deal in the process, and helped me keep my wits about me, should they have thought about acting up.
For as brave and as strong as I felt, for as together as I kept my head space, the thing pushing me along was this: it would end. During each contraction, I would look at Tricia and Scott and say, “I can do this. It won’t last forever.” And I knew that as soon as it was time for us to make our way to the hospital, it would all end even sooner, and I could keep doing it. It’s what I signed up for after all. I could keep laboring through that pain, through the trek to Oak Park, to the surrender of my dignity and even the intensity of bringing a person into the world. I could do it.
It would end. I could do it. It would end. I could do it.
—
But, you know, it didn’t. I arrived at the hospital 8.5 centimeters dilated. The general consensus was that I was going to give birth in the triage, though I’ll tell you right now despite what everyone was saying I just knew that wasn’t going to happen. Just the same, I was literally rushed down the hallways in a wheelchair at top speed to get me into the birthing center. When I got into the room, I was checked again, and the midwife on duty attempted to help me move things along but there was no moving things along. Worse yet, we learned that Abigail’s head was positioned strangely, making it virtually impossible for her to come down unless my cervix cooperated.
(I promise I’ll stop using the word “cervix” soon.)
But it just never did. And worse yet, the guttural breathing down and pushing I was doing to cope with the pain had to end. For hours. I believe I had to resist everything my body wanted to do in order to get that baby out for something around six hours, maybe a little less. And at every turn, I stopped believing it would be over. I really did wonder if that was even possible. Mentally, I began checking out and desperately wished for someone to do something. With every check, we learned my body completely stalled out.
There was pitocin for an hour or so, more checking, more not progressing, until finally we realized that even if by some miracle my body cooperated, I wouldn’t have the energy or strength to deliver unmedicated. My midwife and doula and husband asked if I wanted an epidural. I didn’t realize this was an option at this point, though asking for medication never even entered my brain.
I said yes. It couldn’t have come soon enough.
—
We weren’t done, though. Pitocin was administered again, and though I never felt a contraction, and instead got some sleep, I labored for another three hours or so in the hopes my body would cooperate. By the end, even a vaginal birth was unlikely, and a c-section was the only way to go.
It was the only time I actually did feel fear. C-sections are no joke, and I didn’t want one. It wasn’t lost on me, what my OB-GYN said about everyone with a birth preference ending up with a c-section. Though it was clear our birth preferences and the resulting c-section had nothing to do with each other, the irony wasn’t lost on me.
By 5 p.m. I was wheeled into the O.R. By 5:23 p.m. my daughter was born. Someone shouted out, “She looks exactly like her Mama!” And, by golly, she does. They swung her by my head, where I kissed her little cheek for the first time before they whisked her away. By 6 p.m. I was sewn up and on my way to recovery, where I’d greet my daughter again to breastfeed and get acquainted.
Later that night, after she’d been greeted by my sister and my parents, and began crying and wailing, someone put her into my arms and she immediately stopped. Just like that. It hit me like a ton of bricks – she stopped crying because I’m her Mama. She just knows. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen in my whole life.
—
Here is why, should we choose to have another baby, I won’t go down the unmedicated route again: THAT WAS FUCKING HARD. Sure I’m capable of it, but I’m not sure I want to put myself through the mental acrobatics I experienced trying to get through that pain, and how draining it’s been on me since. Now, I have been told by more than one person that what I went through was unique, and some have even said I pretty much went through every sort of labor possible, so it’s not a wonder that my body and mind have gone through what they have. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough to risk having that sort of experience again, only to end up on an operating table.
Let me say again: I don’t regret any step we took. Not a single one. And I don’t know that I would go to the opposite end of the spectrum, and actually I can say that I most certainly won’t. But for now? I’m just glad that it really did end, that I had the sort of support team and care that I did, that my choices were informed, and that it did end.
As for the c-section, I don’t have any issues about the procedure itself. I hated it, I hate that I had all of this extra pain and whatnot to manage, but emotionally I don’t feel anything about it in regards to the birthing process itself. It’s what had to happen in our case, and I’m grateful that I was able to obtain one safely. I don’t feel like less of Abigail’s mom because of it. Most of the hospital staff was sort of shocked I was healing as well as I was, considering how long and painful my labor leading up to the c-section had been. I’m still a bit beat up, but I’m getting around just fine. I probably have a good few days of healing ahead of me, and I have to pace myself since I tend to overdo it.
—
We are adjusting, just like any new parents do. We’ve had a handful of issues, all of which have been fairly manageable, even when they haven’t seemed as such in the moment. I miss my old life, I do, I won’t lie, but I’m adjusting to this new one. I watch a lot of TV with a baby on my chest in a Sleepy Wrap. I remind myself that in six months, when I’m back at work, I’ll miss those moments when it was just me and Abigail, watching TV, zoning out, letting the world spin on around us.
Besides, it’ll get to a point where I don’t feel like a feedbag/slave 80 percent of the time and an amazingly blessed, in-love, happy new mom the remaining 20 percent, and we’ll continue to find our groove. Already I feel the scales tipping. I really just love this little girl of mine.
I can’t believe how many people have swooped in to support us and love us. It’s incredible in a way I don’t know how to describe. I don’t ask for help or rely on people for much, and now to have so many friends and family members leave presents at the door, send gifts, send messages, help me sort out sleeping/feeding issues no matter the time of day…I’m certain things will be better than wonderful.
—
This was all about Scott and I being able to make the most informed choice for our family, and being supported in that choice. How I feel right now is mutually exclusive from everything leading up to Abigail’s birth. I must admit that I don’t have the most positive connotations associated with her birth, aside from her being born of course. I had hoped for that experience but life isn’t perfect and I’m at peace with that.
There is nothing about this girl, however, that I don’t love which balances the scales out pretty well I think.
