Two years ago I had my little Vander. I never wrote about the birth story because my emotions were too strong. It's finally time. Warning: this is a long post!
Monday of that week I looked at the calendar and realized my due date was just 12 days away. Yikes! I figured he would be a little late, so that gave me just two weeks to finish up all the projects I had yet to do. I made grand plans for freezer meals. On Tuesday I started a massive baby clothing sorting project in the nursery. I only succeeded in making a big mess before going to bed. Wednesday morning I was wakened at 7 a.m. by a wet and warm surprise. Groaning, I rolled out of bed. I had been hoping I'd make it through this pregnancy without losing bladder control! Suddenly, I realized that I had no control over the fluid coming out, and it just kept coming. I started laughing as I realized I was having one of those classic tv moments when the wife gets to wake up her husband and say, "Honey, my water just broke!" Not knowing what else to do, I took a shower, chuckling to myself the whole time. Sure, it was a bit of a pain that the little man was coming so early. I had just started the clothing project and I was also trying to get over bronchitis. I'd had hopes that my cough would be gone in the next two weeks, leaving me healthy and strong to face the birth. But despite those frustrations I was excited, glowing. I sang a song in the shower and tried to capture the moment in my head. I had an amazing husband, a wonderful daughter, and soon our son would be born.
I had hired a doula and even taken childbirth classes. I felt a little silly to be taking childbirth classes for my second child, but both of the other couples in the class were also on their second baby and had experiences that mirrored ours: an unnecessary cesarean because of unnecessary interventions. We wanted something better this time. I felt a little nervous but also confident--I knew I could do it. I called my doula. "Call your doctor," she said, "but whatever you do, don't go to the hospital this early. If you do, you will probably end up with another cesarean." I assured her I wouldn't and called my doctor when his office opened.
"I want you to come into my office so we can verify that your water has broken." Ummmmm....what? I could tell that my water had broken. "Well, it really is broken," I said. "We still need you to come in and make sure," said the nurse. "Some ladies lose bladder control and think it's their water." I felt pretty annoyed that they wouldn't believe me. It may have been my first time with broken water but I had decades of experience with peeing and this wasn't it! I went into his office anyway, wearing an adult diaper, since that was the only way I could leave the toilet. The nurse handed me a gown as usual and instructed me to change and lay down on the exam table. "Ummm, would you like to lay down a towel, or something?" I suggested. "There's a lot of fluid." "Oh," the nurse said, surprised, and laid down a little absorbant pad. I changed and layed down. Every change in position brought out a gush of water. By the time the doctor came in, water was flowing down the end of the table like a waterfall. Still, he examined me before saying, "Oh yes, your water is broken." HELLOOOOOO! That's what I'd told them! It made me wonder how often water flowed down the end of the table and how they cleaned it. "I'd like you to go over to the hospital right away," the doctor said.
That's when we started having problems. I politely argued with him that I wasn't having any contractions and there was no point in going to the hospital yet. He firmly disagreed. He said that doing a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) was risky and I should be monitored in the hospital. Then he brought up all the statistics he had quoted to me months before when had first discussed the VBAC. The statistics that had made me cry. See, there's a chance when doing a VBAC that your uterus will tear along the scar. If that happens, the baby WILL die, and you could die. Even if you were in the hospital when it happened, the baby would still die. It's a very small chance, .2 percent, or 1 in 500. But it's a risk. He had told me horror stories of dead babies he'd delivered but still I'd made the decision to go for it. I had prayed a lot and felt peace that whether I lived or died it was the right decision. I was pretty sure I'd live. But the anxiety and depression I was having as I fretted about the birth had still made our lives miserable for the last few months. I had even sat poor Nathan down one night while we were on a date and made him talk about what would happen if I died: things that I wanted, things I didn't want, what he should do with the life insurance money, when he should remarry, etc. I was psychotic. Poor Nathan! But to mitigate the risk I was taking and maintain my sanity, I had firmly decided a few things.
1) New doctor. This was a new doctor, not the one who had induced me when I wasn't ready, simply for his convenience.
2) I would not take any pitocin, whatsoever. When you take pitocin with a VBAC the risk of uterine rupture doubles. It's still small, but I decided that I wanted to keep the risk low. Besides, hadn't my first birth shown that pitocin in any amount had no effect on me?
3) I would have a doula to help me stay calm and know what to do. She would help me have the courage to state my desires to the doctor and staff if they disagreed with me.
4) I would not be confined to a bed or an IV. I would have a hep lock instead, which is basically a needle in my hand that isn't hooked up to anything, but which they can hook an IV to in a flash, if necessary.
I had told my doctor numbers 2-4 several months before and he had reluctantly agreed. So anyway, here he was, quoting me death statistics again to scare me into the hospital. I finally said okay. But I went home and took my OWN SWEET TIME getting to the hospital. Like, three hours. I took a walk and tried some other things to stimulate contractions but nothing was happening yet. The doctor's office called to check on me and I finally went into the hospital around 1 p.m. with my doula shaking her head sadly over the phone.
At the hospital I got my hep lock and unfashionable gown. Then we got down to business. I must have walked 10 miles while I was there, up and down the halls of the Women's Center. We tried other things we had studied about that stimulate contractions. Finally, around 4 p.m. I started having contractions. It wasn't too long before they became back labor. Oh, so I was one of THOSE lucky gals, eh? My goal was to have no drugs or interventions. I had given myself permission to use drugs later if I just couldn't take it so that I wouldn't feel guilty if I went down that road. But I was determined to make it without. (Speaking of determined, do you know my sister Sarah? She is the most determined person I know. If she decides she will do something, it is basically like God saying "Let there be light" because if she says it, then it's going to happen. I am usually not that determined about things but that's not to say I can't be. It's in my genes. And in this case, I was determined.) So bring on the back labor. Nathan supported me with the techniques we'd learned in our class and I rocked it. Man, it hurt, but I did it. There is not much to say about the rest of that day and night. The contractions came and went, never becoming regular. I slept a little until 1 a.m. when the contractions became too painful for me to sleep through. I walked a lot. I drank water and ate food. I took a shower. I bounced on an exercise ball. I walked a whole lot. I prayed. I talked to baby boy and told him I knew we could do it together.
The next morning my doctor came in to check my progress. He had warned me that if I wasn't progressing 24 hours after the water breaking that we would be facing a c-section because of the risk of infection. But this was further than I had ever gotten. The contractions still weren't regular but they were strong. I had high hopes of my progress.
A one.
I was devastated. After 18 hours of pitocin and contractions (with an epidural) with Annalee I had only ever gotten to 3 centimeters dialated before they did the surgery. And after all the work I'd done this time I was only a ONE?! "It's been 24 hours," my doctor said. "We gave it our best" (HE did what, exactly?) "but we're going to have to do a cesarean," he said with an apologetic, friendly smile. I felt bad for him. The man was in his late 60's at least and had been at the hospital as long as I had. The hospital required that in order to attempt a VBAC the physician had to be on hand at all times in case there was an emergency. I imagine there was a place for physicians to sleep but I doubted someone of his age would have slept very well out of his own bed. So, we faced each other, two very stubborn, sleep-deprived people. My husband and two nurses were in the room. (My doula was still at home since I wasn't having regular contractions.) Calmly, I said, "I don't want a cesarean. I want to keep trying for a regular delivery. We've done periodic fetal monitoring and the baby is fine. I want to keep trying."
"You can't," he insisted. "The risk of infection is too great."
My mom bustled into the room, arriving cheerily with an arrangement of flowers.
Respectfully and calmly, I said, "I'm sorry, but I don't agree with you."
Suddenly, my doctor was screaming at me. "WELL YOU'RE WRONG! I'M THE DOCTOR AND I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I'VE SEEN BABIES DIE! YOU'RE PUTTING YOUR BABY IN DANGER! YOUR BABY IS GOING TO DIE! YOU ARE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE TOO! YOU'RE PUTTING EVERYTHING AT RISK AND" etc, etc. I actually don't remember the exact words he said but this was the gist of it. When he finally stopped there was a deafening silence. Everyone in the room was frozen, their eyes the size of bed pans.
After what seemed like forever I broke the silence. Amazingly, I wasn't crying and I wasn't rude. Something about him looking so incrediby juvenile in front of so many witnesses made it easy for me to be calm. "Does this mean you don't want to be my doctor anymore?"
He exhaled heavily and said, in a much calmer voice, "No, I'll still be your doctor. But we are going to sign a bunch of forms saying that I'm not responsible for what happens and you know what you're doing." He left the room.
I wondered what my mom would do. She had been very worried about me this pregnancy and had strongly advocated from the start that I have another cesarean. The doctor who had just left the room was her OBGYN--had been for years, even though it was after she was done having kids. She respected his opinion a great deal. I didn't know if I could bear to have another talk from her about this right after what had just happened. Instead, she set down the flowers and gave me a big hug and told me she loved me. I have never loved my mom more than I did at that moment. She is a wise, wise woman. We chatted about a few things and then she left.
The nurses quietly offered me their support. What I didn't know until Nathan became a nurse is that the job of a nurse is to be an advocate for the patient with the doctor. And these gals knew their job. I explained to one about the traumatic first birth I'd had and the depression and anxiety over this one. I told her how I was so scared to have a cesarean and go through all those things again: not caring about the birth, being unconscious for hours afterward, not being able to see my baby, almost dying with the wrong medication, a long and difficult recovery made worse by having to take care of TWO children now. I didn't know she was my advocate, I just knew she was a woman with a listening ear and she was there. Unbeknownst to me, she went out and found my doctor and explained the situation to him. (I should note here that I HAD explained the situation to him many times. In fact, he was the one who had prescribed my antidepressants. But I guess he didn't remember.) He came back in later, much more calm. I don't remember him apologizing, but he seemed sorry (and probably embarassed) for his outburst. He told me again what his recommendation was and said that if I preferred he would be willing to start some pitocin and wait until noon to see if things progressed before doing the surgery. I thanked him and asked for some time to think about it.
We called the doula and she said that she couldn't advise us what to do medically. We did some research and discovered that even if we'd been at a natural birthing center (which we'd looked into) that they would have sent us to the hospital after 24 hours for a c-section, because of the laws.
Nathan and I started praying. We prayed together and separately. I wasn't sure if I would get an answer. Ever since I had started my antidepressants six weeks before I hadn't been able to feel. It had stopped the depression, the cycles of bad thoughts I couldn't break out of, the uncontrolled weeping. It had also stopped the humor, the unexpected joy, the choking up at a happy and touching story. It had shut off all but the strongest emotions. It wasn't a perfect solution, but we were so close to the delivery that I didn't want to be messing around with different drugs, trying to find the perfect one; I just wanted to make it to the birth. Still, it bothered me. I am a pretty emotional person, a feeling person. I felt like I wasn't myself. I was an unemotional observer of my life. It stunk. Even though I don't usually feel the Spirit through choking up and crying, I usually have a warm feeling inside. Lately, I hadn't felt that. I also hadn't felt any warnings or ANYTHING! So I prayed, desperately, exercising all my faith that I would get an anwer when it really counted. And I did. It was a very special experience for Nathan and I, with me finally, finally getting an answer after feeling cut off for so long.
We were having a cesarean.
It's funny how being grateful for getting an answer isn't the same thing as being happy about what the answer is. Now that my feelings had come back they were suddenly unleashed. I wept and wept, terrified about what was about to happen. The last time it had been so awful. It had been so wrong. It was all happening again.
We told the nurse and the doctor and they said that while we needed to get it done, it wasn't an emergency. They currently had an emergency c-section going on and they estimated that I could get in at 9:30. It was hard waiting. I had been up all night and was starving, but now that we were headed for surgery I couldn't have anything. I was still having awful contractions but with the surgery coming so soon they didn't want to give me anything. The contractions that I had bravely faced for hours, knowing they were bringing my little baby closer to me, were suddenly a meaningless sacrifice. It was really hard to endure them, knowing that.
It was Thursday February 17th. Nathan would normally have been working but he had arranged to have Thursday and Friday off to drive to Utah and take his Nursing Board exam on Friday so he could become a RN. Well, now THAT wasn't going to happen! (See, we were so sure that the baby wasn't coming until after his due date, like his sister!) We called the testing center as soon as we had decided on the cesarean. It was 8:30. They informed us that because we were cancelling with less than 24 hours notice our $200 testing fee was non-refundable (the test was at 8:00 the next day). WHAT?! It's not like we could have given them notice of something we didn't know ourselves! Didn't they make exceptions for medical emergencies? We were having unplanned major abdominal surgery! No, they didn't. We contacted the State and National Boards and were given the run-around. Perfect. I'm sure you can imagine how much this additional stress helped my morning. At least we would be getting it over with soon.
A nurse came back to tell us that another emergency c-section had gone in and we were now looking at 11:00. I fell apart again. It was horrible, having to wait for something I was so afraid of! I was coughing deep in my chest, I was having back contractions, I was exhausted from lack of sleep, and I was hungry! Nathan stayed by me through it all. The nurses came in to get me ready for surgery and I just cried and cried. Every tube, every wire, brought back to me the horror I had experienced before. I felt powerless to stop what was happening. My parents showed up before the surgery and offered smiles and words of encouragement before they whisked me down the restricted hall.
Things were less hurried than the last time. I walked instead of being wheeled on a table. At one point I had to stop for a contraction and the male orderly (nurse?) said something to try to hurry me along and I yelled at him that I was having a contraction and couldn't move and could he just wait a minute?! Then I continued into the surgery room. Many nurses were there, scrubbing things down and getting ready. It seemed to take a long time. They had me sit on a table and lean forward into a nurse while the anesthesiologist inserted the spinal tap. It hurt A LOT, and I was still having contractions too. The nurse held me so I'd be at the right angle without falling off the table. I'm sure it was just the most effective way to do it but it felt like a hug. And there, in that sterile room, without my family, I really needed a hug. I hugged back and cried quietly. I kept asking about Nathan and they assured me that he was changing and would be along soon. It just seemed to take forever. The tap started to take effect and they had me lay down. Oh, thank goodness! It was such a relief to be free of the pain!
Nathan came in dressed in scrubs. (It's a good thing he looks so cute in scrubs, since he gets to wear them all the time!) What I didn't know until just now as I'm typing this is that he had gotten scrubbed pretty quickly but then they wouldn't let him in until right before the surgery. He was stuck in the hall, watching through a window as I cried. He was pretty ticked off. But he didn't mention it at the time because he didn't want me to be upset for him. Isn't he a sweetie?
Once he got in the room he wanted to see everything that they were doing but I wanted him to stay by me, so he did. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Just touch me," I said. I wanted him to touch me the whole time, just so I could draw strength from him being there. They strapped my arms down to either side of me, like I was flying, and put about a gallon of iodine and such stuff on my belly. He kept his hand on my shoulder and petted my head.
Laying down brought back the congestion in my lungs. I knew I'd be laying down for a while so I decided to clear that out right away. I took several huge breaths and coughed as hard as I could to try to get the stuff out. Every time I coughed, though, the cough seemed less effective. After about 60 seconds of this a male nurse said, "You should probably try not to cough because it will make the numbing spread higher and make it harder to breathe." WHY didn't he tell me that when I started coughing?!! Oh well. They put up the curtain that blocked my view of the surgery.
The surgery itself went fairly quickly. Nathan gave me a running commentary of what was going on because I asked him to. It was such a different experience from last time because I was actually alert and coherent. (The double epidural they'd given me last time did some bad things to me and made it so I was hardly conscious and totally paralyzed.) I felt some tugging and pulling and a lessoning of pressure as they pulled the baby out.
I met my little Vander in that moment. They held him up above the screen. He had hair--lots of it--sticking up around his head in a wet approximation of the Statue of Liberty's crown. Although I know babies can't focus on anything when they're that little, he seemed to fix his eyes right on mine and give me a grimace, an incredibly grumpy look, like, "What's THIS all about?" He wasn't crying, just glaring in the bright lights. I was in love in an instant.
They carried him over to the work station and the staff in the room laughed, "Well, his bladder is working!" as he christened the room on the way. I laughed too. It was so amazing to be able to enjoy the moment of his birth! I hadn't known that a cesarean could be like this. Of course, I'd still have rather had a vaginal birth and not been cut open and strapped down, but at least this time I got to be there for this precious moment. They wrapped him in a blanket and gave him to Nathan, who brought my beautiful little baby up to my face so I could kiss him and touch him. He was covered in vernix and little bumps but he was bright eyed and beautiful and he was ours. I cry now, remembering what an intimate, sacred moment that was for my husband and I.
They took him back for his Apgar test and worked on sewing me up. It took FOREVER! But I will say this about my doctor: we may not have had a very good relationship in the end, but MAN, is he a good surgeon! During my recovery I could totally tell the difference between his skill, a surgeon nearing retirement, and the skill of the fairly-new surgeon I'd had with Annalee. He took a long time sewing me up but it was a great job. He fixed the crooked scar I'd gotten last time and even took out some extra skin--what I've heard other patients refer to as his "free tummy tuck"--and made it great.
While they were sewing me up I started shivering uncontrollably, a reaction to the drug. I wasn't cold, I was just trembling violently. Nathan kept asking if I wanted a blanket but I assured him (through chattering teeth) that I wasn't cold! It was really weird.
About then, I asked if anyone had informed my parents that the baby was born and everything was fine. With how long the pre- and post-op had seemed to take to me, it must have been an eternity to my parents who were stuck out in the waiting room, wondering how it was going. They couldn't know how long the prep took or have any kind of measure for why things were taking forever. They just had to sit out there and wait. Someone went to tell them and I was wheeled to another room to recover for an hour.
It was dark in that curtained alcove. Vander was with us, and then my parents joined us. That's when I got to tell them his name, and what it meant. They stared at me blankly. I think they were just so worked up over everything that the significance of a name couldn't break through it all. Eventually, though, Mom gushed over the name and over Vander himself. She told me later that Dad was, indeed, in a little bit of shock at the time but that later he had been deeply touched by the gesture.
In the middle of the recovery, the hospital's lactation consultant bustled in and said "Let's get to work!" I explained that yes, I very much wanted to breastfeed, but it would take me a couple of hours to be able to sit up and try. She brushed that aside and said, "There's no time like the present!" Then, with the obvious skill of long practice, she positioned Vander on his tummy on my chest and Voila! He was having his first breastfeeding lesson. She was amazing! It hadn't occurred to me that I could breastfeed him without sitting up and getting positioned and all that, but I now realized that since my milk hadn't come in yet anyway, it hardly mattered. What mattered was teaching him to suck. Can I just say how much I love EIRMC? GREAT hospital.
From there, they moved me back to my room because the mother's wing was being renovated and they didn't have a post-delivery room available for me yet. Over the next few days I relearned walking and using the bathroom and all those other important life skills. They came back more quickly than they had the first time. I got a new room. The nurses were all so kind and so good at their job. I slept a lot and ate fabulous meals that I got to choose from a menu--that is, once they let me eat solid food again, grrr! I'm sure their precaution in allowing me only broth and pudding for that first day is founded on lots of research but my body was telling me that it wanted mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken, and a dinner roll!
Nathan slept at home, relieving Steven, who had been taking care of Annalee non-stop since midday Wednesday. They came to visit me often. Vander was with me a lot, except when I wanted to get some sleep. Then I would call the Nursery and say, "Vander says he really misses the nurses in the Nursery. Can he come visit?" He was slightly jaundiced but it wasn't bad enough to treat. He just looked tan like his dad, to me. It was nice not to have a baby in the NICU!
On the last night we were there (Saturday) we got their traditional "Stork Dinner", a fancy meal at the table in my room for just me and Nathan. It even had a huge cheesecake dessert. YUM.
Sunday we came home. Before long, things got a little stressful. Despite saving up three weeks of time off and telling Nathan's work for months before that we planned to use it when the baby was born, they wouldn't give it to him. He had to go to work on Monday. I was upset, but tried to stay calm, reasoning that once he got there he would be able to straighten things out. No. His boss said they would see. He had to go to work Tuesday. Then his boss went out of town for training for a week. Every day I cried and tried not to pressure Nathan too much, poor man. He was caught between his boss and his wife with nowhere to go. When his boss came back they said that he couldn't have the time off because time off has to be approved three weeks in advance.
KABOOM
That was my head exploding. HOW in the heck were we supposed to know three weeks in advance which day our baby would decide to be born? The unfairness of it all was staggering. Nathan was the only male nurse at the clinic. Nearly every single one of his female coworkers (nursing staff and front office) had had at least one baby in the three years he'd worked there. Did any of them have to come back into work the next day until their time off was approved? NO! In fact, a female provider (not a nurse) was having her baby within a month of ours and she got her time off just fine! It was gender discrimination, pure and simple. He had the time off saved up. He'd told them he intended to use it. They were fully staffed at the time, with no one sick or on vacation. We were completely baffled by their treatment of us after they had treated us so well for the past three years. To this day I am confused. The only thing I can think of is that his boss was Hispanic, and--meaning no offense to Hispanics--the culture is not geared to think that way about men and women. The machismo just doesn't allow them to see why a father would be equally entitled to time off when his wife has a baby. That's all I can figure.
Added to the stress of him not being home, I was having trouble with breastfeeding. I was so determined to build up my milk supply quickly that I nursed Vander all the time. Soon, I was bleeding horribly. One time the poor kid choked on a mouthful of blood. It took a long time to heal from that and the pain was excruciating. I was taking the pain pills my doctor had prescribed to ease my breastfeeding pain, not the pain of the surgery, since that was duller by comparison.
There were lots of lonely days. Steven had just started an internship so he suddenly couldn't be home anymore. My parents were unexpectedly very busy in real estate and hardly had a moment to spare. My mom had to take a business trip. Nathan was stuck at work. Sisters from the Relief Society came in and helped several times. In a way, I'm glad I moved wards before I got pregnant again because I feel like they would wonder "HOW can she ever have any more children if she can't even take care of the ones she has without help?" Of course, everyone was so sweet and never did anything to make me think they were thinking that, but I still wonder if they would think that. I probably think too much.
Finally, three weeks later, Nathan managed to get a week of half-days off. Still dumbfounded by that. It was in February and March, not Christmas break! The half-day concession would be laughable if it wasn't so disgusting. (Whatever. We love the job he has now!) When that week ended, Nathan's mom came and stayed for a week. What a Godsend! She kept asking me what she could do, but I just needed someone to be there, to spend time with Annalee, to let me take a nap every once in a while.
Things got better. Two months after his birth I was able to get off the antidepressants.
It took me a long time to be able to write this story. I thought I'd be able to write it last year for Vander's first birthday, but some of the memories were still too upsetting. I don't like writing about something when I'm in the grip of anger. I don't want that part of myself preserved forever in print for anyone to read any old time. Because I know that I am an emotional person I am careful about how I express it. But I'm glad I could finally write this. There's just one last thing I want to talk about.
Many well-meaning people, upon hearing about my traumatic first delivery and un-ideal second delivery have said to me, "Well, you got a healthy baby and that's all that matters."
No.
NO! NO! NO! That is NOT all that matters! (calming down)
Yes, having a healthy baby is something to be very grateful for (or even an unhealthy baby that pulls through.) Yes, your health and the baby's health are the most important things. But that is not "all that matters." Because health isn't just physical. It is also emotional and mental. And I'm telling your right now that the things that happened during my daughter's birth made me mental. I was so depressed, so full of debilitating anxiety, that I could hardly function. Does that matter?
I recently read an article on improvingbirth.org that says what I feel very well.
Birth is a life-defining experience that sticks with you. Ask most moms about their birth stories, and you can see and hear the emotions rush back as they share. These are stories—good or bad—that we vividly relive over and over, whether we want to or not. And let’s not forget that our experiences can have major, lasting, and permanent health consequences.Our birth stories affect the postpartum period (baby blues, anyone?), our relationships with our babies and families, and our attitudes about ourselves and future births.
I know a woman whose first birth experience was so traumatic (and yet unnecessarily so) that she couldn't face getting pregnant again until her daughter was 5 years old. Does that matter? A fear so strong that it limits the number of kids you have during those few short childbearing years? The whole time I was pregnant with Vander I kept trying to savor it all because I knew that if his birth was as awful as Annalee's we would not be having any more children. But instead of enjoying the pregnancy I was just miserable, afraid, and sad. Even now, after things going so much better at Vander's birth, I think, If this third one is like Annalee's that's the end. The only way I can face childbirth is by convincing myself that it will never be that bad again. I have to believe that, or I can't do it. Does that matter?
A woman who has a painful and difficult recovery sometimes has a harder time bonding with her baby. Does that matter?
When you tell a woman that "a healthy baby is all that matters" you are nullifying her feelings. You are saying that she is upset over nothing. I know that's not what people mean to say, but that's how it comes across. If you care about someone who has been through an awful experience, please don't ever say that to them, even if that's what you truly believe after reading my point of view. The best thing to say is, "That sounds awful! I'm so glad it wasn't worse and that the baby is okay. How are you doing?"
I am doing so much better, this pregnancy. We moved and I have another doctor. I asked around for the best one at doing c-sections, since that is what I have to have in Idaho now that I've had two. I hope he is as good a surgeon as my last one, but with a better bedside manner! I feel good about him. He really listens to me, so I have high hopes that we'll be on the same page. I am a little nervous about going to a new hospital since my two experiences were so drastically different, but I have heard good things about this one so again, I have high hopes.
If you made it all the way through this novel you are either very bored or a very good friend!
Monday of that week I looked at the calendar and realized my due date was just 12 days away. Yikes! I figured he would be a little late, so that gave me just two weeks to finish up all the projects I had yet to do. I made grand plans for freezer meals. On Tuesday I started a massive baby clothing sorting project in the nursery. I only succeeded in making a big mess before going to bed. Wednesday morning I was wakened at 7 a.m. by a wet and warm surprise. Groaning, I rolled out of bed. I had been hoping I'd make it through this pregnancy without losing bladder control! Suddenly, I realized that I had no control over the fluid coming out, and it just kept coming. I started laughing as I realized I was having one of those classic tv moments when the wife gets to wake up her husband and say, "Honey, my water just broke!" Not knowing what else to do, I took a shower, chuckling to myself the whole time. Sure, it was a bit of a pain that the little man was coming so early. I had just started the clothing project and I was also trying to get over bronchitis. I'd had hopes that my cough would be gone in the next two weeks, leaving me healthy and strong to face the birth. But despite those frustrations I was excited, glowing. I sang a song in the shower and tried to capture the moment in my head. I had an amazing husband, a wonderful daughter, and soon our son would be born.
I had hired a doula and even taken childbirth classes. I felt a little silly to be taking childbirth classes for my second child, but both of the other couples in the class were also on their second baby and had experiences that mirrored ours: an unnecessary cesarean because of unnecessary interventions. We wanted something better this time. I felt a little nervous but also confident--I knew I could do it. I called my doula. "Call your doctor," she said, "but whatever you do, don't go to the hospital this early. If you do, you will probably end up with another cesarean." I assured her I wouldn't and called my doctor when his office opened.
"I want you to come into my office so we can verify that your water has broken." Ummmmm....what? I could tell that my water had broken. "Well, it really is broken," I said. "We still need you to come in and make sure," said the nurse. "Some ladies lose bladder control and think it's their water." I felt pretty annoyed that they wouldn't believe me. It may have been my first time with broken water but I had decades of experience with peeing and this wasn't it! I went into his office anyway, wearing an adult diaper, since that was the only way I could leave the toilet. The nurse handed me a gown as usual and instructed me to change and lay down on the exam table. "Ummm, would you like to lay down a towel, or something?" I suggested. "There's a lot of fluid." "Oh," the nurse said, surprised, and laid down a little absorbant pad. I changed and layed down. Every change in position brought out a gush of water. By the time the doctor came in, water was flowing down the end of the table like a waterfall. Still, he examined me before saying, "Oh yes, your water is broken." HELLOOOOOO! That's what I'd told them! It made me wonder how often water flowed down the end of the table and how they cleaned it. "I'd like you to go over to the hospital right away," the doctor said.
That's when we started having problems. I politely argued with him that I wasn't having any contractions and there was no point in going to the hospital yet. He firmly disagreed. He said that doing a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) was risky and I should be monitored in the hospital. Then he brought up all the statistics he had quoted to me months before when had first discussed the VBAC. The statistics that had made me cry. See, there's a chance when doing a VBAC that your uterus will tear along the scar. If that happens, the baby WILL die, and you could die. Even if you were in the hospital when it happened, the baby would still die. It's a very small chance, .2 percent, or 1 in 500. But it's a risk. He had told me horror stories of dead babies he'd delivered but still I'd made the decision to go for it. I had prayed a lot and felt peace that whether I lived or died it was the right decision. I was pretty sure I'd live. But the anxiety and depression I was having as I fretted about the birth had still made our lives miserable for the last few months. I had even sat poor Nathan down one night while we were on a date and made him talk about what would happen if I died: things that I wanted, things I didn't want, what he should do with the life insurance money, when he should remarry, etc. I was psychotic. Poor Nathan! But to mitigate the risk I was taking and maintain my sanity, I had firmly decided a few things.
1) New doctor. This was a new doctor, not the one who had induced me when I wasn't ready, simply for his convenience.
2) I would not take any pitocin, whatsoever. When you take pitocin with a VBAC the risk of uterine rupture doubles. It's still small, but I decided that I wanted to keep the risk low. Besides, hadn't my first birth shown that pitocin in any amount had no effect on me?
3) I would have a doula to help me stay calm and know what to do. She would help me have the courage to state my desires to the doctor and staff if they disagreed with me.
4) I would not be confined to a bed or an IV. I would have a hep lock instead, which is basically a needle in my hand that isn't hooked up to anything, but which they can hook an IV to in a flash, if necessary.
I had told my doctor numbers 2-4 several months before and he had reluctantly agreed. So anyway, here he was, quoting me death statistics again to scare me into the hospital. I finally said okay. But I went home and took my OWN SWEET TIME getting to the hospital. Like, three hours. I took a walk and tried some other things to stimulate contractions but nothing was happening yet. The doctor's office called to check on me and I finally went into the hospital around 1 p.m. with my doula shaking her head sadly over the phone.
At the hospital I got my hep lock and unfashionable gown. Then we got down to business. I must have walked 10 miles while I was there, up and down the halls of the Women's Center. We tried other things we had studied about that stimulate contractions. Finally, around 4 p.m. I started having contractions. It wasn't too long before they became back labor. Oh, so I was one of THOSE lucky gals, eh? My goal was to have no drugs or interventions. I had given myself permission to use drugs later if I just couldn't take it so that I wouldn't feel guilty if I went down that road. But I was determined to make it without. (Speaking of determined, do you know my sister Sarah? She is the most determined person I know. If she decides she will do something, it is basically like God saying "Let there be light" because if she says it, then it's going to happen. I am usually not that determined about things but that's not to say I can't be. It's in my genes. And in this case, I was determined.) So bring on the back labor. Nathan supported me with the techniques we'd learned in our class and I rocked it. Man, it hurt, but I did it. There is not much to say about the rest of that day and night. The contractions came and went, never becoming regular. I slept a little until 1 a.m. when the contractions became too painful for me to sleep through. I walked a lot. I drank water and ate food. I took a shower. I bounced on an exercise ball. I walked a whole lot. I prayed. I talked to baby boy and told him I knew we could do it together.
The next morning my doctor came in to check my progress. He had warned me that if I wasn't progressing 24 hours after the water breaking that we would be facing a c-section because of the risk of infection. But this was further than I had ever gotten. The contractions still weren't regular but they were strong. I had high hopes of my progress.
A one.
I was devastated. After 18 hours of pitocin and contractions (with an epidural) with Annalee I had only ever gotten to 3 centimeters dialated before they did the surgery. And after all the work I'd done this time I was only a ONE?! "It's been 24 hours," my doctor said. "We gave it our best" (HE did what, exactly?) "but we're going to have to do a cesarean," he said with an apologetic, friendly smile. I felt bad for him. The man was in his late 60's at least and had been at the hospital as long as I had. The hospital required that in order to attempt a VBAC the physician had to be on hand at all times in case there was an emergency. I imagine there was a place for physicians to sleep but I doubted someone of his age would have slept very well out of his own bed. So, we faced each other, two very stubborn, sleep-deprived people. My husband and two nurses were in the room. (My doula was still at home since I wasn't having regular contractions.) Calmly, I said, "I don't want a cesarean. I want to keep trying for a regular delivery. We've done periodic fetal monitoring and the baby is fine. I want to keep trying."
"You can't," he insisted. "The risk of infection is too great."
My mom bustled into the room, arriving cheerily with an arrangement of flowers.
Respectfully and calmly, I said, "I'm sorry, but I don't agree with you."
Suddenly, my doctor was screaming at me. "WELL YOU'RE WRONG! I'M THE DOCTOR AND I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I'VE SEEN BABIES DIE! YOU'RE PUTTING YOUR BABY IN DANGER! YOUR BABY IS GOING TO DIE! YOU ARE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE TOO! YOU'RE PUTTING EVERYTHING AT RISK AND" etc, etc. I actually don't remember the exact words he said but this was the gist of it. When he finally stopped there was a deafening silence. Everyone in the room was frozen, their eyes the size of bed pans.
After what seemed like forever I broke the silence. Amazingly, I wasn't crying and I wasn't rude. Something about him looking so incrediby juvenile in front of so many witnesses made it easy for me to be calm. "Does this mean you don't want to be my doctor anymore?"
He exhaled heavily and said, in a much calmer voice, "No, I'll still be your doctor. But we are going to sign a bunch of forms saying that I'm not responsible for what happens and you know what you're doing." He left the room.
I wondered what my mom would do. She had been very worried about me this pregnancy and had strongly advocated from the start that I have another cesarean. The doctor who had just left the room was her OBGYN--had been for years, even though it was after she was done having kids. She respected his opinion a great deal. I didn't know if I could bear to have another talk from her about this right after what had just happened. Instead, she set down the flowers and gave me a big hug and told me she loved me. I have never loved my mom more than I did at that moment. She is a wise, wise woman. We chatted about a few things and then she left.
The nurses quietly offered me their support. What I didn't know until Nathan became a nurse is that the job of a nurse is to be an advocate for the patient with the doctor. And these gals knew their job. I explained to one about the traumatic first birth I'd had and the depression and anxiety over this one. I told her how I was so scared to have a cesarean and go through all those things again: not caring about the birth, being unconscious for hours afterward, not being able to see my baby, almost dying with the wrong medication, a long and difficult recovery made worse by having to take care of TWO children now. I didn't know she was my advocate, I just knew she was a woman with a listening ear and she was there. Unbeknownst to me, she went out and found my doctor and explained the situation to him. (I should note here that I HAD explained the situation to him many times. In fact, he was the one who had prescribed my antidepressants. But I guess he didn't remember.) He came back in later, much more calm. I don't remember him apologizing, but he seemed sorry (and probably embarassed) for his outburst. He told me again what his recommendation was and said that if I preferred he would be willing to start some pitocin and wait until noon to see if things progressed before doing the surgery. I thanked him and asked for some time to think about it.
We called the doula and she said that she couldn't advise us what to do medically. We did some research and discovered that even if we'd been at a natural birthing center (which we'd looked into) that they would have sent us to the hospital after 24 hours for a c-section, because of the laws.
Nathan and I started praying. We prayed together and separately. I wasn't sure if I would get an answer. Ever since I had started my antidepressants six weeks before I hadn't been able to feel. It had stopped the depression, the cycles of bad thoughts I couldn't break out of, the uncontrolled weeping. It had also stopped the humor, the unexpected joy, the choking up at a happy and touching story. It had shut off all but the strongest emotions. It wasn't a perfect solution, but we were so close to the delivery that I didn't want to be messing around with different drugs, trying to find the perfect one; I just wanted to make it to the birth. Still, it bothered me. I am a pretty emotional person, a feeling person. I felt like I wasn't myself. I was an unemotional observer of my life. It stunk. Even though I don't usually feel the Spirit through choking up and crying, I usually have a warm feeling inside. Lately, I hadn't felt that. I also hadn't felt any warnings or ANYTHING! So I prayed, desperately, exercising all my faith that I would get an anwer when it really counted. And I did. It was a very special experience for Nathan and I, with me finally, finally getting an answer after feeling cut off for so long.
We were having a cesarean.
It's funny how being grateful for getting an answer isn't the same thing as being happy about what the answer is. Now that my feelings had come back they were suddenly unleashed. I wept and wept, terrified about what was about to happen. The last time it had been so awful. It had been so wrong. It was all happening again.
We told the nurse and the doctor and they said that while we needed to get it done, it wasn't an emergency. They currently had an emergency c-section going on and they estimated that I could get in at 9:30. It was hard waiting. I had been up all night and was starving, but now that we were headed for surgery I couldn't have anything. I was still having awful contractions but with the surgery coming so soon they didn't want to give me anything. The contractions that I had bravely faced for hours, knowing they were bringing my little baby closer to me, were suddenly a meaningless sacrifice. It was really hard to endure them, knowing that.
It was Thursday February 17th. Nathan would normally have been working but he had arranged to have Thursday and Friday off to drive to Utah and take his Nursing Board exam on Friday so he could become a RN. Well, now THAT wasn't going to happen! (See, we were so sure that the baby wasn't coming until after his due date, like his sister!) We called the testing center as soon as we had decided on the cesarean. It was 8:30. They informed us that because we were cancelling with less than 24 hours notice our $200 testing fee was non-refundable (the test was at 8:00 the next day). WHAT?! It's not like we could have given them notice of something we didn't know ourselves! Didn't they make exceptions for medical emergencies? We were having unplanned major abdominal surgery! No, they didn't. We contacted the State and National Boards and were given the run-around. Perfect. I'm sure you can imagine how much this additional stress helped my morning. At least we would be getting it over with soon.
A nurse came back to tell us that another emergency c-section had gone in and we were now looking at 11:00. I fell apart again. It was horrible, having to wait for something I was so afraid of! I was coughing deep in my chest, I was having back contractions, I was exhausted from lack of sleep, and I was hungry! Nathan stayed by me through it all. The nurses came in to get me ready for surgery and I just cried and cried. Every tube, every wire, brought back to me the horror I had experienced before. I felt powerless to stop what was happening. My parents showed up before the surgery and offered smiles and words of encouragement before they whisked me down the restricted hall.
Things were less hurried than the last time. I walked instead of being wheeled on a table. At one point I had to stop for a contraction and the male orderly (nurse?) said something to try to hurry me along and I yelled at him that I was having a contraction and couldn't move and could he just wait a minute?! Then I continued into the surgery room. Many nurses were there, scrubbing things down and getting ready. It seemed to take a long time. They had me sit on a table and lean forward into a nurse while the anesthesiologist inserted the spinal tap. It hurt A LOT, and I was still having contractions too. The nurse held me so I'd be at the right angle without falling off the table. I'm sure it was just the most effective way to do it but it felt like a hug. And there, in that sterile room, without my family, I really needed a hug. I hugged back and cried quietly. I kept asking about Nathan and they assured me that he was changing and would be along soon. It just seemed to take forever. The tap started to take effect and they had me lay down. Oh, thank goodness! It was such a relief to be free of the pain!
Nathan came in dressed in scrubs. (It's a good thing he looks so cute in scrubs, since he gets to wear them all the time!) What I didn't know until just now as I'm typing this is that he had gotten scrubbed pretty quickly but then they wouldn't let him in until right before the surgery. He was stuck in the hall, watching through a window as I cried. He was pretty ticked off. But he didn't mention it at the time because he didn't want me to be upset for him. Isn't he a sweetie?
Once he got in the room he wanted to see everything that they were doing but I wanted him to stay by me, so he did. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Just touch me," I said. I wanted him to touch me the whole time, just so I could draw strength from him being there. They strapped my arms down to either side of me, like I was flying, and put about a gallon of iodine and such stuff on my belly. He kept his hand on my shoulder and petted my head.
Laying down brought back the congestion in my lungs. I knew I'd be laying down for a while so I decided to clear that out right away. I took several huge breaths and coughed as hard as I could to try to get the stuff out. Every time I coughed, though, the cough seemed less effective. After about 60 seconds of this a male nurse said, "You should probably try not to cough because it will make the numbing spread higher and make it harder to breathe." WHY didn't he tell me that when I started coughing?!! Oh well. They put up the curtain that blocked my view of the surgery.
The surgery itself went fairly quickly. Nathan gave me a running commentary of what was going on because I asked him to. It was such a different experience from last time because I was actually alert and coherent. (The double epidural they'd given me last time did some bad things to me and made it so I was hardly conscious and totally paralyzed.) I felt some tugging and pulling and a lessoning of pressure as they pulled the baby out.
I met my little Vander in that moment. They held him up above the screen. He had hair--lots of it--sticking up around his head in a wet approximation of the Statue of Liberty's crown. Although I know babies can't focus on anything when they're that little, he seemed to fix his eyes right on mine and give me a grimace, an incredibly grumpy look, like, "What's THIS all about?" He wasn't crying, just glaring in the bright lights. I was in love in an instant.
They carried him over to the work station and the staff in the room laughed, "Well, his bladder is working!" as he christened the room on the way. I laughed too. It was so amazing to be able to enjoy the moment of his birth! I hadn't known that a cesarean could be like this. Of course, I'd still have rather had a vaginal birth and not been cut open and strapped down, but at least this time I got to be there for this precious moment. They wrapped him in a blanket and gave him to Nathan, who brought my beautiful little baby up to my face so I could kiss him and touch him. He was covered in vernix and little bumps but he was bright eyed and beautiful and he was ours. I cry now, remembering what an intimate, sacred moment that was for my husband and I.
They took him back for his Apgar test and worked on sewing me up. It took FOREVER! But I will say this about my doctor: we may not have had a very good relationship in the end, but MAN, is he a good surgeon! During my recovery I could totally tell the difference between his skill, a surgeon nearing retirement, and the skill of the fairly-new surgeon I'd had with Annalee. He took a long time sewing me up but it was a great job. He fixed the crooked scar I'd gotten last time and even took out some extra skin--what I've heard other patients refer to as his "free tummy tuck"--and made it great.
While they were sewing me up I started shivering uncontrollably, a reaction to the drug. I wasn't cold, I was just trembling violently. Nathan kept asking if I wanted a blanket but I assured him (through chattering teeth) that I wasn't cold! It was really weird.
About then, I asked if anyone had informed my parents that the baby was born and everything was fine. With how long the pre- and post-op had seemed to take to me, it must have been an eternity to my parents who were stuck out in the waiting room, wondering how it was going. They couldn't know how long the prep took or have any kind of measure for why things were taking forever. They just had to sit out there and wait. Someone went to tell them and I was wheeled to another room to recover for an hour.
It was dark in that curtained alcove. Vander was with us, and then my parents joined us. That's when I got to tell them his name, and what it meant. They stared at me blankly. I think they were just so worked up over everything that the significance of a name couldn't break through it all. Eventually, though, Mom gushed over the name and over Vander himself. She told me later that Dad was, indeed, in a little bit of shock at the time but that later he had been deeply touched by the gesture.
In the middle of the recovery, the hospital's lactation consultant bustled in and said "Let's get to work!" I explained that yes, I very much wanted to breastfeed, but it would take me a couple of hours to be able to sit up and try. She brushed that aside and said, "There's no time like the present!" Then, with the obvious skill of long practice, she positioned Vander on his tummy on my chest and Voila! He was having his first breastfeeding lesson. She was amazing! It hadn't occurred to me that I could breastfeed him without sitting up and getting positioned and all that, but I now realized that since my milk hadn't come in yet anyway, it hardly mattered. What mattered was teaching him to suck. Can I just say how much I love EIRMC? GREAT hospital.
From there, they moved me back to my room because the mother's wing was being renovated and they didn't have a post-delivery room available for me yet. Over the next few days I relearned walking and using the bathroom and all those other important life skills. They came back more quickly than they had the first time. I got a new room. The nurses were all so kind and so good at their job. I slept a lot and ate fabulous meals that I got to choose from a menu--that is, once they let me eat solid food again, grrr! I'm sure their precaution in allowing me only broth and pudding for that first day is founded on lots of research but my body was telling me that it wanted mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken, and a dinner roll!
Nathan slept at home, relieving Steven, who had been taking care of Annalee non-stop since midday Wednesday. They came to visit me often. Vander was with me a lot, except when I wanted to get some sleep. Then I would call the Nursery and say, "Vander says he really misses the nurses in the Nursery. Can he come visit?" He was slightly jaundiced but it wasn't bad enough to treat. He just looked tan like his dad, to me. It was nice not to have a baby in the NICU!
On the last night we were there (Saturday) we got their traditional "Stork Dinner", a fancy meal at the table in my room for just me and Nathan. It even had a huge cheesecake dessert. YUM.
Sunday we came home. Before long, things got a little stressful. Despite saving up three weeks of time off and telling Nathan's work for months before that we planned to use it when the baby was born, they wouldn't give it to him. He had to go to work on Monday. I was upset, but tried to stay calm, reasoning that once he got there he would be able to straighten things out. No. His boss said they would see. He had to go to work Tuesday. Then his boss went out of town for training for a week. Every day I cried and tried not to pressure Nathan too much, poor man. He was caught between his boss and his wife with nowhere to go. When his boss came back they said that he couldn't have the time off because time off has to be approved three weeks in advance.
KABOOM
That was my head exploding. HOW in the heck were we supposed to know three weeks in advance which day our baby would decide to be born? The unfairness of it all was staggering. Nathan was the only male nurse at the clinic. Nearly every single one of his female coworkers (nursing staff and front office) had had at least one baby in the three years he'd worked there. Did any of them have to come back into work the next day until their time off was approved? NO! In fact, a female provider (not a nurse) was having her baby within a month of ours and she got her time off just fine! It was gender discrimination, pure and simple. He had the time off saved up. He'd told them he intended to use it. They were fully staffed at the time, with no one sick or on vacation. We were completely baffled by their treatment of us after they had treated us so well for the past three years. To this day I am confused. The only thing I can think of is that his boss was Hispanic, and--meaning no offense to Hispanics--the culture is not geared to think that way about men and women. The machismo just doesn't allow them to see why a father would be equally entitled to time off when his wife has a baby. That's all I can figure.
Added to the stress of him not being home, I was having trouble with breastfeeding. I was so determined to build up my milk supply quickly that I nursed Vander all the time. Soon, I was bleeding horribly. One time the poor kid choked on a mouthful of blood. It took a long time to heal from that and the pain was excruciating. I was taking the pain pills my doctor had prescribed to ease my breastfeeding pain, not the pain of the surgery, since that was duller by comparison.
There were lots of lonely days. Steven had just started an internship so he suddenly couldn't be home anymore. My parents were unexpectedly very busy in real estate and hardly had a moment to spare. My mom had to take a business trip. Nathan was stuck at work. Sisters from the Relief Society came in and helped several times. In a way, I'm glad I moved wards before I got pregnant again because I feel like they would wonder "HOW can she ever have any more children if she can't even take care of the ones she has without help?" Of course, everyone was so sweet and never did anything to make me think they were thinking that, but I still wonder if they would think that. I probably think too much.
Finally, three weeks later, Nathan managed to get a week of half-days off. Still dumbfounded by that. It was in February and March, not Christmas break! The half-day concession would be laughable if it wasn't so disgusting. (Whatever. We love the job he has now!) When that week ended, Nathan's mom came and stayed for a week. What a Godsend! She kept asking me what she could do, but I just needed someone to be there, to spend time with Annalee, to let me take a nap every once in a while.
Things got better. Two months after his birth I was able to get off the antidepressants.
It took me a long time to be able to write this story. I thought I'd be able to write it last year for Vander's first birthday, but some of the memories were still too upsetting. I don't like writing about something when I'm in the grip of anger. I don't want that part of myself preserved forever in print for anyone to read any old time. Because I know that I am an emotional person I am careful about how I express it. But I'm glad I could finally write this. There's just one last thing I want to talk about.
Many well-meaning people, upon hearing about my traumatic first delivery and un-ideal second delivery have said to me, "Well, you got a healthy baby and that's all that matters."
No.
NO! NO! NO! That is NOT all that matters! (calming down)
Yes, having a healthy baby is something to be very grateful for (or even an unhealthy baby that pulls through.) Yes, your health and the baby's health are the most important things. But that is not "all that matters." Because health isn't just physical. It is also emotional and mental. And I'm telling your right now that the things that happened during my daughter's birth made me mental. I was so depressed, so full of debilitating anxiety, that I could hardly function. Does that matter?
I recently read an article on improvingbirth.org that says what I feel very well.
Birth is a life-defining experience that sticks with you. Ask most moms about their birth stories, and you can see and hear the emotions rush back as they share. These are stories—good or bad—that we vividly relive over and over, whether we want to or not. And let’s not forget that our experiences can have major, lasting, and permanent health consequences.Our birth stories affect the postpartum period (baby blues, anyone?), our relationships with our babies and families, and our attitudes about ourselves and future births.
I know a woman whose first birth experience was so traumatic (and yet unnecessarily so) that she couldn't face getting pregnant again until her daughter was 5 years old. Does that matter? A fear so strong that it limits the number of kids you have during those few short childbearing years? The whole time I was pregnant with Vander I kept trying to savor it all because I knew that if his birth was as awful as Annalee's we would not be having any more children. But instead of enjoying the pregnancy I was just miserable, afraid, and sad. Even now, after things going so much better at Vander's birth, I think, If this third one is like Annalee's that's the end. The only way I can face childbirth is by convincing myself that it will never be that bad again. I have to believe that, or I can't do it. Does that matter?
A woman who has a painful and difficult recovery sometimes has a harder time bonding with her baby. Does that matter?
When you tell a woman that "a healthy baby is all that matters" you are nullifying her feelings. You are saying that she is upset over nothing. I know that's not what people mean to say, but that's how it comes across. If you care about someone who has been through an awful experience, please don't ever say that to them, even if that's what you truly believe after reading my point of view. The best thing to say is, "That sounds awful! I'm so glad it wasn't worse and that the baby is okay. How are you doing?"
I am doing so much better, this pregnancy. We moved and I have another doctor. I asked around for the best one at doing c-sections, since that is what I have to have in Idaho now that I've had two. I hope he is as good a surgeon as my last one, but with a better bedside manner! I feel good about him. He really listens to me, so I have high hopes that we'll be on the same page. I am a little nervous about going to a new hospital since my two experiences were so drastically different, but I have heard good things about this one so again, I have high hopes.
If you made it all the way through this novel you are either very bored or a very good friend!
5 comments:
I remember you telling me most of this story (between rambunctious shouts and squeals of a play date). I sure hope I was thoughtful enough to say something better than "a healthy baby is what's most important"... I may not be the most tactful, but I understand that there is more to a pregnancy than a healthy baby.
I'm surprised you dare bring up the story in your present condition. I hope and pray that this pregnancy and delivery will be even better!
Wow, what a story. It makes me sad that both of your babies were born with so much medical frustration. I hope this the one is a completely "new" c-section experience for you. I am guessing that they will do a scheduled one for you, right? If that's the case, you may not to experience the contractions. :)
I'd be willing to bet that your ward was happy to serve you. None of my birth experiences have been like yours, but I never hesitate to help a woman after having a baby if I can help it. I KNOW that help isn't just needed for a week after the baby is born. In fact, can we all have 6 weeks of assistance afterward? Just a nanny, a cook, and a housekeeper?
Anyway, I hope this upcoming birth can be a healing experience for you.
Wow, that was such a detailed story. I really enjoyed reading it! Thanks for sharing. I hope this next hospital compares to EIRMC. I'm sure it will all go well!
I've had some conversations where I talk to people about my past, and they ask me, "Do you ever regret?"
No. I never regret. Because no matter how hard any given moment is, no matter how many weeks or months get lost in Rottenville... they've made me who I am. And I've learned that if I just make it through whatever it is, somewhere down the line I'll have a light bulb moment of what I learned from it, how it made me more of the person I want to be. So it's worth it... eventually. =)
And, too - sometimes, it makes things going forward mean even more. This is nowhere near your birth experiences, but. I love my husband mostly because of who he is... but in part also because of who he is, compared to my past experiences. I went through so many guys who didn't get it when I said "I don't want to talk about it, I just need a hug to get me over it" that when Bryan sees that without my even having to voice it? It's so much more precious.
"There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year's course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word 'happy' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness." ~ Carl Jung
"There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life." ~ Alexandre Dumas
You are, and always have been, a wonderful person. I'm glad I get to count you among my friends. =) I hope that you are able to get through the things that get thrown at you, so you can become exactly the person you would like to be.
....I'd apologize for the novel of a comment, but ya know. In light of the novel of a story, that would just seem... silly.
Good luck with the new baby girl, I hope you have an even better birth experience with her!
I know you've told me this story in person before, but it's still just amazing to me what you've had to go through. I can't get over your doctor's outburst. It's just crazy. I'm glad it was at least a better experience than the first time, and hopefully this next one will be even better!
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