This is the story of my oldest son, of how I became a mother, of lessons learned the hard way. It's a story I have told in my head, angrily, a million times, that I have borne on my body in the form of a scar, but have never written down until now. Now, it is time to tell it. This is the beginning:
When I met my obstetrician for the first time at twenty weeks (I had to switch doctors because my original obstetrician needed hand surgery), I was laying half-naked on an exam table with my feet up in stirrups. He entered the room, shoved his hand painfully up my barelynotvirginal vagina, and commented to me on my "narrow pelvic structure." When I mentioned my wishes for a natural birth (I was concerned about being induced at 38 weeks, because most doctors do not "allow" women with my pre-existing condition to go past 38 weeks), he told me that I probably shouldn't rule out a c-section. I scoffed, while secretly wondering if my pelvic structure really was narrow.
My son was born at thirty-seven-and-a-half weeks, after four hours of pitocin-induced hell that the labor nurses called "labor." (No, sweetie, I've done labor, and that wasn't it!) I can still see the doctor and the relief nurse huddled over my EFM strip, having barely acknowledged my existence, staring at those contraction lines scribbled electronically on the strip--giant, pointy peaks of contractions, with no valleys. At all. They translated to an hour-long contraction that had me doubled over in pain, begging for an epidural. And now the doctor and this nurse were standing in the corner of the room discussing those mountainous contractions on the EFM strip, and the corresponding dips in my baby's heart rate. "Non-reassuring heart tones," they called them, as they shaved my pubic hair, washed my belly with antiseptic, prepped me for surgery.
The operating theater was stark white, with rows of blazing white lights set in cadence between white ceiling tiles. I was strapped, spread eagle, to the operating table, my gown pushed up to my chest, and a giant blue sheet draped vertically below my breasts, lest I see my baby's birth. Someone kept covering my nose with an oxygen mask, and I kept shaking my head to get it off. Strangers poured into the room, gathering around me, gathering instruments, chatting. The doctor prodded my stomach with his scalpel and asked if I could feel that.
I could not.
I lay there, passively birthing my first child--crossing a threshold, transforming, becoming a mother--and I could not feel a thing. All I could think about was that this doctor had scheduled me, in his mind, for this room, seventeen-and-a-half weeks ago, because I am "high-risk," and he didn't want to bother with me. Maybe this was not true, but it would be difficult, these six years later, to convince me differently. I was just another girl to him. He was just delivering another baby. Another surgery. Another day. But this was my beginning; and I would never get another. Ever.
I don't remember seeing my son in the operating room, although I'm told that someone held him up for a millisecond as the doctor shouted, "It's a boy!" And then he was gone. This baby that I grew in my body, nourished with my blood, dreamed of, loved--I could not touch him--not first. He was wiped, weighed, measured, diapered, swaddled, and finally whisked away to somewhere with my husband. And I could not feel a thing.
There was a glass-fronted cabinet next to the operating table, and I discovered that, after half the strangers cleared out with the baby, I could watch the doctor replacing my organs and the yellow mounds of fat, stitching my uterus, and then stapling the flaps of my stomach together. I watched, fascinated, thankful to have something besides my failure to think about. The doc finally patted my shoulder cheerfully and said, "All done," and I was wheeled off to the recovery room to be monitored.
Three hours. It was three hours before I saw my child. Three hours, and then he was wheeled into my room, swaddled and laying in a clear plastic bassinet, surrounded by a battalion of nurses, followed by my husband. The first thing anyone said to me was, "If you want to try to feed him, you can for just a minute or two, but most cesarean moms don't breastfeed at first because it hurts their incision. Do you want me to get him some formula?" I was repulsed. I had failed so horribly at birthing this little child, that I determined that I would not fail at breastfeeding. And anyway, I still couldn't feel a thing.
The doctor sent us home a day early because I was healing so well. I struggled through the first weeks, months, lifetimes. I struggled to get my baby to breastfeed after two days of sabotage by nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants. I struggled to function on little sleep, to do household chores during those rare baby naps. I struggled to find a new normal in all of the upset. I struggled to adjust to my new, notsopretty postpartum body. I struggled to find my stride in a sea of wavering hormones. I struggled with a bit of postpartum depression. I struggled to feel like a mommy.
It galls me, now, to think back to the days following my gutting, when I was actually thankful to the doctor for "rescuing my baby." That I breathed a sigh of relief as he stood by my bed and said, "Well, it's a good thing we did that c-section; his cord was wrapped around his neck three times!" as though after the fact, he was glad he had come up with a reason for cutting me. And I was thankful. I truly loathe myself for that. It was weeks, maybe months, before I gathered up the courage to pull up my browser and look for information on birthing babies with cords around their necks. On labor induction and fetal distress. And I was appalled at myself when I read that what I had suspected but refused to acknowledge was most likely true: the doctor should not have cut me.
Next time--I vowed that I would have another chance. I vowed that I would not be bullied or pushed around again; I would not be submissive or uninformed. I vowed that I would not be cut again. Next time, I would feel. Everything.
I lay there, passively birthing my first child--crossing a threshold, transforming, becoming a mother--and I could not feel a thing. All I could think about was that this doctor had scheduled me, in his mind, for this room, seventeen-and-a-half weeks ago, because I am "high-risk," and he didn't want to bother with me. Maybe this was not true, but it would be difficult, these six years later, to convince me differently. I was just another girl to him. He was just delivering another baby. Another surgery. Another day. But this was my beginning; and I would never get another. Ever.
I don't remember seeing my son in the operating room, although I'm told that someone held him up for a millisecond as the doctor shouted, "It's a boy!" And then he was gone. This baby that I grew in my body, nourished with my blood, dreamed of, loved--I could not touch him--not first. He was wiped, weighed, measured, diapered, swaddled, and finally whisked away to somewhere with my husband. And I could not feel a thing.
There was a glass-fronted cabinet next to the operating table, and I discovered that, after half the strangers cleared out with the baby, I could watch the doctor replacing my organs and the yellow mounds of fat, stitching my uterus, and then stapling the flaps of my stomach together. I watched, fascinated, thankful to have something besides my failure to think about. The doc finally patted my shoulder cheerfully and said, "All done," and I was wheeled off to the recovery room to be monitored.
Three hours. It was three hours before I saw my child. Three hours, and then he was wheeled into my room, swaddled and laying in a clear plastic bassinet, surrounded by a battalion of nurses, followed by my husband. The first thing anyone said to me was, "If you want to try to feed him, you can for just a minute or two, but most cesarean moms don't breastfeed at first because it hurts their incision. Do you want me to get him some formula?" I was repulsed. I had failed so horribly at birthing this little child, that I determined that I would not fail at breastfeeding. And anyway, I still couldn't feel a thing.
The doctor sent us home a day early because I was healing so well. I struggled through the first weeks, months, lifetimes. I struggled to get my baby to breastfeed after two days of sabotage by nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants. I struggled to function on little sleep, to do household chores during those rare baby naps. I struggled to find a new normal in all of the upset. I struggled to adjust to my new, notsopretty postpartum body. I struggled to find my stride in a sea of wavering hormones. I struggled with a bit of postpartum depression. I struggled to feel like a mommy.
It galls me, now, to think back to the days following my gutting, when I was actually thankful to the doctor for "rescuing my baby." That I breathed a sigh of relief as he stood by my bed and said, "Well, it's a good thing we did that c-section; his cord was wrapped around his neck three times!" as though after the fact, he was glad he had come up with a reason for cutting me. And I was thankful. I truly loathe myself for that. It was weeks, maybe months, before I gathered up the courage to pull up my browser and look for information on birthing babies with cords around their necks. On labor induction and fetal distress. And I was appalled at myself when I read that what I had suspected but refused to acknowledge was most likely true: the doctor should not have cut me.
Next time--I vowed that I would have another chance. I vowed that I would not be bullied or pushed around again; I would not be submissive or uninformed. I vowed that I would not be cut again. Next time, I would feel. Everything.
