Hour 22: Still at 6 cm. The doctor (new one on rotation!) came in and said we could deliver now by c-section, or we could wait and see if things changed. I had never thought about a c/s, no one in my family has ever had one, and my pregnancy had been so healthy and easy. The doctor said the baby wasn't in distress, but didn't say "get the c/s or wait for a vaginal birth." It was more like, do it now or do it later because all the pitocin hadn't worked and my water had been broken all day. They couldn't figure out why I wasn't dilated despite good hard contractions, whether it was the magnesium sulfate or what.
We talked about the c/s. They answered all our questions about breastfeeding, time together right away after the birth etc., and it sounded manageable. The doctor and nurses and my mom left the room so D and I could talk it over. We understood the risks and benefits of situation pretty well, it was just overwhelming to be faced with such a huge decision about our baby in such an exhausted state. We decided to go ahead with the c/s.
This is accurate, but I notice the tone. I was so careful not to place blame. The surgery was inevitable. At the time, I thought I was confident and competent. Now, I hear defensiveness and denial. When I wrote this, my son was so young he still had the stump of his umbilical cord. I had only felt a fraction of the pain the cesarean would eventually involve. But I insisted that I had "understood the risks." I had heard about women who were ignorant and manipulated into cesareans -- I was not one of them. I was better prepared. I chose. In these stories, I am savvy and empowered.
If anything, I told myself, I was unlucky -- I had been diagnosed with pre-eclampsia in labor, and was treated with magnesium sulfate. This made my labor both unpleasant (vomiting, sweats and chills, double vision) and slow (an effect of the drug). I'm the one who "failed to progress," but the deck was stacked against me. If I was sad, it was because it had been so bad. My writing began to emphasize all the difficulties, as if I need to justify my pain. I had never been hung up on childbirth (I wasn't some granola-cruncher who wore hemp maxi-pads.) I thought it was healthier to be flexible and not set my heart on natural birth. If my heart felt broken, it wasn't because I had set myself up for disapopintment -- I had low expectations in the first place. It must be because my labor was so very hard. I was one of those women talked about at baby showers with sadly shaking heads. In these stories, I am a victim.
But I knew women with “worse” trauma who weren’t as upset as I was, and I hate to feel competitive. I tried to move on -– but without much "blame" or "regret" to hang my hurt on, I became listless and conflicted. Whose fault was this? I had chosen a cesarean, but the memory haunted me -- the pounding, slamming anonymity that violated me, despite my consent and my numbness -– like a teenager who thinks she's "ready for sex," realizes too late that she's not, but tells herself she's okay and that she can't complain. So many, many other women had been through identical experiences and they were fine. I wondered why I couldn't get over it: Was I hypersensitive? Melodramatic? I read, wrote and argued with women who had cesareans and women who hadn't. In these stories, I am confused.
I began to doubt and wonder. What had I really done to prepare for childbirth? What if I had been more patient -- even let the epidural wear off, and sit or stand enough to let my son's head dilate my cervix? On the day I finally Googled "mild pre-eclampsia," I found a reputable medical source say that magnesium isn't standard treatment. Had my cesarean been avoidable? And if so, who was responsible? I ordered my 147 pages of medical records, sat down to read them, and wrote about what I found. In these stories, I am searching.
I face my son’s second birthday tomorrow. In the past, when anyone has asked me "what date he was born," I've had trouble answering. I had labored through the night and day of November 9; The nurses in the operating recorded his delivery as "00:50" on November 10th. But I didn't like that date – what kind of time is "00:50?” The middle of the night, or the early morning? The end of one day, or the beginning of another?
And this is how I felt about it all: A gap surrounding my son’s entry into the world. When I saw “State of Washington” on his birth certificate, I thought no, not my Washington. The "place" was a sterile operating room, forbidden to anyone not trained and scrubbed (or being cut open). When I hear “November 10,” I think no, it was not that day. It doesn't have a date. It’s taken me two years and thousands of words to help me articulate what the gap is. Maybe it wasn’t a birth.
So how can we commemorate that? Yes, we'll buy balloons and cupcakes, he'll open presents, and we'll all sing "Happy Birthday." But for me, it doesn't feel quite right. So I think of this: I recently told someone how my son loves the moon (he calls the outline of a naked pregnant woman on my "Birthkeeper" shirt a "moon and stars.") She asked if he'd been born at night. I flinched but said yes. Then I thought about it, did a little research, and here's what I learned:
If anything, I told myself, I was unlucky -- I had been diagnosed with pre-eclampsia in labor, and was treated with magnesium sulfate. This made my labor both unpleasant (vomiting, sweats and chills, double vision) and slow (an effect of the drug). I'm the one who "failed to progress," but the deck was stacked against me. If I was sad, it was because it had been so bad. My writing began to emphasize all the difficulties, as if I need to justify my pain. I had never been hung up on childbirth (I wasn't some granola-cruncher who wore hemp maxi-pads.) I thought it was healthier to be flexible and not set my heart on natural birth. If my heart felt broken, it wasn't because I had set myself up for disapopintment -- I had low expectations in the first place. It must be because my labor was so very hard. I was one of those women talked about at baby showers with sadly shaking heads. In these stories, I am a victim.
But I knew women with “worse” trauma who weren’t as upset as I was, and I hate to feel competitive. I tried to move on -– but without much "blame" or "regret" to hang my hurt on, I became listless and conflicted. Whose fault was this? I had chosen a cesarean, but the memory haunted me -- the pounding, slamming anonymity that violated me, despite my consent and my numbness -– like a teenager who thinks she's "ready for sex," realizes too late that she's not, but tells herself she's okay and that she can't complain. So many, many other women had been through identical experiences and they were fine. I wondered why I couldn't get over it: Was I hypersensitive? Melodramatic? I read, wrote and argued with women who had cesareans and women who hadn't. In these stories, I am confused.
I began to doubt and wonder. What had I really done to prepare for childbirth? What if I had been more patient -- even let the epidural wear off, and sit or stand enough to let my son's head dilate my cervix? On the day I finally Googled "mild pre-eclampsia," I found a reputable medical source say that magnesium isn't standard treatment. Had my cesarean been avoidable? And if so, who was responsible? I ordered my 147 pages of medical records, sat down to read them, and wrote about what I found. In these stories, I am searching.
I face my son’s second birthday tomorrow. In the past, when anyone has asked me "what date he was born," I've had trouble answering. I had labored through the night and day of November 9; The nurses in the operating recorded his delivery as "00:50" on November 10th. But I didn't like that date – what kind of time is "00:50?” The middle of the night, or the early morning? The end of one day, or the beginning of another?
And this is how I felt about it all: A gap surrounding my son’s entry into the world. When I saw “State of Washington” on his birth certificate, I thought no, not my Washington. The "place" was a sterile operating room, forbidden to anyone not trained and scrubbed (or being cut open). When I hear “November 10,” I think no, it was not that day. It doesn't have a date. It’s taken me two years and thousands of words to help me articulate what the gap is. Maybe it wasn’t a birth.
So how can we commemorate that? Yes, we'll buy balloons and cupcakes, he'll open presents, and we'll all sing "Happy Birthday." But for me, it doesn't feel quite right. So I think of this: I recently told someone how my son loves the moon (he calls the outline of a naked pregnant woman on my "Birthkeeper" shirt a "moon and stars.") She asked if he'd been born at night. I flinched but said yes. Then I thought about it, did a little research, and here's what I learned:
When my son entered the world, the sky was dark. That morning at 4:45, the sliver of a waning crescent moon rose for its short journey across the wintry southern sky. Imagining this, I can imagine those moments. I can remember that what happened did happen, and even if it will never be "okay," it will always be part of something bigger. Maybe that is what we will observe this year. Tonight I’ll take him outside and we'll look at the moon. He will say "Oh LOOK! The MOON!" like he does every time. I will think about the eternity and rhythm of its phases. We can live in the blackness, and we can live by a sliver of light. We can rage against loss, and love all of life with the same heart.
Happy Life-on-Earth-day, Malcolm.
International Cesarean Awareness Network
Birth Truth
Phases of the Moon
1 comment:
Honest, and true, and lovely. Thank you, Robin.
From another who "understood the risks" and yet was overwhelmed at the time and for a long time afterward, and forever changed.... Under different circumstances, but within the same "system"....
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