Laboring

By Jenny

Hello. My name is Jenny and I had a C-Section. Yes, I am holding up my hand as I state this. And, yes, I might as well be confessing that I have a problem with addiction because the same amount of shame is present. My c-section is not something I freely speak about. The last I spoke of it was in the hospital high off of the euphoria of no more pain and a darling little baby boy who was all mine. But then shame drew its shade around me and responses of “I don’t talk about it” were doled out to inquiring minds. About 7 months post-partum I convinced myself that I had come to terms with the c-section; the shame was gone, I was still a woman. I carried that child for nine months I screamed to myself! I breastfed for seven months! He ate avocado, carrots, beans, and apple long before a drop of cereal (and then it was only ground oats and barley) passed his lips. I stayed home with him for 14 weeks! And then no more than two days a week away from him for another 12 weeks. I was accomplished! I was a woman. A true warrior mother! I was managing operations for a world-class stage by day and pureeing market-purchased seasonal veggies by night. I wore my self-made badge (inspired by Pinterest boards, of course) with honor. 

We all know where this goes. Fast forward 18 months to the office of a wonderful team of obstetricians whose VBAC success rate is unheard of (at least for my small ears) and who were both quite curious to hear my birth story. Cue the “come-to-Jesus” moment. You have those, don’t you? That moment reality slaps you upside the head and you suddenly realize that everything you believed to be true was a flat out piece of bullshit you created to hide reality. Cue the water works too. Cue the truth of the matter—that I didn’t feel shame for having to have a c-section, I felt shame for the failure of not fighting hard enough to not have one. I was weak. I was not strong enough. I failed myself. The moments, the hours, the image of my husband collapsing in exhaustion and disappointment when the words “we have to perform a c-section” were uttered by the doctor are all burned in my mind. And they haunt me. I allow them to. We have been secret happy bedfellows for over two years now. 

The labor started innocently enough. Plans for brunch were canceled Saturday morning just in case the consistent cramping was a hint of what was to come. My husband and I stayed close to home, watched funny movies, spoke with family, and walked the parks. There is an image of my husband that still lives on my iPhone. He is speaking with his father on the phone and we are at the base of the Cloisters Museum. The sun caught the screen in such a way that his smile looks as if it is radiating light. It is my favorite image of him. That night after dinner (Chinese take-out that my husband still blames for some of our issues) the cramping subsided only to be replaced by the most unimaginable pain possible. There were attempts to sleep, to rest, but lying down or sitting was impossible. So we danced, we hugged, I hunched over on hands and knees “falling down like it’s holy ground” as one of my favorite songs puts it. Coupled with the sensation that my little innocent boy had been replaced by a beast who was pushing my spine out of my back while also digging ten little talons to rip the bones apart was nausea I never knew the likes of. And then the violent vomiting started. Emptied of all but the unshakable nausea that accompanied even the sight of water I banished my husband with his 3am power snack to another part of the apartment. 

My water broke finally around 5am (perhaps earlier, I can’t recall) but there was a vacant sunlight that greeted us on our city street when we hailed a cab and made our way downtown. I remember very little of the cab ride itself except the inner focus to not scream in public. For some reason I didn’t want to scare the cabbie. I should have held on to that resolve.

Once in the hospital I became impatient and irritable. I wanted pain medication after being forced to lay on a bed (the most painful position for me) but was denied because I was already 5cm dilated. And then the slap—there was meconium in the water. No birthing center. Yes to external monitor. No to walking away from the monitor or being able to unhook at intervals. Yes to being in bed. I begged my husband for an epidural for two hours until he relented and agreed to let me have it. And then the peace. Blissful peace. 

The attending OB was not my normal doctor. Instead I had the doctor I referred to as someone more suited for running the Miss Cleo tent at a circus. Our first and only appointment together she placed her hands on my belly and declared that not only would I have a big baby (“8 lbs at least”) but that it would be difficult (“we’re going to have issues getting that one out”). Needless to say when I first called the hospital when labor started and heard she was the attending I wanted to sew my knees together and hold out until Monday. But my boy had other plans.

So there I was in the hands of a doctor I didn’t trust who was telling me I had to have Pitocin, that my labor had stalled due to the epidural. Under the comforting explanation of a nurse—once the doctor left the room—I agreed to a low dosage of Pitocin. The doctor had other plans. She continued to come (or send in nurses) to up my dosage of Pitocin. I barely made a dissenting remark. Until it was too late. I protested that enough was enough and then the nurse declared I was at “10++cm” dilated and we could push. Except the baby was faced the wrong way and had not descended. And then the epidural wore off and my contractions refused to end. No break. Just a constant wave of pain that washed over me and from which I could not get up. Would not. 

I pushed for over two hours in various positions. My husband pushed to have me squat, to have gravity help with the baby descending. The doctor refused. The nurses were wonderful and encouraging. My doctor huddled in a corner on her iPhone texting. That is what I remember most from my labor. The woman who was supposed to help had instead checked out and was planning her evening while I screamed. I don’t remember what exactly led to the next string of events. A blur of images—my doctor stating he wasn’t descending, another doctor coming in to examine and stating the same, both stating a c-section was inevitable, my husband crumbling on top of me when I said “yes,” signing a set of squiggly lines so that they could administer the drugs to rid me of the pain. 

These days I try to remind myself of the brief moments of euphoria that descended whenever the nurse would invite me to push. I ached for those moments while in labor. But reminding myself of those moments reminds me all too much of the fight I did not put up. I gave in. In hindsight, I wish I would have focused on the beauty of those moments and I wish I would have used them as my anchor. Instead, whether the truth or not—and there’s something about writing these thoughts out that also make you question the validity of your statements—I succumbed to the pain and to the fear of more pain. I didn’t want to feel it again and I wanted whomever was closest to me to rid me of it. I lost sight of my own personal strength and resolve and fell under the wash of the pain. I am ashamed. I let my strength flee from me at that moment. I am not ashamed of having a c-section. They do happen and sometimes they are necessary. And at the end of the day I had a darling little boy who curled into a ball on my chest and fell to sleep. My husband and I talk about our next child. We hope for a VBAC. And I pray for strength.