A Tale of Two C-Sections

By Rachel

Section 1
About one month before my due date, Hurricane Irene hit. There I was on all fours in my basement, taping garbage bags to the bottoms of the doors in an attempt to stop total carnage in our newly refinished basement. (It didn’t work. We redid basement again). For the next week, all I heard was “Oh, the barometric pressure will make you go into labor” and “You should name her Irene.” Um, no. 

Fast forward to my due date. Nothing was happening. My OB told us he’d induce me the next week, and that my husband should take off that Monday. Somehow, I did not equate this with having a baby that day. 

Monday morning, I was monitored in the office. I was apparently having faint contractions, which I wasn’t feeling.

“Well,” the ob said, “ready to go have a baby?” 

In a state of shock (me) and nerves, excitement, and terror (us), we drove home to get my bag and go to the hospital. 

I got to the hospital and met the anesthesiologist, who was bubbly and funny. It wasn’t busy, so she started recommending her favorite rooms. I was brought into my chosen room and had an IV started and the monitor hooked up. Everyone was in a supportive, calm, good mood. Someone came in to tell me about the massage I would get after I had the baby. I met a few nurses. I signed papers. 

The nurse came to start the induction. She held my IV in one hand and the connector in the other. 

And then my daughter’s heart rate plummeted. 

All of a sudden, there were what seemed like 20 people in the room. The anesthesiologist, instantly serious, put something in my IV. Apparently, the nurses had me moving around in different positions. I don’t remember this, my husband told me afterwards. I do remember that I couldn’t see him because of the sea of people. I do remember screaming “What’s wrong with my baby?!” and the nurses trying to get me calm. I do remember the hospitalist quickly telling me his name, and that I was having a c-section NOW under general anesthesia because I hadn’t even had time for an epidural. I was wheeled down the hall and put on the table—

And then her heart rate came back down. The nurse called out, “Do you hear that? That’s your baby!” 

The emergency section was called off. The anesthesiologist started my epidural. My OB ran into the room, looking mildly horrified, and told me he’d run every red light in our town. I believed him; he had gotten there so fast he would have been in time to do the emergency section.

Back in my room, they started the induction and I watched the heart rate monitor nervously. An hour or so later, I knew it wasn’t working; she wasn’t in danger but wasn’t tolerating the medication. My doctor came back and examined me again. He looked at me and said, “Well…”

I looked back at him and said, “Let’s go.”

So she was born shortly thereafter by c-section. The anesthesiologist pulled the curtain down and I got to see her as soon as she came out. I asked if she was seven pounds (her predicted weight), and they laughed at me before she was even put on the scale. She was only six pounds one ounce! 

It turns out that my fluid was gone and the cord was wrapped around her foot; essentially she was bungee-jumping in space, and didn’t like even my mild contractions. Finally I understood why there always seemed to be a foot under my ribs. 

We actually enjoyed the time in the hospital, other than my pain and the lack of sleep. We turned off all our electronics; my husband went home once a day to shower and check email. 

I recovered fairly quickly. Once I got home, within a week I was walking around the block.

What I learned from this experience:

• I am grateful for modern medicine and the invention of the c-section.
• I am so grateful for the people who worked to save her.
• My husband is grateful that he did not have to see me labor and be in pain for hours.
• And when she is older, I think it will be easier to explain to her that the doctor cut mommy open, took her out, and then sewed mommy up again! 

Section 2
When I learned I was pregnant with my second child, I knew instantly that I wanted a repeat c-section rather than attempt a VBAC. For me, the risks were just too great. At some point around 28 weeks, my doctor looked at a calendar and chose a date that was actually only three days before my due date. I was happy that he was going to try to let me go so long, because my daughter was so small, and I wanted to let my son grow as long as possible. Towards the end of my pregnancy, though, I was hoping otherwise. I had severe hip pain, which made walking, sitting, and moving in general very painful. I became convinced that he would come early and that he would be a huge baby.

Well, he made it to his scheduled date. And he wasn’t huge at all. 

What a difference it made to have a scheduled section rather than an emergency one. I got a letter from the hospital telling me what to do, where to go, and that I had to be there at 5:30 AM. I knew how long I would be in the hospital. It was very calming and very, very strange at the same time. One week until I have the baby. Three days until I have the baby. Two hours…

We checked into the hospital and were brought back to the pre-op area. I changed. A nurse came in to see me, held up a razor in one hand and an IV in the other, grinned, and said, “I am not your friend.” After that was all taken care of, we waited. 

And then it was time. I walked into the OR to get my spinal. My husband got into his space suit and came in. The doctors and nurses were relaxed and trying to joke with me. They started…

And in a very short time, down came the curtain again, and there he was. 

I instantly blurted out, “He’s blond!” 

My hair is almost black. My husband’s hair is black. My son is BLOND. And blue-eyed like his daddy. 

He was only about half a pound bigger than my daughter; the hip pain I’d been having was just from hormones and the way he was positioned. Despite the new “operation pain,” I realized my hip pain was gone the minute the anesthesia wore off.

I had a harder time in the hospital the second time around. I was more sleepy and had more pain than I remembered from before. My father was staying at our house to help with our daughter. My husband would rush home in the morning, wake her up and take her to daycare, take a shower and come back. He stayed with me all day and then went to get her in the afternoon, gave her dinner and played with her, and then put her to bed before coming back.

On the morning of the third day, he brought her to me. We hadn’t really explained anything to her, because we didn’t think she’d understand. But when my husband told her she was going to see Mommy, she started grinning and repeating it over and over again. When she saw me, she jumped into my arms and burrowed into me as if she wanted to climb back inside. I held her for a long time. When my ob came in, she looked at me, looked at her, and asked me if I wanted to go home.

And home we went, now a family of four.

You Only Fail If You Don’t Try

By Jenny

A fact or circumstance bringing disgrace or regret. That is the definition of shame as I relate to it and as I see it and as how I felt when I wrote about my laboring experience for my previous entry here. When I first wrote that other blog entry I was writing under a pen name I had manufactured for the great American novel I am still attempting to write (random brilliant thoughts on post-it notes scattered throughout the house don’t count, do they?). After I sent the entry to the editor I requested that my “name” on the page change to my real name, Jenny. It felt dishonest to write something so open and truthful while hiding behind another name. I was still fooling myself, however. The blog entry was posted on a blog that had not been widely publicized or shared outside of the group of mama contributors. My first name the only used. And my accompanying picture one of me walking away. I was still able to hide. Until the editor posted my blog entry on her main Facebook page with a leading line of “For Those Mamas Who Delivered Via C-Section.” With 72 mutual friends I had no place to hide.

That night over dinner the conversation went something like this:

Me: So … Sue posted my c-section shame story on Facebook.

Hubby: Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

I might have coughed.

Hubby: Did you want her to post it on Facebook?

Me: No.

The sociologist Brené Brown has a brilliant talk on Ted Talks in which she speaks of shame and vulnerability. Toward the end of her talk she states “if you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” I was existing beautifully in this dish unbeknownst to me until my come-to-Jesus moment in that obstetrician’s office. Foolishly I believed that writing about the experience, the feelings of failure—of being one—would be enough to help guide me outside of the reach of that clutching Jungian shadow. Subconsciously, I must have known I was still being safe. The pit in my stomach when I not only saw the post on Facebook but then saw it tagged by another friend (now there really was no hiding) was enough proof for me to know my subconscious was still in control and had no intention of letting me out of that dark place; leaving me foolish until my next birth experience with all of its undealt with fears at the helm. And one of the worst things one can have at a second attempt to not repeat past mistakes is all of the baggage that comes with those mistakes.

Brown goes on to state “if you put the same amount of shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.” I didn’t plan to put myself out there in such a way; in a way where people I work with would now know something so intimate about me. Where friends, or rather acquaintances, were now basically invited in to my home, the door opened by another visitor and not by me. I didn’t want the attention because I feared the attention. I feared it all. I was in for a big surprise.

Some of the comments that I received:

The only one that failed was that doctor. You did the best you could with the circumstances you were given.

I deeply hope that you will have a next birth that you are satisfied and at peace with.

You were dealt a whole lot of crappy conditions … and yet you still managed to come out the other end with a beautiful, healthy baby and the courage to even discuss doing it again.

Great post, Jenny. It’s always nice to know that we all had things we wish we could have done differently.

That made me cry.

I cry when I read the comments. I still do. Days later.

I passive aggressively removed silence from that shameful Petri dish. Sue removed that and secrecy quickly and without pause. The judgment, I realized, was all my own. I secretly feared others would judge me for my weakness, for my lack of resolve. And I never wanted verification that my own self-judgment was to be mirrored and echoed by those around me. The comments I received proved otherwise.

I am far from being in a place where shame no longer exists. And I would be foolish to think that one blog post and one set of positive comments is going to change any of that. It will take some time until I can look back at my laboring experience and feel any of the strength I owned before contractions began. After all, I was the woman in my Lamaze class who proudly proclaimed that I was birthing my child; that the doctor was merely assisting. Somewhere in me that woman still exists; the woman who looked at the Monty Python labor sketch and vowed to not be the woman who was unqualified to give birth to my child.

In the early months of Henry’s life I liked to joke that he was my “test” baby. Whether you like the phrase or not, the truth is your first child—if you plan to have more—truly is your test baby. He is the baby you buy everything for (read Cristin’s brilliant chart for more on the difference here), the one you read every book for, the one you try every method for—CIO, baby-led weaning, etc. Part of my reclaiming of my strength, my warrior woman, is to see my first laboring experience as the test experience. That was my first trial and I will go in fighting with the next one. I might not win the fight—in the sense that I successfully have a VBAC—but I know I will win if I will give it my absolute all, to have every breath that passes my lips be in effort to have the experience I want. I will only fail again if I fail to try.

Sue's Birth Story

By Sue

In keeping with the birth and labor stories of Jenny and Aliya, I wanted to share my story. I always enjoyed reading other women’s stories - that is after I had my own experience. Before PJ, I didn’t truly understand. I wasn’t a mom then.

When I tell my story in person, I usually say a couple of things.
1. Our birth plan was to get over the 59th Street Bridge.
2. It was a natural birth.
3. Surgery was a bitch….

In honor of PJ’s 2nd birthday, I present my birth story.

The Birth Plan

I only half joke about our birth plan. I didn’t have anything elaborate and almost didn’t even consider having a plan. Maybe I’m naive, or maybe I recognized that all birth plans change in the moment. What I did have was a mantra that I’ve heard my mom repeat many times over the years - Fear causes tension. Tension causes pain. Pain causes fear…. And the baby is going to come out one way or another.

John and I joked that as long as we could get over the 59th Street Bridge, we were set. Of course, if I went into labor during the day, I could just walk to the hospital. (My dear friend Erica was my designated chaperone until John could reach me. At which point, she may have been sent to the apartment for the bag, yada yada yada…) I was more concerned about the night. Rush hour traffic on the bridge is horrible. And this was also around the time of Obama campaigning for the 2012 reelection. If I went into labor when he was in town, I was pretty sure I would be stuck at home or at a second rate hospital in Queens. So every day I would talk to the baby. Not today...Obama’s in town. If I get home to Queens, I’m not getting back into Manhattan. Even so, we took Lamaze class at the hospital. We were limited to this particular class due to our crazy schedules of performing and my tickets to the Wagner Ring Cycle at the Metropolitan Opera (I had purchased the tickets long before I was pregnant).

During those classes, I realized how much I DID NOT KNOW about labor and delivery. This is also where I met my dear friends who helped me prepare for my labor and become the mom I am today. Before I knew their names they were affectionately known as “Swedish Couple,” “Walk to the Hospital Couple,” “Quiet Couple,” “Indian Couple,” “Clark Kent and his Wife,” and “Forrest Hills Couple.” (This is was not in any way meant to be racist, nor were we the only ones who had nicknames for each other.) We bonded in our funny cohort and kept each other laughing through the anxiety of what was to come. And I started to understand that some people have very elaborate birth plans. For us, it was all about getting across the bridge.

The Labor and Birth

I was convinced that he (yup) would come early. No real reason, just that the few moms I knew delivered had early. (As for why I thought I was having a boy...I think I was just preparing for the possibility. John was convinced, rightly so, that we were having a girl.) As my due date approached, I worried it would happen before I finished working. I said I would work until Friday and I did. I had made a lot of deals with the baby to not come (much like my Obama request) on specific days when I had important work obligations and when John had tickets to Game 2 of the Stanley Cup in Newark, which I had called the arena to get direct phone numbers to the closest customer service person in case John’s cell wasn’t getting reception. So I remember leaving that last Friday and thinking “I might not be back for a while…”

Saturday was my due date. I got my nails done.

Sunday was my cousin’s son’s first birthday party. It was also the final concert for work. I told my colleagues that if I hadn’t had the baby, I would be at the concert. I emailed midday to say I had the tickets. It was a very hot day. We took the train into Manhattan and walked to the party. I was going quite slowly and John was anxious to get into the air conditioning. When we arrived, there were so many of my extended family present. There were kids running around and lots of food to eat. John put on a 40lb. empathy belly and remarked, “Wow. This is heavy. My back hurts.” Ya think?!?! (The party was at the Museum of Motherhood, hence the random empathy belly available. My family is weird, but not weird enough to travel with 40lb. empathy bellies at birthday parties). Here is a photo proof:



As we made our way downtown for the concert, we hailed a cab. I was too tired to walk. I remember not eating much at the concert. And I remember hearing this version of In My Life. John and I sang that all night (or I should say we attempted, but couldn’t remember most of the words). We were home and in bed by about 10PM.

Several minutes before 2AM, I felt my water break. At first I thought I had peed myself, but I hadn’t had any issues with incontinence, so it didn’t make sense that it would start now. I went to the bathroom and assessed the situation. I thought that perhaps the contractions were regular, but wanted to track them to be sure. When I went back into the bedroom, John asked if all was OK - his usual inquiry after my mid-night pees. “I think my water broke.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wake up so fast! He remembers waking, hearing me announce that my water had broke, and then thinking, “I’m going to be a dad...The Devils are going to lose the Stanley Cup tonight.” It was game 6...He was right.

We tracked the contractions until I had a better understanding of how far apart they really were. Somewhere around 4AM I called my OB, who was on call, but was clearly sleeping. While I waited for her to call back, John took the opportunity to grab a shower, and to start cleaning the shower drain with some much needed Drano, just in case we had company in the next few days and they needed to shower. Seriously? When my OB called back, she suggested staying home a bit longer, but not waiting until rush hour to get to the hospital (there’s the bridge again…). When I vomited, I knew it was time. That was the moment when John really believed I was in labor. We packed up sometime around 5AM. Much to my dismay, I did not have the song In My Life on any of the 3 ipods we have. Again, we made up our own words. There was no traffic on the bridge. When we made it Manhattan, we cheered. WE DID IT! Birth plan completed!

As we parked the car, the parking lot attendant asked me, “How long will you be?” I gestured to my belly, “As long as it takes.” When I entered through Emergency (at that time of morning the front door is locked), the security guard said, “You know where you’re going…” “Not really.” “Through those doors, take the elevator to 11. Good luck!”

When I was taken into triage, I explained that my water broke. The nurses didn’t believe me. I vomited again. The contractions were definitely getting worse. They asked me about some tests that were run in my first trimester, which I had all but forgotten about. Finally someone announced that I lost my mucous plug and that I was in labor. (NEWSFLASH!) I was moved into my room and I remember seeing the sun rising.

Around that time, John excused himself to go to the restroom. He felt faint and sick. I told him to go and to get back as soon as he could. He later told me he splashed water on his face and slapped himself. I believe his pep talk went something like this, “GET IT TOGETHER!”

I don’t remember a lot of the details on the labor. Here’s what I do remember:

• Telling John to go look for a nurse, then yelling at him as soon as he left the room. He stood by me through the entire labor, holding my hand, coaching my breathing. He was the only thing I needed during those 12 hours.
• Not wanting to move around. I tried various positions, but I was most comfortable lying on my back in bed.
• John asking if I wanted an epidural and I just kept breathing through the contractions. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just knew that I wasn’t overwhelmed by the contractions yet. 
• The amazing Australian nurse who came in and coached me periodically. When she learned I was laboring without drugs, she invited me up to the Birthing Center for my next baby. John remembers her saying things like, “You’re beautiful and strong” and he thought, “Why can’t I say things like that?” Probably because seeing me in that kind of pain was too much for him to take. The Australian nurse also identified when I was at 10 cm - The 10cm Chuck - she called it when I got sick the last time.
• The moment after a difficult contraction when John called me a Battle Axe. He had been reading Game of Thrones.
• The music playing. Playlist after playlist of songs I love, providing me with musical interludes.
• The feeling of the baby turning in the birth canal and imagining it turning and making its way into the world. This is a sensation I will never forget.
• The last push when the shoulders cleared and it was like the baby just dropped from me. I won’t ever forget that either. 
• And as I collapsed against the pillow, I heard John say, “It’s a girl! It’s a GIRL!” and I knew I had my PJ!
• The moment I held her and looked into her eyes and cried!

It was almost 2PM, about 12 hours from when my water broke. Amidst the calls to our parents and friends, my doctor went about stitching me up and watching the clock for the placenta to release. When 20 minutes later, it hadn’t released and I started to push, things went downhill. I started to bleed out. The next thing I remember was John asking, “That’s not normal, is it?” The doctor (one from my practice, but not my OB) apologized. “I’m sorry to do this after you delivered with no drugs, but I have to take you in for emergency surgery...If you had an epidural, I might be able to do this in here. We’re going to take you in for a D&C.” (Honestly, I still haven’t read about what happens in a D&C. In two years, I never wanted to, and I don’t think I’ll start now, but you can click the link if you’re interested.)
Doctors came in and told me the risks, such as nicking the uterus, to which I replied, “But you’re not going to do that, right? You won’t screw up, right?” I think I was most scared when they asked if I was an organ donor. This is not something you want to think about minutes after you bring life into the world. As they wheeled me into the OR, I was exclaiming, “I JUST HAD A BABY!” Everyone ignored me. John was left in the room holding PJ watching an orderly mop the blood off the floor. He was left thinking, “What the hell do I do now!?”
When I was moved from the L&D bed to the OR table, I lost more blood. The doctors decided to give me general anesthesia (originally they were planning to give me local). I was scared. So I did what I do when nervous or scared or generally uncomfortable. I talked about the Devils. And the Mets. About how I don’t watch basketball. If I had any energy, I would have been singing to calm myself. My last thought before the anesthesia took over was, “You gotta pull through this for John and PJ.”

After the Surgery

In a very groggy state, I awoke to hear the words “blood transfusion.” I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep. Some time later, I woke and began to comprehend what had happened. I had an IV in one arm and a bag of blood flowing into the other. I was hooked up to oxygen and to sensors and tubes. I could only focus out of one eye at a time. I could barely move. Little by little, I came back to life. John was right there standing by my side, complaining of hunger and sore feet (he wore slip on dress shoes...to make a good first impression on our child). I sent him out for food. PJ was comfortably resting in the nursery. John accompanied her for her bath and her first bottle. At that time, there was concern if I would be able to nurse in the first two weeks since I had lost so much blood. Everything was a little blurry….

Katie, the main nurse who helped deliver PJ, came by to see me. At that moment, my manners returned and I asked if she was a mom. Twice. How did I neglect to ask her that sooner? I should have known by how patient she was.

I stayed in recovery for hours. John and the nurses asked if I wanted to see PJ. Of course, but I was so beat up from labor and the surgery, that I wasn’t thinking. They brought her down to me. I sang to her Tupelo Honey and Feels Like Home. And probably any other song I could almost remember the lyrics to.

Visiting hours at the hospital officially end for new fathers around 9PM. I was still holed up in recovery waiting for the second transfusion to finish. I asked my doctor if John could stay. She suggested asking the nurses very nicely. There were some women who were very curt with the nurses and I knew that the nurses didn’t appreciate that. So I was very mindful of my manners. Please can you bring me some water? Please may I hold my daughter? Can my husband stay longer? Please? Thank you….

The nurses on the maternity floor must have felt sorry for me. It was close to midnight when I finally was moved. I was rolled into an empty room with a view of the Hudson River (and my old office building). I was ready to sleep. Again, both John and the nurses asked if I wanted to kiss PJ goodnight. I held her for a few minutes before I asked them to take her back to the nursery for the night. At that time, I couldn’t think of diapers and breastfeeding. I only knew I had to heal before I could focus on being a mom.

The next morning, the catheter was removed. The packing was removed. Someone helped me out of bed to the bathroom. PJ and I started to bond. A few friends came to visit. My vitals improved greatly. I got a nice roommate, who both she and John swear they knew each other even if they couldn’t place from where. John bumped into our Lamaze instructor who stopped by to get the scoop. It took more than a few days in the hospital to heal completely. It took us more than a few days to figure out what we were doing with breastfeeding. (You can read more about our adventures coming home here.)

Life as we (kinda) knew it continued and our new life began…

But first we had to get back over the bridge.

Aliya's Birth Story

By Aliya

After an easy pregnancy I was shocked to learn at 35 weeks my son was breech. My doctor scheduled an external cephalic version at 37 weeks. In the two weeks before, I tried everything to get him to turn naturally. In my prenatal yoga class, the teacher was very helpful and showed me all types of positions to help with turning him. I felt silly being upside down hanging off my couch, but I was determined. I wanted a natural birth. Unfortunately, I would learn that he was too big at the time to turn and my pelvis was too small.

When I went in for the version, they did a stress test and it showed that the baby’s heart rate went down a few times. So they didn’t end up doing the version but they wanted to monitor the heart rate for a bit longer. I went in on September 14th for a third stress test. After two hours of waiting and having me turn side to side, one of my OBGYN’s partners came and explained to me that when I lie on one side the baby's head rested on the umbilical cord and the heartbeat was faint. She suggested I have him that night via c section. She told me that I might as well have him now rather than waiting and risking anything. My stomach flipped and I thought about how my dad was on a plane at that moment, back to Chicago. He was planning on coming back a week after the birth. I called my husband, Jerome, right away. Not only was my son going to be born two weeks early, but my regular doctor was away and could not deliver him. Another doctor would have to perform the section. They told me I could go home and get my bag and come back at 6pm to prepare for the section.

So I came home and cried as I felt totally unprepared. I remember being on the train coming back home in a daze. I saw one of my old bosses from my previous job on the subway but tried to avoid him seeing me as I was not in a state to socialize. I’m sure he would have been really happy for me but I didn’t feel like talking to anybody but Jerome at that moment.

When I got home, I told Jerome to take a picture of my last day pregnant. Overall, I enjoyed the pregnancy, feeling him kick and move, the energy I had, and of course, the wonderful attention from so many people that I will never have again. I packed a bag and then Jerome and I headed to the hospital. This was my last subway ride as a pregnant lady.

I was really nervous as we arrived at the hospital. I checked in and then they took me to a room and started an IV. My sister, Nadia, came shortly after and kept us company.

I went to use the restroom right before the IV was put in and I looked at my pregnant belly one last time in the mirror. It will probably be the last time I will ever be pregnant as Jerome does not want any more children. I felt a sense of loss for some reason and then left the restroom.

Nadia and Jerome stayed with me for awhile. It felt like hours before they finally took me into the operating room. The nurse asked me what I was having and then told me that so many boys were being born this month. She was making jokes to try and calm my nerves. It helped for the time being until I entered the operating room. There were so many instruments and machines, it looked like I was abducted by aliens, this was their spaceship and they were about to dissect me.

They placed me on the operating table and the doctor came in asking the nurses where the anesthesiologist was. He finally came in and told me to sit up. The nurse stood in front of me to hold my hand while he stuck a needle in my spine. It was the weirdest pain I have ever felt. It was almost like a Charlie horse in the spine but ten times worse. They laid me down and I gradually became numb from the waist down. My legs started to feel like giant tree trunks. I knew they were there but that was it.

After this it felt like forever before they started. I felt very much in a daze at this point and I was shaking. I was cold but also terrified. Not only was I terrified of the operation, but in a matter of 30 minutes I would meet my son and my life will be totally changed. They let Jerome in and he sat next to me to hold my hand. I wanted to cry but was too scared. The other nurse was talking to me and this comforted me a little. I needed a distraction. The doctor told me she was starting and I squeezed Jerome’s hand. Of course I didn’t feel anything. I told Jerome not to look, but I think he looked once. The doctor told me what she was doing and that he was almost out. I think it took only about 15 minutes to take him out. I was so drugged out my eyes were watering and I felt like I was high. I heard a coughing and then a cry. It was Benjamin! In my daze, I asked if that was him, and Jerome said it was and he got up to go see. I was disappointed I couldn’t see or hold him at this point. I kept asking what was happening. They were weighing him and cleaning him up. I heard the nurse yell, “He’s really cute Aliya!” At this point Jerome was taking pictures. I asked how much he weighed and they said he was 7 pound 2.8 ounces.

Finally Jerome brought him over and he was swaddled in blankets. He was beautiful and I couldn’t stop smiling. His little squished up face was peeking out of the bundle of blankets. I didn’t really know what to think, I couldn’t believe that this little person came out of me. At this point I didn’t care how he was born, as long as he was healthy and safe.

Jerome went with the baby and the nurse to the nursery. I wanted to see the baby again but they had to stitch me up and then let the anesthesia wear off enough so that I could go to recovery. They then rolled me into a dark, quiet room where I was told to sit until I could move my feet. This took hours. Nadia came and sat with me. Jerome came too with the baby and they took a picture with my phone. I sent the picture to a lot of people announcing Benjamin’s birth. The nurse gave me Benjamin’s foot prints.

After I could feel my feet, they took me to my recovery room in which I would meet my roommate the next day. Luckily I had the window and it was a nice view of Roosevelt Island and the East River. That night I got to sit with baby for awhile and Jerome took pictures but I really couldn’t move and was in a lot of pain so they had the baby in the nursery that night. I had decided to breastfeed so I tried to get the baby to latch on even though my milk had not come in. It was just to practice and trigger milk production. I never knew that this would be one of the biggest challenges I’ve ever had to face.

I stayed in the hospital for four nights and arrived home with our baby boy about to face the next test of life…breast feeding and surviving on little sleep.

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.