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.

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.