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.

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.