Warning: This is a lengthy post that is moderately graphic
in nature.
Preface: I began
writing this birth story as a way to try to accept my first birthing
experience, which was far from what I imagined a pregnancy and birth experience
should be. Shortly after finding out I
was pregnant for the second time, it was recommended to me that I write about
my pregnancy, labor, and delivery in order to try to process what happened and
heal so that I could try to be more in control of my next experience. I never finished writing my experience down
before my second child’s birth due to the fact that I met and shared my
experience with a great birthing class and processed the experience some while
there. Now, a few days shy of his 6th
birthday, I have decided to try to finish writing this experience.
It is funny how things hit you when you least expect
them. Everything can be fine and then
suddenly out of nowhere –WHAM! It hits you like a ton of bricks. My husband and I had just found out we were
expecting a baby. Most people in this
situation are elated, ecstatic, and want to tell the world. But my first instinct, my first reaction…it
wasn’t like that of most people.
Instead, when I realized that I was late and could be pregnant…I froze. Did I want another baby? Absolutely!
So why was I having this reaction?
It took awhile, but I finally realized that my reaction was stemming
from the fact that I had never really processed my first experience. So at the recommendation of my midwife, I sat
down and tried to remember everything that had happened over 5 years ago . . .
My Story:
I found out that I was pregnant in the early part of April
in 2006, most people remember the exact day they found out, but all I really
remember about that day is worrying what my parents were going to think when I
told them. This was definitely not how I
had envisioned my first pregnancy. I
thought I would be happily married, settled, and ready…I was none of
these. I was in my early 20s, unmarried,
and though I did not admit it at the time, I knew that my parents really did
not like the guy I was seeing. I was
pregnant and scared--a position I had never really considered. Since I did not have a primary care doctor,
much less an OBGYN, I decided to utilize the same obstetrician that my good
friend’s wife was using. At this time I
did not know that I had birthing options, I did not know anything about
pregnancy and childbirth. Everything
that I knew I had seen in the movies, learned in public school sexual
education, or obtained from a few brief and awkward conversations with my
parents. I knew I needed an OB and this
one was covered under my insurance.
Due to the fact that I was not entirely sure when I got
pregnant, I went in for an appointment at what we could best assume was around
8 weeks of pregnancy. At this point, I
had told my parents and they had reacted about how I expected (though they
tried really hard to not show their feelings and just be happy, I know that
they were as conflicted as I was).
My first appointment with the OB was nothing like I could
have ever imagined. I sat in the waiting
room anxiously for about an hour while I waited to be called back so that this
doctor lady could verify what my peeing on a stick had already told me (6
different times). I finally was brought
back and was told to –SURPRISE! Pee on a
stick. Seriously? Did they really think their sticks were any
better than the six I had paid $10 apiece for?
But I complied. After about 30
seconds, those little lines popped up and I was told to go to the end of the
hall and sit in the office and wait for the OB.
So I wandered down the hall, trying to take in the place,
being drawn to the various boards of pictures of babies, thank you cards,
holiday cards from families that had delivered with the practice in years past
and as I wandered I began to feel a little more at ease. I sat down in the OBs office and waited. And waited.
And waited. I could feel the
tension working its way back up until finally she entered the office. She sat across from me with this huge mahogany
desk between us and began to bombard me with question after question. It was like the Spanish Inquisition. I was asked questions about things that I
STILL cannot figure out how they relate to pregnancy. Questions about myself, my childhood, my
parents, the father of the baby, my health, my diet, my job, my living
environment…heck I’m pretty sure by the time I left that office she knew more
about me than anyone else in the world.
I was told, after this line of questioning that I did not
need to come back in for a few weeks because I was only 8 weeks pregnant. How they
determined this still beats the heck out of me, but I did not question it. She said that they would do my first ultrasound
then but that I should “mark my calendar with my projected due date: January 11th”.
I returned to the office for my first real exam and
ultrasound to be made completely uncomfortable yet again. The ultrasound technician was told to do a
transvaginal ultrasound because “we are unsure of conception date” and the baby
may not be developed enough to see on an external ultrasound machine. Now if you have never had a transvaginal
ultrasound…I definitely recommend avoiding it at all costs. What I was about to abruptly find out is that
a transvaginal ultrasound is basically something that looks like a giant wand
instead of being rubbed on the outside of my belly (like I expected) is
inserted vaginally. You can probably
imagine the humiliation that I felt the moment that this was described to me
only mere moments before it happened. It
was during this visit that I first heard the little thumps of his beating heart
and knew I was in love (cliché- I know, but true). I was told during this visit that my due date
appeared to be accurate and they set my prenatal care schedule.
Now, I’m not going to go month by month of the pregnancy,
because frankly…it was all just a lot of vomiting and appointments where I
received conflicting information. One
visit I wasn’t gaining enough weight (no duh!
I could not keep anything down and they just kept attributing it to morning
sickness). Then the next visit, I was
too heavy and if I didn’t control what I ate then I was going to be forced to
have a c-section because I was going to develop gestational diabetes. Then the next visit, suddenly I was too thin
and not measuring correctly for my gestational weeks. This last one resulted in another ultrasound
where they changed my due date to Jan 21st. I eventually was diagnosed with hyperemesis
gravidarum after passing out twice from dehydration and being taken to the
hospital for fluid therapy and monitoring.
This diagnosis led to my OB prescribing me an anti-nausea medication
that is typically given to cancer patients.
I was never told the potential complications that this medication could
cause me or my unborn baby and frankly I am glad that I did not learn them
until long after my child born healthy as the side effects and complications
that it could cause was frightening.
So that is basically how the pregnancy went. I was scared, my OB gave me very little
support and my baby’s father was just plain ignorant to the whole pregnancy and
the only person I trusted—my mother was a thousand miles away. She did get quite a few hysterical phone
calls though!
Skipping forward to January.
My original due date, January 11th, came and went. I was still very pregnant and still working
70 hour weeks. The next Monday’s appointment
I had after my original due date, my OB stated that she was concerned that my
baby was too big and that she would like to do an ultrasound on my next visit if
I had not gone into labor by then (I was going in every other day at that
point). On the 17th, I still
had not gone into labor and went in for an ultrasound. At this point according to their “new” due
date, I still had 4 days before I hit 40 weeks, but I was told that my baby was
in fact “too large” and that they wanted me to go into the hospital the next
day to be induced. When I questioned
this request I was threatened. Threatened
that if I did not induce that the baby would get stuck in the birth canal, told
my tailbone would be damaged, that my perineum would tear and that it would be
the most painful thing I had ever experienced, threatened with an emergency
c-section. I was even told that my baby
and or I would die.
So after working a half day the next day to ensure
everything was in order before I went on maternity leave, I packed my bags and
the baby’s father and I made our way into the hospital at about 4 in the
afternoon. I was immediately put into a
delivery room and hooked to several monitors: heart rate, blood pressure, fetal
monitors and immediately was given a urine catheter. A nurse came in to put a catheter to provide
me with fluids, an antibiotic, and pitocin to “kick start” my labor. The nurse tried ten times to get the catheter
in before giving up and asking for help.
The next nurse tried another 4 before the catheter was inserted in the
most awkward position on my hand. It was
then taped in with what seemed like an entire roll of medical tape. I was told that I should try to sleep until
the contractions got to be too painful and then I would be given an
epidural. (I was never asked if this was
something I wanted…I was told that because I was given pitocin it was
“protocol” to be given an epidural once the contractions became painful instead
of just awkward).
My baby’s father took over the remote on the TV and
proceeded to pass out in the chair next to my bed. I was forced to watch hours of the Simpsons
because due to my monitors and IVs I could not even reach the nurse call button
to get the TV turned off and despite my desperate pleas, my baby’s father would
not wake up (I swear he would sleep through the end of the world).
Every hour or so a nurse would come in, check my vitals,
check my progression, shake her head and tell me to go back to sleep. At about 7 pm, though I had only dilated to 4
cm, I was given an epidural so that I could sleep better because I was going to
be in labor for a long time. The
anesthesiologist came in and told me to sit up and lean forward. Then in the middle of a contraction, my
epidural was inserted. The sight of the
needle caused my baby’s father got woozy and fall back into his chair
borderline unconscious. Great. Just what I needed. If he couldn’t take the sight of a needle,
how was he going to handle this birth?!?
After gaining some of his composure he went outside for a smoke. He came back in smelling disgusting, I
bitched at him, and he left. He said he
was going to get food, but I did not see him again until about 4 am.
I felt very little pain for hours but did feel tremendous
pressure as the baby made his way down the birth canal.
At about 8:30 am I began to feel more than pressure, but I
still was not in pain. At this point I
was told that I was still not progressing and that a c-section was imminent. My doctor had just been called into an
emergency c-section for a mamma with multiples so when she was done, I would be
brought in. Shortly after 9:30, a nurse
came in to check me…I was finally at 9 cm, but my contractions were not as
close together as they wanted them. They
gave me another dose of pitocin and left.
Shortly after being checked the next time, I realized that this baby was
coming…RIGHT THEN! I frantically tried
to find the call button. I still could
not maneuver to get to it due to all the monitoring and IVs and began to yell
frantically. A nurse came in and told me
that my doctor was getting cleaned up after her last delivery (the c-section
surgery) and would be with me in a few minutes.
I told her that I needed to push NOW!
She grabbed two other nurses from the hall and some poor medical student
that had never seen childbirth before and began to get the room prepped. I was told to go ahead a push on their
count. 1-----2-----3-----4-----5….I quit
pushing. I was yelled at and told that I
had to push for the full count (whatever that was). “Again!
1-----2-----3-----4-----5-----6-----7”.
My knees were by my chest. One
was being held by the medical student that was fairly quickly turning green and
the other by my baby’s daddy (that didn’t look much better). Between them, the monitoring equipment, the
bed…I felt like Gumby. I knew that this
was not a natural position for my body to be in. I was in pain. Every contraction, every push…I felt course
throughout my entire body. I felt my
muscles spasm from the awkward position my body was in, felt the tear as his
head came out. The OB entered at
sometime during this point and was just getting her gown on as the nurses told
me that his head was out and that I needed to pant like a dog to keep from
pushing anymore. Keep from pushing? Are you f***ing crazy?!?! I want this baby out! Now! A
few more timed pushes and he was out.
They held him up in the air near my face but then immediately whisked
him away after one picture was taken to be bathed, weighed, given who knows
what kinds of medications. Aidan Antonio
was born on January 19th at 10:38 am weighing in at 8 lbs 4 oz and
22 inches long. He really was NOT the
big baby that they had predicted.
As this information was shouted at me, all I wanted to do
was hold my baby, see my baby, but I was told I had to lie back and be stitched
up and that “I wouldn’t feel a thing because of the epidural”. I felt every time the needle went in, every
tug, every knot that was made.
When I was finally stitched up and my monitors were removed,
I was given an apple juice and forced to get out of bed and into a wheelchair
to be brought up to the mother/baby unit.
I still had not had more than 5 minutes with my newborn baby. I asked if I could hold him and was told that
it was against hospital policy for me to hold him while in a wheelchair and
that he would be brought up in his plastic bassinet to my room after he had
some tests done in the nursery. While in
the elevator going up to the mother/baby until I gazed at him lying there
in that plastic box. It was
then that I decided that I was going to breastfeed and I informed them of this
and that I did not want him to have formula.
The elevator dinged and I was taken to my room and my son was taken in
the opposite direction.
I spent an hour in a shared room with a teenager that had
just given birth to her second child.
She was on the phone yelling and screaming the entire time. From what I could gather she had been
discharged but no one was there to take her home. All I wanted was to sleep and be with my baby
and I could do neither.
About an hour and a half later, the roommate finally had
left and he was finally brought to me. I
was told that because a lactation counselor could not see me until tomorrow
that I probably would not be able to breastfeed. (Thanks for that vote of
confidence!) However, I put him on my
bare chest and he immediately latched.
He was later taken back to the nursery for his heel prick and I was told
that he got fussy while he was there.
Due to the long wait before they could get to his test, they gave him a
bottle of formula which he ate in its entirety (I was only down the hall, but
for some reason they wouldn’t bring him to me to breastfeed). After they finally finished their tests, he
was brought back to me and I refused to let them take him again. It was wonderful to finally have this little
guy in my arms.
Reflection: After
going through this story, I realized why I froze. The pregnancy, the labor, the
delivery…nothing about it went how I expected.
I was lied to, manipulated, insulted, aggravated, and ignored. These feelings made me afraid of pregnancy,
afraid of childbirth, afraid that this next pregnancy would not have a happy
ending.
Through everything that happened that day…the thing that
matters most is that little boy who was born.
He turns six years old in just two days and I could not imagine my life
without him. His laugh is
contagious. His eyes sparkle when he
smiles. His creativity is endless…from
playing make believe, telling stories, making art, and making up words and
phrases like “fork it up” (use a fork) and “cheese sandwich all cooked up” (grilled
cheese). Nothing about his existence has
ever been expected…and frankly…I have come to love that about him.
