Birthday

Birthday

Pregnancy and me just didn’t agree. I never got that glow. I got high blood pressure, and elevated blood sugar. I didn’t get a cute little bump. I got as big as a house, incredible heart burn and sudden severe lactose intolerance. I got swollen feet, and sleepless nights and the incessant urge to urinate 24/7. I was a miserable, overweight, hot mess.

I went in to labor 5 weeks early with my frist. I attended a birthing class with my mother on December 9^th. On the morning of December 10^th I called my mom and said what did they say to do if your water broke, because mine indeed had broken sometime in the middle of the night.  We headed straight to the hospital. My son would not be born for another 30 grueling hours.

They started me on Pitocin immediately to induce labor. The contractions came fast and furious, but nothing else progressed. I held out as long as I physically could before asking for the epidural, which didn’t work.

I always had this vision of what this day would be like and none of it ever included hourly invasive vaginal checks done by strange hands, monitors, or a bed pan. I always assumed that labor would be painful. I could not have imagined this all-consuming unrelenting pain that would drag for hours on end. To complicate things further I have a blood disorder which my Dr. laughed off and all but dismissed. He left treatment options up to me. Which when I think back on that it infuriates me. I was 25 years old, in labor for hours already with my first child who was coming 5 weeks early. I was exhausted and scared to death, and left to make decisions about my health that I was generally uniformed about.

Finally, the time came to push, and push I did, until I could not anymore. It felt like I was pushing for hours to no avail. By now I was bleeding… profusely. My blood pressure had bottomed out. I was losing consciousness. A nurse was holding smelling salts under my nose to keep me awake and telling me I needed to push. I remember at one point saying, No, I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. It turns out no matter how great an effort I gave I could not push my son out. The chord was wrapped around his neck several times not allowing him to move fully through the birth canal.

Then I had this moment. An out of body experience. It felt like I was watching a TV show on mute. The fluorescent near blinding lights began to blur. The room that was now filled with frantic medical staff got quiet. I knew they were still talking but I couldn’t hear anything. It felt as if I were far away. In that moment, with no fear or anxiety I thought so this is it. This is it how happens. This is how It ends. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and slip into the comfortable darkness, give into the exhaustion, make it all go away.

My son was brought into this world among the chaos. Blue and limp, with out so much as a tiny squeak. I was sure we were both dying. I can’t say I remember the entire sequence of events. Something brought me back. My memories from this day feel like snapshots. Singular. Out of order. Snapshots. At some point the dr. cut the chord while the baby was still inside of me and got him out. I remember my mothers face. Sheer panic and desperation. I followed her gaze over to the table where my son lay. I don’t even remember him actually being born, but I remember the look on her face. My baby, discolored and seemingly lifeless. My husband holding my hand. Blood. There was blood everywhere. The once pristine delivery room resembled a gory crime scene.

My son was whisked away before I even got a good look at him. I got stitched up with no anesthetics. The Dr. was stuffing gauze inside of me to contain the bleeding. I kept asking what is he doing? I couldn’t understand what could be happening I mean the worst was supposed to be over. The pain was indescribable and clearly unforgettable. The gauze felt like scorching sand paper. Each stitch searing, hotter than the one before. I had never felt so broken, betrayed or traumatized. I just wanted it to all be over. And then it was.

I was wheeled to another room. Weak and tired, rest came easy. I slept for 10 hours. Opening my eyes for the first time I felt disoriented. Every inch of my body hurt. My mouth was dry. Contacts were uncomfortably stuck to my eyes. The room was dark and quiet. My husband sleeping in a chair next to me. His head rested on the rail to my bed. His jeans and sneakers covered in my blood. A nurse came in, adjusted some things, rehung IV’S, and left. My mind was racing. No bassinet. No baby. No words from the nurse. I had never felt so consumed by fear, and have not since.

I laid there. Silent. Afraid to wake Jason. Afraid to ask any questions. Afraid. I kept telling myself everything is fine. It has to be. They would have told me if it was not. They would have woke me. I am not sure how much time passed while I laid there in fear with my thoughts and what if’s before some one came in and said would you like me to bring to the baby in? I could not get a word out. I nodded as tears streamed down my face.

Moments later she returned with my baby. She laid him in my arms. In that instant I felt as if I was holding the weight of the world. He was bruised and beautiful, and despite everything I had ever heard about this euphoric feeling new mothers experience the first time they see or hold their baby all I felt was sad, disconnected and tired. His small 8 pound body might as well have been a ton of bricks. My arms ached as much as my heart and it was all too much to bear. With tears still falling I asked the nurse to take him back, genuinely baffled by my own feelings.

What in the motherhood was happening?!