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 9th. On the morning of
December 10th 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?!
