She came on a Saturday in early spring. I was lying in bed, the April sun had just started to peek it's way over the horizon and through my bedroom window. There it was, like a comforting touch, warm and fast and suddenly, on my face. One of those perfect moments when in an instant, in the length of a single inhale, I closed my eyes, all of the pain and disappointment of the past few weeks totally melted away, and I was at peace. Then in a single exhale, as quickly as it came, the sun passed behind a cloud, I opened my eyes, and it was gone.
Then there it was again. Warm and fast and suddenly. Only this time, the feeling was between my legs. My eyes got big and my heart started racing, and I jumped up to find my husband who was already downstairs tending to the needs of our 5 year old early-riser.
"Dude." Crap. "I think my water broke." Damn. "I need to call next door. They need to take Jack. We need to go to the hospital, like, now." So I did, and they did, and my husband and I jumped in the car and started the drive to the hospital, both of us silent, staring straight ahead, like two wigged out deer caught in strobing disco headlights.
This was not how it was supposed to go. I was not supposed to be racing to the hospital at the first rumblings of labor with a towel jammed in my crotch, terrified to move or even breathe. One single phrase repeating itself over and over in my brain. Prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord. I had never even heard of the term until six weeks prior, when my midwife first told me that my baby was breech. Prolapsed cord. It's the technical term for when, during labor, the umbilical cord slips out before the baby, most common in pregnancies, like mine, where the baby's head is facing up and not down to plug up the exit way, so to speak. On the chance that the cord is also wrapped around the baby's neck, it could strangle the baby on the way out. Prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord. Totally rare, completely unlikely, yet blaring like an alarm bell in my head. Don't budge, don't breathe, don't move. I am supposed to be at home, moaning, squatting, writhing around my yoga mat. I am supposed to be riding the wave of each contraction to the birthing center. I am supposed to plop into a warm tub and gently push my baby through the water and out into the world.
It turns out it was pee. That warm and fast and sudden feeling between my legs. It wasn't my water breaking, it was me peeing myself. A lot. But given the fact that I had started to have regular contractions when I arrived at the hospital, the staff decided to keep me monitored for a while, to see how things progressed. So I was plugged in and laid down and destined to ride the waves of my contractions, not on my yoga mat like I was supposed to, but in bed. Twenty minutes later, during a particularly strong contraction, my water did in fact break, and the countdown to my Caesarian began. The on-call surgeon came in to introduce himself and sweetly apologized that we had never met before, even though he was going to be the one cutting me open. The nurses and anesthesiologist apologized that I was in labor, promising that my pain was going to end soon. Ironic, I thought, given the fact that this was actually the least painful part of the process yet. I had made it this far, it was finally time, the physical and emotional and mental preparation of the past few weeks were about to culminate in one defining moment, I was about to meet my baby girl.
This was not how it was supposed to go. It was the first thought that entered my head at my 32 week appointment, lying on an exam table with ultrasound goo on my belly, when I learned my baby was breech. Followed closely by: Prenatal yoga teachers don't have breech babies. And then an emphatic: What the hell did I do wrong? Prior to that moment, I hadn't even considered that this birth would be any different than my first. A ten to twelve hour stretch of labor at home, a quick, albeit ludicrous and uncomfortable drive to the hospital, a few grunts and pushes and wham-o, a beautiful slimy bundle of baby on my chest. I fought back sobs as my midwife suggested I either start to make a plan on how to flip this kid around or prepare for the possibility of a surgical birth.
So make a plan, I did. I gathered an incredible group of local practitioners - chiropractors, massage therapists, acupuncturists and body workers - who, for weeks, worked their own brands of specialized magic to help poke, prod, coax and cajole my baby back around. I set up a mini altar in her nursery, literally stood on my head in front of it every morning and then sat in meditation, my skin-crawling, crying and silently pleading to my stubborn little unborn girl to just go back to normal, damnit. I dropped deeper and deeper into every nook and cranny of my body, traveling to places my ten plus years of practicing and teaching yoga had never even taken me. And I got pissed. So pissed. At my baby for not cooperating, at my care providers for not fixing it, at random pregnant women on the street who I assumed took for granted that they got to push their babies out while I was doomed to go under the knife. But mostly, I got angry at myself. I felt defective and faulty. And when I hit 38 weeks and my baby hadn't budged and the realization hit that it was finally time to make logistical preparations for the dreaded "C" word, I felt utterly defeated and unworthy. Like the weepy kid on the losing end of a wicked game of tug-o-war.
Then there it was again. Warm and fast and suddenly. Only this time, the feeling was between my legs. My eyes got big and my heart started racing, and I jumped up to find my husband who was already downstairs tending to the needs of our 5 year old early-riser.
"Dude." Crap. "I think my water broke." Damn. "I need to call next door. They need to take Jack. We need to go to the hospital, like, now." So I did, and they did, and my husband and I jumped in the car and started the drive to the hospital, both of us silent, staring straight ahead, like two wigged out deer caught in strobing disco headlights.
This was not how it was supposed to go. I was not supposed to be racing to the hospital at the first rumblings of labor with a towel jammed in my crotch, terrified to move or even breathe. One single phrase repeating itself over and over in my brain. Prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord. I had never even heard of the term until six weeks prior, when my midwife first told me that my baby was breech. Prolapsed cord. It's the technical term for when, during labor, the umbilical cord slips out before the baby, most common in pregnancies, like mine, where the baby's head is facing up and not down to plug up the exit way, so to speak. On the chance that the cord is also wrapped around the baby's neck, it could strangle the baby on the way out. Prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord, prolapsed cord. Totally rare, completely unlikely, yet blaring like an alarm bell in my head. Don't budge, don't breathe, don't move. I am supposed to be at home, moaning, squatting, writhing around my yoga mat. I am supposed to be riding the wave of each contraction to the birthing center. I am supposed to plop into a warm tub and gently push my baby through the water and out into the world.
It turns out it was pee. That warm and fast and sudden feeling between my legs. It wasn't my water breaking, it was me peeing myself. A lot. But given the fact that I had started to have regular contractions when I arrived at the hospital, the staff decided to keep me monitored for a while, to see how things progressed. So I was plugged in and laid down and destined to ride the waves of my contractions, not on my yoga mat like I was supposed to, but in bed. Twenty minutes later, during a particularly strong contraction, my water did in fact break, and the countdown to my Caesarian began. The on-call surgeon came in to introduce himself and sweetly apologized that we had never met before, even though he was going to be the one cutting me open. The nurses and anesthesiologist apologized that I was in labor, promising that my pain was going to end soon. Ironic, I thought, given the fact that this was actually the least painful part of the process yet. I had made it this far, it was finally time, the physical and emotional and mental preparation of the past few weeks were about to culminate in one defining moment, I was about to meet my baby girl.
This was not how it was supposed to go. It was the first thought that entered my head at my 32 week appointment, lying on an exam table with ultrasound goo on my belly, when I learned my baby was breech. Followed closely by: Prenatal yoga teachers don't have breech babies. And then an emphatic: What the hell did I do wrong? Prior to that moment, I hadn't even considered that this birth would be any different than my first. A ten to twelve hour stretch of labor at home, a quick, albeit ludicrous and uncomfortable drive to the hospital, a few grunts and pushes and wham-o, a beautiful slimy bundle of baby on my chest. I fought back sobs as my midwife suggested I either start to make a plan on how to flip this kid around or prepare for the possibility of a surgical birth.
So make a plan, I did. I gathered an incredible group of local practitioners - chiropractors, massage therapists, acupuncturists and body workers - who, for weeks, worked their own brands of specialized magic to help poke, prod, coax and cajole my baby back around. I set up a mini altar in her nursery, literally stood on my head in front of it every morning and then sat in meditation, my skin-crawling, crying and silently pleading to my stubborn little unborn girl to just go back to normal, damnit. I dropped deeper and deeper into every nook and cranny of my body, traveling to places my ten plus years of practicing and teaching yoga had never even taken me. And I got pissed. So pissed. At my baby for not cooperating, at my care providers for not fixing it, at random pregnant women on the street who I assumed took for granted that they got to push their babies out while I was doomed to go under the knife. But mostly, I got angry at myself. I felt defective and faulty. And when I hit 38 weeks and my baby hadn't budged and the realization hit that it was finally time to make logistical preparations for the dreaded "C" word, I felt utterly defeated and unworthy. Like the weepy kid on the losing end of a wicked game of tug-o-war.
I can tell you this honestly about my daughter's birth: There was a disconnect when my baby was pulled out of me. The body goes numb, a cut is made, and a baby emerges. No wave of relief, no rush of oxytocin. It could not be more surreal. I heard her cry for the first time, and for one brief, slippery millisecond, her cry didn't sync up with my heart. Like a needle that temporarily slips out of the groove of a record. There was a disconnect. And, though it was so faint and so brief, that disconnect was enough to plant a seed of grief that is watered just a tiny bit each time I hear the story of a woman's picture-perfect, blissed-out "natural" birth. Or each time I read an article some well meaning friend posts on her Facebook feed about the evils of Caesarian birth and how my baby is ten times more likely to be fat, diabetic, depressed, stupid or just plan unhappy because of her birth. And, inevitably, each little hit of grief brings with it just a sprinkle of guilt. It's slight and wispy and usually an afterthought, but it's there, in the form of a single phrase, "Why me?"
I can also tell you this about my daughter's birth: An incredible, surprising shift happened. After that brief moment of disconnect passed, when she was placed on me and immediately stopped crying and rested her perfectly round, wrinkly head on my chest. When I wrapped my arms around her and held her tiny blue fingers in my hand, I knew. My entire body softened, like a giant sigh, the tears flowed, and I knew. This was exactly how it was supposed to go. This was exactly her journey and exactly my journey and exactly how we were supposed to meet up together. I knew as sure as I was holding her that I had done nothing wrong and that every moment that came before this one and every moment that came after was exactly how it was supposed to be. This was completely normal. This was completely natural. Medicated? Sure. Highly intervened? You bet. But totally 100% natural.
I don't believe that everything happens for a reason. But I do believe that we have a choice in how to respond to everything that happens to us. I believe that that choice gives us power, even if the thing that happened to us felt like it took a little power away. I don't believe anymore in calling something natural, because to call one thing natural silently labels all the other things in that category unnatural. And that's a loaded label, especially when that thing is birth. It boasts an inherent sense of right or wrong. It hangs with a tough crowd - shame, grief, anger, guilt. It intimidates you into believing that there is one specific way that something should go. It had been my own mantra for so many weeks. This is not the way it's supposed to go. My daughter's birth, what came before and what came after, fundamentally changed the way I trust. Myself, others, and an awareness of something bigger than all of it. It opened my eyes and my heart to a whole new scope of my empathy. It required me to let go of the white knuckle grip I had on the picture of how it should be and open myself up with faith and strength to how it actually was.
A few days ago, I was sitting across the table from my daughter, a feisty red head, now almost two. She was doodling with crayons, focused and driven, like she had a master plan for the collection of circles and scribbles she was marking on the paper. It seemed like the perfect time to bring up the subject. "So, tell me, honey, what was up with you not flipping around for me in my belly?" She paused from her drawing, looked up from her doodles and stared into my eyes, silent. "Seriously, kid, what was up with that?" She continued to silently stare. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" Still nothing. I took a deep breath and stared back at her. This lovely, stubborn tiny human who had pushed me up against and pulled me beyond my limits in so many ways, even before she was born. Who never faltered in her certainty that I had the stamina to keep moving, even when I wasn't so sure myself. And then there it was. A little giggle. Then a smirk. As if to say, "Duh, mom, this again? You already know the answer to all of it. You did before, you do now. You always did." I let out a big sigh, smirked a little myself, and picked up a crayon to color with her. She was right again.
No comments:
Post a Comment