Warning: There are some graphic photos in this post. I want to to tell my story with honesty and not feel the need to hide or edit what happened, because I believe that Addie's birth was as beautiful and important as any other. I also want to share my experience with women who may share similar birth stories. For Part I, click here. For Part II, click here.
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It was four o'clock in the morning. I had been in active labor for more than 24 hours. I agreed.
This was where my months of meticulous planning had ended. I had not researched hospitals, not even CONSIDERED where we might go if things went wrong. Because I'd believed that if I'd planned for it, then it would happen. In hindsight, this was foolish. The hospital we ended up going to was the closest one to our apartment, and my midwife had worked there as an RN years ago so she had pull with all the doctors and nurses. It was also known as the "ghetto hospital" by many, since it was primarily for low-income, Medi-Cal families. I actually had Medi-Cal by some miraculous circumstance of applying right when I found out I was pregnant, and it ended up covering the entire cost of my stay. So I don't have any right to complain or criticize this place because they took care of me and the doctors were amazing.
The drive to the hospital was awful. I thing my body was in shock, or maybe I was going through "transition" (where you feel sick right before you're about to push the baby out), because I was hot and cold, and gasping through my contractions, back pain, and the urge to push. Luckily, the roads were clear and the Labor and Delivery part of hospital seemed quiet and empty.
The nurses immediately hooked me up to an IV while the midwife discussed my situation with the doctor. My levels of amniotic fluid were still surprisingly high and I was plenty hydrated from all the labor-ade I was forced to drink. It was decided that all I would need was a little pitocin to restart the contractions and then I could have my baby. No problem!
Except pitocin is paaaaainful. Pitocin makes your contractions come on like a freight train, ramming into you over and over with little break in between. I felt like hell resisted as long as could, but after a few more contractions, I begged for the epidural. I felt like a failure in the eyes of my midwife, who has extolled the evils of medicated births the previous nine months, drilling into my head that narcotics and epidurals robbed women of the natural high they received after pushing the baby out. Oh well, I thought, I'm at the hospital now anyways.
My midwife and Zach were completely supportive of my decision for the epidural and 45 minutes later, the anesthesiologist walked in with a golden halo hovering over this head. After he was finished, my legs suddenly went numb and felt like massive tree trunks. The pain of the contractions faded away but my body was so tense from the labor and adrenaline that my back was seizing up and H. had to continuously massage me to help me relax and sleep a little.
Hours passed as I drifted in and out of consciousness. By 12:30 pm, my contractions had been showing strong and steady on the monitor for long enough. 10 centimeters, here I come! The nurse checked my cervix and looked up at me with a sad, worried expression on her face.
"4 or 5 centimeters," she said, "I think the baby is in a posterior position, and the head is tilted the wrong way so it's bashing up against your cervix and you're very swollen now."
After all the pain, all that time, all the preparation and visualizing of my perfect birth, it came down to this: an emergency c-section. I was too tired to fight this nightmare. I nodded my consent as tears started to fall down my face. A part of me was relieved that it would just be over soon, the other part of me wept for whatever dream I had that was now gone. My mother and sister walked into the room, trying to smile through their worried expressions. We took this photo right before I was wheeled into the Operating Room:
It was a little after one o'clock in the afternoon and a new anesthesiologist pumped me full of pain medication, testing my reflexes to make sure I was thoroughly numb from the waist down. I kept feeling his fingers and this scared me. I really didn't want to feel myself being sliced open. Surgeons and nurses flurried around the room, my midwife madly clicked away on the camera, and Zach sat next to me stroking my face and whispering sweet things into my ear. He wore an operating room hat and mask so all I could see were his eyes. I remember how they were full of concern, but also of strength and love. I don't think I've ever loved anyone so much as him at that exact moment.
The doctors began the surgery. There was a large blue vertical curtain placed below my chest so I couldn't see anything. I heard murmuring and the beeping of machines. Anytime they referred to the baby, they would say, "he", and, "his", which felt so anti-climactic after we waited nine months to find out the sex.
"I guess we have a Jack," I whispered to Zach.
It sounded like they were having some difficulty pulling our son out. A doctor angrily yelled at my midwife to get back behind the curtain since she had our camera right over their shoulders during the surgery. I felt a tugging that was getting stronger and stronger, and then a surprising shock of pain starting to spread throughout my body. I felt nauseous from all the drugs and began to shake violently.
"Oh my God, it's a girl!"
Cheers burst out through the room and suddenly there she was, covered in bloody goo, face to face with me. I kissed her forehead. I felt a deep sadness that the first time I met her I was feeling so sick and weak. I didn't want my first memories of her to be associated with numbness, pain, and confusion. It was hard to feel any tenderness or love because I felt like I was spinning, falling down a deep spiral, and then all too abruptly...blackout.
to be continued...
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