Imagine with me for a minute that you are sitting in the
comfort and safety of your own home, when suddenly a masked stranger comes in
screaming and pointing a gun at you. Immediately you fear for the safety of
yourself and your loved ones, and suddenly you’re no longer confident that you
will be around for a tomorrow. The intruder ransacks your home and leaves with
your most precious belongings. He left you alive, but not without robbing you.
And he took so much more than just your possessions. I imagine in that
situation we would all be extremely grateful and happy to have everyone alive
and healthy when it’s all over, but that doesn’t undo the trauma. My birth
story is a lot like that.
I was one of those women who had a birth plan typed,
proofread, printed, and distributed to all relevant parties about a month
before my due date. I had researched and consulted multiple resources in order
to determine each and every preference I had regarding my birth. Did I want an
IV? Who did I want in the room? Did I want an episiotomy? I invested a great
deal of thought into all of it. My husband and I had hired a doula, or birth coach, to help
us through the labor. We were both committed to bringing our child into the
world naturally, without drugs and with the least amount of medical
intervention possible. We both felt conviction that this was what was best for
us and for our baby. Of course I was scared it was going to hurt and I didn’t
have a clue what to expect, but by the time my due date rolled around, I was so
ready. I had been mentally preparing for this for months, like an athlete
preparing for the big game.
I went into labor naturally. Our due
date arrived, and early that morning I began having contractions. With
excitement and anxiety I began timing the contractions. I got up and took a
shower, preparing for what I expected to be a long, difficult labor. I let my
husband sleep, knowing that he wouldn’t be getting much rest in the days to come
either. With my contractions still being somewhat infrequent, and around 8 to
12 minutes apart, I went back to bed and attempted to rest in between
contractions. My husband’s alarm went off at its usual time, about 4:50 AM. I
told him he may as well call into work because we were going to be having a
baby today. By this point my contractions began to pick up speed. I was packing
the last of our things for the hospital and preparing to leave, timing my
contractions at about 3 to 5 minutes apart. We made phone calls to our parents
and our doula and hit the road.
Once at the hospital they did an exam. I was 6 cm dilated.
My water broke and my contractions were now getting so painful I thought I was
going to vomit. The contractions never really stopped; they were relentless,
giving me no time to catch my breath. They took us into our labor and delivery
room. I had specifically requested a room with a Jacuzzi tub so I could use the
water for relief during labor--part of my birth plan. The nurses began to listen to our baby’s heart
rate and immediately became concerned. They made me lie on my back and hooked a
strap with monitors around my belly, only to confirm what they were afraid of.
The nurses declared we were going to be having an emergency C-section. Our
baby’s heart rate was way too low. When my husband asked how much time we had
to decide what to do, they told him we really had no time—they needed to act
quickly. The rest was a blur. They put an oxygen mask on my face and less than
10 minutes after we entered our labor and delivery room I was leaving…being
wheeled out on a bed. I remember feeling peace in the midst of the storm,
telling my husband it was okay. He was left there in the room alone. Waiting.
Afraid. Wondering if everything was really going to be okay. He confesses now
that he broke down for a moment in the room by himself.
The pain was so bad it took almost all of my focus and
energy just to breathe. I remember being prepped for surgery while we waited
for my doctor to arrive. My baby was working so hard to enter the world; my
body was working so hard to bring him…
Suddenly, the next
thing I know I’m being woken up by the anesthesiologist. I’m directed to look
over to my left and I see my husband standing there holding our baby, already
wrapped up in a blanket with a hat on his head. I was told it was a boy. It's a strange feeling really, being pregnant one minute, and the next you're not, with no transition in between. It was
a beautiful moment seeing my son for the first time; I won’t deny that. He was
perfect and healthy, and so was I. What more could I ask for? Well, I had asked
for a lot more, actually.
I had dreams of laboring. I dreamt of suffering through the
experience knowing that the end result would be pure bliss and euphoria. I
wanted to deliver my baby naturally, the way God designed my body to do it.
Don’t get me wrong, I never looked down on women who used medication, and I
wasn’t completely opposed to using medication if necessary, but that wasn’t how
I wanted it to be. Some people might think my situation was ideal; after all, I didn't have to suffer through labor very long and slept through the whole thing. That's supposed to be a good thing, right? I guess in the moment it was a blessing, but now, when it's all over, I feel like I missed out. I missed out on that rite of passage to experience it all. It was a short-term blessing in exchange for a long-term sacrifice. I dreamt of pushing my baby into this world, hearing his
first sounds as he breathed in air for the first time, and seeing him in those
first moments of his life outside of my womb. We had been connected so
intimately for 9 months, and I wanted to experience every last moment of it
until the end. I wanted to hear my husband announce to me whether our baby was
a boy or girl; I had waited 9 long months to find out. I wanted to hold my baby
against my chest the moment he was born. I wanted to be one of the first things
he experienced in this strange new world. I wanted him to know I was still
there, close, and ready to love him. I didn’t get any of that. I was robbed of
that. Yes, my baby was healthy, and of course I was eternally grateful for
that, but so much more was taken from me that I’d never get to have back.
Please don’t expect someone to simply forget about all they’ve lost in spite of
the fact the outcome was positive. I still grieve today, four months later. I
hold my baby in my arms and I’m thankful beyond words to have him, but there’s
a hole in my heart for what I lost.
I suppose I'm lucky to be able to grieve the loss of my dream rather than the loss of a child. I know that this loss will be much easier to heal from, but it's a loss nonetheless. I think sometimes people forget that.
