Today I get to celebrate my inspiration and reason for this blog. My wonderful, smart, sweet, talented, strong (both physically and emotionally) and opinionated son is celebrating a birthday this week! He’s TWO! I can’t believe it! I realize now what they mean by “The days are long, but the years are short”. We have been through so much in the past two years. You have caused me to stretch and grow (literally and figuratively), challenged me, and pushed me outside of so many of my comfort zone—I am forever grateful for the opportunity to be your Mom.
I feel like it is only right to share, at least in part, how you came into this world--and share with the readers how I got my scar.
I’ve started similar posts to this one a few times, but I can never bring myself to finish it. I think I’m annoyed with myself that this life-changing event was a bit traumatic for me –but sharing is part of my healing, so on we go…
In my birthing class, they explained that labor doesn’t happen at all like it does on TV. Your water doesn’t break and then you get rushed to the hospital; you don’t have a contraction and are suddenly at risk of having your baby in the cab, in your car, or on the side of the road. At least not in most cases.
And definitely not in mine.
My little one was at least 4 days late when I started contractions – I was big, and tired, and very ready for him to come. There is this ice cream in town that is rumoured to send women into labour – and they provide it to pregnant women on or after their due date for free—so, you know who went down there for ice cream... this mom! I love ice cream and I love free… it really was a no-brainer! I had already been sipping on my raspberry leaf tea, going for walks and nothing worked. My contractions started that same night (Friday)—all through the night. But never getting to that special “4-1-1” (at least 4 minutes apart, lasting 1 minute for 1 hour). I had even thought that my water broke. The next morning, they died down again and I had very few throughout the day. I checked in with my midwife to see what was going on--I was wrong, water hadn’t broken. At night they started up again. With that same intensity, getting maybe slightly closer together, but still… not there. It was Canada Day, so I went out to the fireworks a few hours prior with my mom and my husband. I laugh at the thought now, but I remember thinking if the baby was early maybe I could go (with the baby) to the downtown celebrations--
ya, I obviously knew NOTHING about babies!
Sunday night, was more of the same, with the odd contractions during the day. We were all getting tired. Not just me. Every time they would start up, I’d wake up my husband so that he could track them using some app. Why was this baby taking so long?! I continued to go for walks (waddles?) but nothing. Finally, on Monday, we decided to go back and try this ice cream again – this time, a larger size. And I waddled and waddled --sat down and rested-- waddled some more. You could imagine that by now I was so tired, I have been awake for multiple nights with all of this labor and no baby (they tell you to sleep if you can when you have first signs of labour—but really, WHO sleeps?!). But Monday night, things started up again – finally at some random hour Tuesday morning I got to the precious 4-1-1 (or pretty close anyway) and we called the midwife. She came, and I was far enough along to go to the hospital. I figured we could still wait a bit until shift change and then head in. She said she thought the baby would be here by suppertime. At home I labored and walked up and down steps (really slowly), and used the tens machine. Laid and sat in multiple positions just awaiting the time to go.
We checked into the hospital, got our room, and I must say, from my perspective at least, the first few hours were not so bad (not that I really have another birth to compare it to—just what those around me have said). I walked around, laboured in the jetted tub (which by the way, I highly recommend), and used the tens machine. Yes, there was discomfort and the on and off contractions (which the jets and tens machines helped ease), but it felt like things were going pretty well.
Until they weren’t.
One thing that I was not as aware of, even when you plan a natural birth, is your need to progress – you should be more and more dilated as time goes on, your contractions should become stronger and closer together. I wasn’t progressing, at least in the way or how quickly they needed me to; and when you aren’t progressing, sometimes they need to intervene.
With each new intervention, my dreams of this “perfect, natural birth” began to dissipate. I was losing control of the situation—and I hate losing control.
Let me interrupt the story for a second to tell you that I, perhaps naively, had grand plans; I should say, we had grand plans. Before even getting pregnant, I was determined that I did not want any intervention unless completely necessary. I remember sitting through our 1-day, intensive prenatal course one spring day. We got to the section on c-sections and interventions and my husband was not taking that many notes. I asked him why he wasn’t, and he told me we were good. That wasn’t going to happen to me. We had planned to have a drug-free pregnancy and delivery, and it seemed like that could be possible. Pregnancy and delivery were a natural part of life, and women have been giving birth since the dawn of time. With the advancements in technology, good health care, and an amazing midwife team we would be on our way. We were ready—or we thought we were.
Back to the story. The first intervention was breaking my water. This sometimes helps to get things going. We decided that was a logical thing to do. Perhaps the baby just needed a little help. It was a drug-free intervention, so I figured it was cool. It had seemed like he was ready to come out for some time anyway, he had turned head down around 31/32 weeks--ready to dive out into the world. My contractions went up a few notches, and then slowed—it was like this baby did not want to leave the womb. We tried some more, still nothing.
Hours later, we moved to the second intervention, Oxytocin, and this was where I realized my plans were going to hell. From what I understood about this drug, it would essentially make my cozy womb so uncomfortable that the baby would really want out. I didn’t really want any drugs, and I knew that if I went this route, having to get an epidural would be more probable. I really didn’t want an epidural. I know, some women are all “give me all the drugs!” (and if you are, that’s cool--modern science has made that an option for you). I, however, wanted my body to work it out, but it felt like my body was failing me in this moment. Time had gone by and I hadn’t become more dilated, so I reluctantly agreed, and they administered the Oxytocin, which was proceeded with more contractions. At least for a little while.
As I had suspected, we eventually had to move to the third intervention. I could not get passed 9 cm (you need 10 cm in order to start pushing). They were concerned that at this time, I had been in labour for so long, that I would not be able to push. And I was determined to push. They gave me the consent papers to sign—and I was told that this may lead to a c-section, but what could I do at this point? Papers were signed, and I tried to keep focused on the contractions and not my negative thoughts telling me that a c-section was likely to happen.
Okay--maybe I wasn’t so rational. I was likely so overcome with various and conflicting emotions that I was frozen in shock. Just like my lower body would soon be.
The anesthesiologist came in and explained what would happen as they prepared me for my epidural. I took that massive needle like a champ (the anesthesiologist even said so afterwards—partially because I did not see it prior to). I felt a bit wonky afterwards, but not too bad. I did not know when my contractions were because I could pretty much not feel anything. I actually didn’t like that feeling. They had been monitoring the baby’s heart rate and mine, I believe, since the Oxytocin was administered. Shortly after the epidural, the monitors started going crazy. I glanced at the monitor and noticed the baby’s heart rate crashed. People rushed to see what was going on, and they tried to move me around (I can’t really move myself because I can barely feel from the waist down). “Oh no, no, no, no!” I thought, “nothing was going to happen to this baby! My baby!”. Thankfully, by readjusting, my son’s heart rate decreased. The baby was “floating back up” in the birth canal, the OBGYN told me, which was why I was no longer progressing as I should. (My medical papers also mention swelling and pressure on the head “caput and moulding”). In retrospect, this may have been due to his craniosynostosis, or maybe have even led to cranio, we’ll likely never know. But it would make sense because if the sutures were fused, or almost, they could not shift to allow him to come out. But they were worried that things could go wrong or get worse. We couldn’t take that chance.
We needed a 4th, and hopefully final intervention. I needed a c-section. And we needed it fast.
They brought a new consent form for me to sign, and I was told that it was pretty much the same form that I had signed for the epidural, just with c-section on it. I guess when they are in a rush and you are freaking out and trying to read they try to keep it simple. We didn’t have time to discuss the pros and cons in detail, what recovery would really look like, delayed cord-clamping or any of that stuff. I signed those papers with barely any hesitation. I wanted my baby with me. I wanted to hold him. I wanted this nightmare to end! I wanted him to be okay.
Even as I write this, I have tears in my eyes, because I think of how intense those moments were. They were just a few minutes but they seem both so quick and so long at the same time. They changed my life forever. I wasn’t happy about this outcome, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. I remember the look of terror in my husband’s eyes as he witnessed, what he told me later, was the nurses coming in “like a SWAT team”, “yanking and pulling” things in and around my body. All the while I remained pretty cool and calm (I’m guessing the drugs really helped with that). I remember my one question being, “will I be able to have more children?” (to which the answer was that I should be), and we were almost ready to go. I had asked for a minute with my husband to let him know things would be okay. The OBGYN granted me the minute, but the nurses didn’t give me that time. They whisked me off to prep for surgery and I told my husband I’d be okay. My mom looked distraught. And my midwife told me she’d meet me in there.
In the operating room, I was surprisingly calm. Same anesthesiologist. We made a few jokes. More drugs were administered for the surgery. Apparently, the whole thing would take about 30 min, 5 min to get the baby out, and the rest would be cleaning and sewing. I laid there on the table silently praying everything would go well. My husband and midwife soon came in. I don’t have a very clear recollection of what happened next (I had been administered a lot of drugs in a short period of time). I felt some pressure on my abdomen as the surgeon (or someone down there) pressed on my stomach, they apparently also needed the help of a vacuum to get him out). And then I heard some crying. My baby was here. Finally!
A nurse asked if I wanted to hold him— (of course I did!), and as she handed me my sweet little prince, I fell in love with him. Everything was worth it. I had barely initiated skin-to-skin when I realized my hands were shaking drastically. “Please take him back!”I pleaded, “I can’t hold him, I don’t want him to fall”. A confused nurse took the baby away from me. And I was so sad, because after all we had just been through, I wanted nothing else but to keep him safe.
Sadly, my body was still in shock and we missed those first bonding moments. I was so disappointed. My body failed me yet again. I failed.
And there have been several other moments after that (and in the past 2 years), where I have felt like I failed, and I will be sure to share a Part 2, to all of this, with my recovery, hospital stay nightmares, and first days at home.
However, this week, as I look at my son, I am in awe. And I want to focus on the ways that I have succeeded. How a very rough start to breastfeeding (more on that another time), turned into nursing past 18M. How we’ve overcome surgery, helmeting, sleepless nights and speech concerns. How my cranio warrior who I am celebrating had his 24M milestones checked off early. How I have undertaken projects and continuously make steps to move out of my comfort zone because I KNOW we will all benefit.
So, I am raising a glass to my son, who I love dearly and who amazes me every day. Thank you for reminding me that what we think are failures are just life preparing us for crazy successes.
Love You! XO
"Turn your wounds into wisdom." -- Oprah Winfrey
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