Our Birth Story

So. I had a baby.

When I was pregnant, I anticipated it would be a bit before I wrote again simply because I would be in the throws of sleep deprivation and overall deficits in my free time and cognitive abilities. And while those are true, it’s just recently that I’ve gotten far enough into parenthood that I’m able to look in the rearview mirror and make any real sense of what has happened. It’s sort of like pointillism, that type of painting that uses millions of small dots to make a painting. When I was too close to the immediate aftermath of childbirth and my new identity as a mom, reflecting on it all was like looking at one section of the painting – it was just a bunch of pieces that didn’t really fit together. Now, although it is all still new, I am far enough away from the most intense events to see them more as a cohesive whole.

Towards the end of my pregnancy, I imagined that my first blog entry would be a relatively lighthearted account of new parenthood, discussing the challenges frankly and honestly and with a healthy dose of sarcasm and inappropriate humor, but also writing about everything I had dreamed about in the years leading up to it – an intense but emotionally rich delivery, immediate bonding and connection, awe over this new life so long hoped and prayed for.

That’s not quite how this one’s gonna play out.

While I love our son intensely and am incredibly grateful for him, it would be entirely dishonest to just write about the things above. There have been many, many incredible moments over the past few months, certainly. It has been life changing. But I must be honest that the past few months have been the most difficult of my life thus far.

There is a part of me that feels… guilty maybe?... for writing about “negative” things here. I spent years writing about how much I wanted to be a mom, and there is a subtle sense that I “should” focus on the positive and just be thankful for what we have been blessed with. And I think that one of the reasons I struggled was because of this – this habit we have of “shoulding” on ourselves, creating arbitrary expectations of how we should be handling something even if said expectations aren’t healthy or life-giving. As we struggled to conceive, I subconsciously created a very specific picture of how the birth and postpartum would be; when they turned out remarkably different, I mourned what “should” have been and despaired over not feeling how I was “supposed” to feel.

So, I will share our story without trying to appraise pieces as positive or negative or good or bad but simply what they are.  There are pieces that are hard and beautiful and dark and profound and terrifying and joyful. I will share pieces that are hard to verbalize, much less write down and click the “publish” button. But they are real, and they are important, because I know I am not alone in feeling them and others need to know that they are not alone too. I share these pieces in part because it allows me to hold my experience at arm’s length and examine it, to step outside my experience and describe it from an observer’s perspective, which elicits healing and growth. And, also, I hope others will see bits and pieces of themselves and their experiences reflected in our story, be it childbirth, postpartum, or otherwise.  You are not alone.

At 41 weeks, baby showed no signs of coming, and thus we found ourselves heading to the hospital late on a Wednesday night to be induced. Before we left the house, I stopped in the doorway and looked back; quiet, still, empty. I sat in that unsettled place when you’re standing on the precipice of an entire shift in reality, when life as you know it will never be the same.  I stared for a few seconds, hoping for a profound realization or words of poetry to flow through my mind. But really, I just heard silence. It was time to go, and time to start the next chapter.

We arrived at the hospital and settled in for the night. Induction began in the late evening, and I dozed in hour stints in between doses of mild pain meds. As morning came I was surprisingly reasonably rested, and induction meds were slowly increased. Not knowing how long it would take, I did what I could to avoid an epidural, as the pain was still tolerable and the thought of being stuck in my bed for an unknown amount of time was still worse than the discomfort. Despite increasing of meds, labor did not progress, and a discussion began of increasing them more.. At some point, later in the evening, it appeared we were at an impasse, and it wasn’t clear how long things would take. I sent family back to their hotels to get some rest and told them we’d call then when things got real. I sent Seth to the cafeteria, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I was alone.

It was at that moment that shit got real.

A nurse, examining the monitors that measured the baby’s vitals, noted some irregularities in his heartbeat. She kept her demeanor calm enough to fool me, so I was genuinely surprised when my OB, Dr. Ponder, whisked in urgently a couple minutes later. She sat down close to me at my bedside and spoke in that low, even, calm tone with carefully chosen words that tells you things are serious. She explained that there were irregularities in his heartbeat that were of concern and that we were not making any progress with the induction. She watched his heart rate on the monitor and narrated it as if she was a sports commentator, updating me with her prognosis with each dip and spike. She told me one option would be to break my water and see if that helped. I called Seth and told him to come down from the cafeteria and he called our families to come back to the hospital. She then broke my water, an incredibly painful experience when you are barely 1 cm dilated.

She held my hand as she continued to explain the options. She shared her concerns about the patterns in his heart rate, as well as the fact that labor had not progressed at all in 24 hours. I had a couple choices: I could continue to labor and hope for a non-surgical birth, and she would fully support me in doing so. However, there was a chance that we could end up with an emergency c-section, which is not the route anyone wants to go. Or, we could go with a c-section that was urgent but not an emergency. At this point, Seth came in, and we reviewed the options again.

It’s a hard moment when you feel very clearly what the best choice is, and it’s not the choice  you want. I knew that this was likely my only biological child and therefore likely my only chance at experiencing a “natural” birth.  My heart sank as I realized the movie I had played over and over in my mind of what the birth would be like would differ starkly from reality. And yet, I knew what we needed to do. I didn’t want to risk the chance of having an emergency c-section, and I could feel deep in my bones that this baby wasn’t coming on his own. Nothing in my body felt ready to push out a baby. I told Seth, “I think we need to do the c-section.” He hesitated, knowing how much I had wanted to experience a vaginal birth. But when I made it clear that it was what I thought was best, he relented, and we agreed to move forward with the surgery.

Right after the decision was made, the baby’s heart rate became of increasing concern. Things moved rapidly as we signed consent forms for anesthesia and Dr. Ponder explained what would happen. Things moved both quickly and slowly around me and I felt both acutely aware of everything happening and yet also a bit numb and removed. I was grieving the loss of the non-surgical birth I had hoped for yet also relieved to avoid what would be a very long labor. I was excited to meet our son and also terrified of what lied ahead.

My mom and mother in-law arrived just before they were going to wheel me back to the OR.  I clung to them, crying, unsure what to do with all the aforementioned emotions. My dad was still on his way back when they told us it was time to head back. I asked if we could wait longer, but it was time. I cried again – a very childlike part of me just needed to see my dad before we went back. I settled for a phone call, and back we went.

Back in the OR, things moved in both double time and slow motion as the surgical team prepared me for surgery. As I lay back on the gurney, I began to get prepared for the epidural. Since my pain was tolerable, the epidural was not a relief; I went from moderate discomfort to fully numb from the chest down, and I felt myself begin to panic. Looking back, I realize that it was at this point that my birth experience began to become traumatic. It has taken me awhile to get to that point, the point where I began to realize that the “t word” would accurately describe my experience.  Part of my job is to support educators in implementing trauma informed practices, and one of the core principles that we teach is that whether or not an event is traumatic depends not on the event itself but how the person experiences it. An event becomes traumatic when it exceeds one’s ability to cope. And for whatever reason, I was not able to cope.

My c-section was the sixth surgery I’ve had, and it was more difficult than the previous five combined.  What people don’t often realize is that the procedure is not delicate. My body was literally rocking on the table as my Dr. Ponder (who is a very respected and skilled surgeon) cut through layers of skin, tissue, fat, and muscle and began moving my organs around to reach the baby. While I couldn’t see what was happening, I could feel it. I couldn’t feel the cutting, but I could feel pressure and imagine what was happening. I couldn’t see myself losing over two liters of blood, but I could feel myself getting cold and shaky. I couldn’t see my organs being set outside my body to get to the baby, but I could feel myself being violently jostled.

I stared intently up at one of the surgical lights above my head, trying hard to focus on its shape and dimensions not because it was interesting but because I was trying hard to tune into my senses to stay grounded. And truthfully, sight was the only sense I could tune into that didn’t involve something traumatic. Smell was the sterile scent of rubber and disinfectant mixed with my own body fluids. Taste was the vomit beginning to find its way up my throat. Hearing was the talk of medical professionals as they chattered on, describing my body in a lexicon foreign to me. Touch – touch was most of my body being numb and lifeless, aware enough to know my body was being invaded but helpless to respond. And so, I was left with sight. I stared intently at that light as I tried valiantly to focus on the breathing I had learned in my Hypnobirthing class.

Despite my best efforts, though, I could feel myself slipping into panic. While cognitively I “knew” I was safe and in good hands, the primitive survival part of my brain was sounding the alarms. Danger. Danger. Danger. I began shaking violently and uncontrollably, not out of fear but as a physical response to the surgery. I began to feel the onset of intense nausea. I typically get nauseous with anesthesia, but had been assured by the anesthesiologist attending the birth that “this was different” and “most people don’t get sick at all”.

Ha.

I know my anesthesiologist went to school for about 290 years and did many smart things during my c-section, but from my perspective, I paid him several thousand dollars to stand by my head and hold a barf back under my mouth every time I barked “Bag!”.  He seemed surprised as I continued to tell him I wasn’t feeling well, and pushed anti-nausea meds into my IV. He said, “You’ll definitely feel better once I give you this,” but that proved to be a dream, and the nausea remained unrelenting.  I spent most of the surgery gagging as vomit crept up my esophagus. Fun fact – it is very hard to vomit when you are paralyzed from the chest down. Vomit just creeps up like it’s a Gogurt being pushed up by the world’s most patient five-year- old.

Laying on the gurney, shaking, crying, choking, gagging, I could feel anxiety turn to panic and begin to spiral.  I now know this was in part because I was losing much more blood than I should have, but I didn’t know that then. I could feel myself begin to disassociate from reality; on some level, I knew that wasn’t good because disassociating is the trauma response our body uses as a last resort. Everything in the room began to feel far away and I prayed for it to all be over soon. From a distance, I could hear Dr. Ponder announce “He’s almost here!” I trained my gaze on Seth’s face, as I knew he would see him first.

I heard the surgical team cheer, and a second later I saw pure joy spread across Seth’s face, his eyes lighting up in a way I’d never seen before. I focused intently on his reaction, and for a moment, I was there, fully present with the experience, borrowing from his joy and excitement. His son was here, and he was a daddy. In the midst of the trauma, that isolated moment was one of the most beautiful of my life.

And yet, the moment was fleeting, and panic and nausea crashed back in like uninvited waves during a beach sunset, toppling me over psychologically and emotionally. I heard Seth say, “Here he is! Here he is!” excitedly to me, and I knew I was about to see my son for the first time. I watched my OB’s arms begin to rise, knowing my son was in her hands. I craned my neck, feeling pinned down by my inability to move. After years of waiting, he was about to arrive, and waited for the joy and love that surpassed anything I had ever experienced to flood my body, flushing out all the fear and panic.  And then, all of a sudden, he was there.

And I felt nothing.

Perhaps nothing isn’t the right word, because I did feel something. It was far away and distant, but there was a faint sense of knowledge that there is my son, but it felt cognitive and logical instead of primal and emotional. I’m told I was emotional, and I do remember a choking sob when I saw him… but the emotion was so much more muted than I had dreamed and hoped for.

Looking back, I’m able to understand why this happened. The parts of my brain responsible for connection and emotion were too busy at the moment worrying that I was going to die, because the primal alarms were still sounding – I was cut open, losing a lot of blood, struggling to breathe, choking, and horribly nauseous. My body and brain simply didn’t have the capacity to see beyond themselves and connect with the world around me. But at the moment, in addition to the physical pain and panic, other thoughts began to race through my head.  Where was that feeling I’d been imagining for years? Why don’t I feel connected to my son? Where are the fireworks? Where is the overwhelming sense of love and joy? Where is the immediate feeling that I would lay down my life for this being I just met? And then, the self-evaluation – Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn’t I feel connected? Will the feeling come? 

I felt myself spring away from my previous moment of connection and joy and fly like a slingshot back into panic. I experienced reality in fragments and interspersed around my episodes of violent shaking and choking on vomit. I saw my OB lean over me and explain that I had lost a lot of blood, and because of that, she was going to close my incision a different way than we had discussed earlier – was I okay with that? At that point I didn’t care if she stitched me up with a glue gun and Christmas ribbon, as long as I felt better and got out of there. I was vaguely aware of Seth’s voice as he stood over the table where was being tended to, taking pictures and talking with the surgical staff. I laid on the gurney, feeling far away and separate. The anesthesiologist continued to hold the barf bag, which looked like an elephant condom, under my face. I continued to shake and gag. Deep in the back of my mind, I remembered how I had dreamed of this moment being the most profound moments of my life, full of a love I had never experienced before.

Instead, it was one of the most profoundly lonely moments of my life.

The primal part of my brain continued to sound the alarms. I felt small and childlike. And in that moment, the thing I wanted most in the world was not to hold my baby. More than anything else in the world, I wanted my parents.  I wanted my mom, who had laid on a similar gurney 36 years prior, enduring the same experience to give me life, to run her fingers through her hair and tell me I was going to be okay. I wanted my dad, who I believed as a child could shield me from all harm, to grab my hand and say, “Squirt, you’re doing great.” I needed the presence of those who brought me into this world to speak to the deepest part of my psyche and tell me that I was okay.

After a time, Seth brought our son, bundled like a burrito, over to me. I stared at him and felt a vague sense of warmth. It felt odd to see this being, this little body who I had carried around in mine for 41 weeks, who had spent months sitting on my bladder and kicking my insides, staring at me.  I continued to wait for that intense and inexplicable feeling that I would give my life in an instant for this strange little bean I had just met. But instead, it just felt like I was looking at a stranger.  A cute stranger who I felt vaguely and distantly attached to, as if a mile-long cord stretched between us, but a stranger nonetheless.

Seth put him on my chest, still holding on to him since I could barely move.  Immediately, I felt my panic heightening. I can’t hold him! my brain screamed. I can’t even take care of myself right now. I can’t be responsible for him. The surgical team began to push my bed down the hallway, where our family was waiting. I continued to feel disconnected and distant, as if I was underwater. The doors swung open, and the first thing I saw was a camera lens pointed at me, my dad’s face behind it. I saw our mom’s faces next, full of tears and smiles. We pulled back into the room I had labored in, this time with a baby on the outside.

It was at this point that I suddenly became extraordinarily tired. It felt as if I was at 1% battery and someone unplugged my charger from the wall. Staying awake to engage with my family seemed like a herculean task.  The energy of the room felt alive and engaging, dissonant with my feeble demeanor.

I don’t remember much during this time. There are some distinct memories that stick out like colored shards of glass against a black and white backdrop:

Our doula snapping dozens of pictures on my phone.

My dad doing the same with his SLR.

Seth announcing his name.

My mom crying when she heard her maiden name as one of the middle names.

Seth, my mom, and a nurse trying to get Everett to latch.

And through it all, one desire remained the most salient, drowning out the excited buzz of those around me who surfed a wave of euphoria –

Sprite.

More than anything, I wanted Sprite.

Having not been allowed to drink prior to the surgery, I was ravenously thirsty. I sucked down sip after sip of the can next to my bed until Dr. Ponder warned me that I would vomit again if I didn’t slow down. I then would take a drink and wait, watching the clock and counting down the seconds until it felt safe to drink again. Everything else felt distantly second to consuming Sprite.

When I had finally drank enough to quell my body’s appeal, another primal need knocked on the door. Sleep. It was time for sleep.  Immediately, with the same intensity as my thirst, I felt the urge to sweep everyone out of the room, assuming the adults would take care of Everett. All I wanted was quiet and dark and sleep. At some point, we were moved up to the room where we would spend the next four days, and Everett was taken away for some sort of procedure. My dad stood by me, not wanting to leave me alone. This was comforting, and I immediately fell asleep.

When the nurse brought Everett back in, I remember asking her if I should set an alarm to feed him. I was surprised when she said yes – on some level I expected her to say, “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of him. You just rest.” The duties of a new mom towered over me, giant in comparison to how tiny and fragile I felt. I couldn’t understand how someone as weak as me could be expected to take on such a massive job.

The next four days in the hospital remain a blur. Night and day bled together as life became only about moving from one feeding to the next. A couple times, we took the advice of every smart person in our lives and sent him to the nursery so we could get three hours of uninterrupted sleep. I was told the nurses would bring him back in for his next feeding, so I didn’t set an alarm like I had been, and immediately drifted off. When I was awoken by them rolling him in, I looked at the clock and panicked when I realized it had been almost five hours since they took him. My immediate thought: “Oh no. I’m supposed to feed him every three hours. I’m starving my child. The nurses might call DCFS on me.” No joke, that was my thought, and in the moment I believed it. I began apologizing profusely, rambling about how my alarm must not have gone off. They handed him to me, unperturbed, telling me he had been sleeping and they had gotten busy with another baby who was struggling.

Despite help from every nurse and lactation specialist available, Everett was not able to latch. I tried every hold and position and tip and wept out of exhaustion and desperation. I just want to feed my baby. When it was clear latching was not happening, we resorted to pumping and finger feeding, where a syringe is filled with breastmilk and the baby sucks your finger while you slowly empty the syringe into his mouth. The idea is that it trains his tongue for latching. This was exhausting and time consuming, but at least my baby was eating.

Family and friends filled our hospital room, and I felt every emotion on the human spectrum towards them. One minute I would be overflowing with love towards Seth and gushing at his devotion as a new dad; the next I would be furious at an action that didn’t coincide with my needs at that moment. I knew I wasn’t acting rationally, but I felt helpless to stop it. It was like my amygdala was driving the car while the rest of me was tied up in the backseat.

My last morning at the hospital, I was awoken by a pediatrician doing rounds. I remember feeling instantly intimidated by her, her presence stern and professional. She began asking questions about feeding, immediately asking “Would you be willing to try a bottle?” My eyes immediately filled with tears, and I looked over at my mom. I had been trying so hard with finger feeding with the hope of being able to breastfeed him when his mouth was further developed. I knew that taking a bottle could decrease our chances of latching. The doctor, noticing my hesitation, launched in with a stern and powerful lecture. “Your baby is losing too much weight. He needs to eat more. If he doesn’t start gaining weight, he could be admitted back to the hospital for failure to thrive. You need to focus on getting food into him.” She checked a couple of his vitals, looked at me sternly one more time, and left.

As soon as she left, all the fears and anxieties and insecurities and overwhelm that had been simmering exploded and fired in several different directions. I began sobbing hysterically, muttering incomprehensibly, feeling like an utter failure. At this point, Dr. Ponder walked in, privy to the apex of my meltdown. She sat on the edge of my bed as I sobbed, “Maybe…I… should… leave… him… here… for a good mom to take care of him.”

Tears stream down my face as I write these words, reliving the moment back in that hospital room and recalling the complete desperation and instability I felt. While objectively I knew what I was saying didn’t make sense, I could not wrap my mind around anything rational. The thought of bringing him home was terrifying. I wasn’t up for the demands. It was too hard. I felt like I was already failing him.

Dr. Ponder’s incredible bedside manner attempted to make up for the pediatrician’s lack thereof. Despite being at the tail end of a 24 hour shift, she sat with me for a good half hour, reassuring me I was doing a good job and that he would gain the weight back. She gave some resources to my mom of in-home postpartum support. I felt marginally better. She, after all, was a smart doctor, and at least 50% of the doctors that had seen me that day felt I could do it.

So, later that evening, I found myself showering and packing up the hospital room. Somehow, the hospital staff had thought I had at least a marginal chance of caring for this tiny being and let us take him home. I left the maternity floor and breathed real air for the first time in four days. At first, I felt liberated, free from the confines of the hospital walls and regulations. Yet as we drove away and got further away from the nurse call button, and the 24 hour nursery, and the superpowered hospital grade breast pump, and the (mediocre) food brought for every meal… reality began to set in. We were really doing this. We were on our way home to begin our life with our son. I was excited, but also terrified… and exhausted. Ready or not, we were parents now. There wasn’t time to stop and wonder if we could do it. We were doing it, and there was no turning back now.