In preparing for the birth of our daughter, Ariel, my partner and I had done all the right things: taken birthing classes, worked with a doula, visualized the
perfect birthing scenario. I had a doctor I genuinely liked and had a long-term relationship with. I had read all the right books, purchased all the right baby
stuff and, during the last month of my pregnancy, was secure in the knowledge that I was educated, mature (I was having my first child at age 43) and
enlightened enough about the birthing process that everything would go according to plan, MY plan, right? Wrong!
When I went into labor a week early, everything that could go wrong did go wrong, regarding my ideal birth (except for the very important fact that our
daughter was born perfectly healthy in every way and remains so to this day, three and a half years later). However, as I pondered my strife-filled birthing
experience in the weeks and months post partum, I came to understand at a deep level the divine perfection of everything that occurred. What, on the
surface seemed absolutely contrary to what I would have wanted, turned out to be exactly what I needed to prepare me for the changes that motherhood
would require of me and the openness to new ideas that my daughter’s presence in my life was heralding.
We had planned, with our doula, to do the majority of the labor at home and go to the hospital when I was close to fully dilated to avoid having to labor in
the hospital and to remain at home where I was most comfortable. A week before my due date David and I went out to rent a movie and, while wandering
the aisles of Blockbuster anticipating a relaxed evening in front of the VCR, my water broke! We quickly exited the store and went home.
It was Saturday night a couple of days before Thanksgiving and the first snow of the season had begun to fall in Denver. I was in labor. I called my
doctor’s answering service and was told she was out of town. Her replacement was a doctor from her practice I had met at one of my pregnancy exams
and I hadn’t like her style. She was very “western medicine” oriented and did not seem very warm. For a variety of reasons, after I left her office, I felt
relieved that this particular doctor would not be delivering my baby! Wrong again!
Dr. Jo McCarthy advised us to go straight to the hospital. Since my water had already broken, I was strictly advised to labor at home. My disappointment
was mounting by the second. My wonderful doctor was out of town; the expectation of my peaceful at-home labor experience, complete with candles,
massages, and soothing music had evaporated too.
It took David and I until 2 a.m. to pack up and make the short but snowy trip to the hospital. Carrie, our doula, met us there shortly after we were admitted
into the birthing room. So too did Jo, who instructed the nurses to page her when I was further along into labor. And then she left. Although my water had
broken seven hours previously, I was only three centimeters dilated.
I had anticipated a drug-free labor so I cringed when the nurses started an IV line, “just in case”—hospital procedure, they said. Since I was laboring in the
hospital, my baby’s vital signs would need to be monitored every 20-30 minutes—again, hospital procedure. I had not wanted technological interference with
a natural process. I reasoned, since I was in a hospital voluntarily, I would agree to follow their rules.
While intellectually I understood everything that was occurring, I grew more and more disappointed with each medical “procedure” and each deviation from
my birthing plan. I was saddened with the realization that I was not having the experience I had desperately wanted. What I didn’t understand until
much later was that this was the experience my child had “chosen” on a soul level and was exactly what her particular being needed to come into the world
healthy and whole.
I had enjoyed an active and stress-free pregnancy, and had carried Ariel to full-term. However, I had undergone surgery for the removal of a large fibroid
tumor five years prior. At the time of the surgery I was told that the operation could weaken my uterus and possibly complicate my chances for normal
childbirth. However, my OB/GYN who had performed the surgery (and who was supposed to be the same one delivering my baby) had remained very
optimistic throughout my pregnancy that normal labor and delivery were likely. Thus, I focused on that, and only that, outcome, refusing to believe it would
turn out any other way. Wrong about that, too.
My contractions continued the rest of the night into the next morning. I took a bath, I lay down, I got up, I walked the halls of the hospital with my partner
and my doula, I screamed with each contraction. Every three hours or so the nurses checked me for dilation Each time it was the same. Nothing.
Astonishingly, I remained at three centimeters throughout the night.
Jo returned around 9 or 10 the next morning. I had been in labor more than 12 hours by that time. I was weak and dehydrated. I had not eaten anything
and I had been undergoing hard labor. Jo advised us that it was not safe to labor for more than 24 hours. She then mentioned the dreaded words: epidural,
pitocin, and, horror of horrors, cecarean section. David, Carrie, and I began to sweat. This was wrong, all wrong.
Because of the intensity of the situation, the long sleepless night, my pain, and all our careful planning, we began to argue with Jo. Carrie asked for more
time. David was pale and frightened. We had read about drugs being harmful to newborns’ nervous systems. We had learned about the benefits of bonding
immediately with one’s infant in the moments after birth. All this was too much for him. He worried for my safety and the safety of our child.
We bargained for more time and Jo agreed. I would continue to labor for several more hours and she would return and assess the situation. If I had not
dilated, I would have to have a C-Section. I willed my body to do what it was supposed to do. And prayed that by the time Jo returned, I would be ready to
give birth naturally. But it wasn’t to be.
During the next couple of hours my birthing room turned into a circus: the nurses changed shifts and my new nurse was inexperienced and had trouble
with the fetal monitor. Every time she tried to take the baby’s vital signs, what should have been a simple “reading” took at least 30 minutes. She would
strap the monitor on my belly, try several times to get the vitals, have me move, retry, take off and reapply the monitor, try again, etc. This had to be done
every 20 minutes. Since it took her so long each time to record the baby’s heartbeat, there was almost no time in between for me to walk around, which
was the most ideal way for my labor to progress.
Carrie got angry at the nurse, insinuated incompetence, said the constant monitoring was impeding the progression of the labor. The nurse left in a huff,
told the doctor, and Jo came storming in and confronted Carrie. “Who did she think she was anyway, interfering with hospital protocol?” David was frozen
and exhausted. He was concerned about me blindly following the hospital’s agenda. No one paid any attention to me.
It was in the middle of this pain, conflict, bright lights, strangers talking and moving around, and high-tech equipment that all my thoughts stopped. In the
stillness and clarity of that moment, I surrendered, accepting everything as it was. I realized in an instant that everything was perfect. I stopped fighting.
I was completely calm.
To the astonishment of David and Carrie, as well as to the hospital staff, I began dictating exactly what I wanted to have happen. I would receive an
epidural, as I’d had quite enough of labor pains, thank you very much, after 24 hours! Then I would receive pitocin to speed up the labor and effect full
dilation in order to give birth vaginally. If that didn’t work, a C-section would be absolutely lovely.
I understood then that Jo was trained in emergency births; she was vastly more experienced than Carrie in recognizing the signs of anything going amiss
during labor. Furthermore, the hospital setting was tailor-made for ensuring that nothing would happen to my baby and the constant monitoring, while
inconvenient and “unnatural,” was vital to knowing second by second that Ariel was not in distress, or worse, had stopped breathing altogether.
With a rush of awareness, I “knew” with an inner knowing that I had chosen the “Middle Way” here. While advocating for natural childbirth at home, I
allowed for the possibility that something else might happen. To my great relief, I was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. My labor had been
fraught with difficulties and the next right thing to do was to let the doctor and nurses take over. I was grateful and encouraged by the fact that I had gotten
myself to a hospital, in spite of my own aversion to hospitals, and that everything was in place for the life-saving C-Section, which I “knew” was inevitable.
Miraculously, my awareness switched from myself—my own wants—to that of my child and her needs. Instinctively, I was ready to do whatever it took to
make sure that she was okay. I was a suddenly a MOTHER, one of those people I only thus far heard about, who would run into a burning building, if
necessary, to rescue my child; someone who would sacrifice my own life for the life of this precious other. Awash in awe and thankfulness, I accepted the
epidural, pitocin, which did not work, agreed to and underwent the C-section and watched in rapture as my beautiful daughter was pulled from my body fully
awake and aware, looking directly at me with round eyes, before David cut the umbilical cord and the nurses took her away.
While I was sad that I couldn’t hold her right away and bask in tenderness and wonder, I was happy that David was with her during her first hours, making
reassuring eye contact. While I wanted her to feel the warmth of my skin against her owns before she being subjected to the touch of metal or plastic, I was
relieved that she was in a place where she could receive oxygen to feed her new and fragile brain. While I knew I was missing those once-in-a-lifetime
moments as I lay in the recovery room spinning from the effects of the morphine, I knew also that the many indescribable moments to come mothering my
daughter would be made sweeter and, in fact made possible, because of my willingness to let go and trust the process.
After all, it wasn’t about me anymore. And, as I have come to find out over and over again since becoming a mother, my life is very often not about me
anymore.
perfect birthing scenario. I had a doctor I genuinely liked and had a long-term relationship with. I had read all the right books, purchased all the right baby
stuff and, during the last month of my pregnancy, was secure in the knowledge that I was educated, mature (I was having my first child at age 43) and
enlightened enough about the birthing process that everything would go according to plan, MY plan, right? Wrong!
When I went into labor a week early, everything that could go wrong did go wrong, regarding my ideal birth (except for the very important fact that our
daughter was born perfectly healthy in every way and remains so to this day, three and a half years later). However, as I pondered my strife-filled birthing
experience in the weeks and months post partum, I came to understand at a deep level the divine perfection of everything that occurred. What, on the
surface seemed absolutely contrary to what I would have wanted, turned out to be exactly what I needed to prepare me for the changes that motherhood
would require of me and the openness to new ideas that my daughter’s presence in my life was heralding.
We had planned, with our doula, to do the majority of the labor at home and go to the hospital when I was close to fully dilated to avoid having to labor in
the hospital and to remain at home where I was most comfortable. A week before my due date David and I went out to rent a movie and, while wandering
the aisles of Blockbuster anticipating a relaxed evening in front of the VCR, my water broke! We quickly exited the store and went home.
It was Saturday night a couple of days before Thanksgiving and the first snow of the season had begun to fall in Denver. I was in labor. I called my
doctor’s answering service and was told she was out of town. Her replacement was a doctor from her practice I had met at one of my pregnancy exams
and I hadn’t like her style. She was very “western medicine” oriented and did not seem very warm. For a variety of reasons, after I left her office, I felt
relieved that this particular doctor would not be delivering my baby! Wrong again!
Dr. Jo McCarthy advised us to go straight to the hospital. Since my water had already broken, I was strictly advised to labor at home. My disappointment
was mounting by the second. My wonderful doctor was out of town; the expectation of my peaceful at-home labor experience, complete with candles,
massages, and soothing music had evaporated too.
It took David and I until 2 a.m. to pack up and make the short but snowy trip to the hospital. Carrie, our doula, met us there shortly after we were admitted
into the birthing room. So too did Jo, who instructed the nurses to page her when I was further along into labor. And then she left. Although my water had
broken seven hours previously, I was only three centimeters dilated.
I had anticipated a drug-free labor so I cringed when the nurses started an IV line, “just in case”—hospital procedure, they said. Since I was laboring in the
hospital, my baby’s vital signs would need to be monitored every 20-30 minutes—again, hospital procedure. I had not wanted technological interference with
a natural process. I reasoned, since I was in a hospital voluntarily, I would agree to follow their rules.
While intellectually I understood everything that was occurring, I grew more and more disappointed with each medical “procedure” and each deviation from
my birthing plan. I was saddened with the realization that I was not having the experience I had desperately wanted. What I didn’t understand until
much later was that this was the experience my child had “chosen” on a soul level and was exactly what her particular being needed to come into the world
healthy and whole.
I had enjoyed an active and stress-free pregnancy, and had carried Ariel to full-term. However, I had undergone surgery for the removal of a large fibroid
tumor five years prior. At the time of the surgery I was told that the operation could weaken my uterus and possibly complicate my chances for normal
childbirth. However, my OB/GYN who had performed the surgery (and who was supposed to be the same one delivering my baby) had remained very
optimistic throughout my pregnancy that normal labor and delivery were likely. Thus, I focused on that, and only that, outcome, refusing to believe it would
turn out any other way. Wrong about that, too.
My contractions continued the rest of the night into the next morning. I took a bath, I lay down, I got up, I walked the halls of the hospital with my partner
and my doula, I screamed with each contraction. Every three hours or so the nurses checked me for dilation Each time it was the same. Nothing.
Astonishingly, I remained at three centimeters throughout the night.
Jo returned around 9 or 10 the next morning. I had been in labor more than 12 hours by that time. I was weak and dehydrated. I had not eaten anything
and I had been undergoing hard labor. Jo advised us that it was not safe to labor for more than 24 hours. She then mentioned the dreaded words: epidural,
pitocin, and, horror of horrors, cecarean section. David, Carrie, and I began to sweat. This was wrong, all wrong.
Because of the intensity of the situation, the long sleepless night, my pain, and all our careful planning, we began to argue with Jo. Carrie asked for more
time. David was pale and frightened. We had read about drugs being harmful to newborns’ nervous systems. We had learned about the benefits of bonding
immediately with one’s infant in the moments after birth. All this was too much for him. He worried for my safety and the safety of our child.
We bargained for more time and Jo agreed. I would continue to labor for several more hours and she would return and assess the situation. If I had not
dilated, I would have to have a C-Section. I willed my body to do what it was supposed to do. And prayed that by the time Jo returned, I would be ready to
give birth naturally. But it wasn’t to be.
During the next couple of hours my birthing room turned into a circus: the nurses changed shifts and my new nurse was inexperienced and had trouble
with the fetal monitor. Every time she tried to take the baby’s vital signs, what should have been a simple “reading” took at least 30 minutes. She would
strap the monitor on my belly, try several times to get the vitals, have me move, retry, take off and reapply the monitor, try again, etc. This had to be done
every 20 minutes. Since it took her so long each time to record the baby’s heartbeat, there was almost no time in between for me to walk around, which
was the most ideal way for my labor to progress.
Carrie got angry at the nurse, insinuated incompetence, said the constant monitoring was impeding the progression of the labor. The nurse left in a huff,
told the doctor, and Jo came storming in and confronted Carrie. “Who did she think she was anyway, interfering with hospital protocol?” David was frozen
and exhausted. He was concerned about me blindly following the hospital’s agenda. No one paid any attention to me.
It was in the middle of this pain, conflict, bright lights, strangers talking and moving around, and high-tech equipment that all my thoughts stopped. In the
stillness and clarity of that moment, I surrendered, accepting everything as it was. I realized in an instant that everything was perfect. I stopped fighting.
I was completely calm.
To the astonishment of David and Carrie, as well as to the hospital staff, I began dictating exactly what I wanted to have happen. I would receive an
epidural, as I’d had quite enough of labor pains, thank you very much, after 24 hours! Then I would receive pitocin to speed up the labor and effect full
dilation in order to give birth vaginally. If that didn’t work, a C-section would be absolutely lovely.
I understood then that Jo was trained in emergency births; she was vastly more experienced than Carrie in recognizing the signs of anything going amiss
during labor. Furthermore, the hospital setting was tailor-made for ensuring that nothing would happen to my baby and the constant monitoring, while
inconvenient and “unnatural,” was vital to knowing second by second that Ariel was not in distress, or worse, had stopped breathing altogether.
With a rush of awareness, I “knew” with an inner knowing that I had chosen the “Middle Way” here. While advocating for natural childbirth at home, I
allowed for the possibility that something else might happen. To my great relief, I was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. My labor had been
fraught with difficulties and the next right thing to do was to let the doctor and nurses take over. I was grateful and encouraged by the fact that I had gotten
myself to a hospital, in spite of my own aversion to hospitals, and that everything was in place for the life-saving C-Section, which I “knew” was inevitable.
Miraculously, my awareness switched from myself—my own wants—to that of my child and her needs. Instinctively, I was ready to do whatever it took to
make sure that she was okay. I was a suddenly a MOTHER, one of those people I only thus far heard about, who would run into a burning building, if
necessary, to rescue my child; someone who would sacrifice my own life for the life of this precious other. Awash in awe and thankfulness, I accepted the
epidural, pitocin, which did not work, agreed to and underwent the C-section and watched in rapture as my beautiful daughter was pulled from my body fully
awake and aware, looking directly at me with round eyes, before David cut the umbilical cord and the nurses took her away.
While I was sad that I couldn’t hold her right away and bask in tenderness and wonder, I was happy that David was with her during her first hours, making
reassuring eye contact. While I wanted her to feel the warmth of my skin against her owns before she being subjected to the touch of metal or plastic, I was
relieved that she was in a place where she could receive oxygen to feed her new and fragile brain. While I knew I was missing those once-in-a-lifetime
moments as I lay in the recovery room spinning from the effects of the morphine, I knew also that the many indescribable moments to come mothering my
daughter would be made sweeter and, in fact made possible, because of my willingness to let go and trust the process.
After all, it wasn’t about me anymore. And, as I have come to find out over and over again since becoming a mother, my life is very often not about me
anymore.
| M oms Helping Moms |
| The Hearth Foundation - Copyright 2007 - 2008 Wendy Myers Web Designs - Copyright 2007-2008 |
| Possibilities Appear When Plans Fall Through (on C-Sections) by S. Mariah Rose |
| If you would like to contribute to Moms Helping Moms, please contact Jacqueline Kramer. |
| The Hearth Foundation - Copyright 2007 - 2008 Wendy Myers Web Designs - Copyright 2007-2008 |
| posted 7/22/07 allmaterial copyrighted 2007-2008 |
