Monday, February 26, 2007

The Truth Behind My "Earth Mama" Approach

Labor? No Sweat!

Sometimes we are absolutely convinced that we are pros. Whatever the task, talent, or skill, we have told ourselves that, yes, indeed, we've got this one all wrapped up: another slice of the proverbial "piece of cake." And so it was when I went into labor with my fourth child. I had been there, done that. Three onsets of labor, three sessions of timing contractions, three trips to the hospital, three epidurals, and three vaginal births were all on my maternity resume. I was undaunted by Number Four.

As was my usual wont, I stayed away from the hospital as long as I comfortably could. Granted, babies do tend to come more quickly with each subsequent birth, but I felt confident in my ability to assess labor. Eric and I arrived at the hospital at around ten o'clock at night. Discovering that I was only four to five centimeters dilated was a letdown; during Labor Three I had arrived at the hospital at eight centimeters, and the entire nursing staff had been amazed that I wasn't yelling in pain. (Of course, my first question had been, "Can I still get an epidural?" I could not imagine birth as anything but a painless, smiling procedure.)

I settled into my routine of "hee-hee" breathing and posing for pictures. It was easy to comfort myself with the knowledge that soon the anesthesiologist would be arriving with her blessed needle and tubes, and thirty minutes later I would be blissfully numb. She arrived, and I curled up into the required fetal position. The few minutes of discomfort are well worth the results, so, as I had done three times before, I willed myself to relax and breathe.

She was doing an awful lot of poking, and I began to wonder if perhaps this was her first epidural. Patience is one thing I completely lack while in the midst of any amount of pain. After what seemed to me like a rather clumsy entry, the needle was in place, and I felt the warm rush of medicine.

Countdown to sheer pleasure. I knew that I would feel five or six more contractions, and nothing more.

Thirty minutes later, I was still in pain. This was unexpected, but not without remedy. I received a second dose of medicine. Having had a similar experience during Labor One, I was not overly concerned.

The pain continued. Heee-heee-hooooooo. Heee-heee-hoooooo. I flipped into denial. This wasn't really happening. I didn't HAVE babies this way. My deliveries were always painless!

I couldn't wish it away. My husband and I both had to swallow the truth: I was going to deliver without medication.

"Ice chips," I croaked to my husband. He lovingly placed one on my tongue.

I wasn't having fun. This wasn't supposed to happen! I didn't really care if women gave birth this way for countless centuries; the fact remained that I did not give birth this way. I wasn't prepared.

It was time to push. Somewhere in the midst of my experience I had come up with the idea that once pushing began, there wasn't any more pain. I couldn't have been more deluded.

Somebody was helping me prop my legs up. Surely they didn't expect me to push against this horrendous pain! This was inhumane. I could breathe through it, but there was no way I could push through it.

"OK, push!"

They had to be joking.

"I CAN'T!" I screamed. What a ridiculous thing to scream. Did I think they were going to let me off the hook at that point?

"Yes, yes, you can do it!" Oh, nice. Cheerleaders in the delivery room. Where was my husband?

I pushed. I yelled. I yelled more than I pushed. I don't think I ever screamed so loudly in my life.

The anesthesiologist was cringing in a far corner. Her evening was not off to a good start.

Round two began.

My eyes were closed. I yelled with every cubic inch of oxygen in my lungs. Somehow during that completely incoherent process, I gave birth.

The nurse placed my son on my belly. I couldn't focus on him; my eyes kept crossing. I was trembling all over.

"Looooooook, look at your little boy!" My what? What did she want me to look at?

Eric soon came into view, all smiles. The escapade was over; our second son had arrived, healthy and beautiful.

I was beginning to gather my wits about me. Little Spencer Michael wiggled and twitched in my arms, the way newborns do. We were both going to be all right. I had survived the unanticipated, and I held my prize in my arms. My consolation was that the passage of time would soon erase the memory of my unexpected natural childbirth. I was feeling better already. One day soon, this would be in the distant past.

Eric sat down in a chair beside the bed, video camera in hand. I was contented by the thought of his having put down the camera in order to support me through my time of duress. Then, like a rock through a pane of glass, his words shattered my fantasy.

"I got it all on tape!"

I was too weak to strangle him. All I could do was stare at him in disbelief.

"You didn't! I was yelling...I was screaming! I don't ever want anyone to see that! I don't ever want to see that myself! Please tell me you didn't film all that!"

He had.

More than two years passed before I was able to watch the video. The not-so-instant replay of my ordeal didn't do much for my self-image. (Let's just say that it was less than glamorous.) Even though my husband still praises me for being "a trooper," I think that, ultimately, I would rather not be reminded.

I no longer claim to be a pro.

Labels: pregnancy, writing

posted by Jillian @ 11:47 AM   10 of my readers are feeling chatty

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