So everyone knows about the c-section "epidemic" in the U.S. However, two out of three births still need to be completed the old-fashioned way, and when I was pregnant not so very long ago I assumed that I'd be having a "natural childbirth." I mean, I went to Macalester College!! And I'm a Pilates instructor, too--an ideal marriage of power-to-the-mother politics and physical training, right?
I was actually looking forward to the challenge of an unmedicated labor. I imagined it would be the ultimate practical application of my Pilates training--all that breathing and concentration finally put to a task other than successfully executing "Big Splits" on the reformer (which, it should be noted, is quite a challenge in its own right).
I was also kind of smug about my "plan." On one level of my brain I would tell myself that "Every woman should be respected for her choices in childbirth," but I have to admit that when a girl at a party told me she "Couldn't wait for the epidural!" I had a petty little feeling of superiority. I would not be cheating at childbirth! I think I successfully hid this uncharitable reaction from her, but still, there it was in all its assholishness.
So in the grand tradition of divine retribution (which I totally believe in selectively when stuff happens to me that I'm unhappy about, despite my rejection of my Catholic upbringing), naturally I was destined for that childbirth procedure which I dreaded--the preference of celebrities like Britney Spears and Posh Spice.
About a month before my due date I went in to see my midwife (of course) for a routine appointment. She praised me for my healthy, active, relatively uncomplicated pregnancy thus far. We patted myself on the back for what a model patient I was. She asked me about my doula and the waterbirth consent form. And then she noticed that the baby was breech--which, even in my natural childbirth-friendly clinic, is a recipe for a c-section.
Suddenly she canned it with the chitchat about my "birth plan." With the emotional distance of someone who's about to break up with you, she avoided my eyes and told me that I needed to meet with the resident OBGYN as soon as possible. "You're about to have this baby, and you'll have to have a c-section. I hope we can buy you a week." I expressed my dismay at this sudden change in plans. "I'm sure you don't want to compromise the health and safety of your baby for the sake of having a particular 'experience,'" she said. You could actually hear the air quotes!
This was the last I'd see of her and her holistic prenatal care. Like Pontius Pilate, she'd washed her hands of me! (And although that's dramatic and self-indulgent, it's somewhat relevant in relation to the way one is strapped down for a caesarean).
And also, I was going to have the baby in a week?? I refused to believe it, mainly because I was moronically unprepared. Assuming I had at least a month to get ready, I hadn't acquired anything baby-related, aside from some helpful hand-offs from a few good friends. Mainly I'd been making jokes about "packing for the hospital" (of course I'm not the kind of loser who'd pack a bag in advance, WHATEVER!)
So I met with the OBGYN, who I actually liked and who reportedly was "natural childbirth-friendly", but he was like, "Yeah, we should pencil you in for a c-section in a week or so. But I think you're going to have this baby sooner than that."
"Yeah right," I thought. "I'm gonna flip this baby around and show these assholes!"
I was pretty sure I could do it. I started with my acupuncturist who made a valiant effort with moxibustion. I went to the YWCA and did handstands in the pool. I practiced inversions involving an ironing board propped on the side of the bed. In other words, I abandoned my dignity with these futile efforts to encourage my unborn child to disengage her ass from my pelvis (she was a "frank breech"--e.g. "ass down").
On the morning of October 4, I went in for an appointment with the OBGYN. I'd reluctantly gone to the hospital the night before (I guess I was in labor), but since I wasn't "progressing" very quickly they sent me home. I was relieved, as the OBGYN on call (who would have been the one to slice me open) appeared to be in her early 20s and bore a striking resemblance to my freshman year dorm RA ("I'm KT, but my friends call me 'Crackie', because I act like I'm on crack!")
"I'm surprised they didn't section you last night," he said. ("Section" you???) After a discussion of my concerns about the inevitable operation, he sent me home to pointlessly burn my cute little moxibustion incense sticks next to my toes.
Later that afternoon I had a business meeting at a cafe. I became increasingly feverish and sick-feeling as the meeting progressed, sweating profusely and visibly in my light grey dress. I was mortified by this unladylike display in front of my potential client, but in a vague, through-the-fog sort of way. I staggered home and collapsed into bed, where I writhed around until Nick, the father of the child, came home.
He was supposed to go to band practice that night, and I was like, "You should totally go." But he was all, "Uh, you're totally in labor, I'm taking you to the hospital!" And I was like, "Well, okay."
We got the hospital and I was hustled into a room. I was dismayed to see the admitting nurse--a sour-looking, humorless woman who instilled in me an immediate sense of dread. She got down to the business of hooking me up to an IV. Meanwhile, I was having all kinds of contractions. Next on the agenda was the installation of the catheter.
I should explain that I am irrationally afraid of catheters. A few years ago, when recovering from surgery to my shredded Achilles tendon, a particularly nasty nurse threatened me with a catheter if I was unable to urinate unassisted within the hour. I put my mind-over-matter skills into action and completed the task--anything to avoid having a tube shoved in my bladder!
But evidently the catheter was non-negotiable. "Can't you wait until I get that needle in my spine?" I asked, sarcastic but also genuine. She wasn't having any of it, and painfully forced the tube on in. This made it virtually impossible to writhe around during the increasingly intense contractions. However, this negative experience made me almost excited to get the spinal block--one of the aspects of the operation I'd been most dreading. I was like, "Stick that giant needle in my spinal cord RIGHT NOW!"
It was time to be wheeled into the operating room. Nick put on his hospital-issued Devo suit but was kept out of the room while they took me in to get numbed. I sat on the edge of the bed while the anesthesiologist asked me to flex my spine in order to create more space between the vertebrae so he could better insert the needle. The OB stood directly in front of me. At the time I assumed he was being "supportive," but in retrospect he was probably just there to catch me if I pitched forward.
Like a dead deer, I was then hoisted awkwardly from the gurney thing to the operating table. At some point, they allowed Nick to come in. Someone strapped my arms down and out to the side, crucifixion style. The whole thing was becoming increasingly Lynchian. I waited for the light overhead to start flickering.
They installed a curtain over my abdomen to shield me from the carnage. "Don't you dare watch this!" I ordered Nick, uncharacteristically assertive. I was, you know, hoping to preserve "the mystery."
Although it wasn't painful, I could most definitely feel the doctor pulling that baby out. And despite my instructions, Nick did in fact peek over the curtain at one point, later informing me that the doctor had been "up to his elbows" in my abdomen.
So eventually the baby was removed, and they took her over to the corner of the room to do whatever it is you do with babies when they're born in the hospital. Although women sometimes report feeling bad about this separation from their baby, I was on too much pain medication to really be having any "feelings" at that point. I remember someone bringing the baby over to me while I will still strapped down on the table (Nick? The doctor? Some nurse?) and presenting her to me from a distance of several feet. "Oh my god, it's a boy!" I thought, taking note of my baby girl's swollen genitalia. Then I started shaking uncontrollably as the anesthesia wore off.
The days of recovery in the hospital are a blur. Although in theory I have a problem with taking massive amounts of painkillers and then passing them along to the baby in my breast milk, Courtney Love-style, I quickly revised this position when confronted with the reality of major abdominal surgery. Simply rolling from my back to my side in bed was a major undertaking, requiring fortitude and at least two Percocets.
On day two they removed the hated catheter and I was encouraged to stand up and lurch around the room. It was excruciating--as if my organs were about to spill out of my body. One of my nurses (who'd had three c-sections of her own) suggested that I grasp a pillow over my abdomen to provide the sensation of extra support.
For several weeks, the surgery made it painful and difficult to do a variety of things: stand up, sit down, roll over in bed, bend over to pick up the baby and walk. I'm sure a "normal" childbirth results in all kinds of physical challenges as well, but there's just a special something about having a baby sliced out of you. However, as some well-meaning friends informed me, I am trying to take pleasure in the fact that my baby got to emerge with a "perfect," not-cone-shaped head. Indeed, that will have to be the first thing in the baby book.
