A lesson in letting go – A C-section birth story

I’ve been trying to write this birth story for 9 months. NINE Months.

Motherhood is hard. It’s really fucking hard. But, perhaps, the thing that makes it the hardest is the expectation of perfection that we put on ourselves. This was not my first rodeo. I left two awesome boys at home with my best friend when I went to the hospital to labor with my daughter. I had a little bit of an idea of how things were going to go.

I was completely fucking wrong.

I’m never at a loss for words. Just ask my husband. But when thinking about the birth of my daughter the very first word that comes to mind is… “trauma,” and that’s not how I wanted to remember it. So, I sat with these words, neatly packed down in my throat, hoping time would change the narrative. It hasn’t. What it has done is added words like joy, blessed, and surrender. But “trauma” is still right there. On top. Holding the rest of those things down.

After nine months, I’m realizing I have to allow the word “trauma” to be born, or I’ll never allow the fullness of those other words to come to fruition.

I realize this isn’t the typical light & fluffy writing that so permeates the blogosphere, but hopefully these words will shed light on the full range of emotions associated with giving birth. Hopefully it will resonate with you. And if it inspires you to tell your story, please leave me a comment.

Let me preface this by saying, I was technically a high-risk pregnancy.

With my first born I developed pretty severe pre-eclampsia and after a hospitalization and a few weeks of bedrest at home, my situation was not looking good. I went in for a regularly scheduled appointment and my doctor basically looked at me and said, “yeah… you’re not going home.” And that was that. The pain wasn’t bad, but the drugs for the pre-eclampsia were debilitating. At 5lbs 4oz my tiny little Elijah was born. In spite of being premature, he was in perfect health. But my severe blood pressure secured me a weeklong stay at the hospital.

But… all I really remember is – not that much pain… and only 12mins of pushing. If you’ve birthed a baby or delivered a baby, or even been around anyone who has done either, you know that first-time moms can push for HOURS… like several hours. So basically, I was a champ.

Fast forward to 2014, pregnant with my second child, I was handled with the kiddie gloves. Having pre-eclampsia with one child puts you at risk for pre-eclampsia again. So, despite an amazing pregnancy in which I felt generally great; I mean I ran 2-3x a week and took relatively difficult yoga classes right up until I was due; I was still watched like a hawk. With Jeremiah, my due date came and went. Because I was induced early with Elijah I felt the jitters that usually come with first-time moms. I didn’t really know what to expect.

My labor came on quickly. I went to my doctor and was barely dilated; so, they left me on the machines for monitoring while they attended other patients. After about a half an hour the nurse came back and I was most of the way there. Again, I was told, “You’re not going home. You’re having this baby today.”

At the hospital, there were no meds and despite feeling like things were going great, I became agitated. The doctors weren’t listening to me and I was getting angry. Turns out they were trying to force oxygen on me, and I didn’t want anything to do with it. Which, I guess, is kinda concerning. Fast forward to being swarmed by all the damn doctors on the floor. Turns out I was dealing with shoulder dystocia which sends OBGYNs into a panic. My situation resolved without me even knowing there was a situation. But, it’s kind of a big deal. Shoulder dystocia can be very bad, very quickly, and it can lead to lifelong injuries for the baby… or worse. But, that wasn’t my story. At 7lbs 13oz Jeremiah was perfect. Apparently, I inherited my mother’s narrow hip opening and just didn’t know it because my first was so small.

But… all I really remember is “not that much pain… and this time only 10mins of pushing.” So basically, I was a champ.

If you asked me, I was really freaking good at having babies. So, when I was pregnant with my 3rd child, it threw me for a loop that doctors were recommending that I consider induction from day one. The thought process was this: because I had two “unideal” deliveries I was high risk for another one. And then I went and moved across the country.

The first half of my pregnancy I had an OBGYN in Santa Monica, and while she wanted to keep an eye on the growth of my baby, she very much had the, “we’ll deal with it when we get there” California vibe. When I moved across the country at 22 weeks I had to find a doctor who would take on a “high risk” pregnancy transfer. The doctor I found was fantastic medically, but skittish as hell about my previous shoulder dystocia. She did not want to talk alternatives. She did not want to take me on if I was going to fight her on how to handle my delivery. And I did not want to move mid-pregnancy without a doctor. So, I agreed to her rigidity.

There was fear that my daughter would be bigger, as it’s not uncommon for each subsequent baby to be a little bigger. I went to the doctor a lot. I had the inundating 3rd-trimester doctor appointments as well as appointments with a maternal-fetal medicine specialist. Basically, a specialist at ultrasounds. At 38 weeks I was not dilated or effaced at all. So at 38 weeks 6 days, I went to the hospital for an overnight induction. I told everyone that would listen that I progress quickly. That once things get going I’m like a bullet train. But it’s as if the knowledge of my body meant nothing. I tried to explain that I wasn’t just some nervous ninny. But that my game plan was to avoid a c-section if at all possible. I’ve pushed out two babies, damnit, I can do this.

But, I repeat, it’s as if the knowledge of my own body meant nothing.

I felt unheard.

“Cervidil (a prostaglandin) going in at 10 pm,” I texted my husband because he had gone home to put our boys to bed and get my best friend situated.

The nurse told me to try to sleep. “Mild cramps if anything”, she said, and since I wasn’t a new mom, I might just sleep right through the Cervidil and then the doctor would take it out in the morning. A few hours later, my husband had barely gotten settled in when I woke him with my tossing and turning. And then I felt like something wasn’t quite right. I rang for the nurse. I told her something didn’t feel right. The contractions didn’t feel that strong but they felt extraordinarily close. She checked the machine and said that it was really too soon, but she’d check my cervix if I wanted. I insisted. And, just as I had warned, I was in full on labor. A look of concern is not the face you want to see on your healthcare provider when you are having a baby.

And then the plan changed.

EVERY nurse on the floor made their way into my room. It seemed strange to me, but I think that the monitor at the nurses’ station was just concerning enough that they wanted to make sure that someone was in the room with me. My nurse began to set the room up for labor. But my contractions were coming fast and furious and my baby’s heart rate became erratic. My contractions, while not that individually bad, would not relent. The anesthesiologist was called. My doctor wanted me to have an epidural in the event that a C-section became necessary.

From this point, things went very quickly. Nurses attempted to move me to find a position that would make baby happier. But she just kept having drops in her heart rate. It would stabilize for a bit and then back to cyclic drops. When I was fully dilated I was instructed to push. But babygirl wasn’t recovering. I pushed for about 5 minutes before the call was made that baby just wasn’t doing well and that I would need an emergency C-section.

I was pushing… but nothing was happening. Despite being fully dilated it felt like babygirl wasn’t engaged. If you’ve ever had a baby you know the relief that comes with pushing a fully engaged baby. It feels like your work is having an impact. That something is happening. My pushes felt like nothing.

I was told I was out of time.

OUT OF TIME.

You guys… I can push a baby out in 10 minutes. 10 minutes!

I wasn’t given 10 minutes.

The anesthesiologist ran back into the room, they zoomed me down the hall, and my husband was left sitting outside the room while they prepped me.

Terror.

In a word, I was filled with pure Terror.

And fear.

And anxiety.

And I began to feel claustrophobic.

The anesthesiologist was phenomenal. A fucking hero. He spoke to me gently and in low tones, and made me feel human.

And then I overheard things like,

“She came in when? ugh! And this is why we don’t give Cervidil to seasoned mothers.“

Then, the on-call surgeon came in and looked at my daughter’s heart rate, which had recovered, and said, “This is a 3rd-time mom, this baby has recovered, why exactly aren’t we letting her push?”

“Um… it’s too late.”

I heard those words, spoken quietly over my splayed out body, and began to hyperventilate.

You don’t want to hear “it’s too late,” when you are in labor.

To be clear, I do not blame the anesthesiologist. He was the motherfucking MVP. A nursed rushed him into the room, told him it was serious and that an emergency C-section was needed. He prepped my line while rushing through the hallways and efficiently administered the spinal block so that the emergency could be resolved as swiftly as possible. He did his job; which meant that I couldn’t feel anything in my lower body.

Pushing was no longer an option. It was too late.

My husband was finally invited into the room and traded places with the anesthesiologist, who stayed nearby because at this point I was cracked out on narcotics and freaking the fuck out.

After this, everything went swiftly. I hyperventilated and then vomited. The anesthesiologist wiped my face and shushed me while my husband stroked my hands. My daughter was ripped from my body and goaded to take her first breaths. She barked and grunted on the sidelines while I lightly sobbed at my failure.

I felt like a failure. I felt split in two. I felt like, “girl… you had ONE job…” And then her face was pressed against mine and I was finally able to breathe. The rest of those wee morning hours are a blur. My little girl was passed around and checked over furiously and I was left, strapped to a table, waiting to recover.

It’s been 9 months and I’m still recovering.

At only 6lbs 10oz Eleanor was not my “big” baby. Turns out, had we let her come in her own time, I probably would have been able to push her out just fine. And that knowledge is what made it all the more difficult. After two natural births, delivering my daughter via emergency C-Section felt like a failure. We induced early to avoid this outcome… and yet, there I sat for months feeling ripped apart.

Recovery from a C-section is serious. A C-section after natural birth is just a cruel fucking joke. Because I wasn’t a first-time mom most people just assumed I knew the deal and weren’t nearly as quick to offer guidance or help. I had to constantly remind people that I had no fucking clue what to do and was devastated to realize laps around the maternity floor were not an option. And if I’m being honest, experiencing it was terrible, but watching my husband watch me experience it… that was a whole other level.

They say time heals all things, and they are mostly right. But time alone cannot be expected to heal a wound left uncared for. Cleaning the wound is also necessary. So I’m calling this my declaration of surrender.

Every birth is different. And just as it took 9 months to grow my sweet baby Eleanor, it took 9 months for me to birth the word “trauma.” And just as quickly as she was whisked off to be attended to, that word is whisked off of my lips. And all I am left with is resounding joy, appreciation, and surrender. As moms, we have to learn that however, we get our babies here is good enough.

I am not broken.

I am good enough.

Actually, I’m a fucking champ.

ps- It is not lost on me that I experienced mild PPD + anxiety. But that is not this story. That is a story for another day. Thank you for allowing me to tell it in my own time.

pps- Need another inspiring and incredibly real birth story? This one inspired me to tell my own– she’s one really bomb chick.

Xo, Kimberly Fe'Lix