This was the day that I had prepared for. I had done my research, followed the rules, stayed strong and fit. I was determined and confident. All my energies were focussed, all my anxieties were reigned in. I would sail through this event as effortlessly as a leaf on a stream. My power would not be lost. This experience would be remembered as my joy, and my heart would smile in satisfaction. It had to… didn’t it? Little did I know, this day wasn’t about me at all.
I sat up in bed, exhausted, having had little sleep for several weeks. I breathed out a defeated sigh as I recognised the familiar heaviness that sunk into my hips. I looked towards my belly, “How could you still be comfortable in there?” I’m certainly not. Jab! A kick to my ribs. I thought I was the one running the show here. Jab! A poke to my hip. I stood up, my vision still blurry with sleeplessness. I could feel tightness through my stomach as it groaned with hunger. As I stumbled my first few steps, I became immediately alert to the warm, clear trickle that ran down my leg. My heart excitedly leapt into action, setting off a release of adrenaline set to swirl through my blood. With anticipation, I whispered, “Could this be?” And I smiled at her.
I met the doctor at the hospital an hour later for my forty one week appointment. Upon hearing my symptom, she became concerned about the risk of infection and immediately had the leaky water tested. The test was positive for amniotic fluid. Not one twinge of contracting had begun, so she suggested what she thought the safest way to proceed would be, to induce. In retrospect, at this point, I should have given myself a day to sit with this information. I should have allowed some time for my body to progress. And most frustratingly, I should have eaten, so I had a clear head to make this important decision. However, as it was, I was overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and the constant ache radiating from my pubic bone and back. In my naivety, I walked with blind trust along this new path of labour, and complied to her suggestion. A hint of sadness had just crawled its way into my special day, and a sliver of control slipped from my fingers as I inched a little closer to powerlessness.
It was midday, the fact that I hadn’t eaten gnawed at my mind. My temples pulsated with pain and I was trembling with low blood sugar. The doctor placed the gel on my cervix and immediately I tensed up as it irritated me. As I waited for an effect, I stuffed down spinach, eggs, and bread. Within thirty minutes, faint and painless contractions periodically wrapped around my belly, and my spirit grew with excitement. It was affirming that my body had surprising abilities to produce these sensations. With my new found energy, I took a walk around the hospital. Just her and I.
Strutting around the hospital, sipping my fennel tea, I was proud of the tightenings ebbing and flowing around my belly. Snap! Hashtag in labour. I looked at myself smiling back at the camera, and a rush of contentment swept through me. This labour business didn’t seem so hard after all. But I had spoken too soon, because four hours into this joyride, the reality started to sink in. In fact, to be more truthful, the reality barrelled in like an Audi on the autobahn. In a matter of minutes, I transformed from a chilled and chatty pregnant woman, to an unconsolable invalid consumed by pain. The contractions had no rhythm. “I thought I was supposed to get a few minutes break in between!”, I moaned through gritted teeth. It was overwhelming to say the least. Labour did not ease in like I thought it would. Instead, I struggled to breathe as I experienced my belly and lower back intensely tightening without breaks. How could I endure? I had no choice. Somehow, I staggered my way back to the birthing suite. For the next eight hours, against my will, my body was uncontrollably overtaken by pain, tension, and shock. Panic pushed me closer and closer to the edge of my limit, and I was rapidly losing my spirit to persevere. `
Several methods of pain relief were offered and taken. Oral tablets were swallowed only to be regurgitated; suppositories were administered with utmost humiliation, to have no effect; and a hot bath was run, only to make the room steamy. Before this day, I had envisioned lying relaxed in a bath, with a few beads of sweat on my brow ready to birth my child. What a daydream. But in that moment, all I could do was erupt at the midwife to stop running the hot water, that was making me flustered and breathless. “I need fresh air to breathe!”, I sobbed in pain. Instead, she foolishly pulled the plug and let the entire basin empty. There goes my fantasy down the drain, of birthing my baby into the water. Or at the very least, there goes my chance of some relief from this horrendous discomfort.
The pain had defeated me, so I requested a half-epidural twelve hours after induction. This decision epitomised my failure of having a drug-free birth. But I couldn’t go on. Curling my spine, fists clenched with white knuckles, and jaw locked, the prick of the needle touched my spine. Electric shocks zapped up and down my legs as the line was advanced further and further in. I could feel every bit of that tugging and pushing. It was an unpleasantness like I’d never felt before. However it was effective, the pain of contractions became manageable and I could go on with slight discomfort. It allowed my heart to slow, muscles to relax, and air to move easily in and out of my lungs. Despite this relief, the cloud of disappointment hung over my head. I couldn’t let go of the fact that yet again, I felt powerless in these circumstances.
I had made it to the middle of the night. This was a time for re-energising, relaxing, practising my breathing, and ideally, sleeping. For several hours, I strived to rest. But the medicine would wear off, pain would stir me, and spark my adrenaline. I remained captive in a constant loop of light sleep and hyper-alertness for hours. Time ticked away slowly, and in some ways, lying in the dark, left alone with my thoughts, the idea of having lost control became more agonising. I had to scrunch any remaining birth-plan remnants that I held onto, and throw them in the embers. This plan was a masterfully composed script highlighting performance achievements and goal posts that could be met and ticked off as I progressed. Not a single action on that list had been met. I felt truly lost of freewill, like a puppet prodded and punctured hanging around waiting for its next command. The dawn light shone through the window and it wasn’t long before I’d had enough of this ridiculous attempt to ‘rest’.
The events of the next few hours took a downward turn. As the morning was now in full swing, midwives bustled around. I stood, watching the machine spit out lengths of paper tracking my abnormal contractions, my heartbeat and baby’s heartbeat. Then I saw it. Her heartbeat was slow, very slow. Like a lightning bolt struck to my core, came a sudden fear of losing my infant, soon followed by the grief of losing this birth. A midwife came beside me, mentioning something about jumping the queue for an emergency cesarean, and I needed to consent. There I was, frozen like a stone. A catatonic, ineffectively contracting, less than three centimetres dilated woman, standing at the end of a hospital bed. A pen placed in her hand and directed to scribble her name on a form. My body was not competent and it had now put my child in danger. It was a failure beyond my imagination.
That day was meant to be a vision of joy in the midst of suffering, but I was left with nothing but my own powerlessness. I had become so immersed in that vision, I had been so focussed on me, that I’d lost sight of what this day was all about. It was not a projection of my dreams, but an understanding that from this day forward, I needed to do anything to protect my child. It was a few months to recover from surgery but several years to recover from the perceived failure of my labouring performance. The stripping of control certainly wounded me. It would not be the first time though. In fact, that day of new motherhood introduced a change in my life where control would be tested and relinquished time and time again. I would need to grow more humble to the circumstances that a child would bring to my life. I would need to uncover a greater love that would let my child shine.
In the final moments of my ordeal, with nursing garments strewn all around, teeth chattering from the epidural, and pale with dehydration and lack of nourishment, I was cut open. In shock, I lay smileless and unanimated, even as they placed her swaddled on my chest. Blue and purple, with bloodied hair and coned head, she twisted her mouth and contorted her face. Peering through squinted eyes, she stared at me and I stared at her. This day wasn’t about me at all.
Angel, curious and bright,
Dance your steps in the firelight,
Share with me your song.
Angel, larger than life,
Cradle my head, kiss me goodnight,
Take my heart away,
With your light,
Your glowing light.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAFznNVbkKU
