(no subject)
I wrote some of the following bits and pieces within a few hours or so after giving birth. I was still shaking uncontrollably from the post-traumatic stress memories -- plus, the adrenaline was wearing off and the rips, cuts, continued contractions and ... more were causing my body to remain in pain.
Warning. This is not a cute story.
In fact, some of you are going to read it and decide not to give birth. (Also, I am a proponent of natural birth. Just know that pain doesn't mean "ow, an ice cube.")
(Forgive the weird changes in tense, person, etc. It wasn't written to be eloquent. In fact, the point is probably more to exorcize demons.)
*
Let’s pretend, for a second, that birthing babies had nothing to do with cute pink or blue bows, adorable baby clothing, or cutely themed baby showers.
Let’s pretend instead that birthing babies is a blood, sweat, tear, and shit covered battlefield.
Because right now, sitting in bed with at least three strange objects (including sutures, a full maxipad of blood the size of a diaper, and a sock full of ice on my anus) stuffed down my free hospital granny panties, I say unto you: birthing babies is NOT for the weak.
*
How was a natural birth, Tanya?
Great!
How was a 12 hour labor for a 8.5 lb baby, which involved having my water broken for me by a hook, a baby with a cord wrapped around her throat, and a too-small pelvis and perineum?
It was one of the worst forms of physical torture that I’ll probably ever encounter. And I’ll follow up this point by saying that had Dave not been the most incredible birth-partner and doula ever, I would not have been able to stand it.
"You should write a book about being a birthing companion," the midwife told Dave, at some point during labor.
So What Happened?
You have Braxton Hicks contractions and you are all pleased.
You have one or two of what you think are deep, real contractions, and you get excited that you're on your way.
You start having REAL contractions every few minutes, and it's bearable with the pain management techniques. You become old hat at hypnotizing away the worst period cramps in your life, breathing through them, etc.
Then you start having REAL real contractions, that take your breath away and punch you in the back like two icepicks while a small gnome is chewing her way through your guts.
And then it's only been four hours, and you wonder if you can stand any more pain.
"It gets worse," says the midwife, "you're only 7 cm dilated and the baby's head is still at 0 position."
So then she tells you that you've got to "labor down" -- which means that you've got to hang out until (her words) you start screaming curses.
That marks the beginning of transition.
*
And then you're in a lot of pain. But the midwife says "you're not progressing. Let's break your water sack. That means the contractions will get a lot worse."
They do. At some point you wonder when you fell into hell and whether you're in eternal damnation, because you'll never, ever be able to leave this place of pain -- and it keeps getting worse.
And then, when the pain is so bad you don't know what you're saying, you're in transition.
This is all I'll say about the four hours of transition in which the baby moved four "stations" down in my pelvis and my cervix opened all the way up.
Small snapshot.
The midwife and nurse are sitting and watching me.
A contraction begins. Dave grabs me by the arms as I sink uncontrollably into a crouch.
The jackhammer punches nails through my internal organs, and my uterus is being ripped out and pushed through a very small opening -- because the contraction has made me want to PUSH
I am saying something very loudly, but I'm not sure what.
After the contraction, I stay crouched and drooling. I am not sure I can stand another one.
Then I notice that there's shit mingled with the blood on my feet, and Dave's.
I am crying. "I'm sorry."
"No, baby. It's okay, it's okay."
Dave very carefully lifts me up, and then bends and wipes my shitty blood off the floor.
This lasted for four hours.
*
"Well, now your cervix is fully dilated. But that was not the hardest part," says the midwife very matter-of-factly. "This is harder. But the hardest part is pushing her out."
They did not tell me that the baby had her cord wrapped around her neck, which is why she wasn't progressing through birth as quickly as she could have been.
The "harder part" was moving her really big head through my really small pelvis.
The only metaphor I can use is this:
Imagine the worst bowel movement you've ever taken, the kind where it's hard as a rock, with pointy bits, and you think you're going to rip your anus to shreds if you ever get it out.
Now add a 13 inch girth to the piece of poop. You don't WANT to do any more. You don't WANT to go through it.
You haven't known what you've been saying for a while (Dave is still telling me things that I said that day) -- but now you are delirious, because you've been in pain for (it seems) your whole life, and you're being told to push it out and push it out...
I can't really talk about this part for very much longer.
The midwife was in front of me checking to see if the baby's head was crowning.
Dave had one leg pushed back. The nurse had the other. The midwife did it this way because my "virgin" perineum needed all sorts of attention.
It didn't matter.
The baby kept sliding back, because they didn't know her cord was wrapped around her neck. And so this lasted for about two hours, or a lifetime -- and then (among the many sensations) came the one in which I popped blood vessels out of my anus.
*
But then came the really really hard part, in which the brick of shit was finally almost out of my body.
And then came something called the "Ring of fire," when, eventually, the head crowned. It wasn't a ring of fire. I'm not sure what it was, because my mind has actually stopped me from remembering what it felt like.
And then I ripped my flesh, and the midwife said, "We have to cut you."
Because they didn't know Alba's head was 13 inches around, or that she was eight and a half pounds.
"And that is when you nearly broke my pinky," said Dave. "You'd been so good, so careful not to hurt me, and then the midwife cut you open."
*
And then, with a strange slither, she was out, and on my chest.
*
"And now I'm going to be sewing you up forever," said the midwife very matter-of-factly.
When I looked down at her over the body of my blue, choking baby, her hands were covered in blood, and she had scissors and sutures in her hands.
*
Was it worthwhile?
Well.
1 second after delivery I saw my baby, and spent the sweetest 60 seconds of my life.
1 minute after delivery they whisked my blue, cord-wrapped baby away from me to give her oxygen.
15 minutes after delivery I was still covered in blood, shit, and tears, screaming as the midwife stitched me from anus to perineum - and then checked inside my tenderly gaping former-baby-hole to see why I was still hemmoraging blood.
30 minutes after delivery I just wanted to cry endless tears for my poor body
1 hour later I was lying alone on a hospital bed whimpering from post-traumatic stress induced memories.
2 hours later I was in a percoset induced haze, and Dave was back.
“I will never ask this of you again,” he said.
*
And even now, one of the hardest parts is that the pain and exhaustion don't stop.
Even now, I'm feeling stitches, hemmroids, and aching nipples when the body is crying out for nobody to ever touch it again, and days worth of sleep.
*
And for those of you who have wisely chosen not to read all that, I wrote this bit a day after giving birth:
Was it ultimately worthwhile?
1 day afterwards, my boobs aching and my nipples tender and sore and my shoulders feeling like I’ve done a thousand pushups, I have to say: yeah. My little lizard-gollum is God manifest upon earth.
Erin's fault:
She’s got eyes of the bluest sky that never thought of rain
I’d hate to look into her eyes and see an ounce of pain.
*
And tonight, finishing up this story, I can honestly say that I'm slowly losing chunks of the whole experience, especially as my body heals. Thank God, thank God for that.
Warning. This is not a cute story.
In fact, some of you are going to read it and decide not to give birth. (Also, I am a proponent of natural birth. Just know that pain doesn't mean "ow, an ice cube.")
(Forgive the weird changes in tense, person, etc. It wasn't written to be eloquent. In fact, the point is probably more to exorcize demons.)
*
Let’s pretend, for a second, that birthing babies had nothing to do with cute pink or blue bows, adorable baby clothing, or cutely themed baby showers.
Let’s pretend instead that birthing babies is a blood, sweat, tear, and shit covered battlefield.
Because right now, sitting in bed with at least three strange objects (including sutures, a full maxipad of blood the size of a diaper, and a sock full of ice on my anus) stuffed down my free hospital granny panties, I say unto you: birthing babies is NOT for the weak.
*
How was a natural birth, Tanya?
Great!
How was a 12 hour labor for a 8.5 lb baby, which involved having my water broken for me by a hook, a baby with a cord wrapped around her throat, and a too-small pelvis and perineum?
It was one of the worst forms of physical torture that I’ll probably ever encounter. And I’ll follow up this point by saying that had Dave not been the most incredible birth-partner and doula ever, I would not have been able to stand it.
"You should write a book about being a birthing companion," the midwife told Dave, at some point during labor.
So What Happened?
You have Braxton Hicks contractions and you are all pleased.
You have one or two of what you think are deep, real contractions, and you get excited that you're on your way.
You start having REAL contractions every few minutes, and it's bearable with the pain management techniques. You become old hat at hypnotizing away the worst period cramps in your life, breathing through them, etc.
Then you start having REAL real contractions, that take your breath away and punch you in the back like two icepicks while a small gnome is chewing her way through your guts.
And then it's only been four hours, and you wonder if you can stand any more pain.
"It gets worse," says the midwife, "you're only 7 cm dilated and the baby's head is still at 0 position."
So then she tells you that you've got to "labor down" -- which means that you've got to hang out until (her words) you start screaming curses.
That marks the beginning of transition.
*
And then you're in a lot of pain. But the midwife says "you're not progressing. Let's break your water sack. That means the contractions will get a lot worse."
They do. At some point you wonder when you fell into hell and whether you're in eternal damnation, because you'll never, ever be able to leave this place of pain -- and it keeps getting worse.
And then, when the pain is so bad you don't know what you're saying, you're in transition.
This is all I'll say about the four hours of transition in which the baby moved four "stations" down in my pelvis and my cervix opened all the way up.
Small snapshot.
The midwife and nurse are sitting and watching me.
A contraction begins. Dave grabs me by the arms as I sink uncontrollably into a crouch.
The jackhammer punches nails through my internal organs, and my uterus is being ripped out and pushed through a very small opening -- because the contraction has made me want to PUSH
I am saying something very loudly, but I'm not sure what.
After the contraction, I stay crouched and drooling. I am not sure I can stand another one.
Then I notice that there's shit mingled with the blood on my feet, and Dave's.
I am crying. "I'm sorry."
"No, baby. It's okay, it's okay."
Dave very carefully lifts me up, and then bends and wipes my shitty blood off the floor.
This lasted for four hours.
*
"Well, now your cervix is fully dilated. But that was not the hardest part," says the midwife very matter-of-factly. "This is harder. But the hardest part is pushing her out."
They did not tell me that the baby had her cord wrapped around her neck, which is why she wasn't progressing through birth as quickly as she could have been.
The "harder part" was moving her really big head through my really small pelvis.
The only metaphor I can use is this:
Imagine the worst bowel movement you've ever taken, the kind where it's hard as a rock, with pointy bits, and you think you're going to rip your anus to shreds if you ever get it out.
Now add a 13 inch girth to the piece of poop. You don't WANT to do any more. You don't WANT to go through it.
You haven't known what you've been saying for a while (Dave is still telling me things that I said that day) -- but now you are delirious, because you've been in pain for (it seems) your whole life, and you're being told to push it out and push it out...
I can't really talk about this part for very much longer.
The midwife was in front of me checking to see if the baby's head was crowning.
Dave had one leg pushed back. The nurse had the other. The midwife did it this way because my "virgin" perineum needed all sorts of attention.
It didn't matter.
The baby kept sliding back, because they didn't know her cord was wrapped around her neck. And so this lasted for about two hours, or a lifetime -- and then (among the many sensations) came the one in which I popped blood vessels out of my anus.
*
But then came the really really hard part, in which the brick of shit was finally almost out of my body.
And then came something called the "Ring of fire," when, eventually, the head crowned. It wasn't a ring of fire. I'm not sure what it was, because my mind has actually stopped me from remembering what it felt like.
And then I ripped my flesh, and the midwife said, "We have to cut you."
Because they didn't know Alba's head was 13 inches around, or that she was eight and a half pounds.
"And that is when you nearly broke my pinky," said Dave. "You'd been so good, so careful not to hurt me, and then the midwife cut you open."
*
And then, with a strange slither, she was out, and on my chest.
*
"And now I'm going to be sewing you up forever," said the midwife very matter-of-factly.
When I looked down at her over the body of my blue, choking baby, her hands were covered in blood, and she had scissors and sutures in her hands.
*
Was it worthwhile?
Well.
1 second after delivery I saw my baby, and spent the sweetest 60 seconds of my life.
1 minute after delivery they whisked my blue, cord-wrapped baby away from me to give her oxygen.
15 minutes after delivery I was still covered in blood, shit, and tears, screaming as the midwife stitched me from anus to perineum - and then checked inside my tenderly gaping former-baby-hole to see why I was still hemmoraging blood.
30 minutes after delivery I just wanted to cry endless tears for my poor body
1 hour later I was lying alone on a hospital bed whimpering from post-traumatic stress induced memories.
2 hours later I was in a percoset induced haze, and Dave was back.
“I will never ask this of you again,” he said.
*
And even now, one of the hardest parts is that the pain and exhaustion don't stop.
Even now, I'm feeling stitches, hemmroids, and aching nipples when the body is crying out for nobody to ever touch it again, and days worth of sleep.
*
And for those of you who have wisely chosen not to read all that, I wrote this bit a day after giving birth:
Was it ultimately worthwhile?
1 day afterwards, my boobs aching and my nipples tender and sore and my shoulders feeling like I’ve done a thousand pushups, I have to say: yeah. My little lizard-gollum is God manifest upon earth.
Erin's fault:
She’s got eyes of the bluest sky that never thought of rain
I’d hate to look into her eyes and see an ounce of pain.
*
And tonight, finishing up this story, I can honestly say that I'm slowly losing chunks of the whole experience, especially as my body heals. Thank God, thank God for that.