On May 6th I became a mother (God help us all). The journey was both wonderful and excruciating (and not because of the labor pains). I labored at home for two days. This was an amazing exercise in mental control. I rode out each contraction with a mental calmness I am very proud of. I had incredibly uncomfortable back labor which increases the pain of labor exponentially. I never thought of myself as a big vocalizer, but moaning through each surge helped a lot. My husband (A) was so supportive as was my doula. She was with us for a couple days and did everything from giving me a bath to helping to wipe away my mucous plug (not pretty).
The experience turned a bit sour when it was time to head for the hospital on Thursday afternoon. All I had heard about impatient hospital staff pushing interventions was true. I entered the hospital at 5 cm dilated and was forced to re-answer questions that had been answered when I pre-registered weeks before (they couldn’t find my file initially). They were asking me questions during my contractions and expecting me to answer them. There was even someone who came in and was ready to take my blood right in the middle of a contraction. The initial labor nurse I had was terrible and made some comment about modesty when I had my hospital gown hiked up.
I made it to 7 cm and that is where I got stuck—for 20 hours. We tried every position to get the baby to turn from a posterior position (“sunny side up”). He wouldn’t budge and I lost steam. We eventually tried the epidural with pitocin which lead to the c-section. I had great hospital staff by this point, but the c-section was still very difficult. The best part of it was knowing I would see the baby soon. They lay you down as if you will be crucified and tie your arms down (the anesthesiologist untied me quickly, knowing it was stupid practice). You can’t see anything. They shaved me without warning me and all the while the staff laughed and talked about their upcoming weekend. They were all pleasant enough, but were completely oblivious to how utterly helpless and scared I was.
Seeing my baby (Baby E aka Chunky Brewster) made it all worth it. I was amazed by how beautiful his skin was (c-section babies look so much better than vaginal births). His little tongue was darting out looking instinctively for food.
I won’t dwell on the 5-day hospital stay, which was exhausting. I am still recovering from my surgery.
Now here we are, 2 months later—the 2 most difficult months of my life. If a woman tells you how wonderful it is be with your newborn she is lying to you and to herself. There is no honeymoon period (except briefly when you first see your baby). I have cried often and every day I think of escaping this situation (and I don’t even think I have full-blown post-partum). I went to find out if I needed drugs and was told it wasn’t severe enough. The social worker acknowledged, though, that I was (literally) experiencing what prisoners of war go through. Sleep deprivation is the most common form of torture.
Breast-feeding has made me little more than a shell. I have to keep telling myself it’s for the baby. With each feeding I am reminded of images of a snapping turtle I once saw on Animal Planet. He is a boob man who, at only 2 months of age, has almost doubled his weight (which normally happens at 4 months of age). I guess I am doing something right.
I feel guilty each time I am glad he is asleep.
I won’t even go into how my relationship has gone down the crapper.
Most of what I have mentioned here is negative—and that is because it is. But there is something so mesmerizing about this baby that moves me like no other image. His beauty is beyond description. It’s not just the softness of his skin, but his persistence to live. There is no life force like that of an infant. That is what people are drawn to, I believe, more than their looks. The perfection of an infant can move you to tears. Waking each day to his smile keeps me an agnostic. How can I not wonder if there is more to this little being?
