A day's labor

I'm sitting in a coffee shop, a cup of tea on my left, music through my ears, people all around me, but I'm alone. No one is asking anything of me. No one is wanting water or food, or to nurse; no one wants to sit on my lap, or to build train tracks or a marble run, or to sit down and watch a video. No one is telling me a story. It's my turn, my time. I don't deny that I adore my children, and would do anything for them. But day in, day out, being on call for their every whim and desire gets exhausting. I get to the point of being done, needing some quiet time where I can sit and watch the rain drop into puddles outside, the ripples expanding outward until they disappear. And yet, I feel guilty for this, for enjoying this time. For not always wanting to be climbed on and hugged and hit (yes, one of my children often shows affection through hitting me. We're working on that one.).

I remember bringing both of them into this world. Not clearly, a lot of things blend together; but I remember it. I remember the pain, and the excitement of who is this person going to be, the fear - especially with my daughter. Giving birth to my daughter ranks as one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, and one that I've been wanting to record for some time; perhaps the act of writing it out will help me cleanse it from my system, and not need to constantly be reliving it.

I'd been awake for a while, in and out of sleep, as the contractions got more intense. Finally, around 8 am, we called my doula to let her know this was finally happening. There'd been some false starts, but this was really it. We called my parents at some point, though I don't remember exactly when. At some point during the day, they would show up and take my almost 2-year-old son off on adventures, and they would keep him until about 4 am the next morning, when he would crawl into my hospital bed, filling the void where my daughter should have been.

When we got to the hospital, they wanted to check my cervix - I was already about 7 inches if I recall correctly. All of this story hinges on me remembering correctly, as memories are known to be fallible and constantly morphing; my husband's story would be far different from mine, I imagine. We remember so differently from everyone else. I remember that I threw up, which is highly unusual for me; my doula told me that was a sign I was going through the 'transition' phase of labor. It didn't happen with the birthing of my son (though my husband claims I didn't birth my son, he was surgically extracted from me. I honestly find that sentiment hurtful; I went through almost 24 hours of labor with him, and I pushed for three, and despite all that effort - all that labor - he still was declared 'stuck' and I had to be cut open. So yes, he was surgically extracted, but I also gave birth. There.). Either way, labor with my daughter was almost instantly different. Perhaps because I'd already been through it - my doula said that the nerve endings were more sensitive and that's why it hurt more. I don't know. I do know it hurt, more and more as labor progressed. In the beginning, it was more intensely uncomfortable.

At some point, they declared that I was needing help. They said they wanted to do an IV drip. My doula said it seemed like a good idea because I wasn't getting enough water and food to keep me going; it might give me strength. I don't know if they gave me the IV before or after they broke my water - again, another difference from my son, where my water broke and then labor started. Either way, I was given an IV drip, and they manually broke my water, thinking that the force of the water breaking might help push my daughter out (I will insert here that we didn't know she was a girl yet; I wouldn't find that out until much later, when my husband called her name in fear, his voice thick with emotion).

I got in and out of the shower, the heat helping. Again, different from my son, where the shower is what seemed to stall the labor; I think, though, rather than the shower, it was the doubt and pressure coming off the nurses and doctors. The nurses present for my daughter's birth were significantly more supportive and respectful. I wonder often, if I'd had the same birthing team, would I have been successful in giving birth to my son? Or would he have almost died, like my daughter? Or worse? I'll never know that, and it haunts me sometimes, that my desire for a natural birth could have killed my children.

I don't remember how long I pushed. Time blended into one; I tried a variety of pain relief options, though not an epidural; I did try nitrous oxide, and didn't like it - I felt like I couldn't get enough air; I tried a TENS unit and didn't like it - I felt like it added to the pain and discomfort. I remember at many times wondering if I should just get an epidural, but the knowledge that it would slow everything down always stopped me. I did ask, during the pushing phase, for them to just pull her out with forceps. I couldn't make the muscles work right. I couldn't push like they wanted me to push. I tried, but my body just didn't know what to do. They had me laying down on the bed, my legs up, and there was a mirror so I could see her head trying to come out - full head of dark brown hair, one of the few things the same as her brother. They kept telling me I could do it; I just didn't know how. My husband told me later that he knew things were going downhill when my doula stepped back, and the nurses got quiet. They knew, I didn't see any of that; I just wanted to get her out. She did come out, eventually, and I think the only way it happened was the midwife literally ripped me open to do it. She had her hands inside of me and she just pulled, tearing me open. I'd find out later it was only a third-degree tear. 11:30 pm and my daughter was born, about 15 hours after labor 'officially' started, only two days after her 'due date,' and she came out blue and not crying. A code blue was even called on her, which I actually don't remember hearing but someone told me about later (in a weird episode of synchronicity, a mom I didn't know at the time but that ended up moving to PA and was living there at the same time that I was, and we met through an online group shared with me that she'd always wondered what happened to the baby that got the code called on her while she was giving birth).

Anyway, tangent aside... I remember them handing my daughter to me. My husband says that didn't happen. I don't know who's right. I remember them handing her to me and then almost instantly taking her away, my dreams of a natural birth with a natural post birth, baby and mom cuddled up, baby learning to nurse, instant bonding and happy little hearts floating up around us as we cuddled, totally destroyed; my heart ached, my soul literally cried out 'bring me my baby' and I just couldn't understand why they were taking her away. It sounds melodramatic when I write that; but it's the best way to say it. My soul cried, and my stomach dropped; I could hear my husband talking to her. 'Come on, Zemyna, breathe, Zemyna, you can do it'. I couldn't see what was happening. They were on the other side of the room, he was with her, or as close as they'd let him, talking to her, trying not to cry. I don't remember who was with me. Eventually, they got her to breathe; it took far longer than it should have. Eventually, the nurse told me that I hadn't birthed the placenta yet, and I was losing blood from the tear so they were going to need to pull it out manually and then sew me up. They took me away; my husband stayed with my daughter while they tried to thread an IV through her belly button, after stabilizing her; in the Intermediate Care Unit.

While they sewed me up, one of the nurses had brought my Sheela - a little statue modeled after the ancient Irish sheela-na-gigs I'd had made by a friend, to hold and help support me through the process; I held onto her the whole time. I still have her, on our family altar, and intend to give her to my daughter when she gets pregnant, or perhaps when she gets her menstrual cycle, or maybe when she gets married... I'll give it to her when the time seems right. I held onto my Sheela, and one of the nurses came in with pictures of my daughter. I don't know what happened to those pictures; I don't think I ever got them. But at the time, they meant everything; she was alive, breathing, moving, looking healthy now. My unexpectedly huge baby, alive and breathing. She had to go to the NICU (Intermedia Care Unity, technically), instead of with me. After they sewed me up, they brought me in to see her. I remember being exhausted, completely worn out, and all I wanted was to hold her but all I could do was let her hold my finger. She had tubes running through her, and she was in one of those little baby beds with the high sides, and I couldn't hold her. I look back on that moment and I wish I'd stayed with her. Even though I couldn't hold her, even though I couldn't nurse her or do anything, I wish with all of my being that I hadn't left her alone, without any family, without anyone who loved her, barely even a nurse nearby. I don't know if they would have let me - but I still wish I'd tried. My husband tells me I shouldn't blame myself; that I needed rest. That it's ok. And that's what I would tell any other mother. Any other mother. But it's not what I tell myself. It will always be one of my hugest regrets, that my just-born daughter spent too much time alone in the NICU.

At some point, my husband called my parents, so that shortly after getting to my room, my son came back to us. He crawled into my bed, and we cuddled. At least I had him. I could hold him, even if I couldn't hold my daughter, at least not yet.

She ended up being in NICU for about three days. She was low in some nutrients, and she had an infection in her lung, so they kept her. I couldn't nurse her for the first few days because the nurses told me they needed to monitor how much she was getting. I learned later that they could have weighed her diapers and that should have sufficed, but I didn't know that at the time. I wish someone had told me. Luckily, my son was still nursing, and he was in boob heaven. All through pregnancy I'd had limited supply, which is normal, so he'd gotten used to there not being much. He might even have weaned if that had continued. But it didn't, and thanks to him my milk came in just fine so that when my daughter was ready, it was available. Eventually, they let me pump and they'd give her that. She didn't have much formula, she did get breast milk, just not straight from the breast.

As I write this, I am notified of new photos from my husband - my little ten-pound baby girl is now over 25 pounds, almost 2.5 years old, dancing on a piano. All that drama and fear and sorrow at the beginning and I am so grateful that she made it. It is a constant weight on my heart that it could easily not have turned out so well, that I could easily not have my daughter. My little healer, my helper, my earth goddess who takes care of all of us. Life, my world, my heart, would be so much less without her. I've shared this story verbally often, talked about with my husband; and each time, there's an ache in my heart, knowing how lucky I am to have her in my life. I wouldn't know what I was missing, I suppose, but the knowledge of its possibility is huge, a heavy rock that gets stuck in my throat, or drops into my stomach and makes me fall whenever I think about it.

A new behavior of hers is, at night, when she's nursing to sleep and just about to fall asleep, I'll ask her if we can switch to cuddling (because the latch she gets when she's falling asleep is less lips and more teeth, less suck and more munch), and she'll unlatch then reach her arms up, wrapping them around my neck, and bring my face in to hers, so we are cheek to cheek or sometimes chin to forehead; she'll hold on, and it is the most wonderful feeling, how much she adores me, how completely I am her world.