When I say the word "delivery" I think pizza, chinese, UPS. I don't think babies. However, many babies in the United States are truly "delivered," pulled or cut from a women and served up like Simba amidst the glow of surgical lighting. Or, in the case of my first child's forcep fiasco, a doctor will go in and serve a child up with two spoons, like a tossed salad. And to further this connotation of delivery, the first of many questions a new mother is asked is "who delivered your baby?" If ONLY the pizza man got paid what a doctor does.
When I discovered I was pregnant again, I had to reevaluate my first experience of birth. And, I realized among many things that it was not a birth experience, but a delivery. I laid in bed for 10 hours after putting up with a rude admitting nurse, a labor nurse with a foreign accent whose directions I could not understand, and a doctor who not only yelled at me while putting in my epidural but gave me too much or gave it the wrong way leaving me too numb for too long. So, needless to say when the doctor wanted to speed up labor and gave me pitocin I said "eh, whatever." After pushing for two hours my daughter was face up and would not come out. I honestly did not even know how to push because I could not feel contractions or anything below my waist. I got a third degree tear and hemheroids but avoided a Cesarean and thought "wow, what a successful birth!"
That is, until the pain medicine wore off after 48 hours in the hospital. I got home and was still uneasy on my legs, bleeding heavily, sore when moving up and down, and overall overwhelmed. It took me the entire six weeks to stop bleeding, and an entire week to really get my balance back. I thought to myself "I don't think I can do this twice. I guess my daughter will be an only child." Lucky for her, I am an avid reader and researcher.
This pregnancy, I was committed to figuring out what went wrong the last time. I ate well. I exercised regularly. I took all my vitamins. I didn't gain too much weight. The only health problem I had was a slightly high blood pressure the last two weeks of my pregnancy. Upon reading, I learned that what went wrong was the labor and birth. Everything I was doing was working AGAINST my body, not with it. I decided to try a natural birth. Yes, that means no pain medication and minimal medical interference. This did not sit well with my husband... at first.
My husband is in the medical field, so I had to be careful about being critical about the industry. Also, I was an incubator so to speak for his offspring, so I felt he deserved 50% of the decision making and input. I read books on the Bradley Method, and statistics from midwife and doula websites. I consulted friends and other medical personnel. I decided I could do it, with my husband's help.
I explained to him the benefits of recovering from a natural birth. I compromised on the things that were important to him. I let him know how important it was that he believe in me and not let me give up. We made a committment to it.
When I went into labor, it was about 1 p.m. and my husband was at work. I was laboring at home, perfectly content to shorten my hospital stay as much as I could. When the contractions were 5 minutes apart, I called him at 4:30 and told him to come home. When he got home, we timed a few more then agreed I was in labor. I called my friend to come watch my 2 year old. I packed more stuff in my bag. I had a snack. The contractions were 4 minutes apart and more intense. We left at 6 a.m. for the 1.5 mile drive to the hospital.
They check me in and wheel me to the floor. I want to walk, but something about policy. A polite nurse weighs me, hooks me up to a monitor and tells me to click during a contraction. I have to labor laying down. I am upset already.
I ask who the doctor is. I realize he is one of the few I liked, but I am unfamiliar with his preferences. I start to get nervous. Shift change.
My new nurse comes in and my husband knows her husband. Good sign. I ask if I can walk around, she says I can use the birthing ball. Things are looking up. She checks me and I am almost five centimeters and my bag is bulging. She says the doctor will decide when he gets here if I am to be admitted. I am still on the monitor.
The doctor admits me at 8:00 a.m. He checks me and I am still about 5 cm. He suggests breaking my water since it is bulging anyway and upon weighing the pros and cons we break it. It is 8:20 and I tell my husband to cover the clock.
I still have to be in the bed or on the ball since my water was broken, so I stay on the ball. My husband is behind me, telling me I got this and this is nothing. I am burning up and feel nauseous. He looks for the thermostat but finds cool rags and ice instead. The contractions are steady getting closer together and more intense. I doubt myself.
I think I have to push and so my husband calls the nurse. She checks me and says I am only 6.5 cm. I ask about other positions and she shows me a few. I stay on the ball with my husband supporting me on a chair behind me. They keep losing the baby on the monitor because she is moving. I wonder the point of the discomfort if she keeps moving.
I ask for drugs. My husbands tells me I don't need them. I suddenly feel the urge to push and tell my husband I am pushing. A frantic nurse tells me to get on the bed, close my legs and breathe. I have to wait for the doctor. I wait forever, and amid the scurrying nurses and my begs to push, he appears and while putting on his left glove I push and he catches the head. I push again and he grabs her body. My husband and I laugh that it is so easy, and cry that we did it together. She is out and I feel my normal body sensations again. I push out the placenta, he gives me one stitch, I nurse my daughter and I get up and go to the bathroom with the I.V. my husband wanted. I think that had I not had the I.V. and saline I wouldn't have to pee, but I am gracious I can. It is 10:30 a.m. That night, the pediatrician comes in and after examining my daughter, says plainly "I can't find a thing wrong with her. She is perfect." My first daughter had a heart murmur, slight jaundice, marks from the forceps and a conehead. What a difference!
That morning, I get a shower and eat breakfast while the baby is being examined one last time. I walk the halls and pack. It is 8:30 a.m. and I wonder when I am getting out of here. The doctor comes in and tells me I can be discharged at 10:30 a.m., 24 hours after giving birth, along with my baby pending the pediatrician's assessment. Based on last night, I think he will let her go home with me.
The day after I came home, 48 hours after giving birth, I got up and cooked breakfast for family staying with us. I felt like I had run a marathon; every muscle ached but I was on such a natural high I strutted around doing my normal household chores. I felt no pain or discomfort. I could use the restroom with no problems and was bleeding like a light period. It felt like a regular day in the life of a mother.
I have not only experienced birth, but a rebirth as well. My husband and I were reborn as parents and partners. I was reborn as a woman who can truly say she performed her job as a woman, on her terms. And when I want a delivery, I simply call Papa John's.
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