I have to start by saying that I'm still working on accepting Kimball's birth for what it was, and not being sad about what it wasn't. It wasn't the same as Palmer's birth. And that fact has gnawed at me a little, because Palmer's birth was so perfect. I had hoped for the same feelings to be there this time around, but the fact is that it was different.
I'll start with the "stats". At 36 weeks I was 70% effaced and dilated to a 2. At 37 weeks I had progressed to a 4 and was 90% effaced. As with my first pregnancy, all of this was happening without me feeling any painful contractions. This is such a huge blessing, but the downside to it--and to the fact that I was induced with Palmer--is that I had no idea what to expect out of labor. I didn't know if I would go into labor that day or be sitting at a 4 for the next three weeks. Either was possible. But as anxious as I was to have he baby and have the pregnancy be OVER, there were conflicts. Derek was still in school and would be pretty much until my due date. His mom was in Connecticut, my mom was camping, and our in-town babysitters were out of town! So I was told not to have the baby, basically every day for the next two weeks. At 38 weeks I hadn't progressed at all and although that isn't unheard of by any means, I truly believe it was only because we were praying this baby in. But I had a feeling--and so did Derek--that he would make an appearance at the beginning of the next week.
At my 39 week appointment I was 5.5 centimeters dilated, and the amniotic sac was bulging, ready to burst. Still hadn't felt a thing, other than frequent Braxton Hicks (non-painful) contractions. My doctor told me to be ready for anything--and not to wait an hour before going to the hospital if my water broke or if I started having contractions.
That night around 9:30 I felt like my BH contractions were getting even closer together, so I timed them for a couple hours. They went something like 3 minutes, 7 minutes, 2 minutes, 10 minutes. Around 11:00 they started to become really uncomfortable, but only every thirty minutes or so. At 12:30 I decided that if I had three more "painful" ones within the next half hour, I would wake Derek up and see what he thought about going to the hospital. Those three contractions came roughly nine and a half minutes apart, barely making my deadline. When I woke Derek up we decided to call our babysitters and go.
As Derek got things ready, I went into Papmer's room, picked him up out of his crib, and rocked him one "last" time, before things changed. It was really emotional for me, and Derek came in to find me sobbing that I still wasn't ready. He comforted me and I put Palmer back in his bed, and we headed off to the hospital.
Truthfully, I felt stupid as we drove through town. My contractions had slowed down again and I was 90% sure that we'd get there and they'd tell me that nothing had changed and I was just another woman who'd gone in for false labor.
The sweet nurse who checked me said I was still at a 5.5, but that I was having contractions much more frequently than I thought--I just wasn't noticing because they weren't painful, except every twenty minutes or so. She called my doctor and he told her to have me walk around for an hour before admitting me.
So here I am, "trying to walk it off" as a funny old man in the hallway commented:
Also, yes, I'm huge, and yes, Kimball was sitting LOW. Every nurse who checked me had to comment on that and wondered how on earth my water hadn't broken yet.
After an hour of walking--and snacking, thanks to Derek's McDonald's run--I was at a 6, and officially admitted to the hospital.
Paperwork and getting settled in a delivery room took us to 5:30 am and 8 centimeters. I had had a few majorly painful contractions by this point, albeit fifteen to twenty minutes apart, and so I requested my epidural. I got it around 6:20.
My doctor was slated to come break my water around 7:00 but actually didn't make it until 7:40. The epidural had (predictably) slowed things down a little, so I wasn't much past an 8. I continued to rest as well as I could over the next hour or so, and then my nurse said, "Um, I think it's time." She seemed in a rush, but my epidural was working so well that I could barely feel the pressure of Kimball bearing down. Luckily my doctor made it in plenty of time, and as soon as he sat down I started to push.
Pushing this time around was so different. Everyone was confident that it would only take me a few pushes and we'd be done. But my epidural was stronger than with Palmer, and it was harder for me to gauge things. I actually had to watch the monitors for my contractions so I would know when to push, and my contractions were still very inconsistent. I was doing really well though, and my doctor said, "One more push and we're there!"...and then I didn't have another contraction for SEVEN minutes. It was so strange and honestly, awkward. Everyone was just...waiting. We had to make small talk. Small talk during the delivery of your child is very weird. But eventually the contraction came, I used all the strength I had in my "haven't slept in over 24 hrs" body, and Kimball--my boy with THICK, BROWN HAIR--was here.
Madison Memorial is a great hospital, and they immediately set him on my stomach for skin to skin as they cleared his airways, cut the cord, and cleaned him up a little. I had some tearing, right over my scar from Palmer's birth, so Dr. Watson stitched me up while we cooed at Kimball and marveled at his size.
So now we come to my thoughts on his birth. I've been processing all week. The truth is, I have so much to be grateful for. Kimball's birth was relatively painless. The entire experience was calm and peaceful. And most importantly, my beautiful boy got here without any complications, whole and perfect. What more could I ask for, really?
I think we have a tendency in our society to glorify birth just a little too much. Don't get me wrong--it is absolutely the most beautiful thing I've ever been through. It's incredible. There is so much that goes into this experience--so much feeling, so much work, so much spirit.
But birth--like motherhood--was never meant to be nice and neat and perfect. In some ways it is perfect--and I can't think of anything more perfect than Palmer's birth, so I have a hard time not comparing the two. But I think we do ourselves no favors by setting up enormous expectations for our labor and delivery experience. It's easy for me to blame the natural birth "community" for this--and please don't hate me for saying that. Natural birth has become more appealing to me than ever in the last few months, and don't be surprised if I go that route with my next. But I find it's often the natural birth "junkies" who are the proponents of the idea that birth must be on our terms, that everything must point to this moment and that this moment must be our crowning glory (pardon the terminology).
In an ideal world, it would be. But what about the women who end up with emergency c-sections? What about the woman whose baby is born with a terrifyingly low pulse, or an inability to aspirate immediately? Or the woman who hemorrhages so badly that they have to immediately attend to her and she doesn't get to hold her baby for hours? I think by setting up all these expectations for a beautiful birth, we really hurt the mothers who don't get that. They spiral into postpartum depression because from the moment their baby came, things just didn't. go. right.
I was dissatisfied by the lack of focus in the delivery room. I was surprised to not feel my heart about to burst with love for him, the way it was with Palmer. We didn't cry. We kind of just said, "Hey, little guy! You're here!" I was disappointed and confused that it wasn't an ultra-spiritual experience.
I think the fact that I had been praying every day not to have this baby yet--that Derek was so stressed in the last few weeks before he came--and that I still didn't really believe I was in labor when we left my house that night all played into my feelings that morning. I also think that I expected to be struck with awe at the miracle of childbirth like I was the first time--and as beautiful and great as it all was, it didn't AMAZE me the way I thought it would.
But as time passed that day, and in all the days since, my love for Kimball has really blossomed. And I think I needed to have this experience so that I could sympathize, on some small level at least, with all the women whose births didn't go as planned, and who didn't feel an instant connection to their baby, and who felt incredibly guilty about all of that.
Don't you worry though--Kimball has stolen my heart. He is growing on me, every single minute. I love this dear little boy and feel so complete with him in our family. It doesn't matter how he got here--he's here and he's ours and he's perfect. What more could I ask for?
No comments:
Post a Comment