Ramona’s birth story, four years late.

[Trigger warning: childbirth trauma, medical details. Disclaimer: I have no medical training. This post comes from my records, what I remember, conversations I had later with my doctor, surgeon, and anesthesiologist, and Google searches.]

Four years ago today, I was two days past Ramona’s due date and three days away from “giving birth” to her. I put that in quotes because I felt, right or wrong, that I actually had no part in her birth.

I’ve never shared her birth story in its entirety here on the blog. It was a horrific thing, and I know I am not alone in experiencing a traumatic birth. One of the things about trauma, though, is that it’s easy to feel like there’s no way anyone else could understand what you went through. Really, I think the only one who can understand is Zach because he was there and went through his own personal hell watching what I was going through.

I’m glad I live in a day in age that women rarely die in childbirth. I try to be thankful for medical intervention because it’s possible that Ramona and/or I would not have made it through otherwise. But I can’t help feeling that I failed. I still feel it four years later, even after reminding myself thousands of times that the way Ramona was born does not invalidate my motherhood and does not make me a failure.

The way in which I feel I failed was in not giving voice at any point to my objection. Once Zach and I checked into St. Mary’s Hospital in Madison, I felt my power and autonomy were completely stripped from me.

We were first put in an exam room to wait for them to ready a birthing room for us. I told them I wanted to have as natural of a birth as possible and that I wanted a room with a tub. No problem, the nurse said, all our rooms have tubs. Except they don’t all have tubs. And there was only one room available for us, the one room that only had a shower. I wish at this point I would have said, “No! I’m staying here until you find me a tub.” Irrational, perhaps, but I labored for eight hours in the hospital before I asked for an epidural and waited another two hours before I received one. If I had spent–been allowed to spend–those ten hours in the exam room, perhaps by then a room with a tub would have been available, and perhaps that could have held me off from the epidural at least for a while. Instead, we took the room without the tub, didn’t raise any fuss even if I was very disappointed. It’s the first what if in the birth story.

I was dilated to six centimeters when we arrived at the hospital on the night of the 19th. I asked to not have frequent checks, and through the night this was respected. Early in the morning of the 20th, they checked my dilation, and I had barely dilated any further. I think this is the moment I gave up. It is the biggest what if moment that I go back to over and over again. I was so tired, in so much pain. But what if I could have endured? What if I could have been patient? If I had given her more time, would Ramona have found her own way?

I asked for drugs and then for an epidural, which I received some time after 8 a.m. The doctor told me to rest, but I was still in a lot of pain and I couldn’t sleep. When he checked in on me a few hours later, my labor was still not progressing. I was exhausted, worn thin with no resistance left in me, so when he said he was going to break my water (yes, it still hadn’t broken), all I said was, “Okay.” Again, what if?

Still there was little progress throughout most of the day on the 20th. I don’t know when exactly, but some time in the afternoon, the doctor decided it was time to speed things along. He said he was going to give me oxytocin to hopefully move me from active labor into the transition stage. Again, all I could find was a placid, weak “Okay.” What if?

At this point, Ramona had no choice, no time, and because of the oxytocin, increasingly no room. She became wedged in an early stage of shoulder dystocia. The doctor tried numerous times to manually turn Ramona by literally inserting his hand and rotating her head, but every time I contracted, she only got more wedged in that position. So he called the surgeon.

All throughout this, I continued to have a lot of pain. Not as much as I would have had without an epidural but much more than the virtual no pain some women experience with an epidural.

The surgeon assessed the situation and told us there was nothing we could do but a c-section. Ramona was too far up to be safely removed with forceps or vacuum (one of the things in her birth that I thank God for because I know how horrific that often is!), and she continued on using scare tactics to get us to agree: “Your baby is tired. She will be in distress soon. And if you continue to labor, you could become incontinent.” I mean, really? Really? I think back to this, and I am so angry at her lack of compassion.

I so did not want a c-section. Earlier in my pregnancy, Ramona had been breech and I cried many times when I thought I might not be able to have a vaginal delivery. If you’ve never given birth, I think it might be hard to understand how I felt about this. And many women have c-sections and are happy about it, and I am happy for them, without reservation. That just wasn’t me. I thought I was stronger than this. I had more faith in my body than this. My mother had fairly easy, by-the-books vaginal births, and that’s what I’d expected for myself.

So I cried, and I talked with Zach, but what could we do? At this point, we were out of options. I had to have a c-section.

Next comes one of the most insensitive parts of the whole birthing process. While I lay devastated and helpless in the hospital bed. the aides who were prepping me for surgery were having a race to see how fast they could get me ready and down to the operating room. I really can’t say anything else about this. To say I am angry, still angry, at their lack of compassion, their inability to even see me as human doesn’t begin to describe it.

If this was the end of the story, I think I could have healed better. If I had gone into the c-section, had a normal, lucid surgery, and been presented with Ramona when she was born, I think I could have gotten over all the what ifs, I could have forgiven myself and the medical profession for the way Ramona’s birth happened. But all of what happened before the c-section is nothing compared to what the surgery was.

If you’ve been given an epidural and are then taken down for a c-section, the practice is that they ramp up the dosage of analgesic and do surgery without a spinal block. They warn you that you’ll feel some tugging. The epidural had been dulling my pain to a point, but I was still having quite a lot of pain during contractions (frequent from the oxytocin). When they upped the dosage, I no longer felt the contractions. Before the surgeon begins to cut, they will test to see if the analgesic is working well by pinching you, once low on your belly and once higher. In the best case scenario, you won’t feel either of these pinches. I felt the higher one.

If a woman feels only the higher of the two pinches, the surgery begins, under the assumption that by the time they are cutting at the higher position (about ten minutes in), the analgesic will have kicked in up there, too. This is only an assumption, though. Not a guarantee. For me, the analgesic did not cover the higher portion of my belly, not right away and not ten minutes later when they were cutting. I won’t go into the details here. You can imagine enough on your own. I will say that after 24 hours of labor, my membranes were very thin, and when one of them tore, the surgery had to continue whether I was in any small semblance of comfort or in complete agony. If they didn’t continue, I would lose too much blood.

They did dose me up with enough other drugs so that at some point, my memory of what continues is washed away, forgotten in what feels like a hallucinogenic fog. Zach says that they very briefly presented Ramona to us before intubating and suctioning her airways (I had meconium-stained amniotic fluid–another reason for the c-section). I don’t remember it. I don’t remember the moment my daughter was born. The moment that’s supposed to be so amazing, that’s supposed to erase the memory of all the pain, and barring that, at least make it all worth it? I didn’t have that moment. I didn’t have any moment. I can’t even remember what time she was born. I always have to look it up in our records or ask Zach. It was some time between 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. on the 20th.

The moment I did have was an hour or so later when I woke up and saw Ramona clean, dressed, alien, somehow mine though there was no way for me to know this other than that I was told this was the child I gave birth to. I held her and said, probably more to myself than to her, “It’s okay, it’s all over now. We’re going to be okay.”

And we are okay. Ultimately, we are okay. I just still wish it all could have gone differently, and I want all the mothers out there who’ve gone through any similar or different form of trauma during childbirth to know: you are not alone, and even if no one else can truly understand, I hope we all as mothers can stand together, because this mothering thing is not easy. It’s not easy on day one or day one thousand or day ten thousand (okay, I’m guessing on the last one, but my mom could attest to this, I’m sure). I woke quickly to this truth, maybe others wake to it more slowly. I only know my own experience.

I keep reminding myself that in the end, the most important things came out okay–that Ramona and I recovered and are healthy, that we are together, and that no matter what happened on September 20, 2012, every September 20 since can be a happy one because it’s another year that God has blessed me to spend with my energetic, smart, empathetic little girl.

Snow Spell

Winter has finally settled deep over Madison, and as I bundle in wool and down, I return again to a sense of wonder.

On a snowy night, my feet wander over ice-and-salt sidewalks, and tiny crystals float from clouds to rest upon my knit hat and mittens, and the silence is deep, all the way to my heart and gut. I am small again. I believe in Magic again, the Magic that was the root of Truth in my childhood.

My daughter believes that if she stamps her foot just right upon the parking lot, ice will flow out from her, just like it does from Elsa. She believes in dragons and in spring sprites who grow small yellow flowers and towering pines. And tonight, so do I, and perhaps if I jump with the right spring in my step, I will float up into the falling snow.

Perhaps the delineation between what I can and cannot do is less clear than I thought it was last summer, when I stood under a blazing sun as I watered the garden and the mosquitoes snacked on my bare legs.

Perhaps this luminescent blue landscape is whispering some spell into my rosy mind.

If I stand still, I can hear Winter ringing her tiny glass bells as snow alights upon my shoulders and grows thick as good cream around my feet.

L’Engle and the Child Still within Me

I’ve been re-reading Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water with my mom, and this week, I read this passage from her chapter “A Coal in the Hand”:

Only the most mature of us are able to be childlike. And to be able to be childlike involves memory; we must never forget any part of ourselves. As of writing this, I am sixty-one years old in chronology. But I am not an isolated, chronological numerical statistic. I am sixty-one, and I am also four, and twelve, and fifteen, and twenty-one, and thirty-one, and forty-five, and…and…and…. If we lose any part of ourselves, we are thereby diminished. If I cannot be thirteen and sixty-one simultaneously, part of me has been taken away.

The way this hits me is as a call for grace–grace for ourselves, our selves, past and present.

It’s so easy to glance back and blame/condemn/scold/dismiss my past selves for their foolishness. And it’s amazingly difficult to love who I was in the midst of my biggest mistakes. But I think L’Engle is on to something: I cannot be whole if I cannot love myself with God’s love–even as time gives me the hindsight to have a thousand if-only-I-had…’s.

I must set the tearful, timid, selfish girl that I was at five upon my lap, let her rest her head upon my shoulder.

I must wrap my arms around the lonely, self-deprecating, depressed college student and hold her tight, as she so needed.

I must hold the hands of the laboring mother and look deep in her eyes and say, “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. This failure doesn’t make you a failure, doesn’t void your motherhood and womanhood.”

I must forgive myself for the things that are most difficult to let go of because all these selves are me: I am the result of them; their lessons are mine. Their thoughts and cravings and perspectives are under my care, and they flesh me out into a roundness of cold and hot and happy and sad and gut-wrenching and fist-pumping and still, slow breaths.

If I forget who I was, I truly am diminished. If I hold all of me and accept all of me and forgive all of me, I grow to fill the wholeness God intended for me.

Rite of Passage

Ramona was sick last week. Tuesday night, as I was singing her bedtime song to her, I caught a look of surprise in her eyes; then, vomit. And then, hours spent sitting by her bed with a bucket. Around 1:30 a.m., she was finished for the night, though she threw up again the next afternoon around nap time.

This was her first stomach bug, and that night as I sat by her bed, as 8:00 turned to 10:00, as I laid out a pallet to sleep on, as I held out the bucket in the dark at 11:45, I saw myself being inducted once again into motherhood. Honestly, it wasn’t so bad, just gross. Still though, it was a moment of change, a time when I realized I have a young child, no longer a baby. Which somehow surprised me and also made me feel satisfied. Knowing I’ll probably not have any other children helps me to be mindful even in the yucky, tiring moments of motherhood.

The most surprising part to me is that I didn’t get sick. My husband got sick, my mother got sick, both my mother-in-law and my father-in-law got sick (sorry, all, for spreading the bug). But somehow, I stayed well. This seems inexplicable, but I’ll take it, knowing full well there may be another time when I’m not so lucky!

Considering the Move

Zach and I have lived in Madison for four and a half years now, and I am beginning to realize this season of our life is waning. I always knew we wouldn’t be here for all that long, but now that we only have one or two more years before we move, my perspective is shifting.

It’s fun for us to consider where we might end up, the exotic or mundane locations that could be our next home. But more than that, I think about the things I know I’m going to miss about Madison.

I’m going to miss our little apartment. I think it’s probably almost the fewest square feet a two-bedroom apartment can be, and it can feel constraining at times, but more often it feels cozy. I love having a space that forces me to keep my life simple, to keep the superfluous objects and excessive purchases to a minimum. I love how short the walk is from the bedroom to the bathroom, the kitchen to the living room, the front door to the far corner of Ramona’s room. Everything is close. Everything is always within reach.

I love the Willy Street Co-op, but I won’t miss it. I wish I had enough money to shop there, but as it is, it’s just torturing me.

I’m going to miss our garden. If we can’t find a place near a community garden when we move, it’s going to be very sad.

I’m going to miss being so close to my parents. My mom comes up many weeks to visit with me and Ramona for a day, and it’s easy for us to head down to their place for a Sunday afternoon.

I’m not going to miss the restaurants. I still miss the restaurants from St. Paul–especially Good Earth, Black Sea, Bascali’s Brick Oven, Mirror of Korea, Izzy’s Ice Cream (okay, Chocolate Shoppe here in Madison is good, too), Java Train, Pop! (gone now, so sad)…….of course, we could end up in some small college town that only has three pizza places and a McDonald’s, and then I might miss the Madison restaurants.

I’m going to miss the bike paths, especially the lakeshore path.

I’m going to miss the free 80 bus.

And if we move out of the Midwest, I know I’m going to miss the weather. I love winter, and also spring and fall and summer. I love having the shift in temperature, colors, and activities. I love layering and snuggling when it’s cold, and I love biking and playing outside with Ramona when it’s hot.

But probably whatever it is that I will really miss is a mystery to me now, and it’s probably something I completely take for granted.

Green Hills and Desert Valleys

For much of my life I thought myself unhappy. I thought that I’d be happy once the “next thing” happened. I tried to fight this feeling, made the tagline of my life, “Endeavoring to live in ‘now,’ not in ‘soon.'” I struggled greatly against pressing ever forward to some future place where I’d finally feel fulfilled.

This has changed in the last two years. Before Ramona was born, I believed having children would be the thing that finally completed my happy scene. It was the “next thing.” After she was born, I was, for the first time I think, legitimately unhappy. Not depressed, just miserable. I found myself finally and unavoidably confronted with my great depravity, with my insatiable desire for ever-greener pastures.

Here I was, living a dream of mine, and I was full of bitterness: giving birth had been a waking nightmare, breastfeeding was painful and stressful, and the always, always-present demands from Ramona became infinitely taxing. I had crossed over the green hill and found myself in a vast desert valley. And it was here, in this desert, that I gave up on looking forward to better days. I realized that the future holds no unbreakable promise of greater happiness—it may in fact hold greater pain. It’s a thing I always knew in my head was possible but never believed in my heart would come to pass.

As day by day I began to fall in love with Ramona (the nature of her birth did not allow for that instant connection some mothers experience after giving birth), I also experienced sorrow upon sorrow. When Ramona was a week old, there was a death in the family. Around that time breastfeeding took an awful dive and we resorted to pumping and dropper feeding. I became very nervous about Ramona’s feedings, and when she had a nursing strike a few months later, I began a hard journey through delayed letdown issues that never really resolved for as long as I was nursing her. I felt lonely and isolated from other mothers; I had a hard time figuring out how to balance mothering with my own personal needs. I wrote a whole series of heart-sore poems like this:

Eve, Fallen
Somehow—between baby showers and birthing class—
I missed that when this bewildered sea creature
wails her awakening to the world,
she will demand my breast at each hour,
creasing and blistering until, in infant’s Eucharist
she drinks blood from my nipple:
drains milk and life from me
so I shiver and fold like a dry leaf.
My eyes hollow, even my heart
hollows as I kindle
this tiny flame that was lit from the ashes
of my body. She nestles clenched, anxious,
lost in this cold world;
I am all pain and weariness. But I am also
mother, feral instinct,
fierce protector.
I pull her toward my warmth; whisper,
This is the good place. I’ll hold you tight ‘til it’s better.

But as all this was unfolding, I was also learning finally how to live in the now, how to be thankful for the beauty still present in my life, for the simple things: a glass of cool water; clean, folded diapers; a ray of light piercing through the living room curtains; blue snow glimpsed out the window during a late-night nursing session. I thought to myself, Perhaps things will get better. But maybe they won’t. I’d be a fool to not search for light and loveliness in my life right now.

And so I found the grace in all that pain. In many ways, my life is easier now. But the lesson has stayed with me: revel in whatever beauty is in this one day, this one moment, even if the big things are all going wrong, even if I’m crying in pain or screaming in frustration. Acknowledge the beauty; it’s there—and it is the only guaranteed good because tomorrow might be greener, or it might be a vaster desert.

If I can let the light in on the dark days, I will be all the more able to bask in the light of the best and brightest days.

I have let go of wistful dreaming for the future. I realize sorrow is probably lurking somewhere in my future, sorrow that may match that of the past. But I don’t dwell on that either. Instead I take the gift of today and do my best to be ever thankful.

Musings from the Mother of a One Year Old

You never noticed the peace. You only recall it now
that the child has fallen in the living room as you are getting dressed
and you run out, half naked, to make sure she is okay and
you hope the neighbors aren’t looking through the window because you weren’t really planning
on giving them a show this morning. You remember
or try to remember
what it was like before your life got so tangled in drool and poopy diapers.
Before, when Children’s Motrin commercials didn’t make you cry,
when you didn’t know any lullabies, when you thought motherhood was sort of romantic,
when you could never have fathomed the mess
would be so beautiful.