Micah

As I enter the final month or so of my second pregnancy and consider whether to write out her birth story when the time comes, it occurs to me that I probably owe it to myself and to my first-born son to start with his.

It was mid-October 2008, just five months after graduating with my BMus from NYU. I was twenty-two, unsure of where life was taking me, but living happily with my partner of almost four years in our Bensonhurst apartment. I suspected I might be pregnant, but had been wrong before. I waited until I was a week late to take a test, and for the first time in my life received a positive result. I was stunned, but not surprised. I showed Daniel the positive test right away. He was surprised, but happy. Daniel went to work, and I had the day to process my thoughts. I wasn’t really ready for this. We couldn’t afford this. We’re not married. Will my parents be disappointed in me? By the time Daniel returned home, I had taken a second positive test. Despite my fears, I knew this was the direction our life was meant to go. We decided to tell our immediate families that evening. Everyone was thrilled for us and excited to welcome the first grandbaby to the family.

Neither of us had health insurance. Daniel quickly did lots of research and applied for a plan through the Freelancer’s Union. We headed to City Hall to become Domestic Partners on Halloween. It took several weeks for the insurance to kick in, and I didn’t see an OBGYN until I was twelve weeks along. We decided to go with a recommended provider at Maimonides Hospital. She was very nice and attentive, but very busy. I often waited an hour or more past our appointment time. Overall, my pregnancy was normal and easy. I showed up for my appointments, test results came back without concern, I felt good. We found out we were having a boy. We attended birthing classes through Maimonides, and when asked about my birth plan I expressed that I was open-minded and didn’t have any expectations. If I needed an epidural, fine. Labor augmentation? Sure. But the instructor never asked if those attitudes applied to a C-section birth, and I honestly never considered that being a possibility for me. I was young, healthy, and had an easy and uncomplicated pregnancy. Why would I require surgery to have my baby?

My estimated due date was June 22, 2009, and as that date approached I became more and more anxious. I was scared of spontaneously going into labor and being unprepared or alone. My mom was coming into town for a week, and I felt like I needed her there to get through labor and delivery. I was also looking forward to attending a function in mid-July and didn’t want labor or a too-fresh newborn to interfere with my plans. I put an immense amount of pressure on myself to deliver, and to deliver soon. At my next appointment, I asked about induction. My doctor checked me and I was completely closed, no effacement, and baby was high. There were no signs that my body was preparing for labor. She palpated my abdomen and said that the baby felt big, and because of this, we could go ahead and schedule the next week’s appointment at the hospital and induce if we wanted. I was thrilled! This was perfectly convenient and my self-centered fears seemed to dissipate.

I shared the news of my impending induction with family and a couple of close friends and didn’t understand when they didn’t share my enthusiasm. My sister told me I should let him bake a little longer. Mom told me that baby would come when he was ready. Dad asked if induction was safe. Friends kept their opinions to themselves, but I could feel their concern. I assured them all that there was nothing to worry about and that I trusted my doctor.

I woke up on the morning of June 23, at forty weeks and one day pregnant, nervous and excited. Daniel, my mom and I took the subway to the hospital and waited in triage for my doctor. I was hooked up to a monitor for both fetal heart rate and contractions. Heart rate, normal. Contractions, none. My doctor arrived and performed a pelvic exam. No change from the previous week. She then handed me a clipboard of papers to sign to proceed with induction. It still baffles me that she didn’t send me home when conditions for induction were so unfavorable. She explained that most of the legal jargon boiled down to an acknowledgment that there was a “less than one percent chance that my induction could result in a C-section.” She left the room to give me a few moments to think it over. My mom said she thought we were here too soon and all of my fears flared up again. I responded defensively. I had made up my mind and signed the papers. My doctor returned and reported that no beds were currently available and that I should ambulate from the hospital until I got a call to come back. We headed home and I did my best to get some rest. It was too hard to sleep, so I spent the afternoon Googling induction, asking friends who had babies about their experience, and tried to call our birthing class teacher to ask her opinion. Something inside me was starting to have doubts, but nothing I found online and nothing my friends told me was enough to change my mind. Too little, too late.

We got a call around 8:00 PM to come back to the hospital, so we did. Once there, we waited another couple of hours. Nurses kept asking me how far along I was, and every time I answered they would ask why I was there. That made me feel awful. I kept responding that my doctor said the baby felt big.

I was finally admitted, but there were still no labor rooms available. I was placed in a ward with two or three other laboring women. It was terrible. The other women sounded miserable. The nurse inserted Cervidil shortly after 11:00 PM to promote cervical dilation and I started having strong, fast, and inconsistent contractions right away. I felt totally unprepared for this. I expected contractions to gradually increase in intensity, but these were immediately intolerable. By 3:00 AM I couldn’t take it anymore and was administered Stadol to manage the pain. I fell asleep instantly and required an oxygen mask to keep my levels normal. In less than two hours, the pain was back and just as horrendous. By 7:30 AM I was begging for an epidural. I was given a pelvic exam and my cervix remained unchanged. They proceeded with ordering the epidural anyway. I received the epidural two hours later at barely 1 cm dilated.

They moved me to a private labor and delivery room where I was given Pitocin to regulate and increase the intensity of contractions. I had unexpected and uncomfortable reactions to the anesthesia. I began shaking uncontrollably and itching all over. The pain was gone, but these other symptoms were equally annoying. At 2:00 PM my doctor arrived to perform a pelvic exam. I was 4 cm dilated and eighty percent effaced. My water broke spontaneously shortly after the exam. My body doing something on its own, naturally, was such a hopeful moment.

At 6:00 PM the epidural wore off for the first time. Top-offs were ineffective and the discomfort was intense. They continued to increase Pitocin. Five hours later, I was beside myself with pain, thirsty, throwing up, being told to change positions to get a more favorable heart beat from a baby being squeezed against an unripe cervix. A sweet nurse came in and breathed with me for a few minutes. The relief I felt in those minutes was shocking. Her insistence that I could do this, and her willingness to walk through each contraction snapped me out of the panic. I wished she could stay with me. They redid my epidural, but relief was only temporary. It wore off again in a few hours.

It was after 2:00 AM on June 25. I was 8 cm dilated and one hundred percent effaced. Baby’s head was through the pelvis and I was experiencing a lot of pressure, but couldn’t push due to another stall in dilation. They started changing my position frequently again, saying baby was showing signs of distress. It wasn’t long after that when my doctor recommended an emergency C-section. I was exhausted and in pain. I had been laboring on my back for nearly 28 hours. I had lost all self-confidence and sense of hope. I agreed to the C-section. My family knew this wasn’t what I wanted, but everyone seemed relieved, myself included, that this would be over soon.

Daniel was with me in the operating room. My arms were strapped down and I was shaking and itching again from the anesthesia. The doctors didn’t tell us what was going on behind the blue curtain, and before I even knew I had been cut open, I heard my baby cry for the first time. He was born at 3:19 AM. I didn’t see him for several minutes – not until Daniel brought him over wrapped in a hospital swaddling blanket. I gave the baby a kiss, but couldn’t touch him because my arms were still strapped down. I was emotionally numb, but physically in pain from the placenta delivery and abdominal reconstruction. I felt like no one was listening to me. Now that the baby was out, I was invisible. The Anesthesiologist topped me off and we named our son. Daniel took Micah out to meet my family while they were stapling me up. I’m still sad that I wasn’t able to see their reactions.

Micah was taken to the nursery and I was taken to a post-operative recovery ward where my family was able to briefly check in on me. I asked how much Micah weighed and was told 7 pounds 1 ounce. They had to be wrong. Where was this big baby that justified my induction? My heart sunk. This was all for nothing. Hospital policy was that family could not spend the night, so everyone went home to rest up. I drifted off to sleep in the recovery ward, alone, and without having held my baby yet. They moved me to the post-partum floor where I shared a room with another recovering patient. I held Micah for the first time more than four hours after he was born, but had to call a nurse back a few minutes later. I felt myself nodding off and was afraid I’d drop him. Daniel, my mom, dad and sister came back in the early afternoon and we spent the day trading off holding and feeding this sweet little boy. He slept the majority of the time. I was tired, swollen, and in a daze that kept me from enjoying this time with my family.

I sent Micah back to the nursery that night, unable to get out of bed on my own to tend to his needs. I tried to fall asleep and began to sob. I felt robbed. I wasn’t able to birth my baby the way my body was built to. I couldn’t hold him immediately after birth and felt our bond had yet to be established. He wouldn’t latch to my breast. I felt like a failure, both as a mother and as a woman. But at least I had a healthy baby…

Micah’s birth scarred me, physically and emotionally. I felt like a fool for being so ignorant and for kidding myself into thinking I had no expectations for what my birth experience should be. I figured out quickly that sinking into self-pity did me no good, and it certainly didn’t make me a better parent to my new baby. I sought healing through others’ birth stories, through getting honest about the feelings surrounding mine, and through a commitment to educate myself about birth regardless if I became pregnant again. Ultimately, I knew I would do it all again, exactly the same, if it was the only way to bring another child into this world. My son makes every moment of that labor and operation completely worth it.