Carol | February 15, 2011
You are never the same after you lose a baby. Even if that little unborn baby was only the size of a big marshmallow. That was actually the nickname my littlest boy gave his tiny baby brother as he was dying. Marshmallows. There was nothing I could do to save my baby’s life. I just had to wait in anguish and go through the motions of miscarrying a most wanted child - MY child.
And then came many months of trying to heal. Trying to get on with life. But I knew the pain would never go away. I knew that having another baby would be an important part of the healing process. I needed another baby. And my dreams came true. I became pregnant again. It turned out to be the most physically and emotionally challenging nine months of my life. I believe the dibilitating fatigue was part of the healing phase of my miscarriage. For the first half of this new pregnancy, I was also constantly worried that my baby girl would die, too. It was hard to live, hard to cope.
But then the long pregnancy was over. And this is how that happened…
Derek had been working 2 1/2 hours away, Mondays through Fridays, for the previous 2 1/2 years. Although thankful for his job, I was very nervous about whether or not he would make it home in time for the birth. He wanted to work as much as possible, and I knew I had to be able to tell him the time to come within reason. I had contractions for many weeks, and then right around the due date, they became very regular. I summoned him home, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Then at 9:30 in the morning of September first, 2010, exactly a week following my due date, regular contractions began again, along with other familiar labour symptoms. After about an hour, I called Derek, strongly suggesting this was it. An hour later, I called him again to see if he got the hint. He did and was on his way. I tidied the house, cooked oatmeal for lunch, and made sure the kids were clean and ready.
When he arrived home, I was relaxing in the tub (after shaving my legs), wishing I could just stay there and give birth. He began pressuring me to get going, but I told him that just because he arrived didn’t mean I was ready to go. If I had wanted to go, I would have already been on my way. I knew the worst thing I could do would be to arrive at the hospital too early. That would leave room for unwanted interventions and unnecessary stress. I took my time getting dressed, putting on my make-up, and packing the last few things. Once I had everything ready to go, Derek put the stuff in the car.
We said “See ya later” to the kids and headed to the hospital which is only about ten minutes away. On the drive, I clocked the contractions at a minute and a half apart. Pretty good timing. We pulled into an expectant mothers’ parking spot, carried our stuff into the hospital, and walked up the stairs to the maternity floor, checking in at around three in the afternoon. I had to stand around, leaning against the wall, waiting for paper work. It seemed to take a long time before we were allowed to go to the birthing room. The chair for the father was behind the bathroom door, so after begging Derek to rearrange the furniture, I tried to relax. I laboured some on the toilet and also on the edge of the bed. A nurse stood where Derek should have been able to sit. I let the nurses check me and even put a stethoscope on me. I was 6 cm upon arrival, but after my water broke (with a green tint) fifteen minutes later, I quickly went to 9 1/2 centimeters.
I am convinced the two nurses assigned to me had never witnessed a natural labour and delivery. They didn’t know what to do with themselves without having a computer screen to give them instructions on my progress. They didn’t seem to know that it makes contractions much more painful when they keep talking to and disturbing the labouring woman. It is so important to be able to completely relax and stay focused in order to prevent pain medication and medical interventions. I kept asking them to put on the birthing bar, and I’m not sure why they were hesitant to install it. Then, a nurse told me she had called the doctor who told them to notify her at about twenty minutes before. I said to the nurse, “Oh, you’re going to deliver it, are you?” She quickly left the room to call the doctor again. I guess they aren’t used to seeing a calm, relaxed, and rational woman during transition.
When the doctor arrived (the one who said to me after my miscarriage, “So, you think you had a miscarriage”), I asked again for the birthing bar, but still, they did not put it on. It took asking one more time. They didn’t understand that my body would hold back until everything was ready for me. That’s how it works. It took a little while for them to figure out how to install the birthing bar, and then I climbed on the bed into position. The bar proved helpful for my previous four births, but little did I know that it would cause trouble this time around. My labour was getting harder, and I began to push. My previous birth had only taken two pushes, so I couldn’t understand why it was taking longer this time. Later, I found out that the head was out, but I had no idea. At that point in delivery, it can be impossible to tell, and I couldn’t see. The doctor told me to, “Push, push.” I knew this was the typical thing to say, no matter the stage, so I did not make an unusual effort. I was getting fed up with the nurse putting the stethoscope on me. I can’t believe I put up with it that long, and I wish I had realized it earlier. I finally told her, “Please get the stethoscope off me.” The doctor told the nurse to back off, and told me to push. I noticed a worried look on her aging face. I realized it was important when Derek told me to push as well. All of this happened in seconds. Derek telling me to push made me understand something was wrong. I looked at my leg, and told them it was on the wrong side of the bar. The doctor didn’t care or think that was the case and just wanted me to push. I took charge of myself and put my leg on the other side of the bar which made the birth canal wider, and I pushed out the baby easily. This was at 4:30 P.M. I noticed my doctor tell a male doctor in the doorway that she didn’t need him. She must have hit an emergency button for help because the baby’s shoulder had been stuck. I was the first to see that she was a baby girl. I noticed she was very mucousy as well. I know the doctor was more than a little rattled with the shoulder being stuck, but I wish she had known enough to communicate that bit of information during the birth. It would have helped to know the head had been out instead of half-way up the birth canal like I thought. I was shocked when they gave us a three-second skin-to-skin hello and whisked my baby right over to the bassinet while I pleaded for them not to let her arms flail. (It breaks my heart to see that on birthing shows.) The male doctor took charge of the baby, suctioning her nose and administering oxygen. My doctor waited impatiently for the placenta. I am always disappointed with how anxious she is to hurry that out of me. I knew they were waiting for it to come before they gave my baby back to me. They should have given me my baby to nurse which would have helped it come more naturally.
No matter how much I want to stand up for my rights, birthing circumstances make it almost impossible to fight the system. You need an educated natural birthing advocate who knows your birth preferences and the difference between routine procedure and what is necessary. I did the best I could, but each of the five times I have given birth, I have longed to live in an area that offered natural birthing support.
Baby had already peed a lot on the bassinet, so we’ll never know how much more she would have weighed than the ten pounds, two ounces recorded. She measured 21 1/2 inches long. They put a newborn diaper on her, but after realizing it was too small, they had to hunt for a size one. Finally, they gave me my darling baby daughter who latched on and began to breastfeed like a champ right away.
We called home to tell the children. We also called other family members. N16 drove his siblings down to visit right away. They were delighted to meet their new baby sister. It was a very exciting and special time for the seven of us. We took a few pictures. There were no nurses in sight. They spent the next couple hours doing paper work – not kidding. We all had Subway for supper, right there in the birthing room.
We dressed Baby GC in a little yellow and blue outfit that matched C9 and her doll. The first person, outside my own little family, to see Baby GC was Grampie S. Then Grammie came in the room, and Derek’s parents soon followed. We took more pictures. Baby GC nursed the whole time.
Eventually, they told me there was one bed available (in the whole hospital). I paid for private rooms for my four previous births, so I was very disappointed that I was expected to share a room. I decided to give it a try. I held the baby and was wheeled into the room. There wasn’t a pillow for the bed. We asked the staff for one, but they came back empty-handed. The woman in the next bed had brought a pillow from home, so she offered me hers. I wondered how I could possibly breastfeed and co-sleep with only one pillow. Impossible really. The room was severely hot. Visitors for the woman in the next bed had to go by my bed. I had to go by her bed and her visitors to go to the bathroom. That is not fun after giving birth. The beds made the worst possible racket and the woman next to me just couldn’t get hers comfortable. Squeak. Squeak. All in all, I was shocked at the difference in the hospital since I had first given birth there. There was less help and comfort for each birth. The environment and support this time was absolutely unacceptable to me. They consider the hospital to be breastfeeding friendly, but as an experienced breastfeeding mother (almost 12 1/2 year veteran), I found it terrible. I felt so bad for the young mothers who have to learn to breastfeed for the first time in that environment. Finally, about four hours after giving birth, they wheeled in the baby bed/cabinet with supplies. I wonder what took so long.
I imagined my lovely nest at home, and knew (from past experience) that I would get little sleep, no rest, and next to no help at the hospital. The nurses are usually kind and nice, but they don’t have time to help, and Derek will never stay the night. When I made the decision to go home, you can be sure that the environment must have been pretty bad if my grandparents and in-laws fully supported and understood my reasons for taking my baby home when she was only 4 1/2 hours old. Even though it was a very warm evening, we decided to put the same little white sleeper on Baby GC that all four of my other babies wore home from the hospital. After stuffing the diaper bag with the few diapers that were in the baby bed/cabinet, and buckling the baby in her carseat, we headed down to the van. At around nine in the evening, we met my parents as they were driving into the hospital parking lot and told them to follow us home.
That is how joy returned after the mourning. For me, Baby GC is the embodiment of joy itself. She has smiled since she was born. I still get worried that she will die, but I try to let it go.
“I thank my God upon every remembrance of [her].” Philippians 1:3
I do fear I have a “Abraham-loved-Isaac-too-much” problem, but I guess the first step is to recognize it.
The day I described above was only the beginning of a delightful adventure of getting to know and enjoy another precious soul on her journey through life. And we are truly blessed to have been given this opportunity.
Category: Baby #6, Health, Journal 2011, Miscarriage, Parenting Attachment, Parenting Breastfeeding, Parenting General, Parenting Pregnancy, Parenting Sleep Sharing |
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