When we were making our decision about whether to try for a vaginal birth or schedule a C-section, some people asked us, "why wouldn't you just schedule a C-section? Then you could avoid the pain and difficulty of labor all together." My primary reason against this was a primal one; a big part of me wanted to do what women were built to do. That is, become an amazon and push a watermelon out of a hole the size of, well, something much smaller than a watermelon. Giving birth is wickedly amazing and entitles women to all kinds of well-deserved bragging (and complaining) rights. How cool it would have been to have gone through that and say, "holy crap, look what I just did! Go me."
A secondary reason would be the answer that a C-section is not the easy way out. This was a very secondary reason, though, because while I said it, part of me thought, well, it kinda is. I've been through enough surgeries, including abdominal surgeries, to know how it goes. I can do that. It's not easy, but the idea of surgery is not altogether frightening to me.
We had established a plan to try for a vaginal delivery, and if stage two of labor (the pushing part) went too long, we would go in for a C-section to avoid stress on my heart. We thought this the wisest decision, as fluid shifting after a C-section can actually be much more dramatic than from a vaginal delivery. (The concern was that fluid shifting up onto my heart could cause some complications.) But here's the funny part: we ended up going in for a C-section not because of any cardiac concern, but because it turns out that I have a very, very narrow pelvis. And Oliver had a not so very narrow head.
It took two days to discover that, and on July 2nd, we were sent to the OR for the C-section. Or rather, the pre-op place first. The "pre-op" area was a corner of a room, about the size of our pantry, with a sheer curtain that covered part of it. There were about six doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists, all busying themselves by hooking up new wires, starting new IVs, and taking vitals. And asking me all of the same questions over and over. No, no allergies. Yes, I'm very sensitive to tape. The biggest question was, "have you had anything to eat in the past day?" I hadn't been allowed to eat since about 36 hours beforehand. Nothing except ice chips, that is. But because I married a great guy, there may have been about 5 or 6 Jolly Ranchers snuck into my hands underneath the bedsheets. I didn't mention those. It's not like I'd choke on candy that I sucked down to nothingness.
It took two days to discover that, and on July 2nd, we were sent to the OR for the C-section. Or rather, the pre-op place first. The "pre-op" area was a corner of a room, about the size of our pantry, with a sheer curtain that covered part of it. There were about six doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists, all busying themselves by hooking up new wires, starting new IVs, and taking vitals. And asking me all of the same questions over and over. No, no allergies. Yes, I'm very sensitive to tape. The biggest question was, "have you had anything to eat in the past day?" I hadn't been allowed to eat since about 36 hours beforehand. Nothing except ice chips, that is. But because I married a great guy, there may have been about 5 or 6 Jolly Ranchers snuck into my hands underneath the bedsheets. I didn't mention those. It's not like I'd choke on candy that I sucked down to nothingness.
For some reason, I had been told at several points in this process to say goodbye to my family. Someone told me to say goodbye in the hallway on the way to pre-op. Then they let my family in. Someone else told me to say goodbye before they changed my gown. Then they let them back in. Someone else told me to say goodbye before they wheeled me to the OR. Then they walked alongside my bed all the way there. I began wondering if I was expected to live through the experience. There are only so many times you can say "goodbye" before a life-changing surgery before you start to think of things that could go wrong.
I wasn't worried, though. I was excited, and unbelieveably ready to have this baby already after a long two days of preparation. They let Michael in, and he sat by my head. I couldn't feel pain, but I could feel my body rocking back and forth as they worked towards excavating our little infant. After about 20 minutes, the anesthesiologist said, "okay, you're going to feel a lot of pressure. Immense, and I mean, immense, pressure, a lot of lot of pressure." Thanks a lot, lady, now I have something to worry about. It wasn't that bad, though; it was the absence of pressure that I felt, as if the elephant that I had been carrying around for the past several months had just decided to not sit on my tummy any more. And then we heard that little elephant screech his first cry. We cried, too. They held him up, and I remember thinking, "oh my gosh, we made that? He's actually cute!"
I wasn't worried, though. I was excited, and unbelieveably ready to have this baby already after a long two days of preparation. They let Michael in, and he sat by my head. I couldn't feel pain, but I could feel my body rocking back and forth as they worked towards excavating our little infant. After about 20 minutes, the anesthesiologist said, "okay, you're going to feel a lot of pressure. Immense, and I mean, immense, pressure, a lot of lot of pressure." Thanks a lot, lady, now I have something to worry about. It wasn't that bad, though; it was the absence of pressure that I felt, as if the elephant that I had been carrying around for the past several months had just decided to not sit on my tummy any more. And then we heard that little elephant screech his first cry. We cried, too. They held him up, and I remember thinking, "oh my gosh, we made that? He's actually cute!"
The coolest moment in that room happened when Oliver had been crying; Michael walked over to the scale with him, and said, "Hi Oliver, I'm your Daddy!" Oliver stopped crying, and turned his head to look Michael in the eye. No lie. Here's a picture for proof.
After he got riled up again, they wrapped him and brought him to me. He was crying again, until I said, "Hey buddy, I'm your Mommy." He stopped crying, and yes, he turned and looked at me. It was almost spooky. The most wonderful, heart-warming spooky moment of my life.
I was then made to choose whether Michael would go with Oliver upstairs or stay with me. Oh, how I wanted Michael to stay by my side...but I'm glad that I was thinking clearly enough to realize I would forever regret not having him be there with Oliver for the first moments of his life. I sent him upstairs. Just as he left, I began to feel nauseated. "That's totally, totally normal," said the anesthesiologist. "It's usually just dry-heaving. Very normal." Here's the funny thing about throwing up: you need your adbominal muscles to do it. The very muscles, in fact, that are completely numb from the epidural, and are busy at the moment being sewn-up, layer by layer. How, I wondered, am I supposed to puke when I can't use the muscles? Somehow, my body figured it out. It figured it out, in fact, about 10 times overall. Dry heaving, huh? I'm not sure how 6 Jolly Ranchers and spoonfulls of ice chips can generate nearly anything over the period of two days, but it did. Because I couldn't sit up, there were limited places for it to go. It hit the sterile draping in front of me. It hit the floor below. It covered my cheeks. I had countless people wiping me up, but it quickly turned from embarrassing to absolutely miserable.
Then came the difficulty breathing. "Um, I'm having a hard time taking a breath," I mentioned to anyone who might hear. The anesthesiologist replied, "that's also very normal; it's because they're pushing up on your lungs as they're stitching you back up." I wanted so much to say, "then tell them to stop!" The room got more and more quiet, as the OB behind the curtain requested multiple medications to inject into my abdomen. As I discovered later, the bleeding wasn't stopping. The injection didn't work, so I got another one, this time in the arm. Things got very quiet. The OB didn't ask for any more injections, so I deduced that the bleeding must have stopped...but then so did the pain medication. Sensation crept back into my abdomen , and I knew they were far from being done. They upped my epidural medications until I was completely numb again, but then I began to faint. I felt them tip the operating table back and to the side.
Then came the difficulty breathing. "Um, I'm having a hard time taking a breath," I mentioned to anyone who might hear. The anesthesiologist replied, "that's also very normal; it's because they're pushing up on your lungs as they're stitching you back up." I wanted so much to say, "then tell them to stop!" The room got more and more quiet, as the OB behind the curtain requested multiple medications to inject into my abdomen. As I discovered later, the bleeding wasn't stopping. The injection didn't work, so I got another one, this time in the arm. Things got very quiet. The OB didn't ask for any more injections, so I deduced that the bleeding must have stopped...but then so did the pain medication. Sensation crept back into my abdomen , and I knew they were far from being done. They upped my epidural medications until I was completely numb again, but then I began to faint. I felt them tip the operating table back and to the side.
I didn't loose consciousness, though I was at that point in a very thick haze from the meds. From my fog, I heard something that sounded like a stapler. What was he doing? Collating 72 handouts for his next OB seminar? Later I found out that although a bit muted, my hearing was correct. He was using a stapler. On me, twenty-five times. And then it was finished.
No one in the OR ever said anything to make me feel like any part of my experience was out-of-the-ordinary. In fact, the anesthesiologist had told me over and over that it everything was "very normal." It surprised, me, then, to discover how traumatic it had seemed to me. C-sections are not the easy way out. Neither are vaginal deliveries. They both get the baby out one way or another, but there is nothing easy or natural about it. If I have another C-section, and I probably will, it will not go exactly the same way. But I will be prepared for a few things that I wished I had known beforehand. 1) C-sections take a while. It took them about 45 minutes to sew me up after Oliver came into our world, and it was one of the longest 45 minutes of my life. 2) I'm not even going to have ice chips next time. I'll probably refrain from eating about a week beforehand. 3) When they are repairing the damage, after the baby makes his or her appearance, I might see if they might be able to just send me off to an artificial dreamland. I'm not a fan of hearing and feeling everything that's going on while I'm completely awake. Surgery is for when you're asleep.
Of course I'd do it again. And it's not just for the fact that Oliver is with us that makes that experience so worth it. For the strongest memory I have in that room, the clearest image, the most profound experience, was seeing Oliver, seeing us, for the first time.
Of course I'd do it again. And it's not just for the fact that Oliver is with us that makes that experience so worth it. For the strongest memory I have in that room, the clearest image, the most profound experience, was seeing Oliver, seeing us, for the first time.
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