Through blood, sweat and tears, we become mothers

8 Notes

I’ve heard two things that are absolutely true. The miracle of pregnancy and childbirth goes beyond the acts; the miracle is that women are willing to do this more than once. Second, the miracle of childbirth and postpartum is that, almost supernaturally,—and barring extreme cases—you survive them.

For two weeks prior to giving birth, I was dilated 3 to 5 centimeters and 90% effaced. Finally, on February 2nd, I’d had enough. By 6:00 a.m. on February 3rd, I was in a labor and delivery room attached to a Pitocin drip. I’ve never been one for surprises, anyway. I slept through most of my early contractions which surprised the nurses, but my nerves kept me awake most of the early morning; I slept, at most, a total of two hours. At noon, my doctor broke my bag of waters. And then, I felt waves of the most extreme, unbelievable contractions. None of my childbirth lessons, pep-talks, focus exercises, or music truly prepared me for that pain; I simply had to let my body and mind take over. From then on, I was on autopilot. Between contractions, I glanced at a photo of my late mother. In it, she was 8 months pregnant with me standing behind a table full of baby shower gifts, and she smiled widely—perhaps someone had just made her laugh. I stuffed the photograph in the pocket of my hospital gown; at the peak of a contraction, I pressed her to my chest.

At 5:00 p.m., I was fully dilated and ready to push. My sister asked me to describe the urge to push. I’ll be perfectly honest: it feels like the most urgent bowel movement you can possibly imagine. I felt that urge deep in my pelvis, in my groin, in my back, and yes, in my rectum. There’s a learning curve to pushing—and maybe every woman is different in this regard—but, at first, I tried to push from my head, chest, and back and through my held breath. I was surprised that my strength came from my abdomen and hips. I had to learn to stop focusing all of my power in my head and focus my strength towards my lower half. That seems like common sense, but like I said, you forget all of your “training” pretty quickly until you truly focus.

Just my luck: after my first round of pushing—MIGRAINE. A whopper of a migraine. Of course, I’d been assured over and over by my OBs and my neurologist that there was no way I’d suffer a migraine during delivery. Well, then. I panicked for a moment. My first thoughts were that I’d push so hard I might burst a vein in my head, or that I might suffer a stroke, or that I would not be able to continue pushing and have to opt for a c-section. Paul held my hand and helped me to regain my focus and my confidence in my body. “You can do this,” he assured me. And I did.

Marcel, of course, was not presenting as he should. Instead of facing the floor—the ideal presentation—he was facing my left thigh. No amount of rotating and repositioning attempted by the doctors and nurses helped. I had no choice but to push this stubborn boy out the hard(er) way.

I have to pause here and commend my delivery staff. The thought of delivering in a hospital makes some women squirm: their first thoughts are of a sterile, un-woman friendly, machine-happy, traumatic environment. My OB dimmed the lights of my delivery room. She sat on the bed with me and gently guided me to push and rest. And here’s the amazing part: she allowed Paul, my best friend Connie, and me to deliver Marcel alone. The three of us did the bulk of the work. It was the most intimate, beautiful experience of my life. The love of my life and my best friend coached me through intense pain, fear, and uncertainty. I know, I know, that I could not have delivered my son without both of them by my side.

Finally, at 5:39 p.m., Marcel Javier emerged from me. He wailed almost instantly with impressive lung power. He was enormous and bloody and absolutely beautiful. Within minutes, he was at my breasts and remained there for the next two hours.

Today, Marcel is nearly two months old. He is a demanding, stubborn, and temperamental little fella’. I won’t lie—I’ve had a difficult adjustment to motherhood. For the first month, I was almost completely worthless.* I tore naturally; a second degree tear (skin and muscle!) from my vagina to my sphincter (yup). My postpartum recovery has been trying, to say the least. Only now am I beginning to emerge from the fog of the pain and constant bleeding. I’m getting the hang of this mom thing, finally. I’m growing—as a mother—along with my child. I’ve learned to have infinite patience and infinite warmth and smiles. And I’ve learned when to anticipate projectile bodily fluids while changing a diaper in under 3 minutes. I have the utmost respect for single parents (not that I didn’t before, but I did not quite grasp the magnitude of their sacrifice until now).

Today, I wrote: “Although my life is at times hectic and stressful, I’ve never before felt such a sense of purpose and responsibility. I can’t imagine life without my little family.”

And that’s absolutely true.

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*A huge shout out to my husband, daddy extraordinaire, who never lets me feel overwhelmed or overworked. Marcel and I are so blessed to have him in our lives.