I was unaware of the deficits in my life before I had a child. Not in the fiscal sense or the success sense, but in the fulfillment sense. Motherhood is a constant reckoning of emotions and identity. It is an evaluation of everyday, even if you, like I, try to function as organically as possible in everyday life.
The one thing I have tried not to spend too much time assessing is our birth story. I think it's time, four and half months later, to finally attempt a summation, not for validation or because I think it will help someone else. I need to tell it to let it go, to accept it and love it.
I went into labor at 37 weeks. My water broke while I was peeing at 2:30 in the afternoon. I stood in the bathroom trying to figure out if I was still peeing or if this was, indeed, the moment. This went on until I was sticky from my thighs to my toes and the bath mat was completely soaked. I called Matthew at work, who proceeded to freak out and speed home while I calmly packed up our hospital bags. We went to the OB for a check, and sure enough, that strip turned bright blue.
I tried so hard to stay out of that hospital. We had put together this beautiful birth plan; Matthew even laminated it for me. I wanted so badly to have Adeline Sparrow without any medication or interferences. I knew that because my sac broke at one centimeter, it was going to be a long journey. I made Matthew drive the speed limit, and we even stopped at my favorite gourmet/whole foods store for trail mix and cookies. Then, I was ready.
I proceeded to be ready for the next 20 hours before anything really happened. At that point, my natural labor was nothing more than a few contractions here and there and a lot of hunger pains. I walked, I lunged, I squatted, I even skipped and did Monty Python silly walks through the hospital corridors. At 26 hours, they finally convinced me to try pitocin; two hours later, they were pumping 30 cc of it into me, and I was officially confined to an i.v. and the area surrounding my bed. I started having active contractions, but there was still no progression. I was 50 percent effaced and still at one centimeter.
At 28 hours, I was officially disheartened. The doctors wouldn't let me labor much longer without intervening because my sac had been open for over a day. Then, the most terrifying experience I've ever had happened. All I remember is a searing contraction that lasted seven minutes, the nurses grabbing my wrists and pulling me from my side to back, the excruciating pinches of a suction scalp electrode and a syringe full of lack of permission going into my i.v. set up. They had lost my baby bird's heartbeat. The contractions had gotten fierce, but she wasn't going anywhere. My adrenaline spiked so high, I spent a fair amount of time uncontrollably convulsing afterwards.
And then, my contractions stopped all together. As the story goes, they convinced me to try an epidural. Three hours of sleep ensued, and the contractions just wouldn't pick back up. Interventions and all.
At 32 hours, Adeline Sparrow's heart rate was dropping. I was surprised at how calmly my doctor acted. Even with all of the drugs, I discerned the looks of concern on the staff's and Matthew's faces. It was time for a cesarian.
Before the incision, they asked me how I felt when they started pushing on my numbness. "I feel like a trampoline," I said. "Like all of you could just bounce up and down on top of me."
I wanted to cry, but I was all out of tears. It felt so strange to not be attached to that moment. The surgery was so quick; and instead of my hands pulling that beautiful tiny babe out, four latexed pairs removed her from her refuge.
I couldn't see her until they put her on the scale. Six pounds four ounces and nineteen inches. She was a beautiful, blurry mess. They put her next to my head for a few seconds. I touched her hand. Matthew took a quick picture, and then he was off to do skin-to-skin in lieu of my presence.
I wanted so badly to be there; that ache was coupled with an air pocket under my diaphragm that caused pain worse than any contraction I had felt.
I have tried to dissect that overwhelming amount of feeling during those thirty minutes from pre-Adeline to post-Adeline. All I can say is they ran the gamut.
Throughout our labor, I had Sigur Ros' Ageatis Byrjun playing almost nonstop. This is the Sigur Ros album with the alien fetus painting on the cover, and I think the loosest subjective interpretation of the album title is "a good start" or "a good beginning." That is what our birth story is.
I want to let go of the clinical parts, the terror of losing control, the terror of almost losing everything, the anti-climax and all of the negative. I guess that's why it's taken me so long to try to pull this together; I've been stuck in the trauma.
When my little baby bird asks me to tell her about that day, here is what I will say:
I will tell her that we took our time; that we ate our favorite cookies; that we danced and did Monty Python silly walks in the hospital hallways; that she was held like a little joey so close and safe to both her mommy and daddy's hearts after she came out; that we were one sticky mess that fit so perfectly together, the little curves of her sleeping body in a crescent between my breasts. I will tell her that I will never be able to describe that first wave of emotions and do justice to knowing she was safe and healthy and finally with us. I will let go and relish in the monumentally beautiful parts of the story of us.
Friður.
