The Aftermath

I think this is the hardest chapter so far. I don't even know how I can begin to explain all the ways my cesarean (and the events preceding it) affected me. I'm still discovering some of them.

I had an incredibly easy recovery physically. I had very little pain, none in my incision at all. I got up and walked the next morning, I never felt I hobbled. I could carry and care for my new baby with very little trouble. I did have to use pillows for support during nursing for the first few weeks, but that was more out of a fear of pain than any actual pain. I think I only took three doses of painkillers total, and two of those were at a nurses insistence that I would feel pain soon and it would be unbearable. This was already 48 hours after the surgery. The third was my first day at home because we had family coming and I was afraid I would be exhausted and start to hurt. I didn't get infected, my incision didn't reopen. I took my baby for a mile long, hilly walk in her stroller before she was a week old. No, it wasn't the physical recovery that was so hard for me, but the emotional one.

For the first several months, I was able to keep my feelings about everything under the surface. I was too involved in becoming a new mom, learning to breastfeed, dealing with colic, seemingly unending streams of visitors, and of course, physical healing, to do anything else. But I had nightmares. I would frequently wake up at night crying from a dream about people chasing me with knives. Most of the time, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. I would lay there in the dark and suddenly, I would be there, back in the operating room, smelling my flesh burn. I couldn't stand to be touched. I would cringe every time Chris even brushed up against me.

I tried to see a therapist. I went to a woman who claimed to be a specialist in post-partum depression. I told her about my cesarean and everything that went with it. She told me that she didn't believe any birth could be traumatic if the baby didn't die, and so my problems must be stemming from my marriage. I went a few more times, but ultimately knew I would not get help there. I didn't have it in me to try someone else.

By the time Maddie was four months old, my life felt like it was falling apart around me. I could barely function. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't take care of the house, I could barely take care of the baby. Chris and I were fighting like crazy.I knew I needed to help myself, but I didn't know how.

A few weeks later, Chris and I were on the verge of divorce. I was so angry with him. I knew in my head that he couldn't have helped any of it, but in my heart, I felt betrayed and abandoned. Why hadn't he helped me? Why didn't he stand up for me? He just sat back half asleep in his chair while I was brutalized. How could I ever trust him again? How could I forgive him? One night, things were so bad, we decided that it was just time. Divorce was our only option. We stopped fighting and began to discuss how we would work out custody. Eventually he went down to the garage and I headed to sleep on the couch in the living room. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking too much. Finally I realised that I had to tell him everything I had been thinking, all of my hurts and anger. At that point, what did I have to lose?

I headed down to the garage and told him that I needed to talk and he needed to listen. No matter what, he could not interrupt me. And God bless him, he didn't. I let everything spill out. All the hurt and pain, all of the poison that had been building for months. I talked and cried and yelled and cried some more for more than two hours. But it was out. It was over. I slept on the couch that night, but from that horrible, rock bottom place, things began to get better. It was a long, slow process, but each day was a little better than the one before.


I still needed help for me, though, and I didn't know where to get it. I knew I was the only one who could help me, so I started searching. I read some interesting things about art therapy, and so I tried some of that. Getting my feelings down on paper helped so much. I still have many of those drawings and paintings. They still hold so much power for me. I also told my story to anyone and everyone who would listen. At first I'm sure I came off sounding like a raving lunatic. That's what I was at the time, really. I also asked my La Leche League leader if she knew of anyone who had also had a traumatic birth experience. I knew I couldn't possibly be the only one. She is the one who pointed me to ICAN. ICAN, the International Cesarean Awareness Network, is a group dedicated to lowering the cesarean rate and helping women who are recovering from them. ( http://www.ican-online.org/)

I found the ICAN of San Diego web page, and there was a meeting in a couple of weeks. It was an hour away, but I needed to go. I was desperate. I kept looking online for help while I was waiting for the meeting. I came across an essay entitled You should be Grateful by Gretchen Humphries. (Check it out here: http://www.birthtruth.org/grateful.htm Her other writings are fabulous as well.) This essay was my first bit of proof I had that there were others who felt the same way I did about their cesareans. I read that essay over and over. I also sent it to my family members. I especially wanted my mom to read it, because the first thing she said to me after my surgery was, "Aren't you glad you went to the hospital now?" Umm... no Mom, I not. Not at all.

The day of the ICAN meeting finally came. I packed up the baby and made the drive. I was really nervous when I knocked on that door. But Tonya, the leader (and president of the whole organization, but I didn't know that then) opened the door and welcomed me inside. I was the first one there, but others followed soon. That meeting was a turning point in my life. I was surrounded by women who understood me, and I was able to tell my story fully. No one thought I was crazy. I cried a lot that day, and I will never forget those women. It was the first time I heard that a home birth after a cesarean (HBAC) was even possible. Just that brought so much joy to my heart. I had panic attacks even driving by the hospital. I couldn't imagine going in there to have another baby. After the meeting Tonya told me about the ICAN online Email list ( http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/ICAN-online/ ) and lent me a copy of Silent Knife by Nancy Wainer-Cohen and Lois J. Estner. Usually the group's library was limited to members, but Tonya could see how much I needed to read it.

I had heard that this book was widely regarded as "angry." I thought these women were so tame! But this book was so big in my healing process in ways I can't even describe. I think I read the book three times before I returned it two months later. I also paid for my first subscription to ICAN that month. I knew this was a group of women I needed to be involved in. I also joined what is affectionately known as "The List." It is very high volume, two days of not reading and my Email box was full! The love and support there, though, is truly amazing. A group of women, most of whom have never met in person, spilling their hurt and pain, supporting each other, and healing. I've been a member for three years now, and I don't know how I would live without these wonderful women. I've gotten to know them well. But even then, new and hurt, I was welcomed in with loving arms.

Slowly, with the new support I found, and with lots of soul searching, I began to heal. I became a functional mother and wife again. I could finally sleep. The house was coming under control. Chris and I were really starting to get along.

Maddie was 11 months old when Chris left on his third deployment. To keep myself busy, I went back to school full time. We would also be moving soon after Chris got back, and so I was taking care of all of those things. I was doing very well, and healing got put on the back burner.

I met a woman at a La Leche League meeting who was planning an unassisted birth after cesarean (UBAC). I told her that she could call me if she ever needed some support during her labor. I didn't want her to have to go through what I did simply for not having anyone to come. Not long after Maddie's first birthday, the call came. Jessie was having lots of contractions and her husband was underway and couldn't get home. She had been having lots of prodromal labor and we thought she would probably go pretty fast. She labored through the night and into the next morning. We had to call another friend to be with her for a few hours while I went to take a Psychology test (I aced it despite getting no sleep the previous night.) and then grabbed a couple of hours of sleep. I picked Maddie back up from the sitter and we headed back to Jessie's house. She was in the tub trying to relax through contractions that were obviously more intense than when I had left. Our friend had to get home to care for her own children, so it was just the three of us again. It was not easy to take care of Maddie (who cut four teeth that night!) and my laboring friend at the same time. Eventually I had to tell Jessie that I would need to go at 9:00 that evening. I simply could not be up again all night. She called another friend to come be with her once I left. Things picked up while we waited for him to come, and soon she was pushing with the contractions even though she clearly didn't want to. She was flat on her back in the bath tub. I was providing some perineal counterpressure and I felt her water break with one of the contractions. There was some meconium in it and soon the bath water was a dingy grey-green color. After an hour of pushing, she was clearly upset because the baby wasn't crowning yet. She asked me to check how far back the baby's head was. She was about one knuckle deep and seemed to be stuck. We helped Jessie onto her knees in the tub, which brought the baby to the perineum almost instantly. The tub was very uncomfortable this way, so with help, she got out and sat on the toilet. She would stand and hang from her friend's neck while I held her perineum during contractions. A couple of pushes later, Jessie eased the baby's head out. I watched the baby rotate into a better position to birth the shoulders. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. Jessie wanted me to check for a cord around her neck. There was none, but while I was checking, another contraction came and the baby was born right into my hands! I was so surprised and she came with such a whoosh of fluid, I thought I would drop her. Jessie immediately sat down and I handed her baby to her. Then I looked at the door and there was my baby, just watching in amazement. It was a beautiful moment. We got Jessie cleaned up and settled as best we could, and I borrowed some clothes to drive home in. Mine were soaked through with blood and amniotic fluid. Her friend stayed with her through the night and until her husband got home the next day. I lived on that high for the next few weeks. I had never done something so amazing in my life! It made me sad, to really know what I had missed, but it also brought me hope, because if she could do it, so could I.

Midway through his deployment, the ICAN conference was held, near where I lived. I wanted to go, but I had a choice between the conference or a Birth Renewal workshop that was held the same weekend. Some people went to both, but I just couldn't afford it. Birth Renewal was the right choice for me. I spent a whole day just focusing on healing me, as Maddie was with my dad. I even got to meet a few of the people I knew from the List.

Mostly I am doing better now, but every so often things still break through in unexpected ways. When we moved into our new house, I would lay on my back in our bedroom, everything would come flooding back. I kept reliving my surgery. Once again, I could barely sleep and sex was definitely out. Eventually I realised that the light fixture above our bed reminded my subconscious of the large round surgical lights. Chris replaced it with a ceiling fan, and it hasn't been a problem. I wonder though, when the next inexplicable reminder will come.

Madelynn's "birth" story

This story is reposted from my Myspace blog. I wanted to preserve it here, and this way I also don't have to retype it. Telling this story is very painful for me, even three and a half years later. I wrote it during my pregnancy with Emily.

*** WARNING: This is not a warm fuzzy birth story. Please don't read if you are pregnant and trying to gestate in peace. ***


I started this story once already. I got about halfway through when the page refreshed and I lost it all, so this time I'm being smart and writing it in Word! It took me a few days to find the right headspace to tackle the story again. But I really feel I need to get it out there, to cleanse myself of this story. I don't want it coming back to me during the birth of this new baby, so I am releasing it to the universe.

I told the story of Maddie's conception in my previous blog, so I won't rehash it here. I spent until about 18 weeks being really sick. I lost more than 30 lbs. It was really awful, but morning sickness usually means a sticky baby, so it was a relief in many ways. Once I could manage to get myself to the doctor, I went to my obstetrician appointments like a good little patient. But despite the fairly high-tech conception, I wanted a very low-tech birth. So I started looking around for a midwife. I had no idea how difficult it can be to find a homebirth midwife if you aren't "connected," even in a pretty birth-friendly area like southern California. I did manage to find one woman, and I liked her very much. There was just no way that as a poor military family we could afford her fee of $3500. I know now that most midwives will work out a payment plan or something, but at the time I didn't even know to ask. So I reluctantly dropped that plan. But I couldn't drop the idea of a homebirth.

One day Chris said something to me along the lines of, "Let's just do it ourselves." This one simple statement resonated immensely. We did some more reading and decided that unassisted birth seemed like a perfect fit. We didn't really *plan* though, it was more of a cross-our-fingers sort of thing. We also didn't know to keep our mouths shut about it. I told my mom, an RN, asking if she would come attend us. Well, not only was she unwilling to come, she did her best to talk me out of it. She would call us, asking what we would do if XXX complication happened, usually the complication having been dug out of a dusty obstetrics manual and something that happens to one in every billion births. We just had to conclude that you can't control everything and sometimes bad things happen. Bad things happen in hospitals too. If you read the actual research, bad things happen far more often in hospitals than at home. But this was probably the most undermining thing that happened to me. My mother, who fought for and had a vaginal birth after three c-sections, absolutely did not believe in my ability to birth my child. I told myself at the time that I wasn't letting it affect me, but it was. It affected me profoundly. To the point that I didn't even want her to know I was pregnant again when it happened.

At some point towards the end of my pregnancy, we were informed that Chris was scheduled to go underway for a week leaving right on my due date of March 8. I knew there was no way I would have this baby early, after all, first timers rarely go before their due date. So, while Chris tried to get leave so he wouldn't have to go, I tried everything I could to keep the baby in as long as possible. No sex, no cervical checks at the doctor's office, no spicy foods even. I did mention at one of my doctor's appointments that we wanted to go late so Chris would be there. They offered to induce me at 37 weeks, but when I declined, they didn't push the issue.

Eventually, Chris told someone in his chain of command that we were planning a homebirth in hopes of finally being granted the leave we wanted. Boy, did that backfire. They immediately tried to get him to sign paperwork saying he would force me, even against my will, to go to the hospital at the first sign of labor (he didn't sign) and threatening him with court martial if he didn't comply. (This would have been on the grounds of failure to obey a lawful order. It wasn't a lawful order, as kidnapping is illegal. So we would have won, but they could hold him and dock his pay for a long time while it got sorted out.) Doctors from the hospital started calling me at home and threatening me with Child Protective Services. (I called CPS directly and was informed that if the only charge is homebirth, even unassisted, they don't bother to even investigate.) We decided we needed some legal advice. It had to be military, because we weren't doing anything wrong by civilian law. We just had to find out if it was against military rules. So we spent the next day (I was exactly 39 weeks now) in the legal office. The lawyer there eventually told us we were in the right, but they could make us miserable for a long time, which we knew already. But most of the time was spent with her trying to give us medical advice. We were so discouraged. Chris went to try to clear things up with his C.O. and I went home to rest.

After a few hours, Chris called me to let me know that everything was taken care of. The C.O., who had not been involved in this fiasco up to this point, was appalled at how we had been treated. He gave Chris the leave we needed and also prohibited anyone else from discussing it with us. That was such a relief. He had duty that night and had to stay on the boat, but I went to bed. The next morning I woke up around 4:30 to a "pop" and a bit of fluid. I thought it was my plug releasing, though I'm pretty sure now it was my forewaters. I also had this strange "knowing" that I was in labor, even though I hadn't had a single contraction. I got up and went online to let some people on a message board know that something was happening. I got a few light contractions then, but nothing strong or regular.

Chris was having his wisdom teeth out that morning, so I went to the store around seven to pick up some soft foods for him to eat and something easy for dinner. I was pretty sure I wouldn't feel like cooking. By the time I got home and had the groceries put away, the contractions were coming every ten minutes or so, but weren't very intense and I was able to continue what I was doing through them. Chris called to be picked up from the dentist's office, so I headed out.

After hitting the pharmacy for Chris' vicodin, it was almost lunch time. We went out to Carl's Jr. for hamburgers (so much for all the soft food I got!) Then we went out to WalMart to try to get the contractions to strengthen. Chris remembers almost none of this. Vicodin does strange things to him. There was something really neat about being in a crowded place and being the only people who knew that we were in labor. While we were at the store, I had a few contractions I needed to stop and breathe through. We stayed for about two hours and then I wanted to go home.

We were still telling each other and ourselves that we were going to stay home, but deep down I think we both knew that if this child didn't fall out of me, we were going to the hospital. The risk of someone changing their mind about harassing us just wasn't worth it. Plus our spirits were completely crushed. Our long awaited baby was on her way and all we could think about was Chris going to jail!! So when we got home, I started packing a hospital bag. We said it was just in case. We also set out tarps in case my water broke. It took a long time to pack the bag because the contractions were about 5 minutes apart and I had to breathe through all of them. They weren't painful or even anywhere near as intense as they eventually got, but they did require my attention.

Once the bag was packed, we had dinner and watched a movie on T.V. I don't remember now what the movie was, but I remember being amazed at the time that I was still keeping up with it despite the frequency of contractions. Its funny now, but I was sure at the time I was in advanced labor. I was sitting on my birth ball and during contractions I would slip backwards off the ball onto my knees and rest my body on the ball. By the end of the movie I could no longer follow the movie and I didn't care. (I know now this was the switch from early to active labor, but you could not have convinced me of this at the time.)The contractions had changed and were really intense. I felt like I was being twisted around my spine. I had to sit on my knees with my hands behind me and lift my belly in the air or the contractions were unbearable. The strange bit of all this is that I was not in any pain. They were just intense. I was also doing this alone. Chris was too out of it to really help. We tried to go to bed, but lying down was impossible for me. So Chris slept while I labored alone for awhile. I had to go to the bathroom constantly. For some reason, it never occurred to me to just stay in the bathroom to labor. I would have three or four contractions on each trip to the bathroom and the same on the way back to the living room. So each time I would get to the living room I had to head back to the bathroom. I did this for maybe an hour, though it felt much longer at the time.

I woke Chris up because I did not want to be alone any more. I needed someone to tell me I was doing well, that I would get through this. But just him being conscious was an improvement. I tried one contraction on my hands and knees in the shower, but gave that up. Then I had Chris try pushing into my lower back. That helped a lot, but I felt like I was inconveniencing him, so I had him stop. After that, I felt completely lost and confused. I had a few contractions where I was shaking and throwing up. I was thinking, "Finally, transition. This will be over soon!" But when the contractions returned to the way they had been, and for over an hour, I was feeling desperate. I had Chris check my cervix. He didn't know what he was doing, but from his description, I guessed I was about four centimeters. I was done. I could not do this basically alone anymore. I needed to sleep. So we headed to the hospital. It was 2:00am.

The trip to the hospital was really quick; we only lived 5 or 10 minutes away. I was so afraid of dealing with contractions in the car, but I didn't have a single one. I felt so much better once we were there. I was able to handle the contractions so much better hanging from Chris's neck. I was having a ton of contractions. It took a very long time to get from the parking lot to the elevator. I didn't really want to go up to labor and delivery. Something about being outside was wonderful. March in San Diego is cool and beautiful. And Chris was really "there" with me. For the first time, he didn't seem completely spaced out on the medication. But I felt like I had committed. So we went up.

I had already filled out all the paperwork, but when we got to the floor, they insisted I fill it out again because someone needed to see me do it. They made Chris run back down to the car to get some stupid card so they wouldn't have to write down my address two extra times. The whole time they were so cold and awful. So I dealt with contractions while being looked at like I was a bug or something equally vile for ten or fifteen minutes, then was taken back to the room where they decide if you are even in labor. When Chris came back up, they wouldn't tell him where I was, so he's panicking and I'm all alone. For some reason, they insisted I take a pregnancy test before they would do anything else. I don't know the point of that, as it came back negative (only blood tests came back positive that pregnancy. I don't know why.) They didn't do anything different with a negative test than they would with a positive test, at least that I could tell. They made me get into a hospital gown even though I didn't want to, and was hooked up to a monitor, which by that point was showing the contractions as irregular (hmmm… wonder why that could be.) and some doctor I never saw again gave me a cervical check. I was 4 cm, as I had thought, 60% effaced and a -2 station. They said I should go walk the hall because it is impossible to tell if I was in labor because I hadn't had a cervical check before I was in labor. I don't remember what I said in response to this idiocy, but they shut up real quick and admitted me. I wish I had taken the opportunity and gone home. Or, better yet, had the baby on the lawn. Chris finally found me as I was headed to the room.

I was exhausted and really had no strength to fight anything they wanted to do to me, so when I got to the room, I let them hook me up to the monitor and start an I.V. It took the woman a very long time to start the IV and my arm was purple by the time she finally had it. I was GBS positive, so they started the antibiotics. I asked about some IV meds so I could sleep for awhile and get up and labor more in an hour or so and was told I could have an epidural or a spinal. I was not allowed to have anything else. I have no idea why, though I suspect it has something to do with the crap we had been through with being threatened by the doctors earlier in the week. When I requested my records later, huge papers were in two different spots informing everyone who looked at my records that I was a "problem patient." Every time I got up to use the bathroom, some nurse would run in and yell at me for disturbing the monitors. Eventually the anesthesiologist came in to explain my "options." I kept interrupting him for the contractions. I was not going to let him try to talk about the risks when I couldn't pay attention. Once, I heard a woman's voice (a nurse, I assume) in my ear telling me she's never seen anyone handle contractions as well as I was. I never saw her as my eyes were closed, but it was the only time all night anyone said anything nice to me. My eyes still well up, almost three years later, thinking about how nice she made me feel.

I opted for the epidural when it became clear they weren't going to budge on the other medications. It was given to me right away though. And they waited until it took effect to put in the catheter, so it wasn't all bad. Or rather, it could have been worse. I really wanted to sleep, but I wasn't allowed to turn out the lights and someone was in and out constantly. I tried to lie down but if I was on my side, the monitor wasn't registering. That meant someone had to come in and yell at me. I could not get comfortable lying on my back with a rolled up towel under my butt to keep my hip up. So I kept rolling on my side and they kept yelling. Eventually they got fed up and told me if I wouldn't be still I was going to be strapped down. Some of the padded straps from the psych ward were put on the table next to the bed to make the point. My cervix was checked again around this point by the one doctor I had prayed the whole pregnancy I wouldn't have to deal with. I was 6 cm, 80%, and 0 station. For only two hours, this was great progress. But the doctor didn't think so. He told me he was going to break my waters or give me pitocin. I told him he couldn't do either of those. He pushed my legs apart and did it anyway. I was telling him no and not to touch me, but the nurse didn't even blink while I was assaulted. She just hooked in the pitocin I had said no to. As soon as the doctor left, I sat the bed up, which pulled out the epidural, but we didn't know it. Ten minutes later another nurse gave me another dose of pitocin and a few minutes later I had more. No one ever bothered to write on my chart that I had been given the ordered pitocin, so I was given a triple dose, at least. My records just have a question mark under pitocin dosage.

Because I was feeling very unsafe in this situation, my labor stopped dead. (I thought for a long time that I was "broken" because of this. But really, my body did what it should. It tried to keep my baby from coming into a hostile environment. I thank it now.) But my body couldn't resist the pitocin forever. My uterus contracted and wouldn't let go. It just kept peaking and peaking. My baby tolerated this for a few hours, but eventually her heart couldn't cope. She started having the decelerations in her heart rate that made everyone flip. I was given oxygen and people were fluttering around. Some doctor came in and said, "Its okay, you were going to need a c-section anyway. Your pelvis isn't shaped right. But I've had three women prove me wrong just today." Idiot. Someone else came in saying they were going to put in an internal monitor. I said no, and she said, "Well, you can have five minutes, but we ARE going to do it." I was not about to not believe her after what I'd already been through. I was NOT going to let them screw anything into my poor baby's head. So we tearfully decided just to have the c-section now. Once we decided that, we were left alone for over an hour, believing the whole time that the baby could die any second. No one came in, no one talked to us. It was terrifying. I cried the whole time.

Once the prep work began, though, it was fast and furious. I don't even really know what all was done to me. The only thing I remember was hearing, "Its okay, she's still numb." It turned out it was the anesthesiologist. The student wanted to double check to be sure I was numb enough not to feel the surgery. The doctor was trying to talk him out of it. God bless that student, he checked anyway. He's the one who figured out my epidural wasn't even in place anymore. I was still numb a little, but not enough for the surgery. So they knew I needed a spinal. I told the nurse that I didn't want my baby given a bottle or eye drops and I didn't want her under the warming lights. I wanted her to be held by daddy and no one else. She just looked at me and said, "That's a little Woodstock-y, don't you think?" I didn't have much hope my baby would be treated well, so I was very stressed.


On the way to the operating room, the baby's heart rate dipped to the 60's, which is cardiac arrest for a tiny baby. My own heart rate was in the 150's, so everyone thought they just had the pulses mixed up. A quick manual pulse check showed the machines were right, but no one besides me bothered to check. I was given the spinal and Chris came in. Things get a bit fuzzy for me here, because my blood pressure went down to 70/40. I saw it on the machine. I was given two doses of epinephrine to get it up, but it didn't work. I know that I heard the water splash on the floor when they got to the point of breaking the hindwaters. There wasn't enough suction. I heard her cry before her body was out. Just a screaming head. She was peeing as they pulled her out. Someone shouted, "She's peeing in the field!" I think I said, "Good for her!" or something like that. For some reason it made me proud that she was going to give them a piece of her mind. I expected to be shown over the drape, and I was (and am) so sad that I didn't get that. She was taken over to the warming table where Chris cut the cord. He also took a picture of her, and I got my first glimpse of my precious child as an image on a camera screen. That hurts more than I can say. I appreciate so much that he thought to take that shot, but no mother should have to see her child for the first time like that. When I took her out, I was given a quick glimpse, but she was wrapped up so tight and her head was covered in a hat. All I could see was a cloth bundle. I kissed it dutifully, but it didn't matter. The whole time the student anesthesiologist was talking to me and telling me what was going on. Not gory details, but keeping me engaged. After Chris left with Maddie, I think I would have gone completely insane had it not been for him. I had a tiny bit of hemorrhaging and as they cauterized, I could smell myself burning. It was awful. I don't remember much else of the hour it took to put me back together, except that the surgeon seemed to be teaching the resident. (It turned out the resident did the surgery. And in her own words, she did "a piss poor job of it.")

In recovery, I was crying because I wanted my baby so bad. It only took an hour to get her to me, but it felt like forever. It had been two hours since she was taken out of me, and I have never felt so empty in my whole life. The woman in charge of recovery was an older grandmotherly type woman. She was so nice to me. She kept calling around to find Chris and Maddie. It turned out they were in some side room, not where they "should" have been and that was the delay. But she got me all cleaned up, she was very gentle and sweet to me.


Finally my baby was in my arms where she belonged. It took 8 hours, but she finally nursed and didn't stop until I got pregnant again. We had a great nursing relationship, and physically I recovered well. I had no major complications. Mentally, though, was another story. I was a wreck. I was very depressed and the antidepressants actually made it worse. I tried to get counseling, but the therapist I saw simply couldn't believe that it was possible to be scarred from a birth experience if the baby was alive. I was having flashbacks and I couldn't sleep. I cried everyday. I still cry. Writing this out, almost three years later, has been a very tearful experience. I was raped, and humiliated, and robbed of the most important experience of my life. And people think its okay because the baby is healthy. Physically, she was, but she had nightmares too. Constantly. Mental states count when measuring health. And moms count just as much as babies. There is no excuse for the way we were treated. No one should have to go through that.

A loss

I was finally pregnant! But I was still bleeding, at times very heavily. Needless to say, I was worried. When I got home from Texas, I had an ultrasound to check on the baby. I was seven weeks along and the baby was about half a centimeter long. But her (we found out she was a girl at the 20 week ultrasound) heart was beating along like crazy. It was so amazing to see on the screen and hear it pounding through the room. I had brought a videotape with me to record it. I love having that on tape to watch again and again.

At 8 weeks I had another ultrasound, to check her growth, which was exactly what it should be. I was still bleeding, but was assured this was normal and nothing looked wrong. I was released from the fertility clinic and sent to the general OB clinic.

At 10 weeks, I was bleeding very heavily and cramping hard, so I went into the urgent care clinic. I was given another ultrasound, and all they could find was an empty amniotic sac. Two doctors looked and looked and couldn't find a baby. I was sitting on the exam table crying and crying. I couldn't believe it was over so quickly. A third doctor heard the commotion and requested a look. I didn't much care who was doing what at that point, so I let him run the ultrasound too. All of a sudden we heard a heart beat. Completely separate from the empty sac, he found my baby, looking healthy and strong, in a sac of her own. I have never gone from tears of despair to tears of joy so quickly!

The only explanation we have is that at one point I was carrying twins that were either missed during my first two ultrasounds, or no baby ever developed in the second sac. Either way, it explained the bleeding. My body was trying to miscarry the empty sac while also holding on to the healthy baby. I continued to bleed part of the way into the second trimester, but we fortunately never had another scare like that.

Life has other plans...

Chris came home from his deployment in January of 2002. We were planning to start trying for a baby of our own. I was charting my cycles so we would know the best times to try. (For more information on this, check out Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler) The first month, Chris had to be gone during my peak fertile time. The cycle after that is where everything went really wrong. I waited and waited and waited for my morning temperatures to show that I had ovulated, but the cycle stretched on for months. After six months of the same anovulatory cycle, I saw a doctor. Eventually I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. We also got on the (long!) waiting list for the infertility clinic. I was 19. We waited a long time, but somehow, we got into the clinic several months sooner than we expected, and we began the infertility treatment process. I did two rounds of Clomid, a pill that is supposed to encourage ovulation. I never showed any signs of ovulation, even on the highest dose. I was starting to feel very desperate, because by this point we have been trying to get pregnant for almost 18 months. Chris was also leaving on another deployment soon.

I remember one certain appointment really well. It wasn't actually an appointment, because I walked in and begged to be seen. Chris was leaving in two days and I still hadn't ovulated that cycle. I thought we would have to wait another six months to keep trying. I was given a pelvic ultrasound and was informed that I wasn't even maturing any eggs. Nothing could be done right now to help. But we were given a little ray of hope. We were given the name of another fertility clinic in town, a civilian one, with cryofreezers. We could go there, and have Chris' sperm frozen for use while he was gone. There was only time to get one vial before he would have to go on deployment. And we would have to pay out of pocket. So far, we had been very lucky and our insurance had covered everything. We could never have done any of this otherwise.

Somehow, we found the money and went right over to the clinic. We took care of that business, then went home so he could pack. He left two days later.

And was back two days after that. Something had happened and the deployment was pushed back a week! This gave us time to collect two more samples, one of which was able to be put into two vials. This gave us four chances! It was the best we could possibly ask for.

The day Chris left for good was also the day I gave myself my first injection. I was at Debbie's house, and I was very nervous about doing it. The needles are small, and they go into the fat on the belly. But putting a needle into your own skin for the first time is very nerve-wracking. I used ice and numbed up my belly. Then I shut my eyes, decided that was a bad plan, opened them again, and did it. Really it wasn't a big deal. Over time, I got really good at injecting myself. Somewhere along the way I figured out that the ice actually made it more painful, so I didn't use it anymore.

One thing I wasn't expecting was the constant blood draws. Once I started the drugs, blood had to be drawn every day or two to check my estradiol levels. This is a tricky balancing act. Too little medication, and I don't mature any eggs at all. Too much medication, and I could hyperstimulate my ovaries, a very painful and dangerous condition. Fortunately, I never had to deal with this. After each blood draw, I would get a call to let me know how many vials of medication to take that day. Usually it was one or two, but sometimes it was three or even four vials. Once my estradiol levels hit a certain level, I also had daily pelvic ultrasounds so we could actually look at the eggs. We needed to know how many there were and how mature they were. (Okay, you can't actually see the egg on the ultrasound. What you look at is the follicle, the capsule the egg is in.) Because we would be doing intrauterine insemination (IUI) not IVF, my eggs would never leave my body. This can raise the chances of supertwins significantly. This is why it is so important to know how many eggs are going to be released.

Once the eggs were mature, and we were pretty sure there were three or less eggs, I would get a "trigger" shot, to finish up the maturation process and cause the eggs to be released about 36 hours later.

I got this shot with the first cycle and had my first IUI two days later. During an IUI, they take the thawed and washed sperm and inject it into the uterus with a syringe attached to a long tube that is placed through the cervix. It is a mostly painless process, except for the clamps the hold the cervix in view. Those hurt!

Then I waited. Unfortunately, there still isn't any way to determine if you are pregnant much before you expect your period. I didn't have to wait long. I started bleeding 8 days after the IUI. Eight days is not long enough to allow a fertilized egg time to implant. So now we have problem two.

I couldn't start the next cycle right away due to cysts on my ovaries. I had to use birth control pills for a month to shrink them. Then I could do cycle two. About this time, I moved from our apartment into a nice townhouse on a cul-de-sac. A neighbor kindly advised me not to drink the water because everyone who moves into that cul-de-sac gets pregnant. I didn't believe her, really, but what could it hurt? I made sure to drink the tap water!

The second cycle was much like the first, except I had to give myself the trigger shot, which is a much bigger needle and goes into the thigh muscle. Scary! I managed somehow. Then, during the waiting phase, I was also given progesterone to lengthen the luteal phase, or time between the IUI and my period. I went 10 days this time, which is borderline long enough, but definitely not ideal.

Once again, I had to do a month of birth control pills between cycles. I was very stressed and depressed, so when I was invited, I decided to go to Seattle to visit a friend. I started my third round of shots while I was in Seattle. I was still very depressed when I got back, and I saw my general practitioner and got put on an antidepressant. It helped a little, but I came to the decision that this had to be my last cycle. At least for now, probably for good. This time I started bleeding again at day 8. I was devastated.

My grandmother invited me to go one a drive to Texas with her, a last minute thing, mostly to get me out of the house. As was usual at the end of a cycle, I had a blood pregnancy test drawn, because I couldn't take the birth control pills until it came back negative.

We were in the middle of the New Mexico desert when I called for the results. When they told me I was pregnant, I couldn't believe it. My wish had finally come true.

Seeing birth firsthand

My husband, Chris, and I got married when I was 18 and he was 20. He was, and is, in the Navy. Six months after our wedding, he had to go on a six month deployment. New in town, and about to be left on my own, I started looking through AOL profiles for other Navy wives in my area. A woman named Debbie was the only one who wrote me back. She had a three year old daughter and was six months pregnant. We became really good friends. When her husband had to leave on deployment, Debbie asked me to video tape the birth for her. I was so excited! She went into labor the day I came home from a trip to visit family. When I met her in the hospital, she was already in pretty advanced labor. This was the hospital I would be laboring in when I had my babies. Chris and I were planning to try to conceive when he got home right around our first anniversary. Debbie had gotten an epidural that she hadn't originally wanted, but an urge to push long before she was completely dilated proved more than she could handle. About an hour after I arrived, a nurse noticed the baby was already crowning. I grabbed the camera, amid the flurry of "set-up" activity, just in time to catch the one push that brought the baby into the world. The doctor lifted the baby up and, convinced by a previous ultrasound, announced, "It's a boy!!" Debbie looked at her baby and says, "It's a girl!" A bit of a surprise, but all around a great birth.

Except I didn't think so. I hated being in that hospital. It seemed so dirty and dark. The doctor was too disengaged to even look at the baby before making pronouncements as if he were God. The nurses all had snotty attitudes and were frequently rude to me. And why was there such a panic just a few seconds before the baby was born? Why was birth, the most natural event in life, treated like an emergency? I knew there was a better way, and that's what I wanted. I wanted to birth my babies at home, in peace.

In the beginning...

I was born in 1982 by Cesarean Section. I don't have any memory of actually being told this, and I feel I've known it since as far back as I can remember. It never seemed to matter much. My parents maintain that both my mother and I would have died without the surgery. My suspicion is that this is not true, or if it is, the situation that necessitated the surgery was caused by the same doctors that then "saved" us. But these assumptions are the product of what I now know to be true of obstetrics in general. I know very little about my own birth, except what is stated above. Everything else I have gleaned in little, and sometimes contradictory, bits. My mother went into labor with me, and went to the hospital, as was expected. She labored for somewhere between 12 and 24 hours, most likely on her back, stuck in bed, unable to eat or drink. This was, and still is, typical hospital procedure. I have no idea if she had pain medication. I've always wondered, but have never asked. She doesn't seem to like to talk about it. I can't really blame her. Once it was decided to have the cesarean, she was put under general anesthesia because the doctors were afraid a regional anesthetic would impede her breathing. (My mom is 4'11" tall) Other than the fact that the cesarean was performed, I know nothing about what happened afterwards.

As the oldest child, I was my mom's primary cesarean. My next younger sister and my brother were both born by semi-scheduled cesareans. That is, my mom waited for labor to start, but then she went in to the hospital knowing she would have a cesarean. With my sister, she was under general. With my brother, she had a regional anesthetic, probably a spinal. She did have trouble because she couldn't feel that she was breathing, but she never actually stopped breathing.

When I was eight years old, my youngest sister was born. My mom had to work hard and fight for it, but she eventually found someone to help her achieve her dream of a vaginal birth after cesarean, or VBAC. She was in early labor for almost three days before her water broke and labor really started progressing. Once she was admitted to the hospital, I don't know what happened, how she labored, if there were pain medications used, or how long she pushed, but I do know she did have her VBAC!

My mom's struggle for the birth she wanted has stayed with me and profoundly affected my view of birth. I grew up in a household where cesareans were not "just another way to give birth" and VBAC was a common word. Vaginal birth was clearly preferable.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a mom. I don't think the idea of not having children even occurred to me as an option. The first time I remember wondering how I was going to wait to have a baby, I was twelve. At times, my heart would ache to hold the babies I would have one day.

I would come home from school each day and watch "A Baby Story." I loved watching babies be born! My favorite births were the home births. They were so calm and peaceful, the way it seemed to me that birth should be. I hated the medicalization of hospital birth, the monitors and needles and especially the surgeries. I often turned those off. It hurt my heart to watch them.

I frequently thought about becoming a midwife. I never mentioned it to anyone that I recall. My family was and is very involved in the medical community. My father was working construction at the time, but he kept a current nursing licence. Much of my extended family worked medical careers. As I got older, my dad went back to nursing, and my mom became first an Emergency Medical Technician, then an Emergency Room Nurse. Being a midwife seemed counter to what my family believed.

I was a normal teenager. I wasn't a birth-obsessed outcast or anything. I had lots of friends and was involved in many different activities. But birth was always an undercurrent to my life. Something that was always on the back burner. I was crazy-proud of my mom's VBA3C (vaginal birth after 3 cesareans) and I loved to tell people about it. I still do.

I consider myself an intelligent person, but even smart people do stupid things. I got pregnant at 17. I was shocked, and scared, but a little excited too. I ended up having an early miscarriage. It was gutwrenchingly awful, but part of me was glad that I wouldn't be having a baby that young. I was not ready. We (the father, now my husband, and I) named the baby Catherine Marie, even though it was way too early to know the sex. We call her Katie, and still speak of her. I never told my parents.

This history plays a huge part in the birth stories of my own two children, my reaction to their births and the entire course of my life.