Sunday, November 3, 2013

Ninja Baby's Traumatic Birth Story

This is what I looked like after about 18 hours of labor.  This was taken right before it was time to push.  I pushed for four hours before being rushed down the hall to the OR to have a code blue c-section.

I considered not posting this photo, but then I decided that there is no reason to hide the ugly part of having a baby.

 A new baby is a beautiful thing.  A brand new life is perhaps the most beautiful thing in the entire world.  Giving birth, however, is not always a thing of beauty, at least not in the way you think.  Every woman is not fortunate enough to have the wonderful, beautiful birth experience you read about on natural birth blogs.  My birth experience was not wonderful.  It was not beautiful.  It was a nightmare.  It was terrifying.  It was ugly.  The ugliness brought forth a beautiful new life, but it was ugliness all the same.

I wrote a birth plan when I as 19 years old.  It was an assignment for the first mom/baby nursing class I ever took.  I have been very attached to this birth plan ever since.  A decade went by and I was pregnant with my first baby, and as my due date approached I dug out this birth plan and it was still exactly what I'd always wanted giving birth to be like for me.

My husband and I took Lamaze.  We prepared for my ideal birth experience:  natural pain management, lots of movement, not being tied to a bed, intermittent monitoring, walking, rocking on a birth ball, sitting in a jacuzzi tub, no epidural, and absolutely NO C-SECTION!

I went into back labor at 3 AM.  I got to rock on a birth ball and walk around at home, but the second I got to the hospital my entire birth plan got ripped to shreds.  They hooked me up to monitors for the initial vitals check and my heart rate was already unstable.  There would be no intermittent monitoring for me unless my heart stabilized.  They told me as soon as my heart rate became less erratic they'd let me use the jacuzzi tub.

Ten hours later I was still hooked up to several IVs and monitors, and my heart rate was even more erratic than it had been. I had not been permitted to get out of bed or do anything to manage the absolutely excruciating pain of back labor.  So I allowed the midwife to give me fendol via IV for pain.  I got an hour of relief and was able to rest.

Right before I hit transition my heart rate went through the roof and an epidural was recommended to manage the pain the cardiologist thought was responsible for the increase in my already tachycardic pulse.  My heart rate was dangerously high and if it didn't drop I was going to have to have a c-section.  So I ended up with an epidural.

The epidural did not slow my progression as is often the case.  Nor did it stop me from being able to push effectively.  I pushed for four hours.  I was exhausted, more exhausted than I've ever been in my entire life.  At one point I even told the midwife I couldn't push anymore. I just couldn't. I was too damned tired to keep pushing.  Kenneth said, "Yes you can, baby.  You can do this.  You are the strongest woman I know.  You can keep pushing."  So I kept pushing.  I kept pushing every thirty seconds for another hour and a half straight.  I could see her head in the mirror when I pushed.  She wasn't low enough to come out just yet, but she was getting there. I could see her head.

But my heart was done.  It had given all it had to give, and unbeknownst to me the nurse had turned the sound off on the monitor hours before so as not to alert me to the constant alarm set off by my ever increasing pulse.  Kenneth says the midwife and nurse were exchanging worried glances with him and mouthing out medical instructions to one another every time I closed my eyes.

The midwife left the room.  I didn't even notice.  She came back in with a bunny suit for Kenneth.  She whispered something to the nurse and then she looked at me, "Jennifer, I know you don't want to hear this but it's time for a c-section."

"No. I can't. I can't have a c-section. I can see her head--"

The nurse was already pressing on the brake for my bed and two other people were in the room messing with my IVs, shaving me, rolling the bed down the hall....

The midwife walked next to my rolling bed.  "We have to do this.  For you and for the baby.  Okay?  It has to be done."

Then I was in the OR and being strapped to the operating table while an anesthesiologist told me she was about to increase the drugs in my system and a doctor I'd never seen before in my life started slicing me open before they even had the shield up to keep me from seeing it.  As I watched him cut into my abdomen I started crying, "Where is my husband?"

"He's coming.  We sent a nurse to bring him in here.  It's okay. Calm down," Some random person behind a surgical mask said to me as she tugged the shield into place, blocking my view of my bleeding and open abdomen.

Then Kenneth was there next to me, holding my hand and brushing my hair from my face and smiling.  He said it was all going to be okay and despite the tugging and pulling I could feel as they pulled my baby from my body, I was calm for a moment.

"It's a girl," Kenneth announced.  And then my baby didn't cry.

"Why isn't my baby crying?  Why isn't she crying?  Oh my god!"  I was crying again.

"It's okay. She pooped in you, remember?  We don't want her to breathe in the meconium so we're trying to keep her from crying until we get her clean,"  my midwife said.

"Thank God.  I want Kenny to trim the cord, please."

So Kenneth walked away to trim Ninja Baby's umbilical cord and I tried to look at my baby from the corner of my eye because I so desperately wanted to see what she looked like.

Then Kenny appeared holding this beautiful little baby near my face and smiling, and then he wasn't smiling.  And then someone said, "Let the NICU nurse have the baby to check her out.  Sir, you're going to have to get out now."  And my husband was shoved from the room as we both heard someone else say, "Why is she still bleeding?  There's too much blood."

And then I was cold.  So cold. Colder than I've ever been.  And my heart hurt.  And things looked fuzzy.

My midwife was suddenly bent over next to my face, peering into my eyes.

"Jennifer, I need you to stay awake.  Do you hear me?  Stay with me!  Open your eyes!  Damn it! Stay awake!"  she yelled at me.

But I couldn't stay awake.  I wasn't cold anymore.  I wasn't anything anymore.  I can't stay awake.  I can't keep my eyes open.  Oh god.  I'm going to die.  I'm going to die before I ever get to hold my baby.  Tell them to tell Kenny you love him.  Tell them to tell the baby you love her....why can't I get the words out?  And then everything went black.


Beeeeeeeeeeeep!!!  Beeeeeeeeeep! Woooooo! Wooooo! Woooooo!  I tried to open my eyes. My machine was going off. I could hear it.  My eyes blinked open.  There was my nurse and there was my husband.  I was cold again. Freezing.  My eyes closed.

"Jennifer, can you open your eyes?"

No.  Blackness again.

According to my family I wasn't stable enough for them to bring me back to my regular room for nearly 5 hours. My cardiologist later told me he advised them to put me in a regular room even though they wanted to place me in the ICU.  He told them he knew his patient and I would likely recover better in the Birth Place than in the ICU.

I only remember the scattered pieces I've described to you.  I awoke to Kenneth holding our Ninja Baby in the Birth Place.

There is more ugliness, more horror than what I've described here.  There are much worse things we experienced, much worse things I experienced in the OR.  There are things I will never discuss with anyone.  There are memories I will never share, ugly memories.

Yet the most beautiful, perfect thing I have ever seen came from all this ugliness...our miracle baby.

1 comment:

  1. I love this. There is a beauty in the truth and endurance of what you survived as well as the obvious beauty of the ninja baby. Never doubt your strength. Never.

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