After about a year of marriage, my husband and I were eager to become parents. We took great care to have health insurance in place before I became pregnant. Despite my fantasies of calmly walking into the woods and returning with a baby, I agreed to follow “tradition” and have a hospital birth. I tried not to mind too much that this meant driving 40 miles every month, and toward the end, every week, because we could not afford to birth at the hospital in our small town. I went a group practice, and worried a bit about being the patient of “whoever is on call.” However, I was assured over and over that it could still be a good experience as long as I had my epidural as soon as they would let me. My gut feeling was to go “natural,” as I have a very low tolerance of drugs. I once had a frightening out of body experience while taking antibiotics, and licking a sleeping pill did me in for days. However, my mother and sisters, well intentioned though they were, insisted that there was no way to do it other than to be induced and with an epidural firmly in place. I figured they knew what they were talking about after all, since they had been through it multiple times.
My parents came to visit near my due date, a 15 hour drive for them. My due date came and went, but I was schedule for an induction two days later anyway, so all would be well. The morning of my induction, I awoke at 2:00 with a very strong contraction. Fully awake, I waited to see what would happen. At 2:06, I had another one. Then again at 2:12, 2:18, 2:24, 2:30, and so on. By 3:00, I was out of bed and pacing. My husband woke up and asked what was going on. I calmly informed him that I had been having contractions six minutes apart for the last hour. He leapt out of bed and began to get dressed. We figured the 40 mile drive would do a lot to cut down on the time we had to wait, so we'd better get moving. My parents woke up as we left and wished us luck, promising to come by later in the day.
We checked into the hospital around 4:00. Soon enough I was in one of the homey decorated birthing suites, and I stripped down and submitted to the first of many vaginal exams. This was the part I had most worried about in my visions of hospital births. I hate vaginal exams, and I wished my husband were in another state instead of watching this. I was declared 3 cm, which I had been at my last appointment. The nurse left and came back to report that the doctor on call had ordered Pitocin, since I hadn't changed in several days. Getting an IV hurt almost as badly as the exam. The nurse, who overall was a nice person, stuck me twice before succeeding. The Pitocin began flowing and I noticed an immediate difference in the contractions. I was still able to bear them, but it became more difficult to find a comfortable position. I asked for help getting out of bed so that I could sit in the rocker. It seemed like it took a team of people to get the IV, the EFM, and me out of bed, but the effort was worth it. I felt much better. About 20 minutes later, a doctor entered the room. This was not the doctor who had ordered Pitocin. He had gone for the day without even meeting me. The new doctor was someone new to me. He spoke with the nurse in the corner, then turned and announced he needed to examine me. I was aghast. I just got out of bed, I protested. But this was the time he had during his rounds, he replied, as he rolled up his sleeves and patted the bed, as though enticing a reluctant dog. Frustrated, I agreed, after all that's how things are done. Once inside, he asked the nurse to bring an amnio hook. I was confused. He didn't even mention he was going to break my water. It turns out he had trouble reaching my cervix anyway. My baby's head was pushing the opening to the side, so no AROM just yet. I asked when I could have the monitor removed and was told that since I was on pit, I needed it all the time, didn't I know that? After he left, a new nurse bounced into our room to say “Hi!” She was a bit too cheerful for me. I asked about the amnio hook, expressing concern that this was going to be done without even mentioning it to me. She assured me she would let me know when he wanted to try again. Gee, thanks.
An hour later, I finally made it out of bed again. I sat on a birth ball, and at this point my parents came by, seemingly confused that I hadn't had the baby yet. I was in no mood to discuss it, and they were shooed out. At this point, the pain was getting pretty bad. I was still able bear it, but I was hearing my mother's and sister's accounts of “natural” birth, and thinking “I dont' have to handle this. I can get relief.” I asked for an epidural, but by then the anesthesiologist was in surgery. They offered give me Stadol instead. But first they needed to know how dilated I was. Nurse Saccharin couldn't quite reach, grabbed her friend down the hall, who also can't reach, and together, they say “Go get Terry. Her fingers are nice and long.” I was beside myself. The exams hurt worse than the contractions, and now I have a parade of people going through my vagina. Terry came in gloved and lubed and I sat up and said “Stop! STOP!” All three nurses looked surprised. I told them in no uncertain terms that what they were doing was hurting worse and to leave me alone. I was then fed a line about needing to chart progress, wanting to know how I was doing, I couldn't have drugs without knowing my dilation, and I do want the baby to be okay, right? Once again, I submitted. It was worse than any exam I'd had so far. I writhed through it, but Terry persisted. I hated that my husband was watching the rape of his wife and doing nothing. I hated that the other nurses seemed to be cheering her on. I hated giving birth. Terry withdrew, declared me a 5, and advised that if they need to get in again, “go toward the right.” A shot of Stadol was put into the IV, and suddenly my world turned upside down. I felt like I was floating on the ceiling watching and I couldn't quite control my movements. I was still in pain, but I didn't even know enough of where I was to deal with them.
Luckily, the anesthesiologist came by soon afterward and administered the epidural. He was kind and compassionate and did his job well and I was thankful to have a human being to deal with for once. I felt immediate pain relief, but I also became very cold. My husband piled some blankets on me, and then when I told him I would sleep, he left to get some lunch. While he was gone, Nurse Saccharin came back and announced I needed a bladder catheter, because the epidural had dulled my sensation to pee. I told her I was quite capable of producing urine when I wanted, so she left to ask the OB. She came back and said the doctor wanted it done, that's how things were done, and didn't I know that when I learned about pain relief in childbirth? Once again, I submitted to the embarrassing procedure, and she left me in tears. I was alone and crying for a very long time. The nurse came back long enough to reset the EFM, which was charting my sobs more than the contractions, but she never said a word to me. When my husband came back, I begged him to fight off the doctor and nurses for me. But he felt as powerless as I did, and under the impression that “that's how things were done,” and “that's what was best.”
The doctor came back, said I was at 8 cm, and this time succeeded in rupturing my membranes. He then explained a bit about his birth procedure and I told him I did not want an episiotomy. He said he'd have the instruments there just in case, but he would try not to use them. Yeah, right.
A little while later I was declared a 10 and ready to push. The nurses put up the foot pedals for me to use, despite my desires to birth in another position. I was instructed to hold my knees back and bear down as long as I could with each contraction, all while the doctor sat between my legs and massaged my perineum. I was past caring at this point, and wishing the ordeal over with. After 20 minutes of pushing, he left to check on other patients and Nurse Saccharin took over the massage. He came back about half an hour later and took up his scissors without even looking at me. In the middle of a contraction, I cried out, “Are you going to cut me?” I swear he looked around to see where the voice was coming from. He told me I was tearing anyway and he thought it would make the process easier. That was the last of my energy to fight. I submitted and my son Dorian was born a few minutes later, cone-headed and dazed after an hour of pushing, twelve hours of Pitocin, and sixteen total hours of labor. He lay on my chest for a few minutes and then was whisked to the corner, while the doctor pulled out my placenta and began the arduously long process of stitching me up. Nurse Saccharin had massaged my fundus, while cheerfully informing me that she knew it hurt, but that it was necessary to curtail the bleeding. My legs shook and I longed to get them off the damn foot pedals into a comfortable position. I asked when I could go home. Nurse Saccharin laughed. I hated her for not taking me seriously. The doctor finished the suturing, and had one final assault for me in the form of a rectal exam. Then I was finally allowed to lower my legs and hold my son.
For the next hour, I tried to come down from my drug high and get to know my new son. My parents came in and congratulated us, and I was soon wheeled up to a recovery room. Several hours passed before I felt up to nursing my son, who was very sleepy by then.
The next morning, I asked again when we could go home, fully expecting to be told it would be later that day. The pediatrician came in and informed us that our son had lost too much weight, going from 7 lbs 12 oz to 7 lbs 4 ounces, around 4 percent of his body weight. He told us that losing 10 percent meant brain damage and 4 percent was almost halfway there, so he couldn't let us go home that day. The lactation consultant came in later and expressed concern over the weight loss and my cracked and bleeding nipples. She too recommended another day at least. Afraid for my son, and tired of fighting, I submitted. I didn't see either the pediatrician or the lactation consultant for the rest of the day, but I asked every nurse that came about the alarming news we had received. I think I was viewed as being a typical hysterical new mom. I had been told my son could have brain damage, but no one seemed to be addressing the issue. Finally, a nurse watched me breastfeed and gave me some ideas which helped a lot.
The next day, we saw the lactation consultant again, and she said we could go home if I took a breast pump to help my milk come in. The pediatrician said we could go home if we came back the next day. He told us our appointment was at 9:00 a.m. A nurse told us 9:15, and when I asked the pediatrician about it, he said it was indeed 9:15, he just wanted us to be there on time. I had had it with presumption, but I was just ecstatic to be escaping with my baby. Coincidentally, it was July 4th, Independence Day.
At our check up the next day, the pediatrician told us that our son was never in any real danger. He was only concerned that I would give up breastfeeding if I went home too early. I still think I should report the bastard.
I breastfed exclusively for 2 weeks, by which point my son finally got back up to his birthweight. The doctor wanted me to bring him back to be weighed often because his weight gain was so slow. I caved and gave him formula, which brought his weight up immediately, but left me with a very poor attitude toward breastfeeding.
My son is now two and I still have nightmares about his birth. I have since had a daughter, and her birth was very healing and empowering (that story is posted here). Even though she was also born in a hospital, she was born half an hour after we arrived, not enough time for more than one vaginal exam, and almost no EFM. Her birth proved what I had already known: my body is capable of giving birth without Pitocin, without mind-numbing drugs, without slicing open my vagina. I had much greater success breastfeeding and was able to go home the next day to enjoy my new family. I no longer hate giving birth.
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