A Lover or a Fighter?: Part Two

(Find Part One... here.)


No more "back on the birth plan." The doctor wanted to get right back to business. We protested. But, "You're still in danger. We need to get this baby out of you." Oh. Yeah.

So my water was broken, IV and monitors were hooked back up, and the pain began. I went almost directly into transition. And from there, things get awfully cloudy in my memory. I remember being able to relax and do slow, deep breathing through the contractions to begin with. But as time wore on, I lost all sense of time, purpose, and reality. Our fabulous doula, Momza (read her account of the birth here), told me that the contractions were no more intense than they were when I hadn't been able to feel them at all. Honestly, I think I just lost my groove when the doctor came in and our direction changed abruptly. I was no longer able to set aside fear and relax myself.

My amazing husband, though, was by my side through every bit of it. Anything I needed, he provided--even anticipated. I couldn't have done it without him. At least not consciously. And I never, ever, felt the need to scream "YOU did this to me!!" or "I hate you!!" Not even a little. He is my hero. I later asked him how he felt while everything was going on--if he had been bored or tired. He said he wasn't bored or tired or even aware of how he felt. He was just involved. I couldn't have picked a better man.

I do remember the nurse telling someone at some point that I was 7 centimeters dilated and this somehow permeated to my consciousness along with the rule of thumb I'd been told, that dilation generally progresses at one centimeter per hour. And I remember thinking at that point, "There's no way I can do this for three more hours." This was complete foolishness, because I had learned and read that numbers are not important during labor and giving them heed when you are the one in labor is unnecessary and unhelpful. And it did not take even close to three more hours to dilate to 10 centimeters. But this is what I thought at the time.

Hearing this 7 cm business, I told Matt I couldn't do it and I wanted something for the pain. He was skeptical that I really wanted it--I had been firm about not wanting medication. He asked me to wait. I did. I fought. But then I told him again that I wasn't messing around. I really wanted medication, and he was supportive of that.

What they gave me took the very edge off the pain, but by no means erased it. I'm glad about this. I continued to fight and it felt like I could do it, now. At the time, I think I apologized to Matt and Momza for my weakness, but I did not apologize to myself. And several days later, I still believed I would do the same thing again, in the same situation.

Very soon after that (I think) I HAD to push. This part was intense, but I don't remember it being painful like I thought it would be. I had something I could be doing, now. I gave it all I had.

Lots of books and articles suggest that a woman reach down and touch her crowning baby's head during labor. Ch-- WHAT?! I'm not sure why, but this idea wierded me right the heck out! I had no desire to do this! Neither did Matt. But when she was crowning, someone said, "Have Alissa reach down and feel the baby," and someone else took my hand and did it. I had no energy for resistance. But, then... there she was... my daughter. My firstborn. Nothing but a wet, wrinkly little head. And I smiled. She was so close to being placed in my arms.

And then her head was out and her body came shooting out, easy peasy. Matt cut the cord.

And then, at exactly one o'clock in the afternoon, my child, the one I had fought so hard for, was laid on my chest. Oh, how beautiful she was!! How tiny, and how perfect. How hard we had both worked for this moment. How many years I had waited to be a mother, to hold my own dear baby in my arms. How precious it was to talk to her, to know my voice was calming and comforting her as she lay cold and tired on her momma.

Did you know that the first breath each human being draws is the hardest she ever draws, 15 times more difficult than a regular breath? Think about that for a minute. Did you know that infants only breathe through their noses? What a miracle it is that any of us survives. But we fight. In each of us is the instinct to fight. You fought to be here. Someone else fought--hard--for you to be here. Think, for a minute, about how precious life itself must be if we instinctively fight for it.

I am not a fighter. But I know now that I can fight longer, and stronger, and harder, than I ever thought I could. At least twice in my life I have fought with everything I had: to breathe and live in this world, and to bring new breath and life into this world. And
how
worth it
it
was!

My daughter Genevieve continues to be the most beautiful person I've ever seen. She stops my heart and takes my breath away. She is perfect.

Back in the delivery room, though, things were far from perfect. My fight was not over. I had not delivered the placenta in twenty minutes. Nurses kneaded my stomach, told me to push hard, and continually mopped up blood that would not stop coming. In forty minutes, it still had not come. The doctor said it was in the birth canal, he could see it. I pushed but had no strength left. I gave it all I had, moaning through the pain, trying to maintain consciousness, but slipping in and out. After an hour, the doctor explained that it wasn't coming and he had to find out what was wrong. I forced myself to understand what he was saying but all I could think about was that I literally could not handle any more pain. He told me they were taking me to the operating room and they would put me out. After that assurance, I didn't really care what he said.

The placenta retrieval was successful. It was sent to pathology but I never heard any conclusive reason why it wouldn't completely detach. We were told, however, that this is an extrememly rare occurrence and there's no reason to think that the difficulties I had through pregnancy, and labor and delivery should happen again with subsequent children.

Be that as it may, I am oddly thankful for this experience. I did not plan for things to go as they did. But Genevieve and I are both safe. I do not desire medical intervention. But I am glad I was able to receive it.

Many of us have been told over and over again that we are not here right now by accident. I'm sure you've thought at times, as I have, that you should have been born in a different era. But if I had been born in a different era the technology and medical knowledge that saved my life would probably not have been available. I'm still here today because I was born at the time that I was. I'm here right at this moment--as you are--for a purpose. We have gifts to give, and great work to perform.

This experience has strengthened my testimony that life is important, and that God loves us, has great and definite purpose for each of us, and sent us to Earth at this time for good and perfect reasons.

Are you willing to fight for a purpose?