The idea behind this blog is to be as blunt as possible about everything I have experienced and believe. Since I am currently thirty-nine weeks pregnant with my second baby, I thought birth was a perfect place to start.
Birth is fucking messy, painful, and when it happens on your birthday–your not allowed any ice cream until you’re done. What kind of fucked up rule is that? Oh it’s your birthday and we’re forcing induced labor on you, but no you can’t have any ice cream until you’re done. You know what that did for me? It changed the goal of labor from having a healthy baby to getting an ice cream sundae.
I have never been pregnant on purpose. Both of my pregnancies are what some might refer to as “accidents.” While there are those that try and try and try and never conceive, I am like a fertility goddess. Whenever I am off birth control for even just a few days in between prescriptions, I get pregnant. My grandmother blames this entirely on my husband, “He needs to learn to keep it in his pants.” Despite how much I would like to believe that it’s all his fault, I know that is not true. Mutual decisions were made and thus new life was created.
So let me tell you my “birth story.” I was a weird kid. I would play “pregnant” like I played dress up. I loved watching those baby story shows on TLC and I wanted at least six kids. At some point, I realized I was crazy and knew not what I was talking about. I went away to college, literally moving a thousand miles away from my parents and everyone I knew and what did I do a month into my new, independent life? I found a boyfriend. I dove headfirst into the most serious relationship I ever had–ever. Everyone was quite confused over this. I never dated anyone for real or even really wanted to. I was desperate to make my own life, live my dreams, and be my own person away from all commitment. Well let me tell you, I certainly committed to this man, who (much to my mother’s chagrin) was six years older than I.
Three years later, I moved across country again. This time because my man had gotten a job. Mind you, I was working in my field, making good money right where we were, but he got a job so off we went. By this point, my parents pretty much knew I was not going to comply with any advice they had to give. “Stay out of my life, mom, GEEZ.”
In our new “home,” I wallowed in the horror of small town life and a shitty minimum wage job. I did not want to make friends or commit to this place of long winters and old people in any way, shape, or form. Then one evening, BAM, a positive pee stick. Holy fuck.
My man seemed to be happy and even inquired, ever so gently, as to why I was so upset. Oh, I don’t know, it might have to do with the little leach growing inside my uteris, just waiting to take over my life and drain my essence. And also I was a waitress, we lived in a shitty apartment that had a cockroach infestation, and I did not want to stay where we were.
Not to mention the horror that is Illinois Medicaid. As a person of somewhat “low” income and no employer insurance, I needed to find a way to pay for this baby. Medicaid seemed to be the only option. So I embarked on a journey that included peeing on another stick for the health department “professionals,” filling out loads of paperwork, attending “nutrition” workshops at the WIC office, and going to a clinic that was not only two hours away from my home, but also in another STATE. So using Illinois Medicaid, meant having a baby in Iowa. Thanks Illinois.
In my current pregnancy, I’ve sacrificed monetary well being for a well rounded and helpful experience. I tried to use a midwife, only to find out that midwives are illegal in Illinois. Again, thanks Illinois. The midwife I spoke with, recommended an obstetrician in Wisconsin. Still in another state, but only about forty five minutes away. Definitely an improvement, but more on that later.
As a person on Medicaid, pretty much all tests and procedures were already included in my package. So I was shuffled from one test to another. I was given countless pelvic exams. Seriously, countless! I know now that it’s really unnecessary and invasive and doesn’t need to be done unless I want it to be done. I was told I had to drink the sugar syrup for the glucose test, even though my blood glucose levels were fine. I was told that if I didn’t get a flu shot, the baby would be in serious danger. That was the only one I flat out refused. I’ve never had a flu shot and don’t plan on ever getting a flu shot. But they made sure I knew that I was making a decision that could cause my “baby to die.”
Through all of this, I saw my OB three times. That was it. The man that was going to deliver my baby, came to see me three times. The last of those times was NST day. I was strapped to a machine that looked like an earthquake monitor thing and they zapped my belly. After the baby didn’t move for fifteen minutes, my OB, who knew me and my case so well because he’d been with me from the beginning and was truly a partner in my health care world, decided that I needed to be induced–right then. Shortly after he left the room, baby started kicking around.
So both annoyed and frightened, I made my way to the hospital. I had no hospital bag that I packed up so carefully, no book to keep me distracted, no hair ties even. AND it was my fucking birthday! I made sure all the nurses were aware that it was MY fucking day. I was super pissed.
Right away, I was hooked up to every fucking screen and monitor they had. I had a IV with pitocin to induce labor and also some saline solution so I wouldn’t be hungry. I had an automatic blood pressure cuff on one arm, right on top of where they drew blood just a few minutes before, so every time it went off, I got a shot of pain down my arm. On top of my belly, there was a heart monitor for baby and inside my vagina they were nice enough to place an internal heart monitor. So strapped to the bed, I called my mom and asked her to bring me my bag. Perhaps if I hadn’t been forced by the “man” to go to a hospital two and half hours from my house, I would have been able to get it myself!
Anyway, most of the labor is pretty much a blank really. I remember holding my man’s hand. I vaguely remember my mom showing up. They only thing I used from my bag ended up being the hair ties. Most useful thing I packed! His mom showed up at some point too and by then I was wearing an oxygen mask, because apparently I was hyperventilating. I vividly remember my water being broken by something resembling a giant crochet hook. They said they talked to me about this before doing it, but I don’t remember at all. I swear I wasn’t on any drugs. I definitely felt ALL the pain
Most vividly, I remember the actual pushing. In the movies, this usually happens all at once like it’s one giant contraction, there’s lots of screaming, then a baby pops out. In reality, The pushing happens in waves and it’s fucking hard and they are telling you not to scream or make any noise. Two nurses held up my legs as I was poised to launch the kid into the still aggravatingly passive OB’s hands. I definitely did not stop screaming. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, giving birth is hard fucking work and it FUCKING HURTS. And it’s messy. I had three people looking at my bloody, gaping vagina, for hours (not just when I was pushing, but the WHOLE time.) The only saving grace of the experience was the nurse. She was great with the motivational speaking. Then the worst part of all was when I felt that asshole excuse for a doctor take a hold of my vaginal opening and literally RIP it apart. Did he do any massage, or even an episiotomy? No he just thrust his hands in there and ripped. I wasn’t on any pain meds, so I actually felt his hands and the tearing. Then he, a little too sternly, tells me to stop pushing. Shortly thereafter, a slimey, bloody, little human slid out feeling like what I can only describe as what it must have felt like for Ron to throw up slugs in Harry Potter.
So I fell back on my bed, while my man cut the cord and they wiped all the birth goo of my little girl. Her dad brings her over to me and I look at her little face and what do I feel? A rush of love like I’ve never felt before, um no. I most certainly felt protective of this creature that was just ripped out my body, but intense love like no other . . . not really. How anti-climactic. While I was staring at this little beast, who didn’t seem to be showing any sort of emotion for me either, I still had my privates on full display and I’m sure they were hideous as the bastard OB was sewing up the tear he made (how nice of him)
They took her away, then brought her back and told me I could try to breastfeed her. Oh wonderful, more pain. Truly I really never thought I would be in so much continual pain. Breastfeeding was not made any easier when I could hear my over zealous mother squealing in the hallway about “needing to see that baby!” Gosh shut up lady, this is NOT about you. When the breastfeeding didn’t really work out, they took her to the nursery, her dad went with her and I was disentangled from all the machinery, except for the IV. They led me to the toilet where I just sat down and shook because I was in so much pain and since nothing was forthcoming, I made my way down the hall, which was difficult because I was IVed and had a giant diaper of padding and ice packets wrapped around my crotch. I saw my family admiring the baby from a window and honestly don’t remember if I stopped there too.
In the room they moved us to for the recovery, I was finally given my ice cream after I ingested the only food the nurses could round up late at night, a bag of Lay’s chips and a lukewarm bowl of tomato soup.
The next day, the OB came in to “check up on me” and told me that even though things happened the opposite way of how I wanted them to, I was “paying” him for his opinion and his opinion was that I needed to be induced. I should have told him to get the fuck out my life because I was no longer in need of his services, but I didn’t really have to because after that moment, I never saw him again.
After two days, I went home literally broken, bloody, and unable to poop. I cried as soon as I got there. My nipples were chapped and bleeding, I was fucking tired, and I had to use a squirt bottle on my vag because wiping could have torn out my stitches.On top of it all, the cause of my pain, a chubby little crying, pooping, eating, blob, needed me ALL the time.
It was tough, but that little blob grew up. The first time she smiled at me, I knew it was worth it, BUT it didn’t have to be the way it was. I know now after making a conscious decision at the start of a second unplanned pregnancy (still with my man!) to do things differently. But that is a whole other story and one that is still as of yet incomplete.
ColorMeUnconcerned 