Memories of a small arrival

The Spanish phrase for "to give birth" is "dar a luz." To bring to light. Long before my children were born,  I fell in love with those three words. I would wrap them around my tongue, curling the "r," letting the sounds whisper visions of maternity to my young feminity. I envisioned birth as a shining light of creation. Gentle. Warm. Loving and intimate. I did not see blood or fear or the cold sterile slab of an OR table.

I want to remember my duaghter's birth, but I can't. The weeks after her arrival I waited for the fog to lift. I waited for the glow of birth to shine on us and remind me how she came into the light. The light never came. Twenty-two months later my baby is a talking, dancing pre-schooler. I still don't remember her birth.

It was a wednesday, August 2nd 2006, when I had my last OB visit with my doctor. It was suppossed to be my 38 week visit but between my schedule and my doctor's the visit was almost a week late. I was tired. I was achey. The baby was thrashing the heck out of my ribs-- stretching and pushing on places that had no give. I was still upset that the labor I had experienced 10 days before had (obviously) not resulted in birth. I had a nagging fear that something wasn't right but the baby was moving well, so I tried to ignore my anxieties. I felt heavy. I felt numb. I was ready. My body, however, was showing now signs of attempting labor again.

During my appointment I blurted out that I didn't think that lump bashing my right ribs was really the baby's bottom. My left hip felt bruised from all the thrashing and pushing. Baby arms can't be that strong, can  they? My doctor chuckled. "Well it wouldn't be the first time one of us has confused heads for tails!" She said she'd take an ultrasound, just to be sure everything was ok. I pushed at the lump underneath my ribs and breathed a sigh of relief.

Half an hour later I was sitting in my husband's office. I'd interrupted a planning meeting with my arrival and could still see his co-workers trying not to peer at us through the classroom windows. The baby was breech. At almost 39 weeks, my doctor wasn't going to let me go into labor on my own. Oddly, I was fine with this. I needed my little girl born safely so all my selfish natural-labor-only ideals were quickly banished. Our choices were c-section or attempt at external version.The word "attempt" gave me pause. An attempt to externally manipulate the baby into turning head downwards. A procedure that has only a 50% success rate and an elevated risk of emergency c-section. If I was going to have a c-section I was going to have it on my own terms, not as an emergency. My husband agreed. He seemed to have aged five years in five minutes. The worry surrounding him was palpable. I called my doctor. Surgery was scheduled for August 4th at 3pm. Two days. In 48 hours I would be holding my baby girl.

The next day I busied myself with errands around town. Little things I told myself we needed but didn't have. I tried to enjoy my last day of pregnancy. My last day of mommy-hood with only one child. It felt odd to know not only the day of my child's birth but also the apporximate time of her arrival. I kept looking at clocks and counting forward.

I did not sleep well that night. I tried to think only of my daughter's tiny self curled, finally, in my arms. The word "surgery" loomed over me, impossible to ignore.

The morning of August 4th, 2006 dawned clear and bright. My son, in his typical early morning happiness bounced around our sunlit livingroom.
"Gavyn, what's today?"
"BABY-DAY!"  His face was as bright at our mountain sky. He held my belly and murmured his secret sibling language to his sister. This is joy. This is my reason for parenthood. I held both of my babies in the sunlight and felt the strength of the earth in my arms.

The clocks ticked forward. My mom arrived to watch Gavyn. I re-packed my bag again. I drank water and tried to ignore my hunger. Finally we left for the hospital. The day stayed bright and hot but a mist began to collect around me. Anxiety. Worry. Suddenly we're in the hospital's main waiting area. We see other couples waiting silently. I wonder if my fear is as visible as these other moms'. We wait. My eyes pull toward the clock. I turn away but there is always another in front of me. Taunting me.

We are led to a room. The hospital is busy, we have to share. We walk past a tired couple, each cradling a tiny bundle. I try to smile a "congratualations" and an "I'm sorry." We shouldn't be here. Birth and the hours after are private. We tip-toe past the curtain divider and whisper our anxieties. I lay down on the bed on my side and try to rest my legs. I've been sitting too long. Someone shuffles in with a cart, mumbles something then leaves. I giggle, tears standing in my eyes. We whisper and do our best impressions of calmness. The babies on the other side of the curtain whimper. The lady with the cart re-appears. She laughs and talks too loud. I wince. "I saw you on the bed but you didn't look pregnant so I thought I had the wrong room!" I hear a loud, anxious giggle and am embarrassed to realize it's coming from me.

We're in the pre-op room. Dressed in paper scrubs and hats. We've been here before but I will myself to think of other things. Waiting still, we see the world of semi-sedated patients whirl passed the door. A patient with a beard spread out on a gurney. Isn't this the maternity OR? Yes, the hospital is so busy. Patients are operated on where ever there is space. The mist becomes a cloud and settles firmly on my shoulders. Blake teases, tries to make me smile. Holds my hand. We take each other's pictures. Then a ray of light-- my doctor comes in. The cloud evaporates and I'm breathing again. She chats. Tells us a funny story. I catch a tiny glimpse of my daughter's head on ultrasound. She's asleep. Still breach. The cloud returns and settles on my chest.

There is music in the OR and it's cold. I'm sitting on bare paper in the operating table trying to roll my shoulders forward and stretch my spine. I wonder if the nurse who has given me these instructions has ever tried this maneauver. There is thirty-five pounds of belly in my way. My shoulders don't roll. There is a stab to my back and I jump. I change my mind, this isnt' what I want. My mouth is frozen shut. I can only nod when asked questions. I can only see what is immediatly in front of my eyes. The cloud has wrapped itself around me and I begin to shiver. Blake comes in. His face reflects my fear. He sits beside me, as close as the cords and wires and tubes will allow. He drops the camera. The sound of it hitting the floor is un-earthly. I manage to ask if the camera's ok then wonder why I thought that was so important for words. I've lost control of my body. I'm just a head and shoulders now. My arms attached, but not mine. I wan't to wipe my face but can't. I don't want to pull on all the spiders legs taped to my skin. The weight on my chest gets heavier. I struggle but remain mute. My doctor appears over the curtains and speaks but her voice comes from another room. I nod but I don't know what I am agreeing to. The music is too loud. "And another one bites the dust....." On any other day, in any other situation I would laugh at this, my daughter's un-chosen birth song. There is a struggle. I hear a voice "come on, come on out, come on....." My head echoes with frustration, "just pull her out already!" But my mouth refuses to open. There is a tiny cry but it's not mine. I'm not relieved. I still can't breath. I'm given a glimpse of her, my baby girl. She swaddled and pink and then she and my husband are whisked away. It's even colder now. I force myself to fill my lungs. It's over but I'm still here. Terrified. Immobile.

In the recovery room I'm given orders to which I can't comply. There is subtle worry. I'm still just a head and shoulders. My arms act out of thier own accord and surprise me by tickling my ear. I must doze. There is still some concern over my lack of sensory recovery. I'm still trying to will my lungs to inflate.

to be continued....