Arrogance

I was looking at my old birth plan that I used for my now 2.5 year old, and I had to laugh. The thing is five pages long! To the credit of my sanity, the hospital staff only saw the first page; the others included packing lists for the hospital, unplanned home birth necessities, and Bradley Method labor relaxation techniques and tips. All tied nicely together with charming clip art images. I laugh – and I cry a little – because almost NOTHING went “to plan” with that birth.

My first pregnancy was timed with scientific accuracy on my NFP charts. There was a bit of smugness in “getting it right” on the first try, and a vindication of the method my husband and I had used to avoid – and now achieve – pregnancy. Such a stellar beginning could only result in a happy ending, right? Wrong. That little girl was made for heaven and left us when I was nearly six months pregnant. A powerful experience in so many ways, including a lesson in humility.

I had immediately become attracted to “natural” birth , which I felt was a simple extension of NFP. Why start treating my body like it’s diseased or helpless during pregnancy if I didn’t do it before by using chemical contraception? It was easy to pick up on the disdainful tone of many natural birth advocates toward women who “chose” medicated or surgical birth. As if we could get into these women’s minds and hearts and know the intricacies of their situations, the agonizing or split-second decisions they were faced with, and the amount of support they had from their community. So while I wasn’t vocal about my opinions, I certainly thought I had chosen the better.

When we learned that my daughter had died, we were swept up into a whirlwind of ultrasounds (I hadn’t had a single one before that time because they are UNNECESSARY and DANGEROUS), a hospital admission (hospital? WHAT?!), and an induction on Cytotek (won’t my uterus EXPLODE if they give me that?!?!). The surges, rushes, squeezing – I mean PAIN – brought me literally to my knees, begging for an epidural. Getting anesthesia was a capital crime, just below C-sections in my book, but I was humiliated, weak, and very sad and I could not have coped with the next few hours emotionally, physically, or spiritually without that blessed needle in my spine.

So I was wheeled to the entrance of the hospital – after hours to say goodbye to our girl before the funeral later that week – and was a new, humbler woman. I had experienced loss, medical interventions in a hospital, relief from an epidural – everything I never, ever wanted to touch but it was such a gift and very much what my arrogant self needed. I no longer did an internal eye roll every time a woman told me about how painful childbirth was, or how it was okay to seek relief.

Yet still the five page birth plan with my son. I decided to return to the hospital to “play it safe”, but between an induction (the necessity of which I consider dubious at best) on as many meds as I think a woman can be given in the course of 24 hours, near-continuous EFM, and a final capitulation to get an epidural, I pretty much blew the “plan”. Bradley Method classes were insightful and informative, but tend to set couples up to expect hostility in the hospital, and I wonder if my experience was colored by my returning arrogance. I know not every “crunchy” mom, midwife, or natural birth advocate has a wholly negative opinion of hospital births and the mothers who choose them, but I’ve found a pretty thinly veiled superiority in classes and online.

Anyway, that birth, though it resulted in a healthy baby, did a number on my conceptions regarding childbirth AND my body. I was wiped out for months and I don’t recall being completely free of pain and lingering depression for nearly a year. So much for my idea that depression is a crutch created by lazy people, easily fixed with exercise and sunshine. Another arrogant notion down the drain.

My third pregnancy ended up being a partial molar, which can be extremely dangerous. My baby (a girl, I’ve always felt) had no heart beat or brain activity at my first ultrasound around 12 weeks, but the nature of the pregnancy wasn’t discovered until I hemorrhaged after my first DNC in the hospital the next day. My husband watched me slip out of consciousness and was left alone without explanation as my bed was wheeled away a second time. I wanted to always be so strong for him, to be the one he leaned on – another blow to my ego.

I am left feeling very grateful for my return to health after each of these experiences, and because I’ve been so sick and experienced such an array of procedures and painful decisions, I feel I’ve gained a little empathy for women who “choose” a surgical birth versus letting the body naturally deliver a dead baby, something that may leave a woman with additional weeks of sorrow as people touch her belly and smile without knowing the secret. I feel kindred with women who “choose” an epidural because, instead of experiencing the effect of natural labor hormones, they are given powerful drugs to speed up and intensify the sensations to a pitch that may not be tolerable to everyone. It doesn’t feel like an empowering choice at the time – it sucks – but it certainly isn’t driven by selfishness, stupidity, or weakness.

So here I am at the 30 week mark of pregnancy #4 and I’m working with midwives. We hope to deliver in their birthing center, which is a comfy bedroom with an awesome Jacuzzi tub, warm colors, and soft lighting. There will be no epidural available to me. I don’t think it’s the perfect way for every low-risk woman to go, like I used to. I just figured out what I want for me and I’m not looking to evangelize my friends or family with my crunchy superiority. I’m mostly content and peaceful about this like I was with my first pregnancy, but now the arrogance has been [mostly] beat out of my stubborn body. I don’t know what will actually go down on “labor day”; maybe my body won’t know what to do since it has never been given the chance. Maybe I’ll go too far past my due date, or the baby will be breach, or some other wrench will get thrown in there. Whatever happens, I hope to avoid the level of lamentation and rage I fostered during my other experiences and be open to the blessings God will undoubtedly bestow this time, whether it’s on my “plan” or not.