Motherhood Uncensored

Closing a Chapter: Part 2

Q's Arrival: The Good Stuff

Read Part 1 Here

But then I had to push. Pushing feels good, I remember hearing from my trusty Bradley instructors. I envisioned the relief of a much needed bowel movement. That feels good. Pushing, however, does not. In fact, it is the antithesis of good. Good is a nice book, warm tea, or a relaxing day. You are pushing out an eight pound human from your nether-regions. Nothing about that says good. You’re exhausted and frustrated, and a doctor who has just walked into the room for the first time is telling you that yelling will not help you push any better. If she had been there for my whole entire labor, then she would have known that the YELLING (although I like to call it TONING) helped me make it through to this point. Granted I probably scared the shit out of the girl in the room next to me - but hell, chances are that she had an epi, so what does she have to worry about?

So, the stubborn gal that I am, I yell louder, push harder out my ass (they should just tell you to push like you are taking a BIG OLD SHIT and then I would have had her out in one fucking push), and breathe at the command of my doula. Thankfully, my daughter was low and I didn’t push for very long. There’s a split second where you have the distinct feeling that you are about to rip in half and then out she popped. This beautiful baby girl smiled up at me, and for a moment, all was well with the world. And then I remembered everything that had just happened.

In the immediate moments following my birth experience, I felt little pride for my drugless birth and more concern that I would have to endure that experience again if I wanted another one. I wondered why I had been so adamant about allowing my body to remain untouched during such a difficult labor. And I worried if I would ever be able to bring myself to do all that again.

A few people have told me that your memory of your labor fades as time passes. In some ways, it’s true. Your painful labor is overshadowed by your lack of sleep, sore breasts, and general overwhelm. Your stitches disappear but are replaced by various levels of nether region discomfort, for some at both ends. But, even through what were, at times, harrowing hours and days of confusion and frustration, I still remember my birth. Frankly, it’s been almost two years, and I can recount almost every moment of my labor in clear imagery. And now that I know what to expect, I enter the possibility of each new baby journey with a little more trepidation.

It's not to say that I would go drug-less again; I'm a glutton for punishment and an overachiever tried and true. I can't lie - I do bask in the glory of my drugless pain fest every now and then. Especially when several male friends whose wives had just had babies challenged by ability to do it. But, now that I know what to expect, I may not allow myself to get to the point where I'm demanding that my husband tell me something about his dead grandfather (yes, folks, I was disassociating) or begging my doula to forgive me for not going to church that past Sunday.

A wise woman once told me to never count your chickens until they’ve hatched, and truly, the saying applies well here. Before having my first child, I envisioned a houseful of children, but after my labor experience and subsequent miscarriages, I might just have to change my definition of houseful to fit what my body and mind can handle. I'm not giving up just yet, but sometimes you need to change your vision to fit your current reality.

So, precious girl. Looks like it is just you and me for awhile. Here's to many exciting adventures not involving my boobs or nipples. Cheers!

Closing a Chapter

I feel as though my mother-child relationships are rapidly changing. My hopes for a recurring role as new-again-mother are temporarily dashed. And my 20-month nursing relationship with my here-and-now daughter has just now ended. I feel as though I'm challenged to let go or set aside (however you want to look at it) that which I held onto for so long - the idea of more children in rapid succession (or even at all as my recent experiences taunt my tired will), and the comfort and soothing calm of a nursing relationship that has sustained and nurtured both me and my daughter.

This roller coaster ride I call Motherhood is changing tracks, but sadly, is not picking up any new passengers today. The prospect of it being a little emptier than I had hoped does pain me (though I try to pretend it doesn't bother me) and enters my mind in the brief moments in which I stop, listen, and breathe. Perpetual motion masks my sorrow.

In honor of the recent closing of the relationship that started early one July morning, almost 2 years ago, AND to perhaps remind myself of what I went through to get there (maybe secretly so I might see that it's okay NOT to have to do it again), I'm sharing my humble birth story.

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Q's Arrival: Part One

(Alternate title: Why The Hell Would Any Sane Woman Ever Do This? Part One)

The memory of a woman’s birth experience is powerful. I’ve seen grown women who suffered 40 long weeks of morning sickness, heartburn, and constipation, joyfully exclaim that they want another one almost instantly after popping out the little munchkin. And then I’ve seen practically perfect preggos sware off any form of purposeful reproduction based solely on their labor and delivery.

I distinctly recall the first two thoughts after birthing my daughter - I will never do that again, and epidurals and elective c-sections are highly underrated. The joy of meeting my new daughter was overshadowed by the deep sense of wonder and disbelief I felt when imagining any human choosing to give birth AGAIN. Call me cynical, but pain and exhaustion do amazing things to the brain.

First time mothers are admittedly clueless – ripe with visions of sweet baby bottoms and designer diaper bags. Their questions are smattered across internet baby message boards, but most are limited to baby room décor choice and stroller brand. A few brave mommies-to-be mention the “labor” word, interrogating experienced mommies about contractions and other unmentionables.  “Are they like period cramps, just worse?” they ask. “Do you have to get an enema and shave?” They cringe at the word epistiotomy, proclaiming to each other and their gynies that they will NOT have one, or a vacuum or forceps birth- ONLY if it’s entirely necessary. Their real worries about labor are limited to angst about having to wear the hospital gown and pooping on the table.

Then you have a baby. You get the contractions, the pain, and then a baby, and you realize that NONE of the stuff you were thinking about before you popped that little thing out really mattered. Fancy baby sheets, couture infant carriers, and convertible car seats are far from your mind. Enemas, shaves, and poops, who cares? The janitor could have been assisting in your birthing experience and you would never have known. Cutting and stitching are of little concern because you just pushed a small human out of a seemingly tiny hole, and that should have been what you were worried about.

As a classic overachiever in every other aspect in my life, I kept true form by preparing months in advance for my labor experience. I delved full force, dragging my reluctant but supportive husband to hypno-birthing and Bradley classes. We suffered through 12 2-hour classes almost every weekend, watching century old videos chock full of natural childbirth propaganda. We slaved over our birth plan and watched it get carefully placed in a random office junk drawer by our trusty nurse. We recruited two doulas-in-training to provide us with labor support and assistance as we strived to achieve the PERFECT BIRTH. We laughed, in private, at our pregnant friends who didn’t even know the risks of an epidural or complications associated with pitocin. We were birth elitists – training like Oprah for our marathon of a lifetime.

When my due-date rolled around, and then got left in the dust with no baby in sight, we didn’t worry. Even one week later, we proudly fended off our intervention-happy doctors who offered a variety of induction options. Topping 200 lbs with only one outfit that didn’t cause me constant annoyance, I politely refused, asking instead for an ultrasound non-stress test. I secretly begged my baby to make his/her entrance (or exit, really), and began a regimen of self-inflicted enemas, blue cohosh, and nipple stimulation. If one more person asked me if I had done the funky dance with my husband, I would have probably lost it; no self-loving 10-month pregnant woman has any desire to have any type of sexual relations, no matter how much people say it works.

My labor finally started just shy of two weeks past my due date. My mother was the only person who was excited that I had gone so long because she was able to make the birth. The polite phone calls and emails asking of any news turned into belligerent demands for information. But, after a long walk on a hot July morning, and several drops of blue cohosh, I finally felt belly-tightenings that came at a consistent rate. My excitement quickly turned to confusion as my labor seemed to progress fairly rapidly. I went from splashing like a seal in my warm tub, to groaning in pain like, well a laboring woman. I lost my sense of humor, I demanded a heat pad on my back at all times, and I felt the need to push.

Unfortunately, the need to push indicated nothing but more labor for me. Later we realized that my daughter was off-center on my cervix, and therefore allowed me to progress at a medically-acceptable pace, but afforded me visits to “transition” every hour for the last four hours of my labor. The medical staff heeded my every wish, our birth plan emblazoned on their chests, unconcerned with my confusing labor pattern. It wasn’t until my doulas realized that perhaps something might be slowing me down and called their midwife for assistance. A few contractions in a contortionist-like position did the trick and I was ready to push within minutes. I had made it without asking for pain medication or an epidural. I had proved all the naysayers wrong.

Stay tuned for Part 2 (also titled: THE GOOD STUFF)

Almost Empty

It's started. Another one almost gone. Hopes dashed. Not sure if I should be worried or not for the future, but I'll take the Dalai Lama's advice (ala Dawn) and and try to live in the present. It just so happens that the present SUCKS.

I'll be here alone all day. Reading a lot and writing a little. More alone than I was yesterday. So, stop by and drop me a line. Click on my renter. Ask for some code. Look at the shirts. Let me know you are here.

Half Full or Empty?

This is a day to forget. You've had them. The ones where you find yourself sitting alone, in the dark, finally able to take one breath, feeling like you have just been hit with a ton of bricks.

I was enjoying a reasonably pleasant morning at babysign class when I received a phone call from the lab tech. It seems my HcG levels are not doubling. I know they are supposed to double. I even called my dear friend who has suffered numerous losses to confirm. They had only gone up 200 whatevers from Friday to Monday.

After calling what seemed like 5000 people trying to get the numbers faxed over so I could get yet another blood test and perhaps an ultrasound, the dr on base came through and I headed to the hospital for an ultrasound - on the belly and in the hoo-ha - all with my daughter sitting on top of me. Gotta love being straddled by your daughter while you lay half-naked with a condom covered penis looking thing that you are sticking up your crotch. Anyway, there is something in there - my uterus that is - but they can't see a heartbeat or a fetal pole. But, don't get disheartened just yet.

It is still early - they say only about 4 weeks - and alas, you can't see that stuff then anyway. BUT, it still does not explain my non-doubling numbers. After discussing it briefly with an unfriendly, bow-tie wearing, pearshaped 80 year old Cajun doctor, I felt like I had already lost the baby. And in fact, chances are good that I have - considering (as he put it) I had twins and lost one (that would actually be the GOOD thing) or I'm miscarrying early.

I appreciate the frankness, and the honesty, but can one offer ANY glimmer of hope at all? Would that be too hard to do? I'm repeatedly reminded about how women's health in this country (specifically in my lovely town) has gone down the tubes - where you become a NUMBER and a FIGURE and nothing else and where your feelings, thoughts, and intelligence level are not taken into consideration. I am constantly reminded of Naomi Wolf's book Misconceptions and how women's health has become a business as usual. Read it - it's amazing.

And through all this, I see my little one (the 19 month old) smiling at me. She blows kisses to dogs, birds, bugs, and anything else that lives. She cheers when I pull an extra fruit leather from my bag. She sings and dances to all my ridiculous songs. She gives me kisses, holds me tight, and reminds me about the beauty of my life. And I know that if it never happens again for me - if she is my only one - that I will be fulfilled - I will not be empty. I want more kids - for her and for us, but I never thought I would have kids anyway - she was my Brady (ala SatC's Miranda). And, I'm so thankful for her - oh SO thankful.

So, I'm a realist - an optimist for others - a realist for me. Always skeptical and cynical. Hell, I wrote a will in 1992 when I went to Switzerland with my youth orchestra fearing terrorist attacks since we were a big group of Americans on one plane. I signed a pact in my diary that I would never get married (even before I ever had a boyfriend). And, granted I'm still alive AND I'm on my second marriage, I'm not the BELIEVER in all things good and right. I still know bad shit happens to good people and as of late, it seems I am one of them.

So, tell me this, good readers and visitors of MU, how would you see my glass today if you were me? Are you half-fullers? or half-emptiers? or do you even bother with the damn glass?

PS: The prospect of this story being true cheers me up a little. And, this bloggers kind words, cheers me up even more. And if you want to cheer me up, click on my renter. I'd like to think I'm a good landlord, even in not-so-great times. Thank you.

It's A... BIRL?

I wholeheartedly admit that I'm addicted to those "I'm-a-glutton-for-punishment" TLC shows like "A Boy Whose Skin Fell Off" and "The 700lb Man." I'm not sure what it is about those shows that draw me in, but I watch, cry, and cry some more every single time without fail. The most interesting of the bunch, in my humble opinion, was the show on people born with two sexual organs.

I have a great interest in LBGT culture, specifically has it relates to health care treatment, being that I am a health care professional. Since having children, however, my interest has piqued, mainly because the trauma and life challenges faced by intersexed and transgendered persons has a lot to do with the decisions of their parents.

The firsthand accounts of these folks whose gender was essentially chosen for them by their parents and the attending doctors are heartwrenching. The struggle of feeling like a woman in a man's body or vice versa is difficult to imagine. The daily grief experienced in our either-or world is tragic. And yet, they survived - some alone, some with life partners and families, to tell their story and enlighten those who chose to watch.

We live in a male/female world with no room for in-between. If you have read any literature on gender formation and development, you will find that gender is not necessarily related to sexual organs, but rather a whole myriad of factors that are difficult to quantify. In plain English, just because someone has a penis doesn't mean they are a MAN. This causes most of our society much concern - I'm not exactly sure why - but it does. We seem to like black/white answers - and grey, especially when it comes to sexuality and gender, really freaks people out.

I can't say that I fully understand how it happens - regardless of whether the person has two sexual organs OR if they have one and identify with a different gender. BUT, I do know that I empathize with their pain and their challenge to find a place in this world. And now as a parent, I wonder what would I do if my child were born with two sexual organs?

I mean, my first instinct would be to leave them alone, give them a gender neutral name, dress them in gender neutral clothes, and go on my merry way. Let them decide if they want surgery - and a specific gender identification. BUUUUTTTTT... life is not that easy. Everyone wants to know "what you are having" from the time you are just a little bit pregnant. And EVERYTHING is either for a boy or girl. Gender roles are forced down our throats from early on - from toys to clothes to all else human... And, as a parent, I know my desire for my child is for them to fit in, find themselves, and live happily. But, how can I help them do that when everything is either blue or pink? Where are the success stories?

So, as I ponder this heavy issue with my new and old blog pals, I wonder, what would you do if the dr told you, "It's a BIRL?"