I've shared a lot of personal experiences on this blog over the past year. From what it's like to have babies just 14 months apart, to the challenges (and joys) of being pregnant 3 years in a row, to the things I changed a month before successfully becoming pregnant, and even the inside scoop on what happens during pelvic floor physical therapy. But nothing resonated with readers more than my most recent share about my decision to opt for a final chance at a natural birth after 2 previous cesareans, against the medical advice. To be completely honest, I never thought that post would interest very many people, but it was the truth about what was going on in my life, and if it helped even one other mother feel "seen" or empowered in their own journey, I figured it was worth it. It was something I found difficult to talk about, as my past births were very traumatic and there was a lot of pressure riding on this one. Specifically, because it was my last real "chance" at having a natural birth experience, before I'd be considered too high risk by both medical and birthing professionals to be taken on as a patient. It's something I wish I'd been more educated about at the beginning of my motherhood journey, because I never realized how those previous choices or circumstances could (and would) effect my future. So here I was at a crossroads, where I couldn't find a single midwife to serve my area for a home birth option, and my OBs strongly advised against trying for a VBAC as a result of my past history. I had studied long and hard on the topic and knew this was what I needed in my heart. I had to try. I explained this to all four doctors at the practice, and they reluctantly agreed to support my wishes (while never letting me forget the serious risks involved), but with the caveat that if I did not go into labor by 41 weeks, I'd agree to another cesarean as to not risk the life of myself or unborn child. I obliged. Except to be totally honest, I never actually thought it'd come to that. 41 weeks? Uhh... yeah, my body will definitely eject this baby by then!
At just under 40 weeks, I had a full day of intense contractions, close enough for a doctor call and consideration of heading to the hospital. We decided to hold out at home just a little longer to make sure things progressed, and unfortunately they subsided by the late evening. At my 40-week appointment, it was confirmed I had started the labor process and began dilating. (YAY!) But after that, I'd had no progress for over a week. Every day felt like a year. I cried a lot. I could see my dream of a VBAC slipping away from me. I had no control, and I'd done everything in my power to give my body the best chance at success in the way I wanted to experience this birth. I put a tremendous amount of pressure on myself, and as the 41 week deadline came, I found myself helpless and reliving my past hospital birth traumas. I couldn't believe it was going to happen... again. Not only did it suck to feel like all the doctors were statistically "right" (and certainly not for my lack of trying!), but when you're in this position, you can't help but question,
"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with my body? What kind of woman can't naturally birth their own child?"
I know to many people, this sounds absurd and ridiculous for me to put on myself, but it's the truth. It feels disappointing and shameful, no matter how much the rational part of your brain knows better. You just want to do your best, give the best to your baby, and have the opportunity to experience womanhood in this way, regardless of how hard it can be. I know that giving birth in any way is valid and special, and this is not to downplay the worthiness of cesarean births. It's more of the realization that you are truly powerless in something like childbirth. The control is not yours, and the outcome is truly in God's hands. I, admittedly, am super Type-A and find comfort in having control over most aspects of my life. For someone like me, coping with a reality of this magnitude is extremely hard. But through this struggle, I have also been humbled.
There's something to be said for relinquishing control and being forced into having faith. That's where I found myself on Sunday night, hours before my 5:30am call time at the hospital.
I don't want to say I "gave up all hope," because I would be lying if I acted like the entire ride there I didn't have a shred of wonder that I could go into spontaneous labor in the eleventh hour and have a triumphant story to tell you today! I fantasized about being admitted into the OR and my water breaking, a rush to get me into L&D, an amazing tale of struggle and jubilation, and on that final push, my dreams being realized as I held my newborn baby on my chest! All of that... did not happen.
I rolled up to the hospital, went through a very disorganized check-in process, all to be met with several rounds of "Ummm... we don't have you on the schedule. Why are you here?" (This all additionally laughable because if you've been following my hospital billing department saga on Instagram, you'll know they had been trying to advance bill me for a c-section for weeks!) So apparently, lines got crossed somewhere, and though I was noted for a wishful VBAC, no one there quite put together that the scheduled c-section date meant the end of that wish. But needless to say, not quite the great early morning start myself or my doctors were looking for. Once all that got cleared up, I was whisked into triage and set up for the upcoming c-section. All too familiar, I screeched like usual when the IV was put into my wrist, and shuffled to the cold, sterile room in the gray grippy hospital socks that never seem to change. My doctors were awesome and helped keep me calm as the spinal tap began. I screamed, I cursed, I kicked like a donkey as they tried to make sure the juice went to the right place. A little while later, I was numb waist-down and staring at the metal lights trying to watch what they were doing in the tiny reflections like a psychopath. "Here I am again," I thought, face touching the blue drape in front of me. I knew this meant the end of my VBAC journey forever more, as I heard the doctor ask for the scalpel and my third cesarean began. My husband was brought in to join me and held my hand as we focused on the excitement of bringing another child into the world, and knowing how fortunate we are that we get to do this, no matter how it has to happen.
But what I did not expect was just how long it would take. I had a pretty good sense of time with my last ones, even as drugged up as I'd been. Something different was happening here and I could sense things were "off" somehow. Then I heard cauterization occurring while I smelled what I presumed to be burning tissue. That's not quite normal. Last time, the doctors were shooting the shit and talking about their weekend plans while opening me up. As weird as that may sound, I found it soothing, because it meant everything was routine. This time, everyone was very serious, and we had two of my doctors (one on call, and the other who had delivered both my prior children who said he wouldn't miss it for the world - got to love Dr. Cahill!), plus a resident diligently working and discussing how they should handle what they were unexpectedly faced with once they saw what was inside. Apparently, it was very lucky I had both my doctors there, because this c-section did not end up so run-of-the-mill.
As it was later explained to me, there was an unusual and unexpected band of scar tissue that had formed around my abdomen after the last surgery, and it had connected my bladder to my uterus. This was very dangerous, and also didn't allow them to cut where they usually would in order to get a baby out.
They made the choice to make a higher incision than normal into the muscle as to not hit my bladder, and had to do a lot of "clean up on aisle five" to fix things.
Finally, after a lot of pulling and pressure, that beautiful first cry was heard. Once again, my world was forever changed. She was here! And she was healthy. After a quick wipe down, I was able to do skin-to-skin for the first time ever. It was so special. Those are the tiny moments that make every part of a struggle worth it.
The doctors finished up and we were wheeled back to triage while the nurses finalized paperwork. Once things calmed down a bit, I was given some more information about the complications that had occurred. Apparently, had my body gone into full-blown contractions on its own, there was a more than likely chance I would have had a rupture or internal bleeding that likely would not have been caught until it was too late. Meaning: if I had the home birth I wanted, I would potentially have been the "one in a million" scenario of someone without a good outcome... take that as you will. And even in the hospital setting, no one would've known what had happened and it would have likely been an emergency situation putting my life and the baby's at risk. No one would have been aware of the scar tissue formation against my organs unless I had literally been cut open. And the contractions I wanted so badly would've been precisely what would've caused the unexpected tear of my bladder, uterus, abdominal wall, or all three.
It feels a little weird to know that if I got my way, it could've ended horrifically. I am glad that although I was insistent about my birth plan, I wasn't unreasonable and from the beginning agreed to the limitations advised by my doctors. I have felt tortured by my past birth experiences for so long, but suddenly, I have been able to release it. God's plan was (and always is) greater than our own. I feel in my heart that having faith and trusting that what's meant to be will happen is what protected me and my child. I remember praying the night before the c-section that although I desperately wanted a successful VBAC, I would understand if that's not what was meant for me, and trust in God's will. I feel at peace knowing how much I was protected, even when I didn't realize it.
There are a lot of lessons to take from this, but I think most of all, the lesson is to follow your gut, listen to what's in your heart, and leave the rest up to fate, a higher power, or whatever it is that you believe in. I did my pregnancy my way, and I have no regrets about it. I am currently in the midst of what has been the most healthy and speedy recovery out of all three. I am safe, and so is my baby. These nine months were full of twists and turns, learning to (finally) advocate for myself, and have the chance to heal mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually from my past birth traumas.
When the doctor came to visit our room the following morning, he reiterated what they'd discovered during surgery. He said there were some doctors that would probably tell me that this would be the end of my child-bearing journey, but that may not necessarily be the case. But at bare minimum, I would be looking at only cesareans moving forward, with two doctors performing the surgery, and not being able to go past 37 weeks. I am not able to risk going into natural labor ever again, due to fears of the scar tissue building up internally again in a similar manner, creating a potentially life-threatening situation. It still hurt a bit to hear, but not as much as I thought it would. I'm not sure if our family is complete yet, and I have plenty of time to think about that. But for now, I am at peace knowing I have brought three amazing children into this world, and that is beautiful, no matter how they got here.
After 24 hours, I requested an early discharge from the hospital. I knew the environment we were in and level of care we were receiving wasn't right for us, and I decided this time I would speak up. The next day, I got myself and my baby medically cleared, and by Wednesday morning, we were packing up our bags and on our way home as a family of five.
Everyone said we were crazy for leaving only two days post c-section, but I can tell you this: it was the best decision I've made for myself.
I still have my staples in, but I'm walking around, able to start independently caring for myself, showering alone, and sleeping comfortably (with minimal interruptions) in my own bed. My parents have generously stepped in to help care for my 1.5 and almost 3-year-old, and we all get to be together under one roof, loving every minute of the growth of our little family.
I feel so good, and so so happy. For the first time postpartum, I don't feel like a medical prisoner, chained to a bed, being poked, prodded, and drugged. I'm not depressed. I'm not malnourished. I'm not hooked up to a catheter and bunch of IVs. I'm not being woken up all night long for unnecessary checks, painful testing, bloodwork, and medications. Instead, I've found balance. I was able to go to the hospital and be medically-safe to have my baby in a high-risk situation, and get to have a calm recovery at home, the way I'd imagined during a home birth situation. You can have both! I sit here now writing this while comfortable in my bed, having had quality sleep (even with a newborn!), with my tiny miracle next to me, my husband reading by my side, and watching my two toddlers soundly sleeping on the monitor from the next room.
For two years straight, I wasn't able to produce any milk to feed my children. It was another component of my difficult birth experiences. I felt in my heart that all the stress my body was put under was the biggest part of why nothing was "working" they way it was supposed to. It was a crippling pain that is hard to describe unless you've experienced it firsthand.
Today, I breastfed a baby for the first time. I cried tears of joy as I watched her become nourished by my body, the way nature intended.
I even had some leftover afterward from hand pumping. It sounds silly, but the pride I felt putting that little bit of breastmilk into the fridge for the first time ever was remarkable. It was not only a sign that my body was finally in position to do what its meant to do, but proof that all of the hard choices I made up to this point were the right ones. I feel that in this pregnancy, God granted me the serenity to accept the things I couldn't change, the courage to change the things I could, and the wisdom to know the difference - exactly as the well-known prayer goes. There is truly nothing more I could've asked for.
And for everyone that has followed by journey thus far, reached out with words of encouragement, and expressed love and support for my family, know how very much it means to me. When I started sharing this all, I didn't know where things would end up, I just hoped it would be meaningful and helpful to others.
On Sunday, the "happy ending" I had in my head, I'd thought I'd lost. But instead, I see now that I was given the real happy ending I needed.
Thank you for being here, and I hope this serves as a reminder and reinforcement for you too, that what's meant for you will always find a way. Never give up hope, remain faithful, and trust in a plan greater than your own. It is the true path to peace.