How Did I Get Here - Part 2
Part 2 of my new series about what brought me to midwifery and birthwork.
This part is the ECV and cesarean. It isn’t pretty. I’ve written this story so many times over the last 16 years, and this feels the truest. I continue to give myself grace, but I also see now how dehumanized I was through that entire day.
To read the other parts, head HERE
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Do you ever have those moments where you know your life is going to change, and your gut is telling you to go back to bed because it's not a great change but something that will irrevocably hurt?
Waking up on the morning of my ECV was like that. We had to be at the hospital at 5am, and I didn't sleep well the night before, mostly nerves and excitement that I could possibly meet my baby that day. I didn't think I would, but it's that tiny part of your brain that thinks about what could happen? And I foolishly thought that even if we met our baby that day that everything would be great.
Walking into the hospital my gut was *screaming*. This isn't right this isn't right this isn't right. Over and over and over. It's like you're watching it happen to you in slow motion but there is nothing you can do to change the outcome.
I walk up to the nurse's station, and they have NO IDEA I'm supposed to be there. There are no orders, no forms, absolutely nothing saying that I am having an ECV at 7am. I'm barely 20 years old, I've done everything I'm told this entire pregnancy, and now they're saying I'm wrong and shouldn't be there. I stare, bewildered.
A nurse takes pity on me and takes me to a room and says they will call the doctor and figure it out. She hands me a gown, tells me I just need to take my bottoms off but can keep my shirt on (this is an issue later, just like everything else that day).
And we wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, at 6:30, the nurse comes in and says that they got it all figured out and the anaesthesiologist is on the way to give me the epidural, and they just need to get my IV set up so everything can start.
It's like a giant rush at this point. No one was prepared but now they know they're on a clock and if they aren't ready when the doctor gets there, it's his time everyone is wasting, and somehow it's my fault for coming in without orders (even though there were, they just lost them along the way).
The epidural is placed, which I would never ever like to live through again, meds are placed, I start feeling a bit loopy, and finally my midwife and the doctor come in, all smiles. At 8:30am. What even is time anyway?
Ultrasound.
More meds.
Ultrasound.
So much talking.
The bed flattened and I'm lying on my back with my head a lower than my body to pull her out of my pelvis.
Pushing.
It's hard to breath.
More pushing.
Swearing.
Hands leave my belly.
Ultrasound.
"We got her halfway and then lost our hold and she went right back, we have to try again."
Pushing.
Pulling.
My whole body is jerking on the bed.
It's hard to breathe.
Pushing pushing pushing.
Finally release.
Ultrasound.
"We got her head down, everything looks great, good job! We need to keep you on the monitors to make sure baby is okay, just rest while the epidural wears off."
It worked. My baby is head down. The epidural needs to wear off and I can go home. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that everything is going to be okay.
I try to sleep a bit, but an hour later I wake up with my legs spasming on the bed but I couldn't feel them. I then proceed to have a massive panic attack, Blake can't calm me down, yells for the nurse. She comes in and helps me breathe and relax, but the twitching won't stop and I still can't feel my legs and what is wrong and why is this happening and when can I go home and and and and and….
They never told me a side effect of the meds was anxiety attacks.
Just chalk that up on the board of things I was never told, which gets longer by the second.
Slowly the feeling comes back to my legs. It's around 11am at this point.
And then my room is filled with nurses. Her heart isn't looking as good as they want, and oh crap, there is a pool of fluid on the pads under me.
During pregnancy, I remember being told over and over that if you have contractions 5 minutes apart, lasting one minute, for one hour, to go in to the hospital because that's labor. I was admitted twice in pregnancy for this - once when I was so dehydrated from puking nonstop for 24 hours, and once at 35 weeks. They laughed at me because the vaginal check showed nothing, even though the monitor showed contractions. I was patted on the head, told it's "just braxton hicks" and to come back when it's serious.
With your first baby, how are you supposed to know it's serious? How are you supposed to know that the 5-1-1 rule is bull when your uterus contracts every second of every day no matter what you do?
The list of things just gets longer.
My panic subsided with the adrenaline now filling my room, but I have no idea what could be wrong. The doctor comes in and tells me the baby isn't handling things as well as we would want, and my water might have broken, so they need to do tests for that and monitor me more closely to see if the baby perks up or if I'm in labor.
Um. Ok? This wasn't part of my plan. I was supposed to be going home.
Vaginal check. Dilated to a 1, same as 35 weeks.
Amniotic swab. Negative. What could this liquid be if not amniotic fluid?
Oh. They never placed a catheter. I had peed all over myself. Just great. Exactly what I want to hear when someone is sitting basically in my vagina.
Looking back, the most dehumanizing part of this is how they would talk about me like I wasn't there. I'm lying on the bed, still too numb to walk but getting feeling back, and they are talking to each other over me like they're talking about the weather outside. Like I am not even there to hear them.
At that moment, I knew my baby wasn't acting right on the monitor, I had in fact peed myself instead of my water breaking, and I wasn't in labor. They kept asking each other if they should put a catheter in, if they needed to walk me to the bathroom, if they needed to call the doctor, if they should flip me or sit me up, or or or or.
Never once did anyone look at me, explain what was going on, and ask if I was okay. Not once.
It's noon or 12:30, and baby is still having decels and I am now contracting regularly. But no dilation, after another incredibly rough vaginal exam that this time I can feel because I am no longer numb.
Still no words directly to me. Just at me and around me.
1pm, the doctor comes in. Finally, eye contact.
"Your baby isn't handling the version well, it's time to do a cesarean. Are you numb still?"
"No."
::turns to nurse and talks to her, never looking at me again::
I'm shaved.
Anaesthesiologist enters the room again, adds more medication to the catheter because they never removed it.
Notices I'm wearing a shirt.
Chaos ensues.
It was just a T-Shirt, but I have an IV, the epidural, and monitors all over my body. Taking the t-shirt off was a nightmare. And they had to do it quickly because the OR was set up and waiting.
The nurses ended up lifting and pulling me like I was a rag doll as they got the shirt off around everything, and then put my gown back on as if I had any shred of modesty or respect for myself left. None of that existed anymore, I didn't feel like a human at that point anyway. I was invisible.
The meds aren't working and I can still feel everything. Every couple minutes the doctor uses a pin or something to poke my legs to check if I'm numb. I'm not. Over and over.
He tells me that the dose he gave me is the same as earlier, but it isn't working. So he gives more. And more. And more. By the time I start to go numb, he tells my husband he's given me three times the normal dose, and he has to monitor me really closely.
Not to me, my husband.
Invisible. Still. I'm a body housing a baby that needs to come out. Nothing more.
They wheel me out of the room, Blake enters the OR after they get me set up, no one knows if I'm numb, but they start to cut and the anaesthesiologist says "oh good. She's numb, or else she would not be still right now."
Pulling.
Burning.
Pushing.
Talk about what they're doing after this.
Pulling.
Then the room is silent.
"We have a daughter."
No crying. No sounds.
I watch Blake's face as he watches them take her to the side of the room.
My arms are going numb from being strapped to my sides.
No sounds.
Finally, two small cries, then silence again.
They ask Blake if he wants to go with them to take the baby to the nursery, she's having a hard time breathing. He goes, and I am knocked out.
I wake in recovery, foggy and unaware. The nurse says I'm doing well, the baby needed extra care, and I go to sleep again.
It's a couple hours later when I wake up in my room, completely alone.