Day Nine

by Amanda Munday

  “We need these good and tight so I can hear the baby and watch the contractions from the nurses’ station. You see? That’s how we’ll know what’s going on in here.” I hate the tight elastic band around my very swollen belly. With this nurse’s arrival, I’m officially stuck to machines, unable to move around the spacious room without disrupting the setup. This isn’t the free-flowing birth I imagined.

  Gordon’s phone rings. It’s Rose, who sounds like she’s thanking him for the update and asks that we don’t call her back until I’m at least five centimetres dilated. Dr. Skylar shows up to check on me after about an hour of deep breathing and offers to break my water to “get things moving.” Things aren’t moving? I look over to Gordon. He’s nodding anxiously.

  Dr. Skylar inserts a crochet-needle-like device into my cervix and a gush of water rushes out of me. My abdomen feels like a slowly deflating balloon, except without the whispering squeal. I can’t believe these doctors and nurses are happy to have all this water spill out all over the bed while I’m hooked up to electrical equipment. The sappy, warm water between my legs feels icky. This must be what it feels like to pee your pants, except instead I’m peeing my open-back hospital gown.

  I announce, to no one in particular, that I don’t want any further interventions or drugs. “I will do this on my own. The pain is manageable.”

  No one says anything in response to my silly drug-free stance, so despite being strapped to the monitors I lift myself up and move awkwardly from the bed to a nearby chair. The act of shifting from a horizontal position to a vertical one causes a much larger wave of water to exit my body. It’s time to focus on getting the baby out, I tell myself. Stop obsessing about what might happen and stay present in this activity. The contractions are stronger now but still feel manageable. I turn the chair to directly face the clock on the wall above the contraction monitor. Gordon is sitting on the edge of my amniotic-fluid-soaked bed, looking down at his phone. He doesn’t look my way, and he doesn’t seem to be counting the seconds like he was outside. He’s reading his phone and not responding to my silent glares. I look over to the clock behind him. I need to know how long these surges are lasting and how much rest time I’m getting in between them. Surges is the word we were taught in hypnobirthing class, designed to make you visualize opening the cervix instead of contracting it closed. With each surge my body feels like it’s closing in on itself. I’d like to meet the person who is able to successfully open during these tense moments. The surge seals my eyelids shut as I wait for it to pass.

  This timed breathing and clock obsession lasts for a few hours, during which Gordon makes a few calls to our imme-diate family.

  His first call is to Max, who doesn’t say anything about the imminent labour but does ask if we want any food. I request La Cubana, a Cuban cheese-and-meat sandwich shop I adore, knowing I probably won’t eat it. I have no appetite.

  Rose arrives just as the anesthesiologist enters my room with the epidural I apparently requested during a recent contraction. Somewhere between the opening surges I must have said I wanted it, though the last thing I remember saying is no drugs. Rose rushes over to my bed in a huff. She spins around to face Gordon. In a frustrated voice she says, “I thought we decided that you didn’t want these drugs for Amanda?”

  Gordon shrugs with ambivalence. “Dr. Skylar said this is about the breech delivery, and that if we have to move quickly because the baby is stuck, it’s better if Amanda’s frozen from the waist down so we don’t waste time in an emergency. I think it’s better that Amanda get through this delivery, don’t you?”

  Rose looks down at me, taking my hand in hers while adjusting the fetal heart rate monitor. “You said you didn’t want to be frozen during labour. Are you sure this is the best strategy for you right now? I’m sure we could try to move your labour along for a bit before you take the next step in pain management.” Her voice is measured and calm, but I can hear the irritation in each word.

  All of my decisions are being made in isolation from one another: Do I want drugs or not? Do I want to eat something or not? It’s no longer bright and airy and happy here. I’m taking the drugs, I decide, and releasing the decision-making to someone else. I have become an internalized version of myself, struggling to vocalize the worry and confusion I’m feeling while my body expands and contracts, pushing a human downward inside of me. I don’t love the decision to take the freezing meds, but I’m too physically exhausted to say much else.

  The epidural itself is painful. A nurse holds my arms tightly against my sides to stabilize me and I scream into a pillow as the needle is inserted into my spine.

  When it’s over, the anesthesiologist gives me the orientation to drug self-management: “Push the red button to add more drugs. You can’t push it too often — signal when you need to and you won’t feel a thing.” I won’t push the button; I want to feel this baby for as long as possible. Besides, all I can think about is the risk of paralysis. Will this affect my ability to walk? What will happen to my legs? I’m no longer thinking about the baby, my husband, my family, or the medical staff. I can only think about the long-term effects of the epidural, and whether this unplanned vaginal breech delivery is going to kill me.

  The medication slows labour down and my previously quick progression grinds to a halt. Gordon continues calling out my progress like he’s calling a baseball game on a Sunday afternoon: “Four centimetres, five minutes apart, mostly calm. That last one was a doozy. We were at three minutes apart but she’s lost her zest. We’ll see what happens during the fourth inning.”

  Hours later Rose turns the lights down in the delivery room and announces she’s going to go grab some dinner. Max has just arrived with the dinner I won’t eat; he hugs me and gives me a kiss on my forehead. My internal focus gives over to performance mode. I wave my hands around and proclaim, with steeped sarcasm, “I can’t feel anything anymore. Everything is great!”

  We don’t talk about what might happen or when. Max settles into one of the lounge chairs on the other side of the room, and I notice how loud the rain has become outside. When did it start raining? Could the power go out? Is there a flash flood? The world continues outside this room, but nothing matters.

  Gordon looks up from his phone to tell me my mother has arrived. I was very specific in my request about her presence. I don’t want her involved in my labour, though my reasons are a bit muddled tonight. At this point in our lives, my mother is an extension of my stepfather. And I can’t stand him. He brings only darkness and stress. I’m more convinced than I ever have been before: I cannot introduce this new human to that world. If she’s here, he could be, too. So she’s not welcome.

  I beg Max and Gordon to find a reason to tell her she can’t stay.

  “I don’t want a parade in my delivery room! This is about creating a quiet experience for baby!” I plead, but they look unconvinced.

  Gordon says, “I’ll tell her to go, but are you sure you don’t want her to just stay in the waiting room?”

  “No,” I say. “She’s going to tell him all about this and he can’t be a part of this day.”

  Before I can convince anyone, my mother enters the delivery room. I tense up at the sight of her. My shoulders rise and I avoid eye contact. Max paces the room. My mother walks directly to my bed and kisses me on the cheek. She looks worried, too. Why is she afraid?

  “I’m fine, Mom.” I say it over and over again. “Everything is fine, look at me. Go home please, Mom, this might go on all night.”

  I need her to leave. She is not the comfort I need in this unknown situation. In fact, I’m no longer seeking comfort from anyone around me. I just want Rose, who has returned from her dinner, to take control of this room; she’s the only person I want near my body. She’s the only one I will permit to touch me from this point forward. A nurse shows up for a standard check and announces that my contractions (which I can no longer feel) have slowed dramatically, and that more interventions are likely needed. I can
’t stand the idea of my mother and brother standing beside me while I push this baby out, so I shoot Gordon another desperate, pleading look. Please, please get her out of here.

  Gordon raises his voice a bit as he says, “Amanda seems like she needs a few minutes of quiet. How about everyone go out to the waiting room and leave her here with Rose?”

  He follows my mother to the waiting area and asks her to leave. I know he feels cruel asking to her go, but he knows it’s what I want. He returns to our room and tells me that she cried. She agreed to leave only after my brother asked for a ride home, likely to back me up. I feel guilty and more anxious but also vindicated — I stood my ground in my desire for a spacious birth experience. This is about my experience tonight.

  Somewhere between my mother and brother going home and me trying to feel less guilty about depriving my mother of this birth experience, labour has progressed. Gordon says he doesn’t want me to feel anxious with his pacing and decides to take a walk down the hall. When he leaves I notice how dark it is in my room, only the light from the hallway and the tall towers outside my window sending the softest orange glow around the room. Standing beside me, Rose checks my cervix and asks, “Do you want to feel your baby’s foot? Reach out. Baby is right there.” In a dimly lit delivery room I reach my hand down and inside myself and feel a little wet baby heel.

  When I touch the foot I pull back quickly. It is so strange to feel one body inside another. There’s a baby just about hanging out of my body. As I’m rubbing the tiny sticky foot, Dr. Skylar and two more nurses arrive.

  Dr. Skylar declares, “It’s time to go to the operating room.” They’ve been watching my contractions progress on the monitors at the nursing station, and they’ve pieced together a plot I didn’t plan. The operating room? Since when? We’re not delivering the baby in this room?

  Rose sees my concern and rushes out of the room to bring Gordon back from wandering the halls while yet another new nurse runs in and furiously detaches my heart and contraction monitors. The room is full of people I do not know.

  “Has no one prepped this patient for surgery?” she quips to me and only me. I suppose I’ve failed you, I think. I wish I knew who you were, though. Rose returns with Gordon and they exchange passive-aggressive words with the nurse about transfer of care and “the patient’s best interests.”

  I’m wheeled down the hall and lifted onto an operating table. Several doctors introduce themselves to me. In total, nine doctors and nurses crowd my midwife and husband from view. I’m naked and frozen from the waist down, lying on a cold metal operating table, squinting from the bright lights. Dr. Skylar tells me to expect that “she might scream at me,” and a nurse pulls my knees to my ears and tells me to push.

  Push. How do you tell your body to act when you can’t feel its response? How do you manage your own behaviour, your own sense of what is real and what is imagined? I picture my body pushing the baby out, I hold my breath, I make all the motions I think labouring women make when they’re asked to push. But I don’t feel a single thing. There is lots of chatter in the room, and I lose sight of Gordon and Rose.

  A nurse I don’t recognize loudly huffs “push!” repeatedly into my ear. Someone, I assume Gordon, strokes my hair. I ask for a break to catch my breath.

  “You can’t break, this is it!” yells Dr. Skylar.

  A minute later I hear my husband’s voice: “Oh, my God, it’s a girl!” He’s somehow now at the back of the room. Maybe someone else was rubbing my hair?

  “Shhh! She’s not done yet!” Rose smacks his shoulder in response to his birth announcement. The nurse continues pulling my knees closer to my face. This baby is being born, and she’s being born backwards, right now. Her sex revelation is the beginning of the birthing journey, not the end. I strain to lift my head, barely hearing all the doctor chatter through my thoughts of my brand new baby girl.

  The baby is pulled out, or maybe pushed out, and placed on my chest.

  “Five pushes only!” someone yells. I let out a loud cry and look around for Gordon. She’s finally here. I was sure I was having a boy, and now I have a daughter. I can’t believe this is real. Someone lifts the baby to examine her while Gordon is congratulated. I’m in the middle of the room, but now that the baby’s out, no one’s talking to me. It’s like I disappeared. I’m alone on a cold operating table, surrounded by people who are all focused on my productive output, this tiny human who is covered in my body’s mucus.

  I look up to Gordon, tears flowing down my face, and whisper, “We have a baby.”

  He leans down to kiss me, his tears dripping onto mine.

  The table I’m lying on feels cold and I’d like to be back on a regular bed. A nurse lifts the baby from me and asks Gordon if he’d like to cut the umbilical cord. I hear one of the doctors give my baby an Apgar score, a number for her overall health. There are so many people in this room, all having come to see a rare breech birth. I lift my head to better see Rose’s reaction to my daughter’s scorecard but she seems busy between my legs. I look up to Gordon, confused. He nods and starts loudly asking to the room what’s going on down there.

  “We just need to get you stitched up, okay, Amanda?” I appreciate that someone is directing the answer back to me, a doctor I don’t recognize speaking up to me from between my legs. Rose tells me about my placenta being delivered but all I can hear is my baby’s quiet cries. Dr. Skylar is across the room with the baby, and I hear her say, “Everything is fine, this baby is healthy. You did so wonderful, Mama.”

  Within minutes of being told my vagina has been successfully sewn back together, Rose and Gordon wheel me back to my delivery room with the baby on my chest and transfer us both to my fluid-soaked bed, where I promptly vomit over the baby and onto my lap. Rose rushes over to help me get cleaned up, carrying a can of orange juice. Did she anticipate the barf? She really is a super midwife. Gordon lifts his daughter out of my arms and coos sounds of comfort in her direction.

  “This well help, dear. Drink it slowly.” No one in the room seems terribly concerned about the puking (Rose gives me a puke bowl in case I need it again), so I tell myself not to worry about it too much, and I lie back down to catch my breath. We have a baby. Dr. Skylar returns to shake everyone’s hand and wish us well. She’s finished her shift for the night and is delighted that this baby wasn’t surgically removed from my womb. I’m not sure if I’m delighted or traumatized. Maybe a little of both. Gordon is looking down in awe at the baby. We created life. This is real now. She’s here. I watch as he rocks her in his arms. I want to smell her. I want to examine every inch of her body. Is she okay? I pull my hospital gown up and signal without any words that I’d like to hold her against my bare chest. Gordon walks slowly over to me as I put my puke bowl down and untie my hair from the bun I twisted it up into before I left the house this morning. I feel unsteady holding her in my arms with the IV line from the epidural still in my arm. I try to focus on the baby, not the nausea and cramping. We have a baby girl. What’s more important than this little being?

  “Hi, Baby Fiona. I’m your Mama.”

  I’m holding my baby daughter while she lies against my bare chest. She doesn’t seem real to me. She looks up at me with slate-blue eyes, and I don’t feel like I’m returning enough love to her. Does she know who I am? It’s incredibly strange to look down at another human knowing that just minutes ago that person was inside you. She wasn’t here and now she is. It’s a total mind trip. Gordon takes a photo of me holding Fiona while Rose digs around in my hospital bag for a change of clothes. I get the sense I won’t be staying here long.

  I don’t want to get out of this bed even though it’s warm and sticky with my own amniotic fluid, but my epidural is wearing off and Rose asks me to walk into the bathroom and urinate — an act that stings so much I yell out for help. I feel like I’ve been back in this room for no more than ten minutes and I’m already being asked to stand and pee. How did the meds wear off so quickly? When will I get a moment
to rest? I look down to see a toilet bowl full of blood, not urine. Where were these descriptions in the baby books and prenatal classes? I just had a baby backwards, vaginally. Within an hour I’m on a toilet and I don’t know how to wipe myself for fear of making the bloody mess worse. This body is no longer the one I’ve known. It is not mine. I reach down to feel the newly placed stiches and the gaping hole where my flesh used to sit intact. I don’t recognize anything about my broken and raw stitched skin down there. I feel tight and open simultaneously. I was ripped apart and I created life. It stings down there. I want to go home.

  As if she can hear my thoughts, Rose yells to me in the washroom that before I can go home she needs to see me breastfeed the baby successfully. I’m already naked, so I head back to my bed and Rose brings the baby over to show me how to latch. I feel the urge to run from all of this. How am I supposed to contort my breasts so this tiny baby will drink? And what is she going to drink exactly? I certainly haven’t noticed any milk. All I want to do is rest. But Rose helps put Fiona’s mouth around my nipple and instructs me to hold her shoulders tightly against my chest.

  “Pull her toward your breast, not your breast toward her,” she guides. I can’t do this, I think. I don’t want to learn to breastfeed in this moment. It’s too quick. I want to lie on my side and recover from childbirth. But I know I need to keep this child alive, and I can’t go home unless I figure it out. I’m surprised how difficult it is. I imagined that breastfeeding was as simple as mouth to nipple. But all this chin lifting and breast twisting and squeezing comes with too many instructions for me to remember tonight. I’d rather sleep.