Amelie’s Birth Story, Part 4: Finally.

Amelie’s Birth Story, Part 4: Finally.

It’s interesting to me the fascination we {as humans} have with the “Why?” of things.
A life is cut short, a dream is lost, there’s a deviation from what’s good, right, “supposed to happen,” and suddenly everyone’s whispering or at least wondering, “Why?”
“I just don’t get it. What happened?”
Because things don’t just happen for no reason. Somewhere, someone made a mistake.
And I need to know who so I know who to blame.
So I know who to be angry with.
So I later know who to forgive.
{Which, ultimately, inevitably, leads me to needing to forgive myself… Something about this little blame game often leads me back to blaming myself.}

I remember a parable in the Bible {which I’ll probably butcher, so bear with me…} about a blind man.
A blind man who’s surrounded by people that are asking who’s fault it is that he’s blind.
Who sinned that this man would be blind? Him? His parents?

WHO screwed up?!
Because THAT person needs to be punished.

OR, just as frequently…

Because the person wanting to find the answer to the Why question wants to be reassured that things work a certain way.. That things that are “supposed to happen” do. {Unless, of course someone gets in the way.}

Unfortunately,
it
JUST
does not
always
work that way.

So.
I know you’re wondering..
How?
Why?
What happened?
What went wrong?
Whose fault is it?
What could have been done differently?

And you might even be wondering what reason I’m choosing to tell myself as to why I had to have a caesarean section.

Around 6am on Wednesday, December 15th {50+ hours into my labor} we chose to break my water.
More than 8 hours later, I was still only 8cm dilated.
Fluid had been leaking this whole time, and my contractions spread out A LOT.
The fluid was getting darker, which meant meconium was starting to come out of the baby & mix with the fluid.

None of these things equal danger, necessarily.

I’ve been over the story 1,000 times in my head.
I’ve recalled the facts that were written by other people.
I’ve talked about it with people who were there.
I’ve closed my eyes & seen everything I could remember in my mind’s eye.
I’ve replayed over & over every little thing that I imagine could have possibly influenced the outcome.
I’ve wondered about what could’ve been done differently.
I’ve asked every question that I’ve talked about here… And then some.

When I arrived at the hospital, my heart rate, blood pressure, everything was stable.
Same for Amelie.
The only reason either of us were worse for the wear was the intense pain in my lower back & the hours & hours that she & I had been working together to try to get her out of me.

What I remember is the seemingly endless wheelchair ride from the parking garage to Triage.
We didn’t take an ambulance. It wasn’t an emergency. Everyone was fine.
I remember the Triage room. Straps around my belly, so tight, so painful.
I remember being forced to sit in the most uncomfortable position possible for my back pain.
And questions. Oh, the questions.
They must have written my name down 800 times. And my date of birth.
All the while, I was breathing, focusing, pointing to John to answer their endless questions.

I remember speaking twice before the c-section conclusion:

“Can you take these straps off of me, right now?”
{I would like to think I said please, but I highly doubt it. We’ll have to ask John.}

And, when the OB {who is, mind you, a SURGEON} came into the room to consult.
She told me how long I’d been in labor – as if I didn’t know it’d been a long time, as if she even knew.
She told me there MUST be something wrong. My baby must be too big. My body just isn’t made to do this. Blah, blah, blah.
Bullshit. I remember thinking it. BS! I screamed in my mind.
She did her best to pretend she was giving me two options.
My baby wasn’t coming, and I needed a c-section. So she says.

I don’t recall at which point exactly I interrupted to tell her, firmly:
“I am NOT having a c-section.”

I didn’t have a hospital bag packed. I hadn’t printed a birth plan just in case we ended up at the hospital.
Though, I had filled one out a few months prior.
So, we printed it out.
And I took it in.
It was as anti-intervention as possible.

And she used it against me.
She told me I had two options:
Have a low-key c-section right now.
OR
Immediately push Pitocin to ramp up the contractions & get things going, inevitably leading to an emergency c-section in a few hours. Where, much to my chagrine, NONE of my birth plan stuff would even matter, at all.

Essentially, she said:
“Choose: Birth or Baby.”

I told her to leave.
We needed time to talk about it & make a decision.
Mind you, it was about 5 pm.

Oh, tears.
Oh, emotion.
Oh, ache.
And, anger.

I couldn’t make a decision.
I was exhausted. I was ready to give up, but not willing to.

I don’t remember what was said in the next moments.
Only that the decision was made to do our best to protect the baby once she arrived, which meant, according to this doctor, that I had to have a c-section. Right then.

Contractions still came. Fluid still leaked.
My baby & I were both still stable.
They checked me again, I was still 8 cm.

I looked at John, he was beginning to cry.
The decision was made & I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t think about it or face it right then, I just had to get it over with.
Otherwise, I feared, I would crumble into a million pieces.
I told him no tears. I told him we had to be strong.

{My sweet husband, who I have seen cry maybe 5 times. And I had to hush his heart. I hate that.}

I don’t know what would’ve happened if we hadn’t gone to the hospital.
Or if we hadn’t broken my water.
Or if we hadn’t gotten THIS doctor.

All I have is what actually happened.

James says to, Count it all joy when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness take its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

I’m not experiencing it as joy. It is loss. It feels that way. It hurts. It pains. It angers.
But, I’m trying to count it as joy.
This is my account of Amelie’s birth.

Birth still seems a foreign word to me. I didn’t give birth. I had surgery.
I struggle to say that word: birth. Born.
I say things like, ‘since Amelie arrived/came/got here.’

I have to choose to believe that there’s no one to blame in any of this.
And that everyone that I’m unreasonably angry with gets forgiveness.

And when my heart inevitably asks why again & again over the coming days, I must answer it truthfully.
Because our world is broken. Because trials are a when & not an if. Because things just don’t always happen the way that they’re supposed to.

I still believe in birth. I still believe that God designed our bodies with that purpose.
And next time we are pregnant, I will still pursue the opportunity to welcome our next baby into the world the way he or she was created to be.