Of Birthing Balls and Birthing Plans
Chapter 5 in the Times of Amma Story.
Honest Dispatches From The Trenches of Motherhood
The birthing suite has a soothing, tropical vibe to it. And by tropical, I mean a soothing Mint Green wallpaper with birds like toucans and flamingos all over it and a profusion of vines and branches and leaves. If it weren’t for the huge adjustable hospital bed in the middle of it, I could have squinted and pretended that I was in some luxury, tropical getaway. I would also have to grit my teeth and ignore the contractions, plus my huge belly. But a girl could dream. The nurse-in-charge, a smiling, diminutive young woman with the sleekest of hair, rolled in a giant ball.
“Ma’am, this is our birthing ball. We recommend gently bouncing on this to help speed dilation and labour.”
((Phwoop. That’s how I hear those fancy rewind sounds they love using in sitcoms. So yes, Phwoop and read the previous chapters here.))
I raised my eyebrows and looked at the ball suspiciously.
A couple of months ago, my husband and I had gone for a birthing class. Our wonderful coach had shown us ways to breathe and ride the waves and use a ball if need be. But naive, maybe even a little stupid old me, had thought that my delivery would be the kind I’d seen in movies. A dramatic breaking of the water, barely making it to the hospital, contractions that would make me sweat and scream and minutes later — here comes baby. There was no “birthing ball” in this version of my birth story. I certainly had not planned for a giant ball in my meticulously thought-up birthing plan. But there it was, the bright blue birthing ball staring at me- the first sign that whatever silly little plans and ideas I had about parenthood were about to be torn up by the universe and thrown in my face.
I gingerly clambered onto the ball as my mother and mother-in-law struggled to keep their faces calm and composed. Let me tell you, dear reader, they both failed utterly and looked petrified. My father, who couldn’t take it anymore, took to pacing outside. My father-in-law retreated to an armchair in the suite and started playing Solitaire on his laptop. My husband held my hand as I started bouncing and breathing and riding the waves of contractions.
A couple of hours later, the contractions were close together, yet it seemed as if this baby had no intentions of getting out.
I was administered Bucospan to thin the cervix, and I had to get into bed. By then, I had been in labour for hours, and the meter strapped onto me indicated the contractions were at a pain range of 120–130. I remember wearing my headphones plugged into my iPod (Yes, that’s how ancient I am) and drifting off into what seemed like a sluggish, dark ocean. Every time I opened my eyes, I would see the stricken eyes of my mother or mother-in-law glancing at the machine that recorded my contractions and biting their lips or twisting their shawls as if that would relieve me from pain. Like some sort of a medieval martyr, I had refused all pain medication, too. This I blame on the arrogance of youth. Ask me today after the multiple pains of parenting have worn me down, and I would have pre-gulped all the pills I could!
I’m not sure how many hours passed that way. But at some point, I awakened to the low murmurs of my Doctor and the nurse. They were looking at the monitor readings from the device strapped on my belly. My Doctor saw me open my eyes, and she came over.
“Shweta, the baby’s heartbeat is dipping. I know you really wanted to have an unassisted birth. But it’s time — we can wait for half an hour more if you wish, but at this point, I would recommend an emergency C-section. Let me know what you decide. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”
The first emotions I felt at her update were frustration and intense disappointment. I had prepared for this — just like I used to prepare for board exams and tests. I had researched like I used to as a TV news journalist. I had read all the books. I had eaten healthy and done all the right stretches and all the prenatal workouts. Why wouldn’t my body comply? Weren’t women supposed to be able to go into fields and squat and just get those babies out? What was wrong with my body? Would the beginning of my parenting journey be with this epic failure on my body’s part?
I hadn’t even read the part on c-sections in the pregnancy books. C-section was the lazy way out I had somehow absorbed. Looking back, I cannot believe I was that naive and ignorant.
C-sections are life-saving procedures that help reduce infant and maternal mortality to a massive extent. Emergency C-sections increase the chances of a mom getting to go home with her baby. Elective C-sections empower women to make the choices they need, and want through the course of their delivery. How has a surgical procedure that has saved so many lives been maligned to this extent? How was an educated woman like me baulking at listening to sound medical advice?
I hesitate for a moment as the Doctor walks out. Doctor K., or Doctora, as doctors are called in the Philippines, had been a rock all through the ups and downs of my pregnancy. Making me feel at ease and never pressuring me. Telling me to relax and trust in myself. She wouldn’t ever ask me to think about an option I had told her I wouldn’t consider, unless there was a medical reason to do so. I blinked and shook my head to clear it. My husband was at my side, holding onto my hand.
“Take your time. Breathe.”
As I opened my mouth to talk, a contraction rattled through my body. I shut my mouth again and closed my eyes, willing my body to bend to the pain and flow with it. When the contraction was over, I knew.
“Tell Doctora that I’ll go in for a C-section. I don’t want to wait if our baby’s heartbeat is spiking. Let’s do it.”
My husband ran out of the suite without waiting to respond.
Every second had felt like I’d been wading through thick molasses, but as soon as my husband returned to tell me that the Doctor had hurried off to get the OT ready, things shifted into top gear.
Two orderlies apparated (This word is for my fellow HP fans) with a gurney. They moved me from my bed to it with a swift, smooth motion. In my head, I imagined myself a beached whale being lifted, but to their credit, their smiles never faltered. With their brave smiles, my parents clasped my hand and stood back as I wheeled away. My husband ran alongside me until they told him to change into the scrubs he would need inside the OT.
I was wheeled in. I’d refused all sedatives. I wasn’t having the birth story of my dreams, but I would be awake for my baby. I wanted to know the moment she emerged. My Doctor nodded, only her kind eyes visible above the surgical mask. I had also asked to keep my glasses on because I was blind as a bat without them. I wanted to make sure that I could see my baby as soon as I got her without squinting maniacally. Doctora had chuckled at that.
I was transferred to the operating table in that same smooth swishy move. A curtain of sorts was propped up from below my collarbone so that I couldn’t see what was happening below. The anesthesiologist kept talking to me in warm tones as he prepped me for surgery and administered local anaesthesia. I don’t remember our conversation, but I remember the last few questions.
“Can you feel this? No? How about this? No? Perfect! Doctora, she is ready.”
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t feel the pain of the contractions anymore, and I suddenly felt tired. In between, I heard the Doctor ask where my husband was. It was almost time, she was saying. One of the nurses replied that he had gone to wear scrubs. I rolled my eyes behind my closed eyelids. How long does it take to wear a pair of scrubs?!
I never did find the answer to that question as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Even though I had refused the sedatives, I had been in labour for more than 24 hours now, and the sudden erasure of pain meant that I could finally just sink in and let go. I didn’t have to grit my teeth and push and resist and force my body to do something it wasn’t able to do for some reason. At some point, I registered that my husband was in the OT. I heard the nurse chuckling as she asked him if he wanted a photo in his scrubs. The son of an Oncology surgeon, my husband readily agreed.
Dear reader, here is a photo of my loving, adoring, supportive husband taking a photo of himself in scrubs to tick a childhood dreams list off.
And there I am opened up on the table in front of him. But hey, I wasn’t in pain, and I got this story to hold him to ransom for a lifetime, so everything worked out.
As my eyes fluttered open, I felt a tugging sensation. The Doctor was saying that we were almost there. Despite the big belly, there had been no fat to cut through, thanks to the extreme walking I’d been doing to keep my glucose levels under control. I swallowed once or twice. The gulp was loud in my ears despite the buzz of the Operation Theater. And then my daughter was here. She cried out loudly, and the Doctor almost immediately placed her on my chest. I’ll never forget how she made a swimming motion, like a wiggly fish and found her way to my breast. She latched on as if she knew what she had to do.
“An old soul”, my Doctor murmured.
Everything else is warm and hazy after that. The nurses took her from me to weigh, clean and swaddle her. APGAR scores were mentioned, and she had aced some kind of test without even trying. The Tiger mom in me let out its first irrational, satisfied purr. My husband took her to meet her grandparents as the Doctor sewed me up. My daughter came into this world on the day after Christmas on my parents’ 29th Wedding Anniversary. I remember groggily thinking that I was never going to have to get them a gift again. I mean, what could top this?
My husband brought her back. I was wheeled away with her to a recovery room, where she was placed in a crib right next to me. The nurse would lift her out and place her next to me for feeding every couple of hours. She was never out of my sight, and I slept with my hand on her crib.
I’d grown a human inside me and managed to get her out. I thought that the most challenging part of motherhood was behind me. Yes, dear reader, I’m laughing as hard as you are at that poor, confused soul that used to be me!
Because recovering from this alone…. Well, more on that next time.
