A Boho Mama in Momo Land: Baby Country
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This is the third chapter in a web memoir I’m writing called A Boho Mama in Momo Town. If you’re just getting started, here are the previous chapters:
If you’re going to have a baby or two, I highly recommend having them in Mormon country. These people really know what they are doing — particularly when it comes to “multiples.” Back in California, my friends, like me, were having late-in-life babies, and their seemingly progressive California OBGYNs were giving them stern advice about “not gaining too much weight” and “being very careful cuz you’re old.” I mean, that’s not an exact quote, but basically. They don’t call it a geriatric pregnancy for nothing.
I fully expected my blond, square, definitely Mormon OBGYN to cop major attitude about my age (43) — not to mention my status as a heathen. Jon and I didn’t get married until after the girls were born, and I definitely showed up at my appointments with coffee on more than one occasion (relax, it was decaf). But Dr. Smith was cool as a cucumber about my age, my weight gain, and the millions of questions I’d batter him with every time I saw him.
Turns out that giving birth in one’s forties is not a big deal in Utah. They do it all the time. Of course, it’s usually the mother’s seventh baby, not her first, but still. Dr. Smith didn’t blink an eye at any of my numbers or data test results or anxieties. He was basically unflappable — which is exactly what this wreck requires in an obstetrician.
My West–Coast friends were hiring midwives to execute their waterbirths. If they asked, I’d say that I was really disappointed about my situation. Because twins in one’s forties is “high risk,” I was not going to be having these babies in a tub, on a bed, on the floor, in a car (shoutout to Rachel), or anywhere else besides on an operating table in a hospital.
This was contrary to my hippie nature. My own mother gave birth to my little brother at home in her bed — a mattress on the floor — while dozens of people cheered her on. I myself was at the foot of that bed, right next to my best friend, Dylan. We were four, and I vividly remember blankets in the oven and the festive nature of the collective.
The one concession I did make to my hippie leanings was that I insisted on preserving and dehydrating the placenta. So I could ingest it. If you have the stomach for that story, it’s here. I won’t be offended if you don’t.
Throughout my pregnancy, I wondered if I would be able to have a “normal birth,” by which, of course, I mean vaginal. A friend of mine who’d had twins told me to push for the C-section, and several other friends whose hippie leanings I greatly admired had also had C-sections and advocated for them. I was torn. I wanted to have the whole-hog experience of labor and pushing and a bloody, full-of-yelling birth, but also, I didn’t. I was terrified. I was just as terrified of a C-section. “What’s my third option?” I asked.
In the end, the decision was made for me. My stubborn daughters both remained in a breech position throughout my pregnancy. Rightside-up for nine-and-a-half months. And Baby B (that’s Phoebe) also had a condition known as velamentous insertion of the cord that happens in 8.7% of twins, harmless while in utero but potentially fatal if the placenta were to rip during Baby A (Eliza’s) exit. There was no way I was going to chance it, and at any rate, my doctor wouldn’t hear of it.
He did advocate waiting for me to go into natural labor, then performing a C-section immediately. But, like most doctors these days, he wouldn’t let a twin pregnancy go past 38 weeks. Twins develop faster than singletons during gestation, and after 38 weeks, they run out of room and resources in there. So as I approached the 38-week mark with nary a pang of labor in sight, we scheduled a C-section.
The morning of my surgery, I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept at all. It was January 9th, and it was snowing. I had to be at the hospital at 6 a.m., and my husband’s sporty little GTI was acting wonky. I was basically sobbing on the way to deliver. “Let’s reschedule,” he implored. “I don’t really think people do that,” I responded. We pushed on, at least one of us full of dread.
I’m not really the type of person who gets excited in advance of things. My one available emotion as far as expectation goes is anxiety. I wasn’t thinking about meeting my daughters for the first time; I was thinking about all the things that could go wrong. When the anaesthesiologist popped in, my main question for her was “Am I going to throw up?” I’m the rare weirdo who is more afraid of throwing up than of vaginal childbirth.
“Maybe,” she replied, disaffected. My husband’s hatred of her was palpable.
My anxiety revved up several notches, so that by the time my OB sauntered in, I was desperate to get out of the whole thing. But this is a guy who has probably delivered a thousand babies. He was not impressed by my panic attack, and the next thing you know, I was having a baby. Two babies.
I use the word “delivering” very casually here. I lay mostly paralyzed on the cold steel table, my OB and another doctor at my side, my husband and a nurse at my head for distraction purposes. The whole thing took about 15 minutes. They chatted nonchalantly the entire time. My husband’s eyes widened incredulously when Baby A (that’s Eliza) emerged. It was as if he hadn’t really believe there was a live baby or two in there until that moment.
I did not throw up.
