The BIRTH

The doctor (Not mine, I transferred at 33 weeks and chose whoever would take me, my insurance and deliver at a hospital I wanted. The one who would and did, wasn’t available this particular morning so one of his partners, who I’d never met, was on-call.) said the baby was so low, I should have her out by 7am.

Never give a very pregnant, about to burst, anxious, uncomfortable, exhausted, hormonal woman a time frame. The only thing that leads to is false expectations, disappointment and further fury.

Guess what? 7am. A half-hour of painful pushing later and no baby.

What’s worse barbaric, inhumane and unethical, the doctor completely weaned me off the epidural. She said she wanted me to feel when to push. Now, everyone in that hospital including this stranger knew my stance on the matter. I’m sure even the janitor could have told you the crazy lady in 813 wanted to feel nothing. I, again, reminded her of my plan and she pretended to placate me.

I’d never done this before, didn’t know what was “normal” and what wasn’t, how much pain you should feel with an epidural vs. without or what to expect. I was also out of my mind at the moment so having a rational argument was out of the question. And we know how effective my husband was! In fairness, he was also overwhelmed and in uncharted territory.

By 8am, still no baby and a depleted mother. Not only did the doc give me an inaccurate timeline, she was also exercise instructor-ing me. You know those trainers who say “one more set” and then there’s ten? And you want to strangle them with your fitness band? That was her.

She’d say, “Ten more pushes” which translated to ten-hundred.

I don’t half-ass things. I’m either doing it or I’m not. And when I am, I’m doing it all the way. And, if I can, in half the time.

So when she asked for three sets of ten-second pushes and then a rest, I was giving her five sets with twenty-seconds.

If she’d been honest, I could’ve paced myself. But after twenty, thirty, forty pushes at full steam, I had nothing left.

I was discouraged, defeated, depressed. And terrified. Terrified that I actually couldn’t do this. My daughter’s head was out and it was too late to turn back. Too late for a C-section. Too late to decide not to carry or have a baby. I honestly didn’t know how I could move forward. I was convinced I was going to be the first woman ever with a baby stuck and my child would grown up half inside her mother, half out. “Next on National Geographic…”

With every push, she’d move one millimeter out and then, once I stopped pushing, slip two back in. It felt like an impossible task. It was the hardest and most daunting thing I’ve ever done.

And the pain was primal. I felt like was squatting in a village not in a prestigious, high-tech hospital in New York. My face was purple, vessels and veins strained, body limp and lifeless. My husband, who thinks I can do anything and generally looks at me with awe in his eyes, was doubtful. He didn’t say it but I could tell. For once, he was doubting me and I didn’t blame him. I was doubting myself. And the doctor. And anyone who ever has a baby. What a ridiculous idea.

The doctor kept asking if I wanted a mirror, to watch, sit up, some water, ice chips, a break… I WANTED. THE. BABY. OUT.

To add insult, there was a shift change right smack dab in the middle of my labor and where did the nurses congregate? You guessed it… In my room.

“How was your night?”

“What’s the deal with the mom in 804-B?”

“Did you eat breakfast yet?”

And a dozen other things I can’t remember because I was a little preoccupied.

Ironically, the only thing I had requested (besides no pain) was quiet. I didn’t even want my sweet husband, bless his heart, to utter encouraging words. Anytime he tried, he was met with a “shh”.

But was anyone honoring my request? Of course not. After several minutes of dirty looks and paralyzing pushes, I spoke up.

“I’m sorry but can you please be quiet?”

Silence. Thank God.

But two minutes later, it started up again.

And, again, I politely requested for it to cease.

This little charade happened half a dozen times before I lost it.

“PLEASE. SHUT. UP.” I screamed.

Shock. Horror.

I realize these women do this every day, several times a day. To them, it was like brushing teeth. To me, it was pulling them, one-by-one with rusty pliers. To them, it was just another baby. To me, she was everything.

8:20am. My husband and a nurse were called over to hold each of my legs. I’m sure he’s still traumatized. But he was a pro. The nurse? Not so much.

Every time I took a break, she’d disappear. And when it was time to push again, she was MIA. It was go time, the contractions were coming on strong, the head was out, my husband, the doctor and I were ready, hell even my poor little, helpless and trapped daughter was ready but the nurse, who was now whispering, quite literally, behind my back, was not.

More than once I had to remind her to do her job, ask her to grab my leg, tell her it was time.

After probably the third time, I shouted with everything I had left, “LEEEGGGGGG!!!!” It echoed off the walls and through the halls.

I think she got it that time.