I’m still working towards taking my birth-story power back.
When I heard my doctor utter the dreaded words, “It’s time to consider a C-section,” my heart shattered into a million sharp pieces. It was May of last year. My baby was crowning. I’d already been through more than 22 hours of labor, the last two of which I spent attempting to push my baby into the world through horrendous back labor that felt like my spine would break with each contracted breath while my epidural was only working, of course, on one side of my body.
So, ignoring my doctor’s suggestion, I closed my eyes and continued to push with all of my might as if maybe the next few pushes would finally force my baby’s head to descend.
But his head didn’t budge.
I was told to switch to different birthing positions, like lying on my side and kneeling at the foot of the bed, to see if they would help. They didn’t. My doctor tried a few different interventions after that, all of which proved unsuccessful in moving my baby farther out into the world.
In a more serious tone, my doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “The baby’s not moving, and I don’t want him or you to go into distress. It’s time to prep for a C-section.”
I cried.
I knew that it was, indeed, time to move to a C-section to ensure the safety of both me and my baby. But because I’d never seriously considered that I would have a C-section, I wasn’t able to truly process this transition in plans. All I knew was that I felt like my power was being taken away and I had been relegated to a witness to my child’s birth rather than an active participant. I retreated into myself so deeply that it would take months after my baby’s birth to even begin to unpack my emotional distress.
I was not one of those pregnant people who had a very detailed birth plan. I really only knew that I wanted an epidural and for my baby to breastfeed shortly after birth. I naively assumed that I would have a vaginal birth because I had an uncomplicated pregnancy, my baby was well-positioned, I went into labor almost to the day of my expected due date, and I didn’t have any pre-existing conditions that were cause for concern. I confidently planned a vaginal delivery and only spent the smallest amount of time learning about what a C-section delivery entailed, just for academic purposes.
So when I was prepped for major surgery in what felt like the blink of an eye, I prayed—to the universe, fate, God, anyone who was listening—that and my baby and I would survive. That I would get to hear him cry tears of consciousness as he entered into the world.
Thankfully, my surgery went really well. My baby immediately cried out when he was born, and my doctor lifted him up so that I could see his wet little body. I cried tears of relief and joy, and I knew at that moment that I’d made the right decision to have a C-section.
But right as they took him away for standard newborn testing, I instantly felt so much shame. Why couldn’t I have delivered him vaginally? Why wasn’t I able to do one of the most basic things that someone with a uterus is “supposed” to be able to do?
Just then, a nurse in the room was relaying the notes of my delivery to another person. She said the date and time of my baby’s birth. Then she said, “delivered via C-section for failure to deliver vaginally.” I darted my eyes in her direction, and she immediately looked away in what I hope was embarrassment.
The anger I felt at that nurse immediately turned inward. I told myself that maybe I could have delivered my child vaginally if I’d had a doula with me, or if a different doctor from my practice had been on duty that evening, or even if I had read more books about labor and delivery.
Today, I still grapple with whether or not I can claim to have brought my own baby into the world or if I gave all of that power away to my physician.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that I had such a strong negative reaction to my C-section because, subconsciously, pregnancy, laboring, birthing, and mothering looked only one way to me: You’re pregnant for nine months, you labor for a number of hours, you get an epidural or don’t, you push, and out pops your baby. But life isn’t a simple Hollywood montage. We’re all unique, so why would bringing life into the world look the same for every single person? The basic answer is: It doesn’t. We each need personalized care and support.
Even with this realization, I still felt the societal pressure to have had a “natural” delivery. Our society’s insistence on dubbing vaginal birth as “natural” birth automatically marks any other type of delivery experience as “unnatural.” In the United States, mother culture cruelly suggests that this form of delivery is the pregnant person’s fault and only happens because of something the birthing person didn’t do correctly. It’s spoken of as a punishment and not as something to be wanted, or, dare I say, celebrated.
For me, this stigma translated into a lesser-than birth experience. It caused me to emotionally grapple with the existential question of whether or not I was even supposed to be a mother since I was unable to deliver my baby vaginally.
Fortunately, I did not have to struggle with my thoughts and feelings alone. I had the support of a therapist, who I’d been working with for years and who knew exactly how emotionally self-sabatoging I could be. She was able to help me find the clarity that I needed to begin to process my experience. I virtually joined a local-mom network where I met other moms who had similar experiences to mine. I felt seen and understood after learning that many other moms in my circle also had unexpected emergency C-sections and were struggling to heal from the emotional weight of it all. I also found healing and support from friends and family who had also had C-sections and gave me recovery tips for both my physical body and my mental outlook.
I was so fortunate to have this virtual network, especially during a pandemic, because I know that so many people have to process their birth experiences alone. I’m sure that many people are also grappling with the existential question of if they are, in fact, a parent because of the way that their families were created. I know so many beautiful families who have been formed by bond and not by blood, whether through official adoption or just a mutual understanding of kinship. I know people who have conceived through in vitro fertilization and others who have chosen surrogacy or other parenting routes. All of these individuals are loving parents. Whether or not they birthed their children, vaginally or otherwise, doesn’t actually matter. What does matter is that they are parenting with love and compassion.
I’ve started to heal from my experience by recognizing how lucky I actually am. I had the privilege of carrying my child for a full-term pregnancy. I got to experience him coming into the world and taking his first breath. Sure, I did not do it alone. I had the help of my medical team. Not only is that completely valid, but it’s also actually something to celebrate and to be proud of. Somewhere along my postpartum journey, I’ve been able to slowly turn a corner towards acceptance and healing. I’m still processing my delivery experience, and that’s okay; but now I’m being gentler with myself while I continue to work through my complicated feelings. Most important, I’m on a path towards peace and healing. I’m starting to reclaim my power as a birthing person and as a mother.
While I’m not officially there yet, one day I will be able to fully see my C-section as the radical act of mothering that it was. Until then, I find so much comfort in getting to raise a happy, healthy little human who spends his days smiling and laughing. I’m so grateful to be at a place in my healing that allows me to genuinely smile and laugh back.
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