Arianna's Birth Story

With the imminent birth of our second child, I suppose it's time to write down Arianna's birth story. I remember it clear as day, almost 2 years later. It was dehumanizing and humiliating. I realize now a few things I didn't know then:

I was NOT in labor.
You shouldn't have your water broken.
You can trust your body all you want, but a hospital won't respect that.

At the time, I was working at St Rose church as their music director/organist. Matt was working at Messiah College. On Friday, September 25th 2010 I started to have painful contractions. Nothing was timeable, but it was enough to keep me awake. They continued through Saturday, but I chose to go to work and play organ for the vigil mass at 5:30p that evening. Contractions had slowed by the time we got there and I was fine. Really, I was.

Saturday night continued with more and more contractions, but nothing timeable, yet again. I was getting frustrated and tired. VERY tired. I decided that I would go to work (why use my vacation time if this wasn't going anywhere!?) and I played all three masses that morning and directed the choir as well. We left (still having contractions!) and went to St. Mary's further down the road with a priest friend of ours to "test drive" their organ. They wanted me to sub and their head pastor wanted to make sure I knew me stuff (still have contractions!) We climb up the horrible steps to their organ/choir loft with our friend and the lead pastor (These steps are still horrible. Pregnant or not) and I pulled out the hymnal, chose a few "classics" and played for them. I toyed with the stops, smiling the whole time. Let's face it, I had THREE men around me that wouldn't have understood my pain and I could handle it, after all. The lead pastor took out his trumpet (I about died when this happened) and asked if I minded him playing some descants while I played the hymns. Little did I know how wonderful he was! We had fun playing around with the stops, playing hymns, and testing out how much we could make the church shake :) (still contracting!)

When the lead pastor had enough, he thanked me, said to go get some food, and to expect to get a few calls for things, should they need me. Cool! So we left with our friend and went to lunch. It was football season, so of course we went to a bar to be able to catch up on the games, the boys could have a beer, and we could eat a good meal. Before we got there, I called the OB on call (actually a midwife) and said that I was frustrated, uncomfortable, and sick of this crap. She said to call in an hour. If I was still contracting, I was supposed to go to the hospital. Ok, fine. My contractions were still not timeable but were very painful.

We ate lunch (the boys were none the wiser) and watched the game for a bit. About two hours after I had originally called the midwife, I gave her a call on our way home (Matt drove, duh) and she said to eat dinner (we just did that...oops) get my bags, and come to the hospital. So we head in, still contracting, very tired, and very frustrated. They sit me down and hook me up to all sorts of crap. This was upsetting to me (and painful), but fine. Do whatever you've gotta do. They check me and I'm at 3 cms. This meant that they had to keep me. The nurse made me sign a paper that said that I would leave the hospital with a baby (so she said) and told me to go to the bathroom (door had to stay open!?) I did as directed, signed the rest of my paper work, and adrenaline kicked in. I still didn't have consistent contractions, so I was told to walk the hall. So we did. We walked and walked and walked for hours. Nothing got better (has ANYONE caught on that I was NOT in labor yet?)

A few hours after we had been there, I was checked twice (completely not necessary and extremely uncomfortable) and the midwife decided to strip my membranes (OW!). She did "ask" but it certainly didn't feel like asking. Anyhow, membranes stripped, we continued to walk. I progressed to a 5 by myself but still didn't have consistent contractions. They forced me to sit in a bed to monitor this and that, kept checking me, poking me, prodding me, etc. I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to labor and be left ALONE.

A few hours later, I was checked AGAIN. I had progressed to a 6. My water was broken. I was told to keep walking, I would feel a lot of pressure, and things should get moving now. Wrong. I kept walking, crying because I knew that something wasn't right. This didn't feel normal, this didn't and wasn't how I wanted my labor to go and honestly, I felt that this was NOT what God had intended labor to be like. I was so upset. I cried so hard on Matt's shoulder and the nurse came in. She was the "new shift". I was crying like a baby (ironic?) and she stared at me in disgust. She said "Why don't you just get an epidural?" and left the room. I talked to Matt and, while I could handle the pain, I couldn't handle the inconsistent contractions. They would last for short spurts, right on top of each other, or would last for forever and be eons apart. I knew this wasn't right. This wasn't labor. They wouldn't let me go at this point and after multiple nurses saying "Just get an epidural" I caved.

They sat me in the bed, hooked me up to a million monitors, and told me the anesthesiologist would be there in a bit. All the while, I'm in massive pain, forced to lay in a bed, nurses gawking at me and listening to them outside my door complaining about "those women that want natural births". WHAT!? Moving on...about 30 minutes later, I get my epidural. He leaves. I wait, knowing what's "supposed" to happen. It doesn't. The epidural didn't take and they were forcing me to lay in this bed in massive amounts of pain. I scream at them to get him to come back, it's not working and you can't force me to lay in a bed like this when I'm in labor. They finally get him back. He says "Oh, sorry." and gives me a second round of epidural. Fun.

They basically strap me to the bed and run pitocin through my system (I don't ever remember them asking me if they could do this, but I could be wrong). Nearly immediately, her heartrate starts to drop. Everyone freaks and the shove me on my side. That seems to have fixed it, so I was told to rest up. They'll wake me the next time they need me. Are you kidding me? Labor is not about waiting by and just chilling out waiting in a bed while your body does all this work and you sleep. Whatever. Okay, so I sleep (I'm exhausted after 3 days of this crap anyhow). They wake me at 4am on September 27th to check me. I've gone nowhere. Imagine that. I haven't progressed at all. Considering I wasn't actually in labor, you sat me in a bed, gave me fake oxytocin, and expected something to happen!? Yeah, smart.

They continue to wake me every 30 minutes to give me an update, check me, and flip me from side to side. Her heart rate continues to drop and drop. Shift change. The new OB comes in and says that we need to do a c-section immediately. Her heart rate is too low and there's nothing more than can do except to cut my baby from my uterus and rip her out of me and into this world. I cried. Hard. I was miserable. What was WRONG with my body? Why couldn't I do this on my own?

Everyone starts rushing around like someone's dying (the situation hadn't changed in hours...sooo why are we rushing around like chickens with our heads cut off NOW?) They tell me that they're doing this and that and pushing back x amount of other planned sections because it's "so serious". *rolls eyes* They wheel me into the OR, at this point, I'm pretty sure Matt had disappeared. I was so confused, I felt sick, no one actually told me what was going on. They upped my epidural, put a hairnet on my head, literally STRAPPED ME DOWN to the table (like a crucifixion) and said, "Can you feel that?" Feel what, assholes? At this point, I stare at the anesthesiologist and scream "I'm going to throw up! I can't see!" I can hear him freaking out, I can feel Matt freaking out and all of the sudden I feel better. Huh. Ok.

I hear "You're going to feel some tugging." Really? Cause I'm pretty sure if I wasn't strapped down, I would have FALLEN off the table, flat on my face. They rip her from my body and she begins to cry. Funny, but I really didn't feel joy at this point. I was so sad, upset, tired, frustrated, and simply felt like a failure. They whisked her away, weighed her, and told me she was fine. We barely got to see her, they got super crappy footprints, and Matt only got to hold her because he ASKED. No one handed HIS daughter to HIM. We got a half-hearted "Congrats" from one of the nurses (there had to have been 10 in there) and we barely got any pictures taken. I feel them stapling me up (not literally...) and I get whisked away to the recovery area. I will admit, I don't remember much of this.

She was handed to me in recovery, both of us in clothing, (what happened to skin-to-skin?) and said "Are you sure you can hold her?" YES. I'm sure. You know why? Because if I can't, my husband (her FATHER) can and she doesn't need to be away from us any longer. I immediately tried to breastfeed and hold her as close as I could. I still didn't feel like she was mine (ours) and I had no connection to this beautiful child that had been violently ripped from my body because of someone's agenda.

Eventually we were wheeled up to recovery, where she was taken from us again for over an hour to be bathed and poked and prodded by people she would never see again. Under bright lights. Away from her Mommy and Daddy that just wanted to hold her. I was so out of it at this point. So sick. In so much pain. This wasn't what I had envisioned. This isn't what labor and delivery was about. This wasn't what having a baby was about. Why am I not happy? Why do I feel like a failure? Onset...PPD. Great.

For her first day of life, she slept and slept. I thought Oh good, she'll be a sweet baby and we can do this. The next 9 months of her life consisted of constant crying, an extremely depressed and detached Mommy, and problem after problem because I couldn't deal with myself let alone my daughter. At my 6 week postpartum check up, I told the OB that I couldn't handle it. That I couldn't deal with my life. Her response? "You'll be fine, do you want some meds?" I responded kindly that I was breastfeeding and would like to find an alternate route. Her response? "You'll be fine, let me know when you want your meds. You know what? I'll just write you a scrip and you can fill it if you want." She checked my incision, said "This looks great, I'm going to take the staples out and you'll be good to go!" Really? I will? I don't feel "good to go". I can barely get out of bed, put a foot on a step, go back to work, nurse my daughter, make a sandwich. I'll be good to go?

Until our daughter was a year old, I barely functioned. I cried daily. I felt like a failure. No one asked me what I wanted. No one seemed to care. No one cared before she was born. No one cared while I was in "labor", no one cared after she was born. When our daughter was a year old, I started researching everything that I could find. I thought I was well informed with her, but I am well informed NOW. We decided our next child would be born at home with someone we trusted. When Arianna was 15 months old, we found out we were expecting again. I freaked. Terrified. Not ready to feel like a failure again. We interviewed a few midwives that do homebirth and found "our girl".

I decided to sit and write this (I'm too tired to go back and proof read, sorry!) because I wanted this out of my system. I wanted others to know. I want others to see, hear, and read that VBAC is possible and a beautiful birth as God intended it is possible. It will NOT take me two years to write this baby's birth story. I know that I have an amazing support team behind me. I know that I will be trusted. I know that my body will be trusted. I know that GOD will take control when it gets difficult and I know that this birth story will empower me to empower others.

After months of therapy and talking with our midwife about my story, I know that none of this was my fault and that none of it was necessary. I am a person and I will be treated as person this time.