This morning as I made pancakes, I put on a show I never thought I would watch. A show called One Born Every Minute.
It’s a documentary showcasing 2-3 couples during labor & delivery.
Not normally my cup of tea. (And since it’s filmed in the UK, there’s a lot of tea to be had.)
But since our baby girl seems to be sticking around for now, I wanted to keep my mind focused on normalizing birth. Because the dang truth of it is …. I’m terrified of giving birth.
Now at this point, you might say, “Well, Rachel, given your experience … Being scared of birth makes sense.”
And I’d have to say, NOPE. This is actually me not being scared of preeclampsia, or HELLP, or even an emergency c-section. I’ve lived through those, I have an idea of what to expect, and I know how I want to plan for those contingencies.
What I am terrified of is regular old labor. The dilating. The cramping. The losing control over your emotions. The ring of fire. The pushing.
I’m terrified … Terrified … That I’m not strong enough. That I’ll be a wus, dilated to 1 cm, screaming for an epidural. That all the nurses and my OB will roll their eyes behind my back and whisper “what a drama queen.”
This is of course why I’m hiring a doula. Well, not the only reason. But a big one.
I feel like if I could just know someone I trust is on my side. She’ll help me focus through the pain. Give me freedom to express myself without shame cloaking every vocalization. Someone who I know is not there to judge me, but just to love me through it — no expectations attached.
This is why I also hope to labor at home as long as possible. (Well, one of many reasons.)
So this morning, I turn on my show while cooking. Because maybe the more I watch birth, the less scary it will seem.
Today’s episode features a second-time mom in her first labor. First time feeling contractions, first time pushing.
And when she comes in, clearly not in hard labor, she tells her husband she hopes she’s at a 9. And that she wants an epidural right away.
Not shockingly … She’s at a 2.
Who knows how long she labored to get from a 2-3. The editing team didn’t really make that part clear. But labor clearly got more active, and the whole time the poor thing is begging for her epidural.
They go to check her again … And she went from a 3 to a 9 in 1 hour. And now, it was too late for the epidural.
Pushing didn’t go much better for her. She cried, she cried out, she said she couldn’t do it.
And the whole time watching, I just wanted to tell her to get a grip. Not because she was wrong in anything. But because she was the part of me I feared.
She seemed out of control. She seemed to not be able to handle the pain.
She began crying again, as the baby’s head emerged. She looked like she wouldn’t be able to finish pushing. She asked in fear if there was any chance the head would go back in. They laughed a bit, and reassured her the head was fully born.
And with one more cry/push, the rest of the baby emerged.
Her face contorted from fear and pain to overwhelming joy.
“I did it!!!!” she laughed/cried. “I really, really did it!!!!”
And with that, I balled.
There was no shame in her voice. No apologies for the fuss she made. There was no need for any of it.
There was just a victory cry.
Something released inside of me with my tears. Knowing that no matter how I get there, and whether I’m brave in the process or just completely terrified the whole time, at the end of it all, to be able to say “I did it!” would be worth anything I had to go through to bring my baby to this world.
I made it through the struggle with hyperemesis gravidarum the first half of my pregnancy. I made it through the heart palpitations and weakness. I made it through all the chest pain and discomfort. I made it through the anxiety that naturally comes with pregnancy after loss. I made it through all the blood draws, the IVs, the ultrasounds, and the extra visits to my doctor. I made it through all the times I had to say no to doing what I wanted to do because my body was not happy with me. I made it through the second-guessing, the sleepless nights, the dehydration. I made it through the unrelenting fear that often threatened to steal my joy. I made it through the 4 years and 5 losses it took to get to this point.
And I made it through labor & delivery … And all the complications that did or did not happen. Whether it ends up being a VBAC or a c-section, I got through it all.
In the end, no matter how the rest of our story plays out, I hope that a newborn baby girl will be placed on my chest, and I can cry out through tears of joy, “I did it!!! I really did it!!!”
I cannot wait to utter my own victory cry.
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