It’s C-Section Awareness Month So Here’s A Story For Ya

It’s this crazy C-section awareness or appreciation or WHATEVER month. Who knew. And guess what, I had a c-section. So, because it’s C-Section Awareness month, you get to hear about my run in with a C-section. Blood, uterus on the tummy and all.

It all started back in March 1996. I was measuring HUGE. As in, I was the size of someone who was 15 months pregnant carrying twins. Seriously, THAT huge.

Not only was I huge but, the kid was breech. He was lying ribcage to ribcage. And to make matters worse, his head was under my right ribcage which was constantly vibrating from his bouts of hiccups. This kid had more hiccups when he was in my uterus. Once he was born, I couldn’t get him to expel any type of gas from his mouth. But boy, did he fart.

Anywhoo.

Because he was SO breech, the doctors decided to try to get him to go into position by loading my up with painkillers that allegedly don’t cross the into the placenta and then they proceeded to flip him around from the outside.

It worked.

But holy hell on a bicycle (I made that up) did that procedure hurt. I’d say worse than childbirth but, at the time, I didn’t have that to compare it to. So, I would probably have said it hurt worse than…nothing. It was the worst thing that I had ever experienced as far as pain goes.

OK, good. The doctors were able to flip the kid around and set him up for departure. So, I went home. Where I had to wait a good 3 or so more weeks until my due date. Which was April 21st, 1996.

A couple weeks later, after an ultrasound because the doctors were concerned about my girth, I was called into my doctors office to discuss a certain matter.

You see, the doctors determined that my child was measuring around 13 pounds.

Yes. 13 pounds.

Or so the G-D’s doctors thought.

I was told that, due to the mass vs. circumference, delivery via my vagina would not be the route the birth should take.

It was explained to me that, in the event of birthing baby elephants, there is the risk of shoulder dysplasia not to mention an exploding pelvic area. And that, they said, is not a good thing.

This was Thursday, April 18th.

The decision was made that I should come to the hospital the very next morning, at 7am where I would deliver my baby through an incision.

This was NOT what I had wanted to hear.

Having a C-Section was one of my greatest fears of pregnancy. And here I was, sitting in front of the doctor who was basically saying “welcome to your nightmare”.

I didn’t want anything bad to happen to my firstborn baby. So, C-Section it was.

When I got into my car and headed home, I started to shake and cry uncontrollably. I couldn’t call anyone because this is back in the day of cell phone batteries having no life.

A C-Section was not what I had wanted.

But quite frankly, I didn’t want the baby to come out of my vagina either. My fear there was that I’d poop on the table for everyone to see.

I actually don’t know which one I wanted less but this baby, that I wanted and waited for, had to come out somehow. And the doctors made my choice for me.

Sleeping wasn’t really an option. So many flooding emotions and a completely uncomfortable body kept me up all night.

Long story short.

I was prepped. Cut open. Heard the baby cry. Almost threw up from the tugging and pulling because no matter how much medicine they give you, you can still feel that and it’s SO GROSS.

Then, I looked up at the mirror and there it was, sitting on my stomach. This big, swollen THING. I was looking directly at my uterus. The space that cocooned my unborn baby for 9 months. It was almost awe-inspiring to see my own internal organ and to realize what a big, HUGE job it had.

Which makes me realize, I never told it “Thank You”. Thank you for keeping my babies, all 3 of them, safe and secure until my arms could.

But back to the C-Section thing.

No. It absolutely wasn’t what I wanted.

It was a means to an end though.

I never felt like I had missed out on having a vaginal delivery which, I went on to have 2 more kids, both of them came out the way they went in, if ya know what I mean.

When people asked me if I felt like a failure (they weren’t asking meanly), I always told them no. Because look, the major part was cooking the baby. It has to come out somehow.

The most important factor was that my baby was perfect, healthy and his shoulders were not dysplacia-ed. His head was perfect. He looked like a Shar-pei puppy. But more scrumptious. And I didn’t have to take him outside to pee. And…my pelvic bone area was in one piece.

I won’t mention the fact that, the first time the nurses made me stand up some hours later, I bled all over the room.

The other most important factor was…I didn’t poop on the table.

Actually, not ever.

So there’s that.

I have a scar above my pubic bone, a forever memory of how that HUGE baby, who’s now a surly, smelly 16 year old, emerged into this world, crying before he was even pulled from the incision.

Turns out though, the 13 pound baby that the doctors were expecting…

Yeah, he was 9 pounds 11 ounces.

I probably could’ve passed that pup myself.

Whatev.

Wounds kinda heal.

Memories sort of stay.

It’s all good.

Comments

comments