Baby Boy will actually be one year old on Saturday, but I want to get my unhappy thoughts out of the way before it is time to be happy and celebrate.
It is not that I am sad he will be one year old. . .well, maybe a little bit. He is my baby, my last baby, and his growing up marks the beginning of the end of my days of being mommy to a baby. I have never really been the type to pick up and love on other people’s babies, but I absolutely adore the baby stage of my own children’s lives. The soft sweet skin, the kissable piggies, the coy smiles while nursing, the ticklish belly rolls, the little fingers tangled in my hair. . .all too soon he will be up and running with not so much time for mommy. 
Things like no more diapers and sleeping all night have a certain ring of freedom about them, but I will very much miss the baby years.
His first birthday also marks the one year anniversary of my cesarean section. As silly as that may sound, I still feel occasional discomfort at the incision site, reminding me that I am not yet at peace with that experience. You see, Silly Boy’s birth 2.5 years before was one of my least difficult (I did not say easy!) and left me feeling confident that I finally had a handle on this birth thing.
When it was Baby Boy’s turn, the weeks of contractions finally because regular in the late afternoon a full week after his due date. They continued through the evening, increasing only slightly enough to keep me from resting, until my water broke around midnight. I have a history of spontaneous rupture early in labor, but after that many hours all I could think about was the lovely deep bathtubs in L&D so off we went. I was at 6cm which sounded promising, so I turned on my hymn cds (my birthing music of choice) and got my soak in the tub with the company of Larry, Sandy (midwife who delivered Silly Boy), and Debbie (fellow pastor’s wife and doula who was there for Bouncy Boy’s birth). I stayed there until Sandy recognized that “pushing” look on my face; but I was only 8cm. If you’ve never pushed before fully dilated, don’t. I tried not to do it either, but I ended up back at 6cm with a bruised cervix. Exhaustion set in (it was, after all, in the wee hours) and by the time Lori (midwife who delivered Twirly Girl) took over for Sandy in the morning, I had agreed to my first-ever epidural in hopes that my body could rest and stop pushing.
All depends on our possessing God’s abundant grace and blessing, though all earthly wealth depart.
He who trusts with faith unshaken in his God is not forsaken and there keeps a dauntless heart.
I don’t like the monitoring that goes with a ‘natural’ hospital birth, and I really didn’t like all the extras that came with medication. But I liked even less when Baby Boy’s heart rate responded poorly to attempts to keep labor moving and dilation appeared to be permanently stopped and I finally had to tearfully agree that it was time to schedule a c-section. I had seen the OB a couple times that morning, as he had been consulted as I failed to progress, but he was still a stranger and I understood little of his accented English. Larry prayed with me, which stopped the shakey scared feeling but not the tears. After that I napped until it was time to go to the OR; I was tired to be sure, but I also wanted to escape reality if only for an hour.
He who hitherto hath fed me and to many joys hath led me is and ever shall be mine.
He who did so gently school me, He who still doth guide and rule me will remain my help divine.
About 12 hours after arriving at the hospital, I was wheeled to the OR which was heartlessly cold and sterile. Had I the strength, I would have walked out. I very much wanted to see my new baby but at the same time I very much felt sorry for myself. The first part of the surgery, getting the baby out, went very quickly, and I got to see him briefly. But there was no surge of joy, of triumph, as in the natural birth of a baby; instead there was only a quiet sigh of relief for his healthy arrival. Larry and I sang the Common Doxology, as we always do with our new babies. But instead of his being placed in my arms, Larry took Baby Boy to the nurses for them to do their work; instead of enjoying his first moments of life, I lay strapped to a table while Debbie held my hand and the doctor slowly stitched me back together.
Many spend their lives in fretting over trifles and in getting things that have no solid ground.
I shall strive to win a treasure that will bring me lasting pleasure and that now is seldom found.
As difficult as it was to labor for so many hours and then end up needing surgery, the recovery was even more difficult. It took effort to focus on getting to know our newest little miracle instead of feeling sorry for myself; Larry stayed at the hospital much of my stay to help where he could. It was difficult to care for Baby Boy myself; my legs are short so that getting myself in and out of bed was excruciating. . .and yet a nurse yelled at me for keeping him in my bed. On the computer screen beside my bed, I could see that other mommies on the floor were fully dilated; the day I went home my entry on the chart still said 6cm. He was my biggest baby, at 10#1oz, and many well-intentioned folk still say “of course” I needed a c-section (but Bouncy Boy was only 3oz smaller!). The nurses deferred my questions to the doctors, but a different OB took over rounds and he was as distant as the first; the midwives also came but they specialize in normal births. The only ray of help came from our family doctor when she came to see Baby Boy; she herself had been in my shoes and did her best to help and comfort me. I never like hospital beds or hospital food or midnight vital checks, yet because of the c-section I could not be discharged early to my own quiet bed and my mother’s cooking.
When with sorrow I am stricken, hope my heart anew will quicken, all my longing shall be stilled.
To His loving kindness tender soul and body I surrender; for on Him alone I build.
Even going home did not improve many things. I had to use disposable diapers because I was restricted from doing laundry. It helped to talk to friends who have also had a c-section (or four), but at the same time there was that reminder that many friends have never needed one. Nursing in bed required much more effort than usual, and I couldn’t carry Baby Boy up or down stairs. Silly Boy kept wanted to hug me, and I had push him away before he head-butted my incision; he wanted to sit on my lap, and didn’t understand why he had to climb up rather than be lifted. Medications that numbed the pain made both Baby Boy and me too sleepy. And I still kept wondering why my body had failed to do what it had done five times before.
I am thankful that doctors have the knowledge to perform c-sections; it’s how I was born. And I realize there can be very valid reasons for c-sections; but at the same time we live in a time that seems afraid of childbirth, that is quick to choose medication and procedures even in the absence of complications. I do not say this to criticize my friends who chose epidurals or other interventions. But had this labor not been so unlike my others, for me the disadvantages of the epidural far outweighed the benefits. I am no spartan; my fears are of needles and numbness.
Well He knows what best to grant me; all the longing hopes that haunt me, joy and sorrow, have their day.
I shall doubt His wisdom never; as God wills, so be it ever; I to Him commit my way.
Now, Larry will tell you that Baby Boy was 10#1oz with a large head, for goodness sake! For me, I keep wondering if the two-plus years of unrelenting stress left me ill equipped for any labor, much less such a difficult one. Was I tired not just from a long night of labor, but from long weeks-months-years of having my life turned upside down? I know I will never know the answers, but this question and others like it still keep me from fully accepting the experience and moving on. Is it selfish pride that my final birth experience was everything I had successfully avoided the first 5 times? Absolutely! Eventually I will come to terms with Baby Boy’s birth, but not yet. The scar on my abdomen. . .and in my heart. . .still ache too much.
If on earth my days He lengthen, He my weary soul will strengthen; all my trust in Him I place.
Earthly wealth is not abiding, like a stream away is gliding; safe I anchor in His grace. Amen.
