Benjamin's Birth − 23 January, 2003
It is hard to sleep the night before, knowing, as we do, that you will be making your arrival within hours. I pack and repack my hospital bag, and pace, and then lay sleepless in bed, my stomach all butterflies and baby. You sleep soundly, having no idea what is coming. Exhausted, I finally settle into a nervous sleep around 3:00 am. The alarm wakes us at 4:00 am for a shower, a compulsive repacking of the bag and some more pacing before we head to the hospital for 5:00 am.
At the hospital, I change into a blue gown and am administered an IV - a first for me. It takes four tries and two nurses to properly insert the needle into the back of my hand. I make it through the first two tries bravely. Our C-Section is scheduled for 8:00 am. I lie watching the clock, each second bringing me closer to a spinal needle, surgery, motherhood. The hands on the clock move with unnatural speed.
I notice that I am not actually trembling. At least, not outwardly. Inside, I am a shivering, shaky, sobbing mess. I am too aware of the time passing. I cough, swallow, fidget. Smile. Try not to be sick.
Everything is fine. And when it is time to go to the operating room, all too soon, I'm sure that no one can tell that I am afraid my legs are going to buckle as I walk. I haven't eaten - there is nothing in my stomach but nerves - jittering, snapping, electric. It is not so much motherhood that frightens me. It's surgery. Surgery. Okay ... it's motherhood too ... a little.
I'm focusing on the task of keeping my legs steady as I walk, trailing my IV. Take a step. Step. Step. A fleeting thought - what if I just refuse surgery? I don't want to do this. But even as the thought comes, it is gone. Step. Step. Step.
In the operating room, the Anesthesiologist says "It's important that you don't flinch or move while I'm inserting the needle." Seriously? Seriously? I nod. I hunch over as much as my round belly will allow. I squeeze a pillow. I take a deep breath and hold - hold - hold it.
A stinging. Burning. Can I feel the fluid in my spine, or is my mind playing tricks on me? My back tingles, hot, deep in my spine, where I imagine the needle is releasing the anesthestic. My shoulders tense and I try to keep my body still, thinking Did she say she could paralyze me? Did she say nerve damage? I can't remember. And it is not that bad. The stinging lasts a few moments. And then it is over, and they help me to lie down. Almost immediately my legs feel heavy, and then weak.
"Can you feel this?" She presses her nail into the skin on my collarbone, my breastbone, my ribs, my belly - Yes. Yes. No. No. "Good." I guess this means I am ready, and suddenly I want to call out - Wait, I could feel it! But my tongue is paralyzed. They are going to operate. Besides, I couldn't really feel it. I am just afraid.
A blue curtain is drawn up just beneath my chest. The room clicks to life. A dozen or so people arrive - or perhaps they have been here the whole time? I am given oxygen, and Peter is suddenly at my side, big eyes peeking out above a green mask. My midwife, Terry Beale, is with us. I feel some pressure and a sensation of tugging from my belly. They have begun surgery. I am comfortable enough - I feel no pain - but I am worrying Is this it? Is this it? Does it get worse? Will I feel something? I stare at the ceiling, and run the thought around in my mind, bracing myself for when it is really going to hurt. But the pain I am anticipating does not come.
Because I can not see what is happening, I focus on the sounds in the room. Murmuring. Beeping. Shuffling of shoes across the floor. The doctor makes a joke, “I guess you won’t be needing that girl’s name”, and a ripple of laughter moves through the room. I can hardly digest what this means before, suddenly, there is the sound that makes my heart stutter in my chest with fear, relief, and wonder ... a full, beautiful baby's cry.
And just like that, I am a mother, you are here, we are a family.
Afterwards, I am shaken by the experience. I feel robbed of something. I feel that Ben was taken out of my body as though he was being stolen - my fantasies of a natural birth with Peter and our midwife washed away in a torrent of anxiety, in a flood of steel surgical instruments and strangers faces. But really, it was not like that at all. It was gentle. It was relaxed. They had given me so many needles, had prodded, had pricked. I was a big numb stone and I could not see them cutting me open. I only felt a distant tugging, as thought they were a thousand miles away and I was simply dreaming of them. It was as though it was all happening in another room, to another person. I was strangely isolated from this event, my own event. I was cut off. I was cut open. They all watched as I separated - skin, fat, muscle, and the bubble of my uterus. They all watched as, with gentle urging, Ben slipped wet and new into the world, as blood rushed from the new mouth of my belly, and Ben opened his red lips in his first sharp howl. The umbilical cord snapped. I felt nothing. I don't know why I feel so disoriented. It was not what I had imagined.
When they give him to me, once they have sewn my emptiness back together, I feel none of the emotions I am expecting. He is a stranger to me. A beautiful and alarming stranger. I feel I have done nothing to deserve him. There has been no labour. No pain. No struggle. I did not participate in his birth. I was only in the room. I did not even see it happen. I touch the soft sinking of my stomach and I am only disoriented. It has all happened too quickly. And I do not know what comes next. He sleeps against the shape of my arm and the silence of his absolute trust makes me swell with feelings too big to feel.
