The other day my son asked me about his birth.  He said "I know I was in your belly, but then how did I come out?"  In other circumstances this would be the perfect opportunity to discuss childbirth, how babies are born, how they come out, etc.  However... my son was born by cesarean.

So, what do you tell your child when they were removed by c-section?  Do you tell how most babies are born, then tell them that they had a little extra trouble?  How do you make it special and loving even if it might have been a traumatic event for you?  I personally had a very long labour, 48 hours, which just didn't seem to progress.  However, I am lucky to be able to say my labour and subsequent section weren't particularly traumatizing- I was well treated and respected by the medical professionals and I never felt pushed to have a cesarean.  I was able to tell my son very honestly that his birth day was a happy day for me.  I was able to tell him about the deep deep snow falling outside, the way he sounded when he first cried, what it felt like to first look in his eyes.  I showed him the scar of the incision through which he was removed.  I told him how happy I was to have him.  How incredibly happy he made me.  What's that corny line?  "You complete me."

So, how do you explain a traumatic birth to your child?  Do you focus on the positive, talk about how their daddy held them first, how you came to name them?  Is it something like a disasterous wedding followed by a blissful marriage?  How do you create the Story of When You Were Born?  

I was so pleased to come across a beautiful set of two photographs on the blog Birth Without Fear.  These are two caesarean section birth photos.  I found it very impressive that they took the time to honour those of us who have had a caesarean birth by posting these photos.  Despite the pain, the trauma and the difficulty resulting from a c- section, it's nice to know that people recognize that the event is bitter/sweet and complex, much like motherhood it'self.  

Please share your experiences in the comments section.  I would love to hear about how you told your children their birth story, even if (especially if,) it wasn't perfect.

Midwife assisted homebirth with birthing pool.  This is what is called a VBAC- Vaginal Birth After Caesarean. Krista is a natural birth advocate and chapter director for the organization ICAN- International Caesarean Awareness  Network.  I'm posting this in honour of little Colum's 6th birthday today!  
 
"I can't do it anymore"

I walk outside. 
It's light out, past dawn.  Birds are singing.  One of our neighbours is backing out of their driveway.  There is dew on the car.  I am blind with tears and pain and despair.  I make it out to the car and then another contraction hits.  I'm standing at the car, crying.  "I'm DONE.  TAKE ME IN.  Brett, please... I'm so exhausted, I can't do it... please just let me go in, I'll just have an epidural".  I am lying.  I know what is going to happen.  I am going to go in, get some drugs, and then give in to a caesarean.  And then I am going to wish that I would die during the surgery, and I will never recover. I will decide never to get pregnant again, I will have to renounce my faith, never speak to any of my friends again. "I will regret it for the rest of my life.  But I don't care.  Please let me go."  

AUGHHHHHHH

Breathe

Brett says "okay.  Just let me go get a couple of things from upstairs".  He leaves and I'm left at the car, grabbing the windshield wiper and banging it down on the windshield.  I consider ripping it off.  I consider making a dent in the hood of the car with my head.  Oh God, here comes another contraction ohhhhAAAAAAUGHHHHHHHHHHHH I CAN'T DO THIS!!!!!!  Brett comes back down the stairs.  He comes outside.  Lauren tells me later that he is crying.  He takes a deep breath and says "It's not time to go yet."  

What?

"No.  It's not time to go.  No."

Brett wasn't listening to my words.  He was responding to what I needed instead of what I was asking for.  And there is no doubt in my mind that this prevented me from sitting here typing with a second scar on my belly.  Here I was, giving up, his only fear about my labour.  And he didn't give up on me.  He didn't give in to me.  He said no.

So I'm grabbing onto the car windshield wipers, crying, begging Brett to change his mind.  "You don't understand, I really can't do this" I whined. "Doesn't he GET IT" I scream in my head "I SUCK AT THIS!"  I am caught.  The contractions continue to be unbearable and I am fighting them and angry and this is definitely not helping.  I hang off of Brett.  My tears are falling on his tee-shirt, I grip him, hold him as if his body alone can keep me aloft on the terrible waves.  I love him so much.  I am so mad at him.  Deep down, so deep down that I can just barely recognize it now as I remember that day; I know that he is right.... that we shouldn't go.  

I flop down on the futon and Meg checks me. This part I don't remember clearly, it goes something like this in my head.  "You're almost

[AUGH PAIN!!! PAIN]

complete, it feels like there's a bit of a

[CAN'T DO THIS I CAN'T I CAN'T]

lip

I'm going to try and hold it

[PLEASE GOD SAVE ME]

back and YES! You're complete,
go ahead and push!  

Once I heard those magic words that I was
complete, I starting pushing.  

The support and love that I got from Brett during this horrible pushing....  I
have to pause for a minute just to see if there are words to speak of it.  I don't think there are.  He believed that there was a baby.  He believed that I could do it.  I was lost in my self-centered world of pain and agony and despair and
self-doubt. But he wasn't.  And it became enough for both of us.  He carried me until I could do it.

And then, I can't quite put my finger on it, but something changed.  A realization came upon me.  And it went something like this.

No one else can push this baby out for you.

No one else can push this baby out for you. You have to do it.  The only way out is through.  You have to do it.  I have to do it.  Me.  No one else can do it. It has to be me.

I still didn't believe it.  But I knew it had to be me.  So I pushed.  I pushed
through that pain.  I now understand exactly what that phrase means.  I want to go back and read through all those birth stories I read when I was pregnant the first time and jump up and down and point and say YES, YES I know what that MEANS now, I really KNOW!  I know what it means to push through the pain of a contraction. 

I did it. 
No one else but me.
My baby.

There's a baby on my chest.

I can't.....

I did.

Who did?

Someone pushed a baby out of me, but it couldn't have been me.  I give up,
remember?  I quit when things get hard.  I never finish what I start.  I'm too much of a suck.  I can't do it.  I could never do it.  Who did it?

I'm in surreal land.  
 
I've birthed my baby.


 
 
 

My son was born on June 1, 2010. Exactly twelve weeks before his August 24th due date.  Because of his prematurity, my beautiful Sawyer was unable to even have a chance to fight the congenital heart defect that was diagnosed shortly after his birth.

It is amazing to me and a testament to his will that Sawyer survived long enough for his father and me to hold him and say goodbye. He fought harder than any of us could have imagined, especially given his diagnosis of a severe form of Tetralogy of Fallot with Pulmonary Atresia - a defect in which his pulmonary artery never formed.

At my twenty week ultrasound, Sawyer was positioned in such a way that the ultrasound technician was unable to get any scans of his heart, kidneys and bladder. We were scheduled to come back at 24 weeks to complete these scans. Nothing was out of the ordinary and we were thrilled to be welcoming our first son - and a new little brother for our two-year-old daughter, Sadie.

The month of April soon arrived and during my ultrasound scan at 24-weeks the technician simply said, "Are you here because your fluid is so low?"

I shot straight up and asked what she was talking about, and she ignored my questions as she went on to complete the ultrasound. We then had to wait nearly an hour to see the doctor. It was one of the longest hours of my life, as I was so worried and concerned about our little Sawyer. Would he be okay? What does low fluid mean for both of us?

My doctor, an excellent MFM out of the University of Chicago, immediately informed me that I would need to go on bedrest and I received steroid injections to mature Sawyer's underdeveloped lungs in case I went into labor too soon.

On June first, four weeks after receiving that news, my water unexpectedly broke early in the morning at four in the morning.  I was admitted to the hospital for observation but by four in the evening.  That same afternoon I started to bleed heavily as my placenta began to detach.

Within a few short hours, I had an emergency c-section under general anesthesia. Sawyer was born at 8:13pm, limp and gray. He had no heartbeat. His premature body had no idea that labor was in progress and it failed to complete many important tasks that babies do naturally before being born. I could not imagine being awake and in that room - knowing that my baby was born dead.

A team of doctors and nurses diligently worked on Sawyer, stabilizing him enough to transfer to the NICU. At that moment, we had hope.

Not even two days later, on a beautiful, late-spring morning we were told that our beautiful baby was losing his fight. His neonatologist quietly whispered to us that “there is only so much we can do.” 

We called for a hospital chaplain and in the dim light of the NICU his father and I each took hold of Sawyer‘s tiny hands and lifted them up toward God as he was baptized. Many nurses, doctors and staff surrounded Sawyer in his tiny isolette as we all said an “Our Father” and turned off the machines.

Sawyer’s heart slowed over the course of an hour but he continued to fight. Even as he struggled to breathe Sawyer let out a tiny coo for us to hear. The beauty of this moment, is indescribable.

His nurse pushed me in a wheelchair to a private room as I held onto Sawyer. She stopped in a brightly-lit hallway and motioned for someone to open the door toward a courtyard. “He’s never felt the sun,” she said with tears in her eyes.

It was at that moment, with rays of warm, morning sunlight shining down upon us, Sawyer died in my arms.

Angel, you were born to fly. 

I love you Sawyer - for all eternity. 
 

This is a portrait and a birth story written in the mother's own words. 

I planned for a natural labor, and although I was warned that I may not be able to actually give birth in the water, I decided to try. After about 20 hours of laboring with my husband Marcus' support, I took off all of my clothes and slid into the warmth of the tub. My midwife KS coached me from the side, reminding me to relax, to untense, and to let the contractions do their job – to open me up, to widen me out. Now was not the time to tense, to close up.

Things accelerated very quickly. I went from 6cm to 8cm to 9cm in almost no time at all. Eventually I was just short of 10cm, except for a little lip in my cervix that was in the way of the baby’s head. KS kept a finger inside of my cervix, holding that lip down, while I pushed. And after several attempts she said the magic words to the nurse: "She’s at ten centimeters."

Instead of waiting and letting my body do the work for me, I suddenly had work to do. Realizing at that moment exactly what I had to do – that I had to push this baby OUT – was terrifying. I was way, way, WAY past the point of no return. I felt like very little was in my control at this point, and for a person like me, that is scary. The only thing I could do was to push or to not push – and to not push would only postpone the inevitable. It wouldn’t change a damn thing in the end.

There was a full-length mirror on the ceiling above the birthing tub. I watched myself in it as I dilated, and I watched myself as I pushed. I don’t really have the words to describe what it was like to witness my labor from that point of view, except to say that I hope fervently to be able to do the same with the rest of my children. Towards the end of my pregnancy, as my belly grew, I’d developed a habit of just looking at myself in the mirror several times a day. It was so strange to see how my body had warped and changed, it was fascinating to look at myself and see almost a stranger. Watching myself give birth was like that, only magnified a thousand times. It was like watching a stranger, and it was a struggle to reconcile the fact that the body in the mirror was actually, really mine. The person screaming and writhing in the tub was really me. What I saw in the mirror remains the most vivid memory of my labor, and it’s the one I recall most frequently.

At ten centimeters, we were down to business. Whenever a contraction came over me, it was my cue to start pushing. When they stopped, I could stop. After each push, I asked Marcus and KS what they’d seen, what had just happened. "I can see the top of your baby’s head," KS told me. I asked her if there was any hair, and she said yes, lots of it. I smiled at Marcus and said, "Told you so."

KS then told me, "You can reach down and feel it." And so I did. It was a beyond strange, to feel soft, thin, silky hair where normally there was, well, my vagina. I gently touched the top of my child’s head while she was still inside of me – touched her for the first time! – and it was soon afterward that KS called the nurse into the birthing room to tell her that in a few more pushes, the baby would be here.

The last pushes were difficult. Even with KS massaging my perineum and doing what she could to stretch me open even further, it was difficult. It hurt. It burned. I could feel her head stretching me open with every push and I SCREAMED with the pain. And finally, her head was out! I looked down and could see it between my legs. KS yelled at me "Push again! NOW!" and I looked up above me, into the mirror at myself and my child, and I pushed one last time. And then she was out.

I looked down again and there was a BABY in the water with me! KS placed her in my hands while she messed with her equipment. I stared at her, shocked, as if I’d forgotten exactly what this whole pregnancy and childbirth thing had been about.

Eve Marie was born underwater on August 17th at 1:47am, almost 24 hours after my water broke. With my husband’s support, I was able to have the med-free birth that I have always wanted. I feel really lucky to be able to say that the entire experience, and the end result (who is dozing against me, her breath smelling sweetly of my milk), is absolutely, undeniably, unbelievably perfect.

My son was born on February 21st 2007.  Much of it was quite joyous- hearing his cry for the first time, holding him against me and seeing his eyes.  Yet my son was born by c-section.  After he was born it took me two days until I was able to get up on my own and walk down the hallway without literally passing out.  I tried to watch a funny movie with my mother and was unable to laugh due to the pain of the incision.  I was unable to climb stairs afterwards, unable to walk with my new baby, unable to wear him in a wrap as I had hoped...

It took a full six weeks for me to fully recover.  It took me longer to recover some confidence in myself.

So in 2009 I was determined to birth my daughter naturally, in what is called a VBAC, (vaginal birth after cesarean.)  I had a one and a half year old son already, and I knew I would never be able to manage the kind of recovery I needed after the last cesarean.  I got in contact with some organizers of ICAN online (International Cesarean Awareness Network,) and my friend Krista Cornish, who is also the ICAN Education Director, (lucky me!)  She helped aleviate some of my stress, and helped reduce some of my worst fears.  My biggest obstacle was that I just couldn't imagine giving birth naturally, the act of pushing a baby out seemed so alien to me, because I had never succeeded with my son.  It felt impossible somehow.  Through the ICAN website I was able to read other women's v-bac stories and learned of all the successful cases out there. The happiness and glow of these positive outcomes- that's what finally melted my worries.  Because these were other women like me- not midwives, not health professionals.  I was able to relate and believe that I, too, could accomplish what they had.

And indeed I did!  November 29th 2009 I gave birth to my baby girl.  The labour was only five hours long and I can't even describe it as painful.  Intense was the appropriate word.  I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest.  I had proven to myself that I was NOT flawed, my body was capable and I was strong.  I thank ICAN for much of this confidence.  This was such a gift to me.  It's a gift I hope to share with others.

Please consider attending the 2011 ICAN Conference in St. Louis Missouri, April 8th -10th.  Early bird registration has been extended to February 9th!

When I first saw the reference photo I used for this painting it was among those photos posted on the TERA website (Topfree Equal Rights Association) which had been removed by Facebook.  I found the photo riviting- the look on her face expressed all the awe and emotion that I had felt after the birth of my daughter.  The fact that the mother and baby were locked in each other's gaze reminded me of what I felt when I first looked into my daughter's eyes- I felt as if I had seen her before.  "Hello!  Remember me?"

It disturbs me that a photo like this might be removed while others like the one below are allowed to remain.    

The first image is not necessarily very nude.  No breast area is visable at all, and only a faint shadow can be seen in the crotch area.  Her state is very obviously non- sexual; she is nude for the purpose of childbirth, specifically a water birth.  She's very real, very female, but not sexualized.

I venture to guess that it's the fact that this image is NOT sexual that people find disturbing.  I wonder if it's the fact that she's very human looking, very raw and emotional that upsets people.  Her vulnerable state, her love and obvious joy may be off-putting to people, it reminds us of our own vulnerable state, our own humanity.  In the same way that people seem to find breastfeeding images disturbing, I think they find childbirth photos equally upsetting.  They remind us that we are not the airbrushed, sexualized vision we are used to seeing in the media. 

They remind us that we are human.

In March of 2005 I became pregnant, and was overjoyed.  My nausea and other symptoms were severe, but I never thought twice about it until I started spotting at about 8 weeks.  We assumed it was a blighted ovum, and followed up with HCG tests afterwards to confirm.  Strangely my hcg levels did not drop as expected, but rose quickly- soaring past normal levels until they were in the millions.  An ultrasound confirmed that I had what is called a “Molar Pregnancy,” or “Gestational Trophoblastic Disease.” 
http://www.obgyn.net/women/women.asp?page=/women/articles/molarpreg_dah

That means that the egg fertilized was a genetic mutant, free of any genetic material, and the resulting “pregnancy” was nothing more than placental tissue.   The job of placental tissue is to invade the uterine wall, so the result is an invasive mass of cells, very similar to cancer.  I underwent a D&C, followed by more hcg testing.  The levels appeared to be dropping normally until late June, when they began to rise again, meaning that the tissue was spreading.  I had to go on a kind of chemotherapy called Dactinomycin  for 8 rounds until my levels dropped to zero, then had to follow up with blood work, and no pregnancies, for a year to make sure it did not return.   

This experience was life changing for me.  I simultaneously came to grips with my own mortality, while grieving the loss of a “baby” that never actually existed.  I also realized how lucky I was, as I spent a lot of time around people suffering from severe, devastating cancers while in the Oncology wing of the hospital.  I learned that most people are struggling with something; be it an illness, the inablility to conceive, difficulties in a marriage, and everyone deserves to be treated with kindness and compassion, because we don’t know what sort of battles they might be fighting. I actually think it enriched my life, and made me appreciate my children all the more for having longed for them.  Ultimately it gave me some perspective and scope with which to view my life as a mother.

February 21st 2007 I gave birth to my son Erik by emergency c-section.  I had made great plans for a natural delivery.  I hired a doula and proceeded to learn and practice natural child birthing techniques.  I had planned to give birth in the hospital, because we were in a rural area, over two hours from available midwives, and it seemed the safest plan during February snowstorms in the Rocky Mountains.   After things seemed to be moving pretty quickly we transferred to the hospital, thinking it would only be a matter of hours.  Forty eight gruelling hours later there was still no baby.  I couldn’t rest between contractions, because I couldn’t sit or lie down at all.  I spent the whole time squatting or standing, and my knees were beginning to give way.   At that point Erik’s heartbeat began to slow down, and I agreed to opt for a c section.  I struggled with some feelings of sorrow and failure, but the overwhelming feeling was one of relief and joy when I finally held my baby.  The surgeon was quick to tell me that in was a “fluke” that Erik became stuck the way he did, and there was no apparent reason I couldn’t try for a v-bac with my second child. 

In the summer of 2009 we moved to Courtenay, BC and on November 29th, 2009 I gave birth to Charlotte.  It was an easy, uncomplicated labour.  I can honestly say that the majority of the labour was not painful at all.  I was in the hospital at 5:00am and had given birth by 10:00am, 5 hours later.  It was an experience I will never forget.  She didn’t cry when delivered, and when they handed her directly to me she stared at me, as though she were thinking:  “I know you.”
I feel complete now, as though I made a full circle and healed the absence created by my initial loss and the c-section.  My two children seem to make me more than I was previously.  My experience has profoundly influenced my artwork, and I find the two aspects of my personality- artist and mother, symbiotic to each other.
 
Motherhood has changed my life quite a bit!  I spend my days with my children, and use most of my free time to either make art, promote my art, and work on my art related writing.  I can no longer take my time for granted.  The time I might have once spent going out and entertaining myself I now put to good use, because I never really know when another teething episode might take 3 days from my art making.  I find that projects that might normally take an artist one or two weeks take me at least a month to complete.  I also feel frustrated by my inability to network socially as some artists do.  I would love to be able to go to more art openings, for example, but they are schedueled for exactly my children’s bedtime!  Mostly I’m very happy with the way things are.  I feel that my identity as an artist and my identity as a mother are almost one and the same.  I feel hard pressed to draw a clean line between Mother and Artist, especially given the nature of the project I’m working on.  I sometimes feel like I’m cheating in school, writing the same essay for two different courses.   The time I spend with my kids and the moments I spend with other mothers directly inform my artwork, and my art making enriches my life in return. 

 For more information or support on Molar Pregnancy please see the following website:
http://www.mymolarpregnancy.com/