The Power of ONE...

I got married young. Even by Utah standards, two twenty-year-olds getting hitched is something you politely smile at, but secretly condemn in your mind. Not because you aren’t happy for said Bride and Groom, but because in “the Real World” we all know that most marriages these days seem to end poorly, and young people aren’t exactly the best decision makers. Even still, we were certain that we were destined to be together and thus, our union began waaaay back in June of 1997.

Three years later I found myself unexpectedly pregnant. The timing couldn’t have been worse. We had recently moved from Salt Lake City, Utah to St. George, Utah (a small town in the South West corner of Utah, about 2 hours North of Vegas) in an attempt to get halfway to Los Angeles. Remember what I said about young people not being great decision makers? Yeah, this move was one of a slew of bad choices. Why on Earth we didn’t just move all the way to LA at this time is beyond me, but we didn’t. We were living with my parents, looking for jobs and trying to find a decent apartment we could afford. The job market in this town was not great and since neither of us had finished college, it seemed like our options were numbered. I dreamt I was pregnant. Then, I realized that I was “late”. Like, three weeks late. Scary late. There is no way this doesn’t mean something, late. Too scared to say anything to anyone without confirmation, I secretly purchased an EPT Pregnancy test and waited for the results. The second line appeared the MOMENT I peed on that dang stick. No waiting two minutes, no, I was seriously knocked up. I went upstairs to tell my husband, fighting back the tears. I sat on the bed and blurted out “I’m pregnant!” and started sobbing. My husband, startled, said “You are?” and I looked up to see a huge grin sprawling across his freckled face. I never cried about being pregnant again.

My memories of my pregnancy, labor and delivery of my first daughter are a little spotty at best. It’s been almost 12 years now. Being pregnant at 23 is very interesting. You’re pretty much in the prime of your fertility, young, vivacious and full of energy. Despite constant nausea the first 3 months, the pregnancy went very smoothly. I liked my OB and was planning for a standard vaginal delivery in the local hospital. We took the only birthing class offered, read some books and got as prepared as we could. Somewhere along the way I decided to have a “natural, un-medicated delivery”. Partially because I thought of myself as a badass who could “handle anything” and partially because my Mother had delivered both of HER children with no drugs and if she could do it, well, so could I.

I went into labor on a Sunday. I was only 37 weeks, but a sudden small trickle of water presented itself as I dried my hair that morning. Not sure what was up, we went and walked laps at the mall. The trickle continued and my OB said to check into the hospital. At this point I had not felt one, single contraction. We got to the hospital and were told that I was dilated to 3 centimeters and my water had broken, but my daughter’s head was so far down that she was blocking the release of waters. Thus, they wanted to break my water for me. Sure, I thought, might as well get this show on the road…So the nurse put this plastic tube inside of me, and then this thing that can only be described as a very menacing looking knitting needle, and pierced my bag of waters for me. The warm water came gushing out and with it a sense of excitement took over. This was really happening!

We were checked in and sent to our room. I was excited and comfortable and ready to meet my daughter. The contractions started coming, finally, and at first they didn’t hurt really. Just sort of felt like a wave of cramping in my abdomen, like when you have your period (or, for men, like when you have diarrhea – sorry, but it’s true!). Nurses I had never met kept coming in to CHECK me (and by CHECK I mean stick their hands right on up inside my holiest of holies to see if I had dilated further) and I was hit with the feeling that, for some reason, we needed to hurry up and have this baby. At least, they made it seem that way. There was this tremendous emphasis on timing, and if I was fitting into their little timing bubble. Apparently, I was not, because I was told that because I wasn’t “progressing fast enough” they were going to put me on the drug Pitocin to “help move things along”. I didn’t object, I mean, these are professionals, right? So the synthetic hormone Pitocin (medicalized form of Oxytocin, the “Love Hormone” that we all have that triggers childbirth and abounds when we are happy or loving) was hooked into my IV and pushed into my veins.

Pretty much the moment the Pitocin kicked in, my contractions heated up. The intensity level raised and they were just one on top of the other with no reprieve. The Anesthesiologist came in to give me my epidural. I told him no thank you, I was going natural. He laughed and said he would rather not come back later, so why not just get the epidural now? Un-thwarted by his schemes, I sent him away and toughed it out. An hour went by, seemingly the longest and most painful hour of my life. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything but focus on the pain. The nurses wouldn’t even let me get out of bed and walk around, so I was stuck there, writhing on my back. The blood pressure cuff was loud and painful, too, and constantly wrapped around my arm. The lights were bright and harsh and I was not having any sort of Zen birthing experience. The nurses kept pushing me to “just get the epidural”…and by the third time they brought it up I happily accepted their offer. The anesthesiologist was smug, to say the least, as he inserted his large needle into my spine. The relief it offered was instant, however, and from that point forward I handed my birth over to the medical people at the hospital. I was their puppet. I was no longer having this baby; it was as if they were having it for me. I could feel nothing from the waist down. They kept on checking me and I was finally told it was time to push. So, lying in the bed with a nurse holding each leg I did what I thought was pushing. It’s hard to say, I couldn’t feel anything! Somehow, however, they worked their magic and without me feeling a single thing, my baby was delivered.

My beautiful daughter Isabella entered this world right before midnight on November 5th, 2000, cone-headed and perfect, after a mere hour of pushing. My Husband cut the cord, my Mom cried and all was well in the world. I rejoiced in her awesome-ness and immediately fell in love with her. This experience for me was not bad, not really, but it wasn’t spectacular. It wasn’t what I had imagined and it certainly made me want to do things different “the next time around”. I had spoken with women who had felt all sorts of feelings of empowerment with their births; they used words like “awe-inspiring” and “incredible” to describe the process. Those words didn’t even come into my mind. No, this birth experience made me feel, in one word, inadequate. It was as if I had no part in the process, I wasn’t really even needed. Strange, really, to feel that way about your own labor and delivery, but there it was. Over the years I got over it. I mean who cares WHAT your labor and delivery is like as long as you have a healthy Mom and Baby, right? That’s what they tell you anyways. Not sure that’s always 100% true…