Full Disclosure: This is Why I Spent 8 Years Studying Childbirth

This is what dissertating looks like..

As I was writing a section of my dissertation today something very different than what I intended to write came out.  I don't know if this will make it into my final dissertation draft in any way, so I'll post it here.  It's probably too personal and too 'biased' to be a part of a scientific product but in my case the scientific is personal.  I believe I am capable of and have conducted open-minded research, but I'd be lying if I claimed that I wasn't biased.  Because I am.  I am pro-mothers.  I believe that expecting mothers too often are treated as though they are either incapable of evaluating complicated information or as cultural dopes manipulated by patriarchy.  So here's the backstory to my dissertation project about childbirth, a labor of love I've spent thousands of hours (and dollars) to complete.  This story took me seven years to write.  I can finally say here that while I'm grateful for the quality of care I received during my cesarean and for the lessons it taught me, I wish I'd had another option.  


My Cesarean Story:

I found out four weeks before my third child was due that he was breech. I had to ask about the possibility of cephalic version or attempting to turn the baby into a head-down position prior to birth; my doctor did not offer it. I only knew about this possibility because I had already begun preliminary research for my dissertation project. I was shocked when my doctor told me “External cephalic version usually doesn't work and it hurts! I would just schedule the cesarean if I were you.”

I opted to try the external cephalic version. Two weeks before my estimated due date, the obstetrician and a resident attempted to turn my son into a head-down position while continuously monitoring his heart rate. The version was performed in the hospital and I had to be prepared for an emergency cesarean if something went wrong during the version such as the umbilical cord wrapping around my son's neck. I realized later the resident was encouraged to try because they did so few versions it was an opportunity for her to practice a technique she had only read about. My son's body was gently pushed into a lateral position which, while not as painful as labor contractions, was very uncomfortable for me. From this lateral position instead of completing a turn into a head-down position, however, he would shift back into breech. On the third attempt his heart rate decelerated marginally and the doctor stopped the procedure. After the obstetrician and resident left the room, the nurse begin unhooking the monitors and preparing us for discharge. As she chatted with my husband and me, this nurse expressed that she thought the doctor should not have let the resident attempt the version and that they had not “tried hard enough” to turn my son. She had been a labor and delivery nurse for over 30 years and had experienced the transition from vaginal breech to cesarean breech birth first-hand. In her opinion, cesarean section was overused as a way to deal with more complicated births.

While I wished that things had gone differently with the version, I was out of options. My only “choice” at this point was to attempt a vaginal breech birth at home or schedule a cesarean. Having birthed two large babies without epidurals (8 pounds 13 ounces and 9 pounds 3 ounces) I was confident in my ability to achieve a vaginal breech birth, but I was not comfortable with the risks associated with a breech home birth. The fact that I felt had no choice in the matter was the most frustrating part. We scheduled the cesarean for the following week. As I lay in my hospital bed after the surgery, groggy from the spinal anesthesia wearing off, I knew what I was missing. With my daughters I was able to hold them immediately and put them to the breast. I felt a rush of adrenaline post-birth. By the time my son was given to me, I could barely hold his tiny bundled body. I felt numb not only from the waist down but emotionally. That night, I took my son from the layette and put him in bed next to me. The nurse checking on me commented that she had never seen anyone do that before. As I stared down at him, I felt relief and gratitude for this healthy baby and that we had made it through the surgery. But it would take me years to appreciate that I had experienced this birth and realize that it cemented my decision to study childbirth.  

More to come...but for now...back to the dissertation draft.

The Ritual

Oldest Daughter's first year of middle school is drawing to a close.  It hasn't been the easiest year.  Since the end of February, however, she's been mostly healthy (thank God) and I haven't had any additional interactions with Middle School Nurse.  More good news is that she's found a nice group of friends to help insulate her from the hormone-induced madness that overcomes some of her pubescent peers.  But I'm still sorry she has to go there day in and day out.

Middle school strikes me as simultaneously large enough to be de-individualizing and hyper-vigilant enough to obliterate any semblance of privacy or solitude.  Maybe solitude is not something of concern for the average 11-14 year old, but it seems like it would be a necessity - having a space where you can honor yourself and learn to nurture your uniqueness.

This year, I've struggled to manage the earlier pick up time for Oldest Daughter and the fact that it reduces the length of my workday by an hour.  I don't HAVE to pick her up, of course, there is a bus that would bring her into our neighborhood.  Maybe we'll try it next year, but this being our first child to go through middle school, I just didn't feel good about it.  School buses bring back mixed feelings for me.  They were the setting of some pretty vicious bullying in elementary school and I had daily stomachaches thinking about the bus ride home.  In high school, they were the site of very loud, very exuberant team sing-alongs during rides to and from sporting events.  Ah the '90s and the days of no smart phones.  Living in a small rural area meant a minimum 30 minute bus ride to get ANYWHERE.  If the ride was longer than 45 minutes or so the state required we be provided a small meal or snack.  I wonder if the legislators who came up with this rule imagined the tasteless watery apples, rubbery 'cheese' and dry peanut butter sandwiches as somehow good for us. "You've lost, that lovin' feeling, oh-oh that lovin' feeling."  We didn't win often, but we sure could harmonize.

Truth be told, it's a luxury to be the one to pick Oldest Daughter up after another day in the trenches of Middle School.  The best part of my day is identifying my Not-Quite Teenager from among the throng spilling out of the heavy oak doors.  Seeing her after time apart is like having a piece of myself returned.  She's put on layaway every morning and only returned when I've paid the account balance in minutes and hours.  When she gets in the car, I first feel relief and then all I can think is, how did I manage all day without her?

The Pick Up Ritual goes like this:  I arrive early so that I can park with a view of the main doors.  I wait and read or check messages or listen to the radio.  Most days, I bring a Peace Offering of some sort:  part of a giant cookie, a day-old muffin, a partially eaten bag of peanut M&Ms, a bottle of juice, or licorice.  When I don't bring food, I bring library books or small writing and drawing supplies she's asked me to pick up.  Sorry about another day of Middle School - have a biscotti.

Oldest Daughter shuffles down the cement steps and makes her way toward the car.  She opens the back door first to toss in her book bag.  She's favoring the messenger bag these days and has only just switched from her brown pilot jacket to a lighter-weight spring coat.  She rolls the cuffs of her pants up so that by afternoon she's always sporting capris.  I guess her calves need the air.  Her hair is long enough now to pull back into a small knot at the nape of her neck.  The messenger bag bounces against the side of her hip.  In a former life, the messenger bag belonged to a Mary Kay consultant.  We bought it at the thrift shop and I spent a few evenings ripping out the embroidered pink threads that made up the logo.  In the process I inadvertently ripped a few small holes in the black fabric of the bag.  My solution was to sew a stylized bird patch over them.  

"Hiiii," she says as she gets into the front passenger seat.  She's big enough to ride in the front now minus the sort of safety apparatus her brother and sister still require.  I recall turning her car seat from rear-facing to front-facing.  Wasn't that 5 minutes ago?  "Hey," I say, I brought you X," and I give her the Peace Offering.  She's young enough to still show surprise or delight.  See, I was thinking about you.  This half-eaten treat proves it.  Actually, I'm probably rarely NOT thinking about her and her siblings.  She would like this; she wouldn't like that; I want to bring Oldest Daughter here; I want to see that movie with her, etc.

Why do I bring things to my daughter?  I want her to look forward to The Ritual that we've created and spending time with me.  When I eat part of it, the Peace Offering becomes a physical manifestation of our sharing, of our bond.  We're still connected and I need the connection to be tangible.  Because it feels like in another 5 minutes I won't have The Ritual to look forward to.  I won't see her every day and we'll have to invent new rituals, new sacred objects and peace offerings to bind us together.

I drive away from Middle School toward the elementary school of Middle Daughter and Youngest Son.  Another round of pick ups and rituals is next.  On the drive, we talk about the events of the day as we experienced them.  I try to put mine in story form because I know Oldest Daughter likes to imagine what I do all day.  She tells me about jokes she and her friends told at school.  We speak a language made almost entirely of cultural references and inside jokes.  "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra," for my Star Trek:  TNG fans.  She's appropriated the jokes of MST3K and uses them to crack up her classmates.  She wrote a school report about director Sam Raimi.  Our conversation topics range from My Little Pony and how awesome Rainbow Dash is to Descartes and Western Philosophy.

We arrive at the elementary school with 10 minutes to spare.  "Mom, come and swing with me," she says.  I reply "Oh, I'm not really up to swinging.  Can I go on the 'sits' instead of the swings?"  But I go anyway.  I sit and she swings and her feet touch the clouds.



 

The Illness Part 3: "We Just Want What's Best for Her."

And I don't?

Last year at this time Middle Daughter was struggling with her two month-long mystery illness that caused daily debilitating headaches and stomachaches.  She was mostly healthy after April and after a milder recurrence last fall, we discovered that she has celiac disease.  Since eliminating gluten from her diet she has been much healthier (knock wood) and weathered the seasonal flu earlier this year without weeks of prolonged illness.

Oldest Daughter has not been so lucky this year.  Now in 6th grade and at Middle School, she's missed more days in January and February than she's attended.  Starting last month, first came the flu.  She recovered for all of five minutes before coming down with strep.  After a course of antibiotics, she became sick with the latest crud.  A similar series of evens preceded Middle Daughter's illness last year.  Currently, Oldest Daughter wakes daily with extreme nausea and stomach pain.  Her eyes squint and she curls into a fetal position.  As the day goes on, she manages to drink and sit up in bed.  She doesn't throw up or run a temp but she does have a sore throat and sometimes a headache.  The pediatrician can only really tell us, to a limited extent, what she doesn't have; it's not strep or flu again.

Every morning I am faced with the decision to try to send a child whimpering in pain to school or to let her rest.  In addition to the stress of watching her suffer, I am unable to work much while on Sick Kid Watch.  I have my own health issues to manage at this point too.  Today, I needed a physical.  So after dragging a sick kid along, having a fasting blood draw, a shot, and a pelvic exam, I was not in the best mood when Middle School Nurse (MSN) called.

The gist of the conversation with MSN was 'Hey we don't like that your kid has missed school.  We want her to come to school.'  No shit.  I understand that this person is doing her job and has guidelines to monitor, but I really don't care about the school's overall attendance goals.  I have communicated with the school daily and sent in doctor's notes to excuse her absences.  What really irks me, though, is the subtext to this conversation:  the bitchy, passive aggressive subtext.  MSN's statements imply that I am irresponsible and not acting in the best interest of my child.  This person (MSN) does not know me and she is certainly dealing with less than stellar parents in some situations.  If she knew me, however, she would know that this implication (that I am not doing what's best for my kid) is the fastest way to move me from Gandhi to MMA Fighter on the Rage Scale.  

But I am also a reflective person.  Why does this infuriate me?  This attitude infuriates me because it ignores the context and history of our lives and my role as a parent.  MSN, through her unspoken accusations, presumes to judge my mother role performance in total based on a single, isolated metric - Oldest Daughter's Attendance Record.  Really?!  I want to scream.  How can you understand our lives without knowing how much we as parents have invested in these kids?  We made the deliberate choice to defer my income in order to provide a stay-at-home parent for our children when they were younger. This has not always been an easy or unquestioned choice.  And while we were grateful to have this "option," it has not been without extra effort.  (This is to say nothing of the eight years I spent either pregnant or breastfeeding and changing diapers.)

I am not a perfect person and I am not a perfect mother.  I fail.  I fail early and often.  But I also succeed and I will take partial credit (or responsibility) for the individuals my children are becoming.  If you are going to judge my performance as a mother, at least have the decency to look at the kid as more than the sum of her Attendance Record.  Oldest Daughter has never had a behavioral reprimand in her seven plus years of public school.  She thinks critically without being critical.  She is sensitive to the feelings of others without compromising her Self.  She may not be the most organized kid, but she does everything we ask of her.  And do you know what she does while she's home in bed?  She reads voraciously.  She writes, she dreams, she draws, she CREATES.  She creates because she hasn't been beaten down by the "standards" and "expectations" of this world.  And I will do everything in my power to see that she never is.  Because that's what being a mother means to me - it means protecting and nurturing the light that she brings into this world, even if sometimes I find myself standing over her shaking my fist at the powers that be.

Mama Grizzly?  I'm not sure.  But like the Mother Pelican, I would pour out my life's blood to protect my children.