As a rule, I don’t talk about the births of either of my daughters. The first because it left me feeling violated and abused and worthless; the second, because, although it was the complete antithesis of the first, it unavoidably invokes it, even as it heals. The ghosts of Ni’s birth haunt me and bring me to my knees when I least expect it. There are only two things that can unwind me like that when brought to mind unbidden; the death of my lover and the birth of my daughter. They are griefs akin in my heart. Both saw something irreplaceable taken from me.
Shae tweeted a few days ago about her lingering sadness after a similar birth experience and it was enough to have me in tears. Then I stumbled on this post on her site (please read it if you have time, it’s brief) and I cried a lot more and thought about how our pictures belie truths that sometimes even we cannot see.
After Ni’s birth, I lovingly began to construct a simple photo album. I didn’t get very far. I knew that I was supposed to feel joy and happiness when I looked at those photos; a document of the first precious moments of my dear, beautiful girl’s life under the sun, but they made me mournful and uncomfortable and so I put them away. It was a few months after her birth that I flicked through a book in an op-shop that had a diagram of something termed “The Circle of Intervention”. I went cold as I read. It illustrated the way in which one intervention during a birth almost invariably leads to another and another and another and so on. The examples they used in their diagram very precisely described Ni’s birth and thus I began to understand why I wasn’t feeling the way it seemed I was expected to feel about the experience.
I just pulled these photos out of that incomplete little album. Now they make me very angry and there’s nothing at all vague about my feelings. I know exactly why.
Here is a picture of a random nurse holding my baby in the nurses’ station while I am in the delivery room having stitches for an episiotomy necessitated by a ventouse delivery or “vacuum extraction” necessitated by fetal distress after administration of a Syntocinon drip, apparently necessitated by the hospital’s incomprehensible need to “move things along”, when they were, in fact, progressing slowly and steadily all by themselves.
Looking up the spelling of Syntocinon (Pitocin in the US), I found this, here:
“Pitocin-induced contractions differ from natural contractions, and these differences can have significant effects on the baby. For example, waves can occur almost on top of each other when too high a dose of Pitocin is given… Birth activist Doris Haire describes the effects of Pitocin on the baby: ‘The situation is analogous to holding an infant under the surface of the water, allowing the infant to come to the surface to gasp for air, but not to breathe.’”
Taken at around the same time, here is a photo of my naked distressed baby being weighed, because apparently it is more important to know her precise weight at birth than for a mother and baby to bond and have a chance at avoiding post-natal depression. Ask yourself why. I can’t think of a single good reason.
I was so fortunate and blessed to bond with Ni from the moment I laid eyes on her. It’s very easy to see why many women struggle, however. Here’s a photo of me looking stoned and beaten, but happy to be holding the most beautiful thing I’d ever beheld. At this stage I was still feeling quite dazed after having gas that made me nauseous and breathless, pethidine that made me vomit and didn’t even touch the sides of wave after wave of chemically-induced pain and finally an epidural that left me completely numb to my chest and unable to push effectively.
I know the rules. I know that we’re not supposed to tell these stories. I know that there are women who went through similar experiences who don’t feel traumatised or hurt by them at all; who feel that their babies were blessed to have trained medical staff to intervene and take responsibility during a fraught process. When I was pregnant with Ly, women would begin to tell me their devastating birth stories. They would invariably stop themselves on the verge of tears, saying, “I shouldn’t be telling you this…” Yes you should, yes you should, YES YOU DAMN WELL SHOULD! We should all tell our stories, good, bad and indifferent. If we didn’t allow ourselves to be silenced by other women complaining about those who tell “horror stories”, something; ANYTHING might have changed since Ni’s birth eleven years ago. They are NOT “horror stories”; they are OUR stories and they need to be told – in the interests of healing, if nothing else.
After being pulled from my beaten, drugged and stunned body, Ni was placed on my chest momentarily in a cursory nod to bonding, then whisked away to another part of the room where another team (there seemed to be countless people in the room by that stage) waited to establish her breathing.
Eight years later, a different circle was closed with Ly’s beautiful birth at home. I took my baby in my arms. I spoke loving words to her and blew gently in her face and she drew her first breath there in my arms. It was the single most empowering thing I have ever done in my life and it changed me profoundly forever.
I will finish reading this….. I too had a very traumatic, akin to rape, 1st birth. I blogged about it when Bunny was six months old. Last summer (over a year later) I had a 8 week miscarriage into my own hands, at home, NO hospital, no interventions, and the healing it brought was amazing. I still reel at times, and with this new baby, I am having a homebirth. I will read on and sadly know that we are sisters in this.
Ah, it’s just so heartbreaking. I’m glad you were here to read this and I will read your story too. How bittersweet your miscarriage was… You are going to love your homebirth so much. I am so happy you found that path.
Wow, this had me in tears. SO powerful. The photos of my first birth (and indeed the story itself) are so similar to yours.
Thanks so much for sharing it and big hugs for writing it xoxo
Thanks so much for reading this, Shae and thanks for helping me feel I could write it.
Amazing. I hear your heartbreak and understand the things you learned along the way. I can relate to your story as well. I knew Shae’s story before my 2nd birth and she inspired me to choose a different birth. Thanks for sharing this – it is so powerful. PS I popped on over via Shae’s tweet. x
Thanks for reading, Deb. I’m glad you got that better second birth too.
I feel deeply for you. The trauma for your first birth experience sounds so sad. I think you are so right that people need to tell the stories of the births of their children. Not just for themselves but for young women that have not given birth yet, so that they are not frightened and then they can have power in their knowledge for when, and if they choose to give birth.
When I gave birth to Mana 4 years ago, we invited my 19 year old stepdaughter to share the birth with us. Her strength just blew me away. It didn’t scare her at all, it gave her respect and strength and understanding, and one day she still plans to have babies….maybe even 4, she said! She has seen it all, childbirth in its complete natural, rawness and beauty. She knows things now, important things.
I love that you have written this.
You’re so right, knowledge is power. I am already learning so much more this third time around. My then eight year old was there when her sister was born and yes, even at eight, she understood it all in a really primal, fundamental way.
This is so important, and so powerful. Thank you for sharing it – I’m sure it wasn’t an easy one to write.
You have given me a new perspective, too, and some food for thought. I have been one to complain about some of the stories pregnant women are told, because really I feel like women who are soon to give birth need encouragement, not things to fear. It makes sense, though, that those who are healing need to be heard, and that the awareness that comes through hearing is important if ever we hope to change the current birth culture. And who better to demand better and bring about change than pregnant women?
Of course many of the stories I have been told while hugely pregnant were second-hand and told as if to entertain, not to inform or to heal. I hope I have never prevented someone who needed to be heard, from being heard, and I know I’ll be more sensitive to that in the future.
So glad you had a beautiful, empowering birth as well. You deserve it.
I’ve been subjected to the odd second hand birth story told as gossip too. It’s just sad that we don’t have more opportunities to debrief and sad to think that when we do our stories might be recycled for the perverse gratification of others. I found that people were very dismissive of any need I might have had to debrief after Ni was born and to be honest, at that point, it didn’t seem at all normal for me to be feeling so negative about the birth. Not having that opportunity can mean carrying a hurt or sharing inappropriately.
The idea that “all that matters in the end is a healthy baby,” is so pervasive and it seems to prevent most people from even asking how the birth went. It’s as though, once the baby is there, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not “supposed” to matter. I definitely got the sense after Annabelle’s birth that no one cared about *my* experience. That was really disappointing to me, as it was such a big life event and I would have loved to talk about it more, but I can only imagine how I would have felt if it had been difficult and left me with wounds to heal from. That, to me, is one of the many problems with the current birth culture. The woman’s experience matters, and people would do well to acknowledge that.
So true. I was going to say above that when I’d start to talk about Ni’s birth, people would say things like “Er well. It turned out well in the end.” by way of dismissing my experience and ending the conversation. We need to be doing a better job.
I wonder how a man, father, can fit into this story of before and after. Watcher defender? Nurturer comforter? What kind of man do you need during this miraculous time?
beautiful. i am catching up a little after the fact here…. wanted you to know i’m following along.
i am glad you told your story, and i agree 100% that we all need to be telling our stories.