Epic Failure?: A Birth Story
This picture cracks me up. The boy child, Adam, is now 16 and usually resents the existence of his little sister, Rachel (pictured above at the whopping age of 4 weeks), but I am so glad I have documented evidence that at one point he was excited about her because this is a recent picture of the two.
Rachel’s 13th birthday is tomorrow which got me thinking about her birth and how, afterward, I felt like a complete failure.
And I know I am not alone in feeling this way.
She was born healthy, 2 1/2 weeks early, weighing in at a whopping 6 pounds 7 ounces. She managed to make it through despite having her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck twice (women, always listen to your intuition!).
I blame the feeling of failure on my husband Zeke who escaped the delivery room for a burger and beer at the Barn while I was pushing this leech out of my body (which I only found out about the next month when I was reviewing the credit card bill). If only he had been by my side the entire time, things would have been different (Note: I was induced at 2:30 PM and Rachel was born at 8 PM the same day…so really, totally irrational thoughts).
I am making light of something which weighed heavily on me for a long time. For some reason I felt like a failure for delivering a healthy baby. It was probably one of the most romantic moments of my life…only me, my husband, and my doctor and then, Rachel. We didn’t even tell anyone until the next morning and my mom thought I was pranking her.
When I delivered our son, there were multiple medical professionals and my sister and husband in the room. It was very clinical and I pushed all of three times and out he came. It was a piece of cake. I think I asked if that was all after he was born. I expected it to be harder. I delivered on his due date after a total of 10 hours of labor. On time and on budget…which is to be expected for a project manager. I think I set the bar pretty high for the second one.
I had to work harder to get Rachel out. I had to push for an hour and didn’t do it perfectly at the start, and I suppose, in retrospect, that it was somewhat anti-climactic.
I decided when she would be born. I arranged for our son to be with friends. We didn’t tell anyone that we were having her until the next day. It was a fairly easy delivery (despite the epidural not keeping up with the Pitocin…I really think women who choose natural childbirth are crazy but to each her own). But because I had to push more than three times, I thought I was doing it wrong.
I even left the hospital less than 24 hours after I checked in. I was sharing a room with a woman who would not get off of her phone (and we aren’t even going to get in how inhumane it is to have to share a hospital room with someone after giving birth when both of you have newborns and need to breastfeed). Fortunately I knew what I was doing and after having kept our first child alive, I figured I could figure it out for the second one, too (and yes, this is something we moms worry about).
So why would I have felt like a failure? Why did I feel like I disappointed my doctor?
13 years later it seems ridiculous and laughable but at the time, it was pretty awful. I think I went in and apologized to my OB/GYN for not being good enough in my delivery; for not being perfect (Hi, my name is Terri and I am a recovering Type A, overachieving, perfectionist). I think he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I’ll blame it on the hormones…after all I had carried a child to term and successfully delivered her, one of the greatest miracles of all. One would expect your body and mind to be a little off-balance.
I am sure glad I can’t find the letter I wrote to my daughter (I looked) and I hope it is lost in the ether because I am confident to say that she is one of my most brilliant achievements and so far from a failure. Happy birthday, baby girl! You are phenomenal.
