Stuck Between a Hospital and Hard Place: How Risky is a Home Birth for a "Low, High Risk" Birth?

That title was a mouthful, and so is this story. This post has been one I have considered writing a long time, but it is difficult emotionally, so I have avoided it. It's time to get it out there.

In 2009, I had a simple laparoscopic knee surgery to correct an old sports injury. I was naive and foolish to think any surgery was simple. (I think that is why I get especially angry when someone says, "Just have a cesarean, it's so easy.") At the time, I was taking the birth control pill. My doctor never told me to stop it prior to the surgery. He didn't feel my surgery and birth control were counter-indicated. Two days after my surgery, I got an intense pain in my ankle, following by intense swelling and the worst charlie horse I had ever had in my life. I went to a massage therapist who thought I might have a blood clot in my leg, but gave me a massage anyway. I went on like this for a week before a finally went to the doctor. I couldn't find a comfortable position, sitting, standing, laying down. I had to leave work, went straight to my doctor, who sent me to the ER. I jumped into the ER on one leg (not yet knowing the gravity of the situation.) As it turns out, I DID have a blood clot in my leg. The massage had dislodged it from my ankle, but luckily it became lodged in the artery behind my knee, only a 3 small pieces breaking off and traveled through my heart into my lungs. (Which had explained some intense chest pain I had recently experienced. That my friends was a minor heart attack when the clots bounced around in there.) The ER doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. I was young then, and thought they were exaggerating. A week in the ICU, not being allowed to get up at all (not even to use the toilet) showed how serious it was. I know now, I really was lucky to be alive. But I was left with more questions than answers. I tested negative for any type of genetic clotting disorder. I think it was the birth control pill because the estrogens in it can thicken the blood, but my orthopedic surgeon vehemently denies this. "Millions of people get knee surgery on the pill and don't clot," he told me.

Well I guess that I am the exception. Now, I can't take the pill, and any time I get pregnant, I have to take two blood thinner injections to the stomach a day. There is a risk of clotting in pregnancy, which is many times multiplied over the pill. I cannot take a blood thinner orally, because they have been shown to cross the placental barrier. I was covered in bruises on my stomach during my pregnancies. A needle phobia didn't help this situation. My husband had to give me 99% of my shots, because I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I asked my doctor how dangerous it would be for me (and my fetus) not to take these shots. She likened refusing this medication to doing a road trip, driving 85 mph down the highway without a seatbelt. Maybe I'd get to my destination safely (clot free) or maybe not. There's a change I could clot again and have a stroke or heart attack that would be disabling or fatal, or my placenta could clot and kill my baby.

Because of this clotting issue, I am considered high risk. However, in all other aspects, I am considered a low risk patient. I don't smoke, I'm not obese, I'm reasonably fit, I don't have "advanced maternal age". One of the doctors I have interviewed dubbed me a "low, high risk patient". Talk about confusing and frustrating.

When I started having babies, I never thought of a home birth. Hospitals were "just where you had babies." However, my heart has started longing for a home birth, or at least something very close. Six months ago you couldn't have told me this is what I would want. I would have thought you were crazy. I have never wanted a home birth. However, the more I meditate on what I have read in "Cut, Stapled, & Mended", the more I feel like a home birth would be the most conducive to achieving my VBA2C. I'm beginning to wonder though, if I really have any choices in regards to my birth location. I feel like I am stuck between the hospital and a hard place.

• Where am I going to find a midwife that would take me on as a patient knowing that I have the potential to be a serious bleeding risk if things go wrong. ESPECIALLY after 2 cesareans. 

• AND where am I going to find an OBGYN that would co-manage me with a midwife so I can get my medications, blood tests, etc.

But most importantly is this dilemma in my heart: Am I putting myself, my baby, and my family at substantial risk by trying to birth at home. Am I being irresponsible, foolhardy? Is the risk to my safety so great that I am willing to leave my children motherless and my husband a widower? Is the danger even that high, or have my doctors exaggerated my clotting risk to scare me into submission? I'm feeling backed into a corner. I'm beginning to wonder if I am going to "be allowed" to have the birth I want. I'm starting to wonder if I am going to have to be satisfied with the birth "I get". This really saddens me. After reading "Cut, Stapled, & Mended", I was full of hope. Now I realize that despite how similar Roanna and I are emotionally and physically, medically we are completely different. I feel a lot of sadness, because I can't image a doctor on the planet would approve of a home birth in my circumstances. Most don't approve of home birth for people with immaculate medical histories. I feel like I don't have a snowflakes chance in hell.

If you're reading this and have any experience or suggestions, I more than welcome them. Please tell me what I can explore. Who I might see, what avenues might I pursue? What are your thoughts?

One Step Forward, Two Steps…To the Side

After drawing my labyrinth, I hit a wall. I was so physically and mentally exhausted from the effort that went into creating and analyzing my feelings about it, that I have found it near impossible to move forward at this time. I read on in the book, the next step being to meditate on your labyrinth (lab) while adding a slight discomfort. I was just not ready to go there. I felt in a stall, I was losing progress. So, I decided to pause on the "lab work" and move laterally into a more physical form of healing.

I finally went and saw my local Curandera, a traditional healer that uses natural remedies to cure ailments of the body and spirit. It was a spur of the moment decision. I knew I had to keep moving forward or I would keep sliding back. I booked my appointment, and was promptly at her door at 10 am Saturday morning.

I drove up to her bungalow and parked in a grassy lot across the street. Wild plants adorned the yard, and beautiful chickens scratched for worms behind a large iron gate. She sauntered off the porch to greet me like an old friend, and welcomed me to her home; a charming 1950's bungalow. My apprehension was mounting for what I was about to experience. What was she going to say? What was she going to do to me?

We step inside her living room, and towards a front bedroom which she has turned into a professional den of relaxation. Paintings, a belly cast, oils, candles, a large massage table. It should be an anxious person's dream escape. She must have seen the apprehension in my eyes.

She cheerfully asked me what I was there to work on. I started matter of factly: "sore back, a tight neck,  a scar to look at." But only a few moments later, I teared up a bit and managed to spit out that it had been a long road to get to her because of all the trauma surrounding my birth. We had perviously talked at two of her lectures, so she wasn't completely taken off guard. She could tell I was on edge.

She has a history of working with mothers, as a doula and a massage therapist. She has also work with women who have been assaulted. She understands the body-soul connection and how they can help or hinder a birth, or even healing in general. She could see that I was reaching for help, but at the same time scared to confront a trauma. So she did the most comforting thing she could:

1.) Told me how brave I was for coming to work on this. And
2.) Talked about the four agreements:

• Agreement 1: Be impeccable with your word - Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean.  Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.

• Agreement 2: Don’t take anything personally - Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

• Agreement 3: Don't make assumptions - Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama.

• Agreement 4: Always do your best - Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret

These agreements served to address boundaries and eliminate fear of what was going to happen. She would not assume that she could touch my body without it truly being okay. It was also true that it was my responsibility to not assume that she knew where my boundaries were, and to be clear with my words and expectations. As a result, no one would be offended (because we are speaking only the words we mean), no one was getting upset (because were not taking anything personally, and asking for clarification if something said seemed off-putting), and everyone was committed to giving 100 percent of themselves from where they were at that moment.

Before we got started I asked to use her restroom. Ever since my 1st cesarean, I can hardly stand up without having to go pee. My second cesarean surgeon had mentioned that I had a lot of scar adhesions to my bladder. It is possible they have returned. I passed down her hall, and admired her phone nook, which had been turned into an alter. Sitting on her toilet, I knew had come to right place.

Surely a woman with herbs drying in her tub knows what she is doing.

Now, this was by no means my first massage. As someone with high anxiety, I used to get them all the time when I was working. As a stay at home mom, I've had to adjust my expectations of comfort. Usually, I request total silence during a massage so I can FOCUS on being relaxed. It sounds ridiculous even saying it. But with Curandera, I prattled on and on. She let me unload on her…like catharsis.

We had a few laughs as she worked on my tight muscles. She applied a castor oil pack to my scar, and kneaded it to assess where my innards now lie. She has a strong suspicion that my uterus is tight to the left side of the scar and that is tilting forward, possibly pulling my back muscles in the process. What was surprising was that she was able to work on it as long as she was. At home, as I had previously mentioned, I can't touch or look at my scar without getting physically ill. My husband can barely touch it. Overall, she was pleased with how it looked, but asked me to continue to do weekly castor oil packs to soften the scar and underlying tissues. So, without further ado…a moment of bravery:

UGH. There it is: A low transverse cesarean scar. I put my hand there to show a size perspective. Gross.
#NoMakeup #NoFilter

Our session was over way too fast. She recommended that I come back after my next menstrual cycle, but continue to try to touch my scar often, even over clothing if I must, and do weekly castor oil packs.

I expected to be a little sore after a massage since rubbing on your muscles always releases toxins built up in your system. I drove the 45 minutes home, (FYI: It's an hour to anywhere in Houston) As I drove, and became increasingly fatigued. Almost alarmingly so. By the time I arrived home, I felt like I had been in a car accident. My entire body ached, my mouth was parched. This was nothing like I had ever experienced post-massage. I downed at least 4, 30 oz glasses of unsweetened tea and water, and tried to nap. Unfortunately, X-man and Lollipop had other plans. As the day turned to evening, I continued to down water. My limbs became heavier and heavier, my stomach churned. This went on for two days.

Last night, I worked on building a safe, sacred space to work on my scar and my emotions about my birth. I was at a loss of what to do for my extreme fatigue and pain, so I poured an epson salt bath. I soaked while trying to clear my head, gazing through the darkness at a candle and some flowers I had recently purchased.

"To thine own self be true."

I pulled myself reluctantly from the tub an hour later. I put a heating pad on my back and proceeded to sleep four hours straight. I am quite sure it is the first time since Lollipop has arrived (8 months) that I have gotten four hours of uninterrupted sleep. The following morning, while still sore, the fatigue fog had lifted.

I continue to seek the comfort of hot water to sit in, and cool water to drink to purge my body of what Curandera calls "trauma energy". It's time for bed now, one more glass of water, one more hot soak.

Cut, Stapled, on the Mend?

I was approximately six weeks postpartum when I finally broke down and asked my doula to come for her postpartum visit. She had been asking me since week two to come, and I just couldn't bear it. I had been delaying this visit as long as rationally possible. I anticipated a judgmental tone, a "you let us all down" undertone to the whole meeting. I just couldn't face her.

When it finally became embarrassingly far out from my delivery date, I couldn't stall any longer. She had other clients to see, loose ends to tie up. She stopped by on a hot summer day, quiet and thoughtful.  She asked me how I was feeling, but she didn't need glasses to see through the pleasantries I was offering. I was in bad shape and she knew it. There was nowhere to hide.

She started off delicately, sticking to the "factual" type details of the visit: "How's the baby feeding?" "Are you feeling any pain?""Any concerns?"I tossed her a bone: "the baby spits up a lot, it's kind of worrisome." After that exchange, she stepped up to the plate, boldly stepping into the fire:

"How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"Mmmhmmm…?

"You know, kind of having a hard time." I said nonchalantly with a shrug. I couldn't look into her eyes. She knew. She knew I was a total mess. She looked at me expectantly, waiting…the silence was cacophonous.

Before I knew it, words were tumbling out faster than I string them together. The tears flooded my face. I cried that pitiful cry; the one where you're gasping for air as you try to talk. And she let me. She let me fill the space with my sadness, anger, and shame. Then, I was holding back something. Things that I'm not sure I am even ready to write.

I worried she secretly resented me as a client, no matter gentle and attentive she was coming across. At the time, I can say that this silent presentness upset me very much. It was like a friendly tabby, quietly sitting in the corner watching, listening, an occasional flick of the tail. The eyes are watching thoughtfully, the ears listening attentively, but what does that tail flick mean?

I didn't want a quiet, thoughtful response. I didn't want space. I needed someone to catch me. I was drowning, but I couldn't ask for a life preserver. I should have told her, but I didn't. I couldn't be any more pitiful than what she was already witnessing. So, I just shut it down. Numbness, information seeking, compartmentalizing.

Self preservation.

One of the first things she recommended was reading "Cut, Stapled, and Mended", which she confessed would be a difficult read. I dutifully wrote down the title and scrawled "difficult to read" next to it on a scrap of paper from an old spiral notebook.

This scrap of paper has been beckoning from the junk drawer for 7 months. Every time I picked it up, my hastily scribbled note scared me away. The scrap went back into the drawer, back into the dark. Another time, another day perhaps.

After my previous post, putting it out there for the world to see, I very well couldn't back down. To the drawer, out comes the paper. The search was on, the book ordered. This was Monday.

Today is Friday, and guess what folks:

BAM!

Truth be told, I liked it. It was a quick, candid read. It felt authentic, real. Half of the words were the very same that I had shared with others about my own negative birth experiences. All I could do was nod along as Roanna chronicled her sadness, her desperation for answers, her trials and failures. She went to extreme measures, even beyond what I think most would consider Eastern or homeopathic measures to achieve her goal. Without giving too much away, she knew what she had done did not work the first or second time, but undeterred she kept trying. Kept growing.

A question formed in my head: "Why did my doula have me read this?" Was she trying to tell me I needed to resort to the extremes that Roanna did? (drinking frog extract, seeing a psychic, boiling a root for 30 days and drinking the tea it produced, taping magnets to my body) Or was it simpler?

Well I asked her today over coffee. Her simple answer was: "I wanted you to know it could be done."
Simple as that. Did I have to go through all Roanna's extremes. No. But it is important to know what my personal limits are, and then take it to that level. That way, I can tell myself, as Roanna did, "I did everything I could."

I'm frustrated that I didn't do this sooner. The book was not the big, bad, scary beast I thought it was. Although, it might have been the day, the week, the month after my doula's visit. She told me she could see a change in me, one that I cannot yet see. Maybe this is a sign, a sign to keep on going. To try the next hardest step.

Maybe it's time to talk about Lollipop's birth…well, at least try to talk about it while I tackle, "The Labyrinth of Birth." It serendipitously arrived on my front porch this very afternoon.

The Birth of X-man: Unplanned Cesarean #1

X-man was my first pregnancy and I couldn't be more excited. I did everything most moms-to-be do. I read a million books, signed up for those ridiculous "your baby is the size of a lemon this week" newsletters, read all the safety product websites.

I had read a number of natural child birth books and knew I wanted a drug free birth. I had read that epidurals slow down labor, and can often make breastfeeding more difficult after the delivery. So, like many mom's to be, I wrote a detailed birth plan and made multiple copies so the nurses attending the birth would know my wishes.

Some might ask why I opted for a hospital birth if I wanted a natural, drug free birth. The answer is a complicated one. First of all, prior to getting pregnant, I really didn't think about having a baby anywhere else. I live a stone's throw from one of the country's largest medical centers. Houston is supposed to have the best hospitals in the country: MD Anderson Cancer Center, Texas Children's Hospital, Shriners Burns Hospital, TIRR. I can go on and on. I had done a little reading about home births, and at that time, they just didn't feel safe enough for me, even though their safety is on par with many hospitals, if not better. I had never really considered giving birth any place but a hospital. That's just what "you do". (I know now there are more options but let's not get ahead of ourselves).

Another reason I opted for a hospital birth was because I was considered "high risk". This to me, has been the biggest setback. About 8 years ago, I had a simple knee surgery. Later that week, I had a blood clot form in my leg, break off and go into my lungs. The ER doctor said he didn't know how I was up and talking to him, I was in critical condition. I spent a week in the ICU on clot busters. I was told "once a clotter, always a clotter."They warned me when I was pregnant, that the estrogen in my blood would cause it to thicken and possibly clot. The clot could kill me, kill the baby, kill us both. I would need to take Lovenox injections throughout my pregnancy, and at least 6 weeks postpartum. I met with a high risk OBGYN at the Baylor College of Medicine and started getting twice daily Lovenox shots to the stomach as soon as my pregnancy was deemed viable. They burned like fire, and my husband had to give them to me because I could not bring myself to. I was covered in bruises from them, but it was a small price to pay for my sweet boy.

X-man caused me other problems, mainly I was sick sick sick. I vomited so much for the first 5 months that I lost 10 pounds. Looking back, I'm surprised I wasn't diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum. I couldn't smell anything without vomiting. My poor husband had to eat half his meals on the front porch because the smell made me so violently ill. I vomited at home, I vomited at work, I vomited in the car, I vomited in the shower, I.vomited.everywhere. A shampoo, a perfume, all food, even my husband's breath would set me off. Even the sound of someone burping or making fake vomiting noises would set me off. It was awful. I was prescribed an anti-vomiting medication that was typically given to patients getting chemotherapy. I was scared to take it, I used it sparingly not only because I was afraid of the side effects to little X, but also because each fill of the prescription cost about $100. I was laid off at 5 months pregnant, on COBRA, and simply couldn't afford it.

At month 6 I was feeling better, I finally had "the glow". I was actually glad I was not working at the time so I could rest a little bit and recover from all the puke. We took our Lamaze classes and got an A+, same with breastfeeding and newborn care. We were prepared! We were going to do this!

The rest of my pregnancy was uneventful until about week 36. I started itching on my legs uncontrollably. I had had so many minor "pregnancy related" rashes, aches, and pains that I blew it off as just another normal pregnancy symptom. Since I was hitting the OB weekly at this point, I kept meaning to bring it up, but it slipped my mind until the week 38 appointment. My OB was literally walking out the door for her next appointment when I said, "Oh yea, my legs have been itching so bad! Pregnancy! Am I right?!" She almost literally threw down her clipboard and ran back into the room. She looked at my legs, saw no rash and immediately sent me upstairs for an emergent blood work collection. She feared I had a condition know as intrahepatic cholestasis , which can cause stillbirth in otherwise healthy fetuses. I was terrified. The blood test takes a week or so to come back and my due date was approaching fast, so my doctor told me to contact her immediately if the itching got worse or if any new symptoms came up. She also advised me to stop taking my blood thinners, in case we had to do emergency surgery.

Week 39 rolls around and I am still on edge. My doctor is still waiting on the test results but sends me for a for a biophysical profile to check how X-man was doing given that I might have this liver issue. During this profile he had to take so many " practice breaths" in a time frame or I would be whisked off for an emergency c-section. That turd held his breath until the last minute of the test and got his numbers in just in time. He appeared fine, so they sent me home with the same instructions: Any changes, worse itching, call immediately. The ride home was hard, so much worry, apprehension. When was he coming? Where they going to have to take him? Little did I know that I was already having contractions.

Later that day I was sitting at home and my hands just started to itch and burn. Burn like they were on fire. I told my husband, called my mother, and she told me to call the doctor. I left a message with the answering service and got a call from my doctor to come in immediately to be induced. She was not taking any chances.

We checked into the hospital at around 11 p.m. I was 2cm and 50 percent effaced. My contractions were mild and regular. They decided to augment with Pitocin, which I agreed to out of fear of what the cholestasis was doing to my baby. I labored an entire 24 hours without much progress. I was hooked up to so many monitors, including a balloon-like catheter inserted into my cervix to help open it, that moving around was difficult. I wish I would have moved more in hindsight, although doing anything with a giant tube jutting out your vagina is damn near impossible. That tube insertion was more painful than any of the labor I had had up to that point. At about hour 32, I had gotten to about 5 cm and the doctors thought that an epideral might help my cervix relax. I was exhausted. I had not been allowed to eat for over 24 hours, finally I was allowed a popsicle and some jello. Labor was starting to get much harder at that point, so I told the doctor I would think it over. Then the vomiting started. I vomited my jello and everything I had eaten prior to going to the hospital. The pain was getting pretty intense, so we flagged our nurse to check the status of the anesthesiologist, as we had agreed to move forward with the epidural. He came by, saw that I had a history of clotting, and put everything on full stop. He would not do the procedure because he read that I had been taking blood thinners. We advised him that it had been over 4 days since my last dose (this drug has a half life of 12 hours). He would not take our word for it, and demanded a blood test to be sure. So we had to wait over an hour for someone to get the blood and then get the test results back because we were on a weekend night shift. Talk about adding insult to injury. The contractions were very bad at this point, the old man was grumpy about being on call I suppose, so he fussed at me continuously to hold still and stop jumping. I don't know about him, but having a giant needle shoved in your spine while simultaneously having souped up Pitocin contractions, all without the support of your loved ones was not the easiest thing to have happen to you. The man was a total jackass. During this time, they had to insert a catheter into my bladder to help me pee since I would lose all sensation to go. They also tried multiple times, unsuccessfully to attach a monitor to X-man's scalp to watch him more closely. It kept coming out, and caused unreliable readings on the computers.

After the epidural I was finally able to get some sleep. Unfortunately, the epidural slowed down my labor, so they cranked up the Pitocin to the max dose. I was numb from the chest down. I hated it, I felt out of control, but what could I do? I was in a half doze when I rolled myself from my side to my back to get more comfortable when a team of medical people came crashing through my door. People were yelling out orders, checking monitors, grabbing my tubes. What was going on!?! Apparently, when I rolled over, he had had a massive deceleration in his heartbeat. It had come back up when they all came crashing in. No one was happy. My doctor came in and told me I had fought the hard fight, I had been in labor 40 hours with no real progress, and they needed to take him. I was devastated. My husband talked and I talked it over for about 5 minutes, called our families to let them know, and started to prepare for surgery.

The room was cold, I shivered so much. I was so exhausted, so ready to meet my baby. My husband was at my head so nervous; tears in his eyes after all that he had witnessed me go through for our son. The surgery was quick, they told me, "he was out." The doctor lifted X-man over the sheet, or at least tried to, I couldn't see him and I cried. Then I started asking, why wasn't X-man crying? I knew something wasn't right because babies always cry at birth to clear their lungs. When I said it twice more and nobody said anything, I started to panic. They had moved him over to a side incubator, and got him crying finally. Hubby was joyful, I was so happy I could finally see him, even if it was across the room.  I continued to shiver quite violently, despite having heaps of warmed blankets on me.

We were informed that X-man had to go to the NICU because he was having difficulty breathing despite being a good 8+ pounds. My husband was torn between leaving me alone, and going with our sick little boy. Our plan had been that he was never to leave me, but that all went out the door when I saw that little baby. I was able to give X the quickest of kisses and send him on his way with Daddy. I cried and cried.

They moved me into recovery and my mom was there waiting. I continued to cry for my baby, but I wasn't able to see him. My recovery nurse told me I had been through a lot and I should just rest. I was adamant, I wanted to see my baby. She very rudely told me that hospital rules said that I had to be 12 hours out of surgery before I could go to the NICU. For the first time in this whole ordeal, I stood up for myself. I ordered her to get my doctor on the phone to release me to my baby, or I was going to climb out the bed and cause all kinds of problems for her. She came back a few minutes later and said my doctor said I could go see him for 1 hour. The nurse went and got a wheelchair and said that I could go if I could get myself into the wheelchair. In hindsight, I can't even believe I am writing this. I just had major abdominal surgery and you are asking me to get out of bed on my own to climb into a wheelchair?! She was furious that I had put her out! At the time, it didn't sink in that this was a ridiculous request. I had mommy bear blinders on. I would have crawled through broken glass all the way to the NICU to see my baby. I guess she thought I'd give in and say I couldn't get up. Instead, I threw my legs out of bed and made an attempt to stand. She couldn't just let me fall, so she helped me get in the chair while exclaiming "Wow, you're strong!" I just glared at her. It had been 4 hours, I still had not seen my baby, and I had cried the entire time.

I met my baby in the NICU that evening. He had an IV in, and a little cast on to hold it in place. He had a heart monitor and a cute little crocheted hat. The NICU nurses said they had to really search for him a hat because they weren't used to having such a big baby. We finally got our skin to skin and I cried and cried. Everyone had met him before me. My inlaws were in the room, my best friend, everyone. I was so jealous they got to be with him before me. I tried to nurse him, and my husband tried to help by giving me my boppy pillow. When he shoved it in place, it hit my incision and doubled me over. I didn't care. I was holding my baby and he was hurt and scared. He needed me. I held him the entire hour until they took him from my arms. I cried all the way back to my room, like a broken human being.

X-man was supposed to spend 24 hours in the NICU but was able to leave after spending a good part of the night there. Our hospital had a policy of keeping baby with mama, so he was wheeled into my room. I was so relieved.

In the following days, he rarely left my arms. However, a dark cloud started to descend over me. What had gone wrong? Why did my body fail me? I had maintained a healthy weight. I had read all the books. I had a plan.

What was wrong with me...

The Beginning of a New Birth Journey

If you are reading this, I am happy you found me. I am a woman, struggling to have a natural birth in a medically crazed society. A place where an intimate event that used to take place in the safety and quiet of our own homes has turned into an impersonal, fearful…and almost mechanistic act. As birth has moved out of the home and into the hospital, we have lost some of our rights to our own bodies. While one can argue that we can always have the "right to refuse any procedure", in reality women are coerced, lied to, acted upon without consent, threatened, and scared into accepting procedures that they otherwise would have, and arguably could have, done without. How do I know? It happened to me, and countless other women I have read about.

That being said, my two darlings, X-Man and Lollipop, wouldn't be alive today without cesareans. I developed cholestasis with X-man, a liver disfunction that can cause stillbirth in otherwise healthy fetuses. My doctor let me labor for 40 hours before he became distressed and was taken. He spent 4 hours in the NICU with respiratory distress before being returned to me. Lollipop's water broke and after 48 hours of trying to jump start labor with Pitocin, I would not dilate and she went into distress. My VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) had failed.

I'm not here to be a martyr for natural birth. If you had a cesarean, loved it, and would schedule another one for every future baby, that is your prerogative. This blog is not intended to shame, defile, or otherwise persecute c-section mothers. C-sections have and do save many, many lives. What bothers me is that c-section rates around the country have been on the rise for decades. In Texas, we are at 35% of births being via c-sections (according to ICAN network). Some hospitals have a 100% cesarean rate.

What are we telling women in this country when one third or more of us don't have a normal, uncomplicated vaginal delivery? We are telling women that their bodies don't work and not to trust their instincts. We are telling women that they need expensive, invasive procedures to insure that they do not kill their infants by entertaining the idea that they know what is best for their bodies and babies.

This is where I am…

Even though my c-sections were medically justifiable, I cry every time I think about them. I can't look at my scar. I can't touch it. My husband can't touch it. I get nauseous when I put the slightest pressure on it.

I feel broken. Lost. Physically in pain. My body is not my own…

This is what brought me here.

In one year, I would like to start trying to conceive (TTC) our next baby. I have a huge, what feels like insurmountable, obstacle in front of me. I started writing to help process my feelings about what has happened, and to hold myself accountable for the changes I feel need to happen to get me to my goal of a successful VBA2C (Vaginal Birth After 2 Cesareans).

If you are reading this, you are reading a part of my journey. You may be a mother or mother-to-be yourself, looking for answers. I don't have all of them. All I know is that I am in a vulnerable place, as are many other women in similar situations. I may write about things that trigger uncomfortable emotions. You may feel anger or sadness, shame or frustration. Do not take those feelings out on me. Trolling the wounded does nothing. I welcome your comments and questions. They may serve as inspiration for me to open, learn, and share more. To relax more, to trust myself more. However, under no circumstances will I tolerate shaming, cruelty, rudeness, or fear mongering. Perspectives are different, we are allowed to disagree, respectfully.

So…I guess let's get started with the backstory: X-man's birth.