I straightened the throw pillow on the couch and fluffed it, a task I had performed countless times that night.  I looked at the clock. 9:45 pm.  Less than twelve hours before surgery.  I shivered.  I went to the kitchen to make myself some tea.

 

I tried not to think that in less than twelve hours I would be lying on an operating table while doctors sliced my gut open.  I tried not to remember the overly bright lights, or the way they spread your arms out and strapped them as if for an execution.  I shook my head and added too much sugar to my tea.

 

Tomorrow, I was having a baby, my second child, my second surgery.  The images of my first emergency C-Section kept playing through my mind and all the fear and anxiety I felt on that operating table came flooding back.  I couldn’t sleep.  I abandoned my cup of too sweet tea and went through my hospital checklist again.  Not that I needed to.  I could recite the list in labor.  But I needed to keep busy.

 

I had so wanted a vaginal birth this time.  When I got pregnant with my first daughter, my husband and I dreamed up the perfect natural birth.  No pain meds for me. Oh, no!  I was going to feel the first contractions right around my due date, maybe a few days before.  I would wake my husband, since it would be in the middle of the night.  He would jump up, wide awake and together we would time the contractions.  At the last minute, we would grab our bags and head for the hospital.  Once there, things would progress naturally and in a few hours, the doctor would place our new baby on my belly for us to cry over while I delivered the placenta.  Tears of joy would fill my eyes as I experience this incredible rite of Motherhood.

 

But my dream was not to be.  At least, not this time.  My body, for some reason, did not kick in to action as I thought it would.  Ten days after my due date and still my body showed no signs of labor.  Every extra day felt like an extra week.  I was tired, angry and upset.  Finally, my doctor decided to induce.  I was relieved.  I felt sure that once I got some help, my labor would progress on its own.  Instead, I labored for twenty-one hours, had an epidural, had more psilocin, and then lay there as my baby’s heart rate plummeted.  I was rushed into the operating room where, blinded by bright overhead lights, I became a mother.  I saw my daughter briefly before she was whisked away.  For months I felt like a failure.  I had failed in the very act that defined us as mothers.  Eventually I learnt to enjoy my baby.  But next time, I promised myself, I would push my baby out!

 Yet here I was, two and a half years later, sitting at my kitchen table, unable to sleep, on the eve of yet another invasive birth experience.  Anguished tears streamed down my face and I brushed them angrily away.  My doctor says that my narrow pelvis is not wide enough for my second little girl to come through.  Desperately, I sought a second opinion only to have that same prognosis repeated to me.  Again, my hopes of a vaginal birth were dashed, callously taken from me, my body refusing to perform the task it was meant to.  I felt my husband’s hand on my shoulder and I tried to allow his strength to calm me.

 

I went to bed, waking up every hour to pee or to simply stare at the ceiling.  Finally, at 4:30 a.m., I got up and stepped into the shower, letting the powerful jets of water pound out every thought, every feeling.

We arrived at the hospital at 5:55 a.m., two hours and five minutes before my surgery.  Even now, I still can’t think of it as a birth.  Once we got settled in a room, all the preparation for the operation was actually a pleasant diversion.  At 7:30 a.m., ridden with trepidation, I took the long walk to the operating room, clutching desperately at my husband’s arm.  I entered the room and smiled tightly.  The lights were as bright as I remembered.  I looked at the operating table and thought how much it looked like the execution table in “Dead Man Walking.” My heart rate accelerated.  Taking gulping breaths, I sat and arched my back dutifully for my spinal.  As the paralysis crept up my body, I panicked.

 

“I can’t breath!” I gasped fearfully.  “I can’t breathe!”

 “Yes you can,” the anesthesiologist said confidently.  “It’s OK.  Relax, it’s OK.”

 

And for some unknown reason, I believed him.  I concentrated on my breathing and relaxed a little.  My husband came in and I smiled reassuringly, although it felt more like a grimace.  The operation began and I tried not to picture what was happening behind the blue curtain.  Then, just when I thought I was going to throw up, my doctor called,

 

“OK guys, are you ready?”

 And, almost in slow motion, the anesthesiologist dropped the curtain and we watched in awe as our daughter was taken from my body.  It was incredible, amazingly incredible.  In that moment, I attained perspective.  As I gazed at the red, slimy body of my second daughter, dripping with my amniotic fluid, I experienced, for the first time, the exalted feeling of having created!

  

By Inga Wahle

Labels: childbirth, Inga Wahle

Stumble This Post

The early morning sun shone persistently through the slightly opened blinds of my bedroom window. My twenty-three month old daughter was tunneling through the bedding on my bed, calling excitedly, “I’m hiding, Mommy! I’m hiding!”

I kept my eyes shut, hoping that by doing so, I would somehow delay the beginning of yet another day filled with toddler games and talk and devoid of adult stimulation. Finally, resigned to the inevitable, I threw the covers off and sat up with a sigh that spoke poignantly of dreams yet unfulfilled.

My daughter’s face peeked out from under the comforter, bright, smiling, and full of hope and life. “I’m hiding, Mommy!” she said with laughter in her voice. I reached out and pulled her tiny body to me, “gotcha!”

She squealed her delight and my day was right again. But somehow, this morning, as I held her to my bosom, I knew that it was time. . . time for me to do something for me. Time for me to give back a little of myself to those who had sacrificed so much for me.

Five years ago I graduated from the University of the West Indies with a Degree in Economics and Management. I remember walking down the aisle to receive my diploma like it was yesterday. I can still taste the joy, the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that propelled me forward, as I imagined that every one of the sea of faces was shining just for me. I was going to make a difference. I was going to change the world. My heart was full as I reached out and happily shook the chancellor’s outstretched hand, clasping the diploma he handed me to my heart.

Two months earlier, I had been hired by the government of my country as a Trade Officer in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Trade and Marketing. I felt sure that this degree, a testament to endless hours of mind-blowing work, of nights filled with econometrics and complicated economic models instead of sleep, was all I needed to help me single-handedly take my country a giant step forward.

I was wrong.

It took only a few months of public service for me to realize that it would take so much more than my new knowledge and optimism to combat a system of global economic oppression that had prevailed for more than my lifetime.

My job was exciting, stimulating. But the constant frustration of trying to right an economy that lacked the financial, technical and human resources needed to survive in a rapidly evolving global economy was threatening to dampen my enthusiasm, in fact, to put out my torch altogether.

My daughter squirmed and I realized suddenly that I still maintained a desperate grip on her. Snapping out of my reverie, I released her tiny body and swung myself out of bed. Eager to start another day bursting with endless possibilities, she slid from the bed, got me my slippers and went charging out into the kitchen. The sound of her little feet pat-a-caking across the hardwood floors, made me smile. Shaking off my presentiment, I set her on the counter so we could make breakfast together. Laughing at her silliness, I allowed this simple act of mothering to soothe away my early morning misgivings, replacing it with true joy and the will to go on.

By Inga Wahle

Labels: Inga Wahle

Stumble This Post

My daughter’s shrieks pierced through my consciousness as I opened my eyes and slowly, painfully sat up in bed. My husband woke, too, as if in a daze and automatically turned on the bedside lamp.

Mechanically, he picked up the screaming baby and placed her into my tired arms. I looked down at the red, angry face of my six-day old daughter, her accusing tear-filled eyes, little fists punching through the blankets, and I cried. Stupidly, I just looked at her and cried, too.

“Well, are you going to feed her?” my husband asked.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. “I just want to sleep! Please! I just want to sleep!”

My husband sat looking at me, feeling helpless. Our daughter’s shrieks were getting angrier, but my tears kept flowing.

I was so tired, so very tired. I hurt all over. My C-section had left me temporarily handicapped and feeling sorry for myself. All I wanted was to be able to lie in bed for one night and sleep. All I wanted was a few hours of rest and quiet. Was that too much to ask? Was I being a horrible mother? Must I rouse my tired, battered body up every hour and a half to satisfy my daughter’s own selfish desires?

Maybe I wasn’t meant for this.

Oh God, why doesn’t she just shut up! Just the thought of her little sucking mouth latching unto my raw, painful nipples made me cringe. I looked at my husband, flopped down on the bed, his body screaming his exhaustion, his eyes drooping closed, their own silent defiance to this seeming chaos that had overtaken our lives. I thought of going out into the streets and handing her off to the first passersby. The thought was tempting.

Oh, I was a terrible mother.

I looked down at my baby again. Her little button nose. Her full, pink lips now contorted with rage. She hiccupped and I smiled. She was mine.

“It’s OK, sweetheart,” I cooed. “It’s OK.”

Un-strapping my bra, I coaxed her searching mouth to my nipples. Bracing myself, I waited for the searing pain that was to follow. She latched, sighed, and sucked noisily. In a couple of minutes, the pain was gone and I gazed adoringly as my baby nourished herself from my body.

I am going to be a good mother.

By Inga Wahle

Labels: Inga Wahle

Stumble This Post