It’s funny, the things you remember.
I remember reading books on labor but skipping the chapters on C-sections because that wasn’t an option, as far as I was concerned. I planned to have a vaginal birth.
I remember interviewing the doula and feeling relieved to see her nodding along with my preferences: no Pitocin, no epidural, full mobility during labor.
I remember the first day of contractions and my doula tending to my physical and emotional needs. I remember the back rubs she gave when the pain took hold and the encouragement she provided as my son’s impending birth became a reality.
I remember visualizing my labor—me, on all fours, growling and grunting in primal fashion, my baby inching out of me with each push as she coached from the side. My newborn son, slick with fluids and vernix, would be laid on my chest as I sobbed, exhausted but deeply in love.
I remember my intention to breastfeed for at least six months and to avoid bottle feeding for as long as possible.
It all seems so quaint now.
I was 40 hours into labor when I begged for the epidural. My contractions, though coming hard and fast, weren’t having much of an effect on my cervix, which was perfectly content to stay at one centimeter, thank you very much. Although my doula had kept me as comfortable as possible, I hadn’t slept or eaten in two days and the little food I did eat refused to stay down. I needed the epidural to help me sleep. In the meantime, my OB prescribed Pitocin to speed things along.
But the following morning, I was still only six centimeters dilated. The baby was “sunny side up,” and the consensus was that he was on the large side. By now it was a full two and a half days since my contractions began, and not only was my cervix not sufficiently expanded, it was swollen. There was no choice but to do a C-section.
When the doctor delivered the news, I wept. Things were not going according to plan. The drugs, combined with my many hours of sleep, had rendered my doula useless. I couldn’t feel my legs, let alone get up on all fours for delivery. And now, after refusing to even read about the experience, I would have a cesarean. I was miserable.
I don’t recall much about my son’s birth. I remember feeling a tug here, a pull there. I remember thinking I was suffocating. I remember feeling anxious because there was so much going on, all of it related to my body, but I couldn’t see any of it.
I remember hearing a baby cry and the words, “He’s 10 pounds, 2 ounces.” No wonder my cervix refused to budge.
There was no immediate skin-to-skin contact. My first interaction with my baby boy was under a drug-induced stupor, and although there are photos of me kissing his cheek, I don’t remember the moment.
I spent five sleepless nights in the hospital healing from surgery. My lower abdomen burned and sitting up caused my midsection to scream. Because of my son’s weight, I couldn’t pick him up myself, so my husband was hands-on—changing diapers, rocking him to sleep, and handing him to me during feeding times. And there were so many feeding times. My arms ached from my son’s weight—holding him was like carrying a writhing 10-pound sack of potatoes—and although my breasts felt full and heavy, they weren’t producing enough milk to satisfy his ravenous appetite. He bucked and screamed, unable to get enough to eat, so his pediatrician encouraged me to give him a small bottle of formula to tide him over.
I did, and it worked, but it hurt. This wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t what I’d planned.
Once home, I fell into depression. With our closest relatives 3,000 miles away, my husband and I were on our own. We were overwhelmed, though my husband had a better hang of it all than I did. He took to fatherhood with aplomb, snuggling our baby boy during his nightly crying jags and going for neighborhood walks with our little guy strapped to his chest. Meanwhile, I rubbed lanolin cream on my cracked nipples and moved gingerly around the house, trying not to upset my wounds.
Each feeding felt like a wrestling match—my son clawed and punched at my aching breasts as I tried to maneuver him into a manageable position. To add to the fun, within days of his birth I developed the first of two bouts of mastitis, which caused my breasts to swell, ache, and burn. Both of us ended his feedings in tears, and soon I resented the entire experience.
I didn’t want to hold him at all. Besides the physical pain, the overwhelming fatigue, and the hormonal roller coaster ravaging my body, I felt like a failure. My entire birthing experience was the antithesis of what I’d dreamed it would be. I knew I couldn’t continue to breastfeed my son—I could barely even pick him up on my own. And as much as I hated to admit it, I didn’t have an instantaneous bond with him.
Ten days after his birth, my doula came by for her final postpartum visit. She sat next to me on the sofa and asked how I was doing. I burst into tears, telling her, “I didn’t think it would be this hard.” She knew what I meant—the emotional, physical, and psychological toll of motherhood can be immense and, for me, was entirely unexpected.
She smiled at me and said the words I’ll always remember: “It’s OK not to like this. It’s a myth that mothers look right into their babies’ eyes, fall deeply in love, and know exactly what to do. It’s OK if you don’t.” In that moment, my perspective changed. I felt as though she’d given me permission to let go of the ideal, to release any preconceived notions I had of motherhood and accept that I and my flawed body were perfectly normal. It was the best advice I ever received.
My son is now a rambunctious six-year-old who still insists on Mommy’s snuggles and stories before bed. I don’t miss those early days, but I’m forever grateful to the doula whose words allowed me to forgive myself for not being the capital-M, know-it-all Mother I thought I should be and to just learn, day by day, moment by moment, to build a relationship with my little (OK, big) boy.