Physicality

It’s almost been seven weeks since the birth, and I finally feel mostly like my body is something resembling the way it used to be. I have never had any confidence or comfort in my own body – something I didn’t really appreciate had such a hold over me until pregnancy kicked in. My self esteem skyrocketed. I was proud of the shape of my body for possibly the first time in my life. Now that it is over, I am dealing with the awkward leaky boobs and the squishy paunch, but I’m totally okay with it. I keep telling myself I’ll start paying a bit more attention to eating less crap soon, but then somebody will turn up to the house with muffins, or our favourite ice cream will be on special at the supermarket, or it will be thursday, or the sky will be blue. So yeah. Still eating a lot of crap over here. Whatevs.

The birth was, shall we say, traumatic. The short version is I laboured for 17 hours at home, went to the birth centre (just as a tour was going through and a large group of unsuspecting parents-to-be were treated to the sounds of me moaning and wailing like a banshee) to be told I was at 5cm dilation, then over the course of the next 10 hours tried the shower, tried the bath, tried the gas and air, tried morphine, tried pushing but was told to immediately stop due to a cervical lip, then the midwife suggested that an epidural was necessary as this labour just wasn’t progressing the way they’d like. I was eventually transferred into the labour ward and knocked out with the drugs. The next morning, at around the 30th hour, I had finally had it to the hallowed 10cm dilation and was allowed to push again – only to find that the babe had turned to the posterior position, which is ‘face up’. Eventually they helped her out with forceps. Anything resembling a birth plan had gone out the window, but we had a healthy baby girl, and it was finally over, so I didn’t care.

Physically, birth aside, having a newborn is tough. Breastfeeding means your nipples get tired, fluctuating milk supply means they ache, there’s the leaking which I absolutely abhor, the back pain, the tight shoulders. You are constantly leaning over the bassinet, the change table, wherever she is. You wear her, which gets tiring. I even had a glorious stack merely walking at around the week three mark – I took layers of skin off both of my knees and the palms of my hands and felt rather pathetic.

I went to the gyno for my vagino yesterday to see how it is all coming together. They did this godawful examination and told me that apparently it is healing well, just slowly. For someone who is terrified of her own lady bits right now, I think about sex an awful lot, and I really miss having any type of intimacy with Husbandito. We have touched on the subject but I think he was also so traumatised by the whole thing (in some ways, more than me) that he is probably not in any rush either. That is probably what I worry about more than anything. I know he definitely feels that sense of “those boobs aren’t mine to play with any more”… which is fair enough. It’s a little depressing. I think he senses this and makes an effort to tell me I look nice, things like that.

I don’t mean to complain, I’m just making notes. One of those really stupid things that people say in your final month of pregnancy is “oh once the baby is born you’ll forget all about the pain”. Uh, I call bullshit on that one. I know it’s still new but I will never forget the pain. Which is not to say I’ll not be a glutton for punishment and attempt all this again later down the line.

A List of Things That Have Happened in the Last Month Which All Felt Like The Best Thing That Had Ever Happened to Me (at that point in time)

Somebody said “here’s your baby”, and I had barely enough energy to lift my head for a second and see a red squirming creature, and I knew she was okay, and that Husbandito and the doctors were going to take care of her and I could finally get some motherflipping rest after being in labour for what felt like a million years. And I overheard them asking Husbandito what her name was, and he said ‘Penny’ out loud for the first time, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me.

They wheeled a tiny person into my hospital room and I held onto her and we both went to sleep. That was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I finally got to have a shower after lying in bed in my own filth for three days, and then that afternoon somebody came and took my catheter out, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me.

On the sixth day and after jumping through thousands of proverbial hoops, we put our baby girl in the car seat and carried her out through the doors of the hospital. We put her in the car and drove her home. I hadn’t been outside for a week and somehow the world looked very different. That was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Husbandito brought me peanut butter on toast the morning after our first night at home. I hadn’t had much sleep and I was so grateful I almost cried, and that was seriously the best thing that ever happened to me.

Husbandito and I held hands as we walked and pushed our baby girl in a stroller through the streets of Summer Hill and got take away Indian food. That was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I got cold in the night. Husbandito spooned me and I wasn’t a blimp and it felt lovely and that was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Any time I was able to luxuriate in a shower over the next four weeks was the best thing that ever happened to me. Except for the one time that I had a bath. Then that was the best thing.

Penny was drunk on boob juice and laying back in my hands with her arms flopped in what looked like a good position to play air guitar. So obligingly, we made her play air guitar. It was really funny. And then she spewed so hard that it came out her nose. We deserved that. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Penny sneezed four times in a row making the most adorable string of ‘achoos’. After the last one she gave an exasperated little sigh of relief. We laughed. I’m pretty sure it was the best thing that ever happened.

I bounced on the ball for forty-five minutes straight at some insane hour of the morning and I thought my back and shoulders were going to explode. Then the babe fell asleep and stayed asleep when I put her in the bassinet and I got to lie down. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

After a long and tiring morning of crying and fretting (her, not me), the sun came through the lounge room window in the afternoon and the babe and I lay in the lovely warm shaft of light and fell asleep together. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Every time Penny rouses she makes a series of elaborate noises and sometimes we unwrap her and then just watch as she grunts and stretches and wakes up. It is always the best thing that ever happened.

Husbandito was changing the babe’s nappy when she did an almighty shart and he was so startled that he leapt backwards. That was the best thing that ever happened.

I put Penny in the baby bjorn for the first time and she didn’t even complain. Then we went all the way to the supermarket and back and she fell asleep. It was the best thing that ever happened. That was about two hours ago.

I’m sure there were many more things but I am starting to get very sleepy myself so my brain isn’t firing on all neurons. The gist of the story is, even when I’m so tired that I want to cry, or frustrated, or sore, everything is pretty great, really.

Hi, I’m new here

You may have noticed my virtual absence of late. That’s because this brand new little person came along.

Who’s a pretty penny?

Introducing Penelope Jacqueline Lilia [surname], otherwise known as our Penny. She arrived at 10.56am on Wednesday 13th March – her due date – but only after 33 hours of labouring. Thirty. Three. Hours. That’s a whole other saga for a whole other time. Luckily, she’s totally amazing, so we’ll keep her for now.

Are you my doula?

Today is the day we meet our potential doula.

I’ve realised that I have been lax in actually describing what a doula is to this point, and many people have never heard of one. In fact I don’t even remember where the idea of having one came from or where I first heard it. But once I did, I was pretty sure I wanted one.

A doula is basically an extra member of support crew. She isn’t medically trained the way a midwife is, but she is experienced with childbirths and is usually a mother herself, and her role is more of an emotional one. People choose to use doulas for many reasons, but for us it was a no-brainer. We have no family in Sydney with us that we can have on call during the birth. So while I’m going to have a team of midwives and possibly doctors looking out for me, who’s looking out for Husbandito while he is forced to listen to me scream bloody murder? Whenever I imagine transitioning, all I can think of is the poor man hovering aimlessly in the corner of the room, feeling completely helpless and wanting to make the whole thing go away – and knowing he is stressed is going to make me stressed. And what happens if it’s an extremely long labour? They can give me drugs to help me sleep, but Benj won’t. He’ll pace and freak out and wonder what is okay and want a coffee but not want to leave to get one. And God forbid if the labour gets complicated and the doctors want us to make some spur of the moment choices while we are in this state of obviously very clear thinking.

This is where the delicious doula comes in. She is the calm, rational part of the equation, and she is there for both of us. Do I need a massage? Here she is to work a bit of magic. Does Husbandito need snacks but is too worried to leave the room? She can assure him that she’s got his back for a moment. Are we both losing our minds a little bit? She can talk us back out of the crazy zone with reassurances. Are things not going smoothly and we need to make some scary or confusing decisions? She can act as a mediator between us and the medical staff if we are too flaky or emotional to think straight, and assist us through the thought process to make sure that any choices that we make are our own, not than an intervention that we feel forced into because we don’t know any better. It’s about empowerment, provision of balanced information, and an extra feeling of safety. She’s not there to replace Husbandito, but rather reinforces his role and gives him a sense of involvement he may not have otherwise had shuffling his feet awkwardly at the back of the room. Well, that’s the general idea anyway.

And of course there’s the stats – interventions in hospital births are crazy stupid high, and one often leads to another, such as an induction leading to an epidural leading to a Caesarean. C-sections happen in something like 1 in 3 births now, and for what reason? According to various studies, the use of doulas show a consistent reduction in c-sections, use of forceps, requests for epidurals and other strong forms of pain relief, unnecessary inductions, plus shorter labour lengths – not to mention greater self-esteem, less general anxiety and less chance of post-natal depression for both mother and father. But enough of my pro-doula propaganda.

I spent a fair bit of time trawling the interwebs reading various doula profiles and getting bogged down in it. It reminded me a lot of when I was trying to find a celebrant for our wedding. I think I ended up meeting four celebrants and eventually went with the first one I had met (Husbandito was still in the UK at the time and this had to be sorted out before he got here in order to complete his visa application, a helpful little extra stress-inducer). To this day we speak fondly of the celebrant we ended up with, and attend many of our friend’s weddings who perhaps weren’t as happy with their own. I understand why it happens – it’s such a process to contact and meet these people and decide whether you fit together, it’s pretty easy to just go ‘well, you’re qualified, you’ll do’. But committing to a doula is a little different. She’s pretty much gonna have to see me naked and howling and in all kinds of compromising positions. That’s a privilege not suited to everyone, perhaps. All three of us have to be extremely comfortable in each other’s presence. Extremely. 

Anyway I discovered there’s a doula training college in Marrickville and they do a pairing service! I spoke to the director there who was absolutely lovely, and she gave me a little phone interview to get the gist of who we are, what we were looking for, our price range, and our reasons for wanting a doula. A couple of days later she called to say she had found us a potential match – for the moment I’ll call her MsG – and to give her a call. I did, we chatted, and now we are here. About to meet face to face and suss each other out. Will you be the woman that will be talking me through breathing exercises in a few month’s time? We shall see.

The Pigeon Did It

So I suppose now is as good a time as any to admit that I cried during last week’s yoga class. Ugh.

I hate that! It was in the middle of the siblingz’s visit, I was so happy… I felt great! I felt self-assured and healthy! And then I turned into a big ol’ blubbery mess for no reason. Fabulous. As Husbandito and I say in times of such silly weeping, bloo bloo bla bloo.

The yogi came around and asked if I was okay, to which I nodded furiously and tried to feel less stupid, and she whispered to me that was it was pigeon pose that did it.

This website says “there are even some people who feel a rush of tension and emotions released that they cry as they execute the pose”. I must admit I wasn’t really paying too much attention when the yogi was telling us this very same thing just a few minutes earlier as I was too busy pretending to be a relaxed pigeon, but I was thankful for the reminder. It was my first time doing this pose. Whether I can blame the pigeon or not, it did make me feel kind of justified. I didn’t feel too embarrassed – the few people that did notice are all pregnant too, so all bets are off when it comes to tears, I think. The joys of hormones. So I’m not sure I entirely buy the idea that we are ‘storing emotions’ in certain areas of our bodies that get released, but I do think that the mind and body are connected in a way that I probably can’t fathom, so I guess I just have to go with it.

While I was holding Warrior 2 trying to pull myself together, I started thinking about it. The pose hadn’t hurt per se, but as I think I’ve mentioned before, this particular yoga class is fricking hard. I spend a lot of the classes trying not to hate on the fact that women who are over 35 weeks pregnant can hold a squat for practically forever and I’m about ready to pass out or lose my balance after thirty seconds or so. I had told myself that morning that I was going to try really hard to breathe through every pose, that this was my day to conquer the dog, that I wasn’t going to pull out of anything before the yogi moves on. Turns out this wasn’t very realistic for me. I hated that. I want so badly to be good at this, but I don’t feel like it’s getting any easier or my poses are getting any better – the yogi is always coming to fix my positioning. That was frustrating (and helpful, and I’m glad she does it, but still). My muscles screamed during the horse pose. I was doing really well at the downward dog, and I was feeling on top of it, but then she didn’t say we could come out. So I held, and held, and held to the point where I was swearing under my breath – oh for the love of God, woman, please call f**king child’s pose before I collapse – but she didn’t, and I had to come down as I could feel the blood pressure rising and thumping in my head. All this, then the pigeon, then a couple of poses later, tears. What the hell.

And here’s the clincher: how am I supposed to make it through labour and childbirth if I can’t even get through a stupid horse pose for two minutes?

That was the very first time I’d felt any doubt towards the actual process of giving birth. The entire first half of this pregnancy, I felt empowered about my body and had every faith in my ability to achieve a natural birth. I understood that it was going to be the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced, but only from a distanced, logical viewpoint. I still understand that, but now I have emotion to back it up, and emotion includes doubt. I’m not used to it. It scares me a little.

Mellie, Miss-Three-Weeks-Behind, said that she had told one of her friends about her baby and that friend, who already had a few kids, was obviously stoked for her. She said something to the affect of ‘having your first baby is the most wonderful thing, because it makes you feel like you’re the first person it has ever happened to’. Mellie related to the friend, but I found this to be a really, really strange comment. I don’t feel that way at all. I feel constantly reminded that women have been doing this literally since life began. Every single person who has ever walked on earth has been borne by some brave woman. Perhaps the weight of this thought is a remnant of my infertility and the enduring reminder of babies and pregnancy that was so sharp and pointy and goddamned hurty during that time. If they can all do it, why can’t I? And now I have to, and while I feel overwhelmingly blessed with the privilege, it doesn’t mean I can’t also be scared shitless about the whole thing. So no, I don’t feel like I’m the first person this has ever happened to, by any stretch of the imagination – on the contrary, I feel like in the scale of the history of the universe I KNOW NOTHING and WHAT IF I FAIL WHERE SO MANY WOMEN HAVE BEEN BEFORE? If fifteen year old bogans can do it, if forty-something career women can do it, if women in third-world countries with hardly any medical intervention can do it, if women for the last 200,000 years or thereabouts have done it, then hell, surely I can do it?

I mean, seriously. Come on. Next week I’m going to beat that motherflipping downward dog if it kills me.