a dispatch from postpartum confinement
fetal ejection reflex pt 2?
Since my excruciatingly damning gestational diabetes diagnosis in February, I slowed down significantly, growing heavier and slower as my pregnancy progressed. Initial denial about the GD became hard to hold on to, with blood sugar spikes after Thai food dinners and burgers (despite my efforts to not eat the rice or bun). And I felt terrible if I ate any significant amount of carbs — slightly nauseous and exhausted.
Nurses tried to call me repeatedly, suggesting I go on insulin… I dodged their calls, evaded their messages, and went on hour-long hikes while I still physically could to avoid spikes on days when I could not resist eating pizza. Eventually, I just adopted a near-keto diet, consisting mostly of eggs, kimchi, pickles, salads, cheese, fish, nuts, yogurts, and meats. I gained almost zero weight since February, yet my stomach continued to swell until I resembled Humpty Dumpty.
As my due date (May 11) approached, the inconveniences of pregnancy got worse: I had to get up to pee nearly every hour at night and on a day out to Paris, my husband had to physically carry me to an Uber because of lightening crotch so severe that I couldn’t physically walk. The shooting pain was debilitating.
What worried me most about the GD diagnosis was whether or not it’d prevent me from my birth plan: spawning a new human in my house in the bath. I fretted, signed up at another hospital, slightly fudged a few glucose tests, and then was relieved when I was still given the green light. Life continued: we started travaux on the bathroom and bedroom, and for most of March I was traveling around Normandy for Lonely Planet. Clem threw his last Jacques Fromage festival in the beginning of April, and as the month petered out and we were still trying to put the house / our lives back in order and catch-up on an ever-growing to-do list.
On that list that I hadn’t crossed off: Attend several hospital appointments that I’d accidentally missed. Pack the hospital bag. Get the room ready for a home birth. Luckily, I didn’t need the hospital, nor the bag. And doubly lucky that blood washes out easily if done fairly quickly.
Most people advised me against having a home birth, citing the risks and vocalizing their concerns. The birthing center I’d been to for Kiko was too far away for me this time, and there were no other similar options, so it was at home or the hospital. While I had a lovely birth experience at CALM — where I first discovered fetal ejection reflex — I had to be transferred to the adjacent hospital afterwards for hemorrhaging and stitches. There, I was confined (against my will) for three days in a small room where nurses would come in and out weighing my newborn, squeezing my nipples and generally stressing me out. I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but more so avoid giving birth in the hospital itself. I’ve never liked hospitals, but I also read Birth Without Violence by Frederick Boyer, and figured that I’d allow my child to enter the world without stress or strangers around.
A second-time pregnancy feels old hat to the exterior world, even though it usually always feels very different from the first. Meetings with my midwife felt brief and straightforward, whereas the first-time round I was given workshops on laboring, shown diagrams, and even underwent an exercise where I drew how I imagined my future child in the womb. My hand was held tightly, whereas this time everything seemed far more casual. I was lucky to have a very good first birthing experience, but as my Braxton-Hicks contractions continued in intensity as April went on, a small knot of worry formed in the back of my head: should I be preparing more? Am I ready for a home birth?
By mid-April, I groaned every time I got up. I couldn’t be sure when lightning crotch would strike again. I was too tired to do much, and many people around me thought that the baby would come early. On the last day of April, I had a manic burst of energy.
Clem, I said through clenched teeth that morning. We still need to test the birth pool (that had just been delivered a few days ago).
His response, as he typed into his computer without looking at me: Right now?
Yes! This baby can come any minute!
I spent the rest of the day cleaning our bathroom superficially — planning on a deeper clean later, and then outside picking up cut grass to throw to the chickens, before getting a few emails and other work done. By eleven pm, I was spent and slightly irritated at the lack of progress on the to-do list. Just like most days. Thirty minutes later, in bed, I had a series of intense contractions. I tried to communicate physically with my unborn child. Uh… baby… can you please just wait a couple of days? At least until my sister arrives?
In response, I felt undue pressure on my bladder and a little foot kick me in the ribs. I immediately went to the bathroom and saw some pink, bloody discharge. I woke up Clem and told him to re-inflate the birthing pool and to call the midwife. Ok, keep me updated, she said by phone close to midnight. Thirty minutes later, as the birthing pool was filling up with water, my son popped out into his father’s arms.
At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, or at least someone that’d get mocked on social media for being ridiculously out of touch; I don’t think labor or childbirth is particularly painful. Pain signals something is wrong, and in this case, that shouldn’t be the case, and so pain feels like a misnomer for the sheer intensity of what is happening in your body during contractions: the muscles of your uterus contracting, then relaxing. And then your cervix dilates — one’s body is literally opening up. At the extreme end of intensity, it’s like the crux of a climb or the end of a marathon (not that I’d know but to go with another metaphor) when your muscles are absolutely spent but still operating at 110%. The contradiction of the contractions is that none of this is actually voluntary, the labor is something that seemingly is happening out of your control. For many and for obvious reasons, this can be terrifying. My first midwife taught me that women can either enter two cycles of hormone release: oxytocin and endorphines, if one remains relaxed during labor, or, if one panics and resists the feeling, adrenaline, which can make labor worse or prolonged. One just has to give in, which is what I did as the contractions intensified. Take control, body, I thought, and then rode the waves. And out he came in two contractions. Anyway, all of this to say is that I hope that for any one who may give birth and is looking for non-horror stories, here is one! My second birth was fast, furious, and I am relieved it’s all over…
Or is it?! The most painful part about childbirth, for me, is the aftermath. I feel like my body has been hit by a truck, even though this time I ‘only’ had a second-degree tear. Every part of my body is sore, it hurts to walk, my milk has come in as of yesterday and now three body parts are swollen and inflamed, and worst of it all: I am bedridden. I said I’d try my best to do the Chinese post-partum of 30 days, but here on day four I’m already losing my mind and itching to move about and do things.
One thing I have been thinking about a lot lately is having a boy, and all of the influences biological sex and gendered societal expectations play into raising one, especially since I recently read BoyMom by Ruth Whippman. So far, the biggest difference I’ve noticed is that when checking the baby’s diaper, I saw a brown blob. Assumed it was poop. Opened up the diaper and realized it was just his ballsack.
Thanks for reading, as always! If you’re a boy mom or have both a girl and boy, please let me know if you’ve noticed any differences.
More soon!