Precious Moments

It was a rainy day when my son born.  Or maybe it wasn't...  I do remember some time along the way (labour or the day beforehand) that it rained.  And like I said a while ago in this post, I felt like God was telling me to be peaceful, that he cares for me and that he's got everything in control.

The sunset Dec 2011 from Shanks Rd, Tuturau, Gore.

One of my favourite bloggers, whom I have never met in person but quite adore, is a lady named Dee.  She's pretty much the greatest heroine ever when it comes to childbirth.  She's very due right now with baby #5.  So you know, she's a pro.  Reading through her posts about birth notes, the different stages, how she copes, her reasons for her decisions and experienced words fill me with awe and gratitude that we ladies are created with the most amazing purpose in mind.  Don't read my words wrong here - having children I understand isn't for everyone, and in other cases sometimes doesn't happen for others, which I can never explain and I can only believe that that also is for a plan which I am too human to be able to understand.

Back to childbirth.  While I was reading the posts I became more and more aware of the experience I wanted for the birth of my son, the experience I had, and the experience I hope for our future children.

A little background first though... I was hoping for and expecting a 'normal' birth.  For some silly reason I had been refered to birth at the hospital.  Not a birthing unit, nor home.  And for some God-given reason it was the BEST place for me.  Only He knew I would need to be near the theatre.  Our son engaged wrong, instead of his crown pointing 'out', it was the side of his forehead.  He was chin-up instead of chin down to his chest.  So he wasn't coming.  After four failed venthouse attempts he was getting very distressed and his heart-rate had slowed way too much.  So, he came about via emergency cesarean section.

I don't think I'll ever write a 'birth story' because it's not something I feel needs to be told in great detail.  Where it might help someone, then I think I'd share the whole story.  But for now, I'll just share a few things.

.  .  .  .  .  .

There are precious moments that I don't remember and they hurt just a little.  I don't remember when my son was first given to me, the moment he was first placed in my arms.

I do remember the first time I saw him, though.

I had dreamt of giving birth and having him put straight onto my chest, yes - all gooey.  I had dreamt that I'd be in love straight away and that I'd wait for him to begin to wriggle and find my breast to begin feeding for the first time.  I dreamt, I talked, I was given so many story-book happy endings (or beginnings) that I thought I knew what would happen.  I felt like I was told exactly what would happen.

I was laying on my back, on the table, my arms stretched out to the left and the right.  One with an IV, the other with something else on it.  My midwife, right there beside my head talking to me.  She said, "Oh, he's out."

  "Really?"  I couldn't feel a thing.  He made no sound.

  She said, "Yeah, see..." and she pulled the curtain down a little bit, the one thing seperating my eyes from the medical team and - everything.

He was being held up high, perhaps while they cut the cord or something.  His legs curled up, gooey, bloody.  Then they whisked him away.  Further beyond the curtain.

My midwife kept chatting away to me as the team took out the placenta and sutured up the opening in my stomach and uterus.  Roy had gone to be beside our little boy.  My midwife was telling me they were just checking him out, making sure everything was ok.  She was being her normal self, chatty, smiley.  I shared what his name was for the first time.

The next thing I can remember after that, is me laying on the bed holding him under my left arm.  He was wearing a nappy and a yellow beanie.  We were being wheeled on the table back to the our post-op room.  Roy was always close.  I was staring and staring and staring with pride at our Little Lion.

I feel a little sad (actually I'm lying, it cuts) that I don't remember the exact moment that my first-born son was put in my arms, or the first time I looked at his face.  He never was put on my chest to wriggle and start feeding on his own.  He didn't make the usual 'movie-like' cry I was expecting.  He was quiet.

It wasn't until months afterwards that Roy told me our son wasn't breathing on his own for about 15 minutes after he was born.  I thank God for doctors and machines.  It was an extremely strange and indescribable feeling when I found that out after our boy was about 4 and a half months old.

Then we had issues to breastfeed.  Issues.  More on that another time I think.

I hope SO MUCH that I don't have another experience like I did.  I also hope that no woman ever has to have the same experience.  I'm definitely no pro, but I know now I can be a lot more assertive next time around.

Next time - if I am so blessed, I want to birth at the hospital.  After all the complications that happened the first time around, it would be kind of silly/irresponsible to want to do it at home.  But, after all the 'plans' going down the loo, who knows what will happen next time!  All I know is that whatever does happen, God is always there.  Always.  Expecially when it doesn't feel like it.

And yes, I do hope there will be a next time.  All that and I'm not put off!

If I didn't have my faith in Jesus, I would still be in a sad place.  I still don't get it - why all that rubbish had to happen.  And so far I still want to ask God why.  But again, looking at all the things I prayed for beforehand, the main thing I asked for was to not be fearful.  And I say truthfully, fear was nowhere near me on that day.