I am 30 years old, expecting my third child and have never written down the birth stories of my other two children. I realize that documenting this over 12 years after the fact, does not leave me with a clear memory of each little instance. I have always talked myself out of writing this down as it was not a very pleasant memory. I welcome comments for this entry. If I include too much, too little, or am leaving you with questions, please let me know! If you knew me this long ago and want to share your memories, we also welcome that. I love my beautiful baby girl, but I think I somehow instinctively knew that birth was meant to be different.
When I was 17 years old I went to the local health center for contraceptives. We discussed my options and I prepared myself for trying out birth control for the first time. The clinician informed me that they had to do routine pregnancy tests before starting any birth control, just to be on the safe side. I happily agreed, not thinking twice about what this might mean. The nurse came back into the room and handed me a little slip of paper. It read, "positive pregnancy". I wasn't necessarily crying, but the tears started welling. "What does this mean for you?" she asked. "Bummer" was my teenage reply. "How big of bummer?" she pressed. "Big, BIG, bummer." These were the last words I was able to communicate until I ran into a trusted friend. I handed her the slip of paper, hugged her (actually I clung to her for for dear life) and I started to cry.
Some might question what my parents thought at my young age. This wasn't actually the biggest challenge as my parents had given up on me and sent me packing a couple of years prior to this. When they did find out, it was only confirmation of what a troublemaker I was. There was lots of pressure to get an abortion. At this point in my life I was already living on my own, working part time, and going to school part time. The main thing that changed was I decided to just get my GED as I didn't trust myself to graduate before the baby was born. When I told my mother not only that I was pregnant, but had every intention of keeping this baby she slammed the door in my face and didn't speak to me for a few months. Eventually she showed up at my house with a microwave and a vacuum. We didn't talk, but I think that was as close as she was able to come to an apology or acceptance.
Relationships with extended family became easier as time went on. People stopped looking at my situation as just a teen pregnancy and began getting excited for for the first grandchild, great-grandchild.
Prenatally I started seeing a doctor in town that my insurance accepted. Throughout my pregnancy he told me I was gaining too much weight and advised me to go on a diet. I thought he was an idiot and promptly ignored his advice. He was also taking blood samples from me regularly that were supposed to include checks of my medication levels. He forgot to check my levels and I ended up having a seizure in the middle of the night and upon arriving at the hospital I found out that my medication levels were way too low. At this point I decided I was done with this quack and switched doctors. I started seeing a different OB in another small town about 30 minutes away. The prenatal visits were great. I was feeling much more comfortable. The doctor seemed relaxed, I saw the same doctor for every visit, and he routinely checked my medication levels. As a first time, young mom I assumed that this doctor would be with me during the birth and stay throughout labor. (I am still unsure why they do not tell first time moms birthing in hospitals that this is not even remotely true.) Throughout my pregnancy I gained about 75 pounds. Around the 40 week mark I was having braxton hicks contractions, but there was not a lot else going on. Contractions never became closer together, more difficult, and I wasn't showing signs of dilation on regular visits. (Again, still unclear why doctors are not sharing the information of how normal this is, especially for first-time mamas) 41 weeks came and went. At 42 weeks my doctor had a discussion with me about induction. He wanted me to come to the hospital and do something to help my cervix ripen. We scheduled this about a week out, when the next prenatal visit would have been. I was unaware that this would be the week my doctor was on vacation.
I checked in to the hospital, still no signs of labor. After admitting, I was given the cervix ripening agent. No contractions, no dilation. I think they tried one other medication or method to start dilation but were unsuccessful. This is when they began pitocin. All of this is being done by a nurse as I had not seen one doctor since I arrived, let alone, my primary care physician. My boyfriend at the time (baby-daddy) had went with me to the hospital, but had brought a friend along in case he got bored or was nervous. He spent most of his time in the parking lot smoking cigarettes with his friend. My cousin and close friend stopped by after finishing their classes for the day. I informed them that I was starving. The hospital was refusing to let me eat anything and I was insistent they must find me some food to sneak in. By the time they got back with food the pitocin had kicked in and I was puking. Contractions had started. They didn't just start either, they were harsh from the beginning.
Since I've had a second child since this experience I can say, induction is terrible, it it painful, the contractions are not the same and I completely believe the scientific evidence that informs us that this fake oxytocin cuts us off from the 'real stuff' because oh how I needed that love hormone and for mother nature to be on my side.
Contractions were close together and sharp from the beginning and dilation continued to be slow. They eventually broke my water, assuring me that this would get the baby out sooner, because oh, how I wanted the baby out at this point. I was screaming and in pain. My cousin and friend had left. My baby-daddy was in and out of the room. I was alone some of the time and at other times the staff was letting in visitors that I had not agreed to. I found out afterward how many acquaintances had been in and out of my hospital room during this private, personal time. One of the nurses told me there was a light painkiller that they could give me to take the edge off. They described it as something that worked a little better than ibuprofen, but was perfectly safe. I later found out this was stadol. I remember asking specifically what they had given me afterward as I wanted very much to know why I had thought everything/everyone had turned blue, why I had been seeing tracers, and why I had been much more scared than I had been before the medication even though it was supposed to have taken away the pain.
I gave birth vaginally, which feels like a huge success as a first-time mom who had just turned 18 years old. Yet, the fact that I don't really remember the actual birth due to medications or some type of extreme mental block is really painful.
I remember trying to nurse her. I really wanted to breastfeed. I am unsure why this was so important to me as I didn't know anyone who breastfed successfully and it was not really important among my family or friends. I didn't have any special information on the benefits at the time. I just remember that it felt like the right thing to do. I kept trying to put my baby to breast and was continually unsuccessful. There were several times when we ended up crying together. Both the doctor and nurses tried to get me to give her formula and sugar water numerous times. They would mutter under their breath about how I was starving my baby.
Eventually a different nurse came in, she sat down beside my bed and handed me a tiny little pumpkin cap and said, "I made this for your baby". It was the sweetest gesture, this little Halloween cap as my baby had been born on October 30. I believe I started to cry I was so relieved someone was being nice to us. She then told me she had heard I had wanted to breastfeed and wondered if I wanted any help. She sat with us for an hour or two until my new baby girl was successfully latching. This amazing nurse (who I can't even remember her name) made all the difference for us. I'm not sure I could have breastfed without her help and I question whether postpartum depression may have been an issue without this one person who believed in me.
Kyla was born with a high temperature, so the staff would not let us go home until they had ruled out every possible issue and kept her for observation. This meant an extra week in the hospital. I already had a lack of support as it was, but I truly spent most of this week alone. The excitement of a new baby had worn off for family and friends. With the loneliness, came sadness and one of the times that a pediatrician came in she found me in tears. She asked me why I was so emotional. I told her I was just lonely and also that I wanted to spend more time with my baby, who kept getting taken back into the nursery. The pediatrician asked if I was this uncontrollable now, how uncontrollable would I be once I was left alone with a baby? She said that if I was this sad, I was capable of being very angry. With her face inches from my own she asked me what I would do when my baby wouldn't stop crying? What would I do if I was too lonely at home with no one to help care for my baby? She offered up scenarios. She said perhaps I would pick my baby up and start shaking her out of my frustration. She said that because I was young and didn't know what to do and was so emotional I would end up hurting my baby in one way or another. She became really graphic and her tone was very forceful, I cried harder and more and started to doubt my ability to care for my child. I wondered if my feelings were normal. I quickly decided I was not a statistic and I loved my baby so fiercely that I ached. I knew I would be the best mama I knew how. I also knew that several mothers that were older than me were certainly not experts based on their age. I was going to raise this baby girl surrounded in love and I was going to educate myself along the way.
Kyla Mae
8lb. 3oz.
October 30, 1996
3:30 pm
A few months later with mama. (I'm 18 in this photo)
Kyla made me want to know all that I could about child development. In her first few years I read all of the books that I could get my hands on and began watching a few other children at home to be able to stay home with her and earn a small income. By the time she was two I had moved to the city to enroll in child development courses at a community college. It took me 5 years as a single mom working part time and going to school part time to earn my two-year degree in Early Childhood Education. I taught for several years. I no longer teach, but my quest for knowledge began with wanting to learn how to be the best mama I could to this beautiful baby girl.
Let it snow!
2 months ago
