Birth Plan...Gone Bad
You know what is so cute? You, when you’re pregnant and think you actually control how things go in the delivery room. Oh, don’t feel bad; most new mommies think they dictate how the birthing process goes. I was no exception.
If you’re like me you’ve researched the procedure ad nauseam and are such an expert on the process that you’re pretty sure you don’t even need your obstetrician present. All these pregnancy sites have these great templates to serve up an a la carte delivery. You just check off how your labor is going to go (Yes soothing music, No Pitocin). You hand you selection to the maître de and then a little while later your perfect cherub is placed in your arms. They present the bill to you on a silver platter and you go home with your leftovers….er….child.
I knew EXACTLY how my baby was going to be brought into the world and designed my own birth plan accordingly:
Natural birth. No drugs, calm and quiet, so I can bring my angel into a serene new world.
Music in the background, along with candles lighting the scene.
A very adorable silk outfit purchased for the occasion—not one of those hideous johnny-things.
Very few people were to be involved in the birthing process—my husband, the OB, one nurse, the baby and the star of the show—me.
The labor will start naturally. I will walk around through the contractions until the baby’s head begins to crown. Then I will ease into the bed and breathe deeply in a controlled pattern. Three or four big pushes and my baby will burst into the world. There will be NO episiotomy, no tearing, and no stitches.
My husband will assist and stay with me through the entire process and we shall make all the choices together as a family—unless the baby is in distress and requires immediate medical attention.
There were a few other side dishes checked off on the a la cart order as well. Then it was time for this elegant and demure event to begin. My obstetrician checked me into the hospital and I began to walk laps around the hospital. And walk. And walk. And walk. Seven hundred thousand million miles later I was 5 centimeters dilated (a few hundred thousand more than I had anticipated but that’s ok. Get the discrepancy out of the way early). My husband went to grab a bite to eat because we were getting ready for the long haul as directed by my birthing plan.
And that’s when the real contractions began. Holy. Fuck.
Well, that whole “natural” birth went right out the motherfucking window. Drugs NOW!!!! What the fuck is taking so long? Can’t I get an epidural with a side of laughing gas or something? WHERE THE HELL IS MY FREAKIN HUSBAND???? My cute birthing outfit is on the floor covered in yuck.
Oh, God, here comes another contraction. Breathe? You fucking breathe! I’m too busy screaming! Where are the drugs????? 40 random people enter the room. “Mrs. Winslow, we are a teaching facility—would you mind if they watch?” I don’t fucking care if the janitor takes this baby out of me—just GET. HER. OUT. NOW!!!!!!! Some random girl has my ankle up around my head and my husband finally comes back with his chicken salad. The waves of contractions are coming faster and more furious. Then my OB decides to show up. Oh, glad you could make it to the fucking party—just having a baby here. No big deal or anything.
Push, don’t push, really? Like it’s up to me. My baby has taken over and I’m waiting for her to burst out of my asshole at this point. Things are ripping. People are screaming bloody murder. Oh, wait, that’s just me.
Somehow she makes it out. I think the guy who fixes the computers delivered her. Whatever. My bag full of preconceived delivery notions sits on the chair next to me along with my uterus and a chicken salad sandwich. The cute little candy striper or flower delivery girl or whoever she was that had my ankle yanked up to Jupiter was all “That was awesome! Are you going to have another one?”
I turn to her and sweetly say, “I will claw your face off.”
Serenity now, baby girl. Welcome to my your world. Hope raising you is easier than birthing you. (Muahahahaha. Yeah right. But that’s another story for a another time.)
Related post: What to (Really) Expect After Delivery
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