ETA: This post now has a sequel.

This morning I woke up at about four in the morning for reasons unknown. For a while I could not fall back asleep. My mind would not quiet. I was thinking about birth.

I had so many plans for Lucy's birth. I knew a home birth was not going to be an option no matter how badly I wanted one because, at the time, midwives were not covered by Alberta health care and Adam and I didn't feel that an unassisted childbirth was right for us. But I was still aiming for a natural birth. I had read about the risks of having an epidural, and devoured books about natural childbirth. I was in love with the magic of birth and was so excited for my own birthing experience. By the last bit of my pregnancy I had even moved beyond the fear that plagues so many first time moms. I had so many dreams and even predictions:

from my online due date club {click for larger version}

But life happens.

I've written about this before, sort of. But I haven't told the whole story, not really. See, as much as I like putting my life out there for all the Internet to see I don't actually tell you, my readers, too much about my feelings. When I do, I freshen them up with a nice coat of humor. And I don't write about my biggest fears, or my deep seated angers, or the things by which I'm embarrassed. Today I've decided that needs to change. My real stories need to be told because they're the ones worth telling. If, nearly six months after the fact, Lucy's birth is still able to keep me from sleeping, I think that means something. I think it has affected me in ways other than those I've mentioned. And I think other women could benefit from my being open and honest about the whole thing.

So I write.

When I talk about my birth experience I never just say I got an epidural. I say "I got an epidural after about thirty hours because I hadn't gotten any real sleep in nearly three days and I wasn't making any progress so they insisted on using pit and that hurts so much more than regular labor and I just wanted to be able to enjoy my birth again because I wasn't" (said in one big rush). To who am I defending myself? I know very few women in real life as gung-ho about natural child birth as me. None of my friends or family care that I got pain relief. Yet, I have to explain myself every time. Why?

I'm defending myself from me.

A part of me feels like I failed. And that's the part of me that can't let go. It's the part that keeps me up at night asking:

What if you had been in better shape, could you have had the strength to progress faster? Why didn't you at least try to go natural after they augmented your labor? It might not have been so bad. What if you and Adam hadn't tried to encourage Lucy to come? Would she have engaged better? What if...

I try to comfort myself by replying:

Well, the nurses were surprised they hadn't already c-sectioned me. It could have been so much worse. I went longer without the epidural than a lot of women spend in labor. So it's like I did it natural, right? That third degree tear probably would have hurt really bad if I hadn't had the epidural. I just wanted to be able to enjoy myself and I was so tired...it's hard to make decisions in those circumstances.

But it only helps a little. I still can't shake that feeling of failure. At the time I took for granted the idea that next time I could do things differently. But now I realize there may never be a next time. You see, Adam and I have been spending a lot of time discussing the size of our family. The dynamic of three feels so right to us. I've been reading up on what parents of only children, grown only children, and researchers have to say about families with one child. Add my ADD, the environment, and my hope to home school into the mix and there's a strong case for letting Lucy be our one and only. For now nothing is set in stone. We're moving forward with the plan for a family of three while allowing ourselves permission to change our minds and readdress the issue if needed.

That means, as I mentioned, that there may never be a next time.

No second chance to have a midwife attended home birth. No second chance to go natural all the way and finally get to see what birth (as opposed to just labor) feels like. No second chance to have a water birth. No second chance to catch my baby myself or have Adam catch him or her. No second chances because wanting a second chance is not the same as wanting a second child. Every child deserves to be wanted because he or she is, in fact, wanted. It would be supremely unfair to have a child because I want a second chance at birth.

Before, I could brush off all that went wrong with my birth; the failure to progress past four centimeters, the use of drugs, even the doctor who performed a very painful internal exam without permission and the other doctor who shamed me for standing up for myself. I could brush it all off by saying "well, things will be better next time." I used "next time" as an excuse not to face my sadness. But now it's caught up to me.

I have a beautiful, healthy daughter. I didn't die in childbirth. I didn't have a c-section. All in all things went well. And some times I feel ashamed for feeling grief for what I missed out on because I know so many women face much worse. But I do feel grief. I'm mourning the loss of something I had looked forward to with so much excitement and joy. I'm mourning the (possibly) one chance I had, the once in a lifetime opportunity to birth naturally.

Hopefully, by sharing this, I can begin to truly heal and move on instead of masking the pain with "next time." And hopefully someone can benefit from reading this by knowing they are not alone in feeling frustration, anger, shame, and sadness over a birth that didn't happen how it was planned. The truth, the raw truth, is that I regret my decision to get an epidural. I regret how my birthing experience panned out. I know I'm not the only woman who feels regret. But if we all stay silent about it, if I stay silent about it, then we all suffer alone.


How do you feel about your birth experience?

You know how everyone always talks about how children grow up too quickly; one minute you're changing their diapers the next they're off to college? Well...Lucy isn't off to college or anything (I bet she's smart, but not that smart) yet I can assure you that those sentiments are absolutely dead on. You see, the calendar tells me that Lucy is one month old today.

The calendar lies.

The calendar must be lying, right?

Please tell me the calendar is lying.

One month? Already!? Say it ain't so! She's grown almost 2 inches and has passed the eight pound mark. She is most certainly growing too quickly. I've willed her to stop. I've told her to stop. I've even begged her to stop. "Slow down" I say, "take your time!"

She isn't listening.

Despite my displeasure at how speedily she's changing, the past month has been wonderful, beautiful, educational, miraculous, and any number of other positive adjectives. But two thoughts in particular keep coming back to me: my mother, and my birthday.

When I look at my baby girl I think of my mom doing the same. When I think about how much I love this little fussy bug (her most recent nick-name) I'm awed knowing my mother loves me that much (and how incredibly patient a woman she is because I was most certainly a bigger fussy bug than Lucy*). Knowing my mother will be reading this I would just like to say: Mom, I love you. Thank you for loving me that much.

***

My birthday has always been a big deal to me, really big. It didn't always turn out how I'd like (being sick on your birthday is no fun, just FYI) but that never stopped me from having high hopes that each birthday would be awesome. As I've gotten a little older I've had somewhat more realistic expectations for my birthday. But this year, I'm not sure how exited I will be when December 5th rolls around.

You see, I learned something in the past month. December 5th isn't my birthday.

My birthday is December 15th.

December 15th is the day I was "born" as a mother. My life changed that day. It became a brand new life. But more importantly, I changed that day. I became a brand new person. I've been amazed at times by the changes in myself. I'm finding pools of patience, confidence, discipline, selflessness, and love within me that I don't think were there before. Maybe part of that is a result of labor and childbirth. As my doula put it on our final visit "once you go do that you can do anything." But it seems like something more, something magical. I'm not the same Holly I was. I'm Holly 2.0. And I was born December 15th, 2008.

Which means when I hit forty I'll actually only be seventeen. ;)

*I, the baby who would not sleep unless in a swing and swinging...and it wasn't one of those battery operated swings like the one I have the luxury of owning.