She lies writhing on the bed, under the scutiny of apathetic doctors. The seemingly dispassionate nurses finish the preparations. Bright lights, a hard bed, the many eyes watching are nothing but background noise for the oblivious woman crying in pain.

Everyone turns their focus to this woman. The nurses grab her legs and push them to her shoulders. The doctors gather around, pulling lights close to shine brightly on her opening yOni. The nurses give orders to “hold your breath and 1-2-3 push. Push, PUSH…Deep breath, quick, 1-2-3, PUSH-PUSHPUSH”. The father stands next to her, mimicking the nurses commands. Minutes of this continue, yet it seems like hours. She cries as if the center of her being is actually being sucked out of her. Little does she realize, it is. The doctor has cut her and attached a vacuum to her baby’s head and is actually suctioning her baby from her womb.

The baby cries. The nurses wrap the baby, give mom a quick look and rush the baby off to the nursery for the required 4 hour observation stay.

The mother, bare, exhausted and empty wimpers a cry for her baby, “I want my baby.”

No one listens.
Baby Cassandra was not so gently brought into this world. October 4th, 1990.

Regardless of the brutal birth, it was a happy time. Not to mention I was happy to have that birth experience behind me. Never have I experienced physical pain, even 4 births later, as I did my first labor and birth. I’d like to say it was unimaginable. However, I am certain there are moms who do know that feeling.

The pregnancy was easy, uneventful. The doctors and nurses I encountered during my prenatal exams were not the nicest. But we flew through easily enough. By 40 weeks of pregnancy, I was ready for birth. Being my first baby, I was beyond excited. How many more times could I wash the baby clothes, unfold and refold, hold them and imagine a tiny creation, my creation, fitting into these so small items? I walked, I whined. And I jumped the gun on October 3rd. I was not in labor, but allowed a friend to tell me the Braxton Hicks contractions I was having were the real thing and to hurry to the hospital. Who was I to argue? I was ready.

The nightmarish 32 hours began.

I should step back here and mention a few things. First, we were not married, we were young and we were on state insurance. We’d taken childbirth classes at the hospital that had the new womens center and birthing suites. We were excited. Only to find out that as of October 1st, my insurance switched and didn’t allow for me to have our baby at this new and wonderful place. Instead, I was to labor and birth at a hospital that later had it’s whole maternity floor shut down.

I did tour this hospital and asked the nurse, “Will I be able to use different birthing positions?” This had been strongly encouraged in our childbirth classes. We were told there their nurses would encourage and help.

The nurse at the hospital we’d be birthing at asked me to explain myself… I elaborated that I’d like to labor in a squat position, or on my hands and knees.

She replies with a smirk, “Oh, ask Nurse So-and-So this one.” While she opens a door to what I will assume was a break room for the nurses, as several nurses were sitting around. I repeat my question to the specific nurse. I don’t remember the answer, only the laughs that were generated throughout the room.

Embarrassed, discouraged I wanted to crawl into a hole. I already knew I was in for trouble.

Back to labor. We headed to the hospital where they put us in a little room with a little bed, a table and a chair. A cold room. They hooked me up to monitors, told me not to move and started an IV of pitocin. While I’m sure pitocin has it’s place, pitocin on a non-laboring woman, who is only 1 cm dilated is a bad idea.

I labored all day long, with wave after wave of excruciating contractions. I was out of my head. I only remember bits and pieces of the day.

I remember one doctor in particular coming to check my progress repeatedly. I called him “big hands”. I’d cry, “please, no”… his hands were so big. It was so painful.

I remember begging for an epidural. The pain radiated around my abdomen, into my thighs. The pain was horrible. My soon-to-be husband sat there. There was nothing he could do for this pain. There were no words of encouragement to offer. His mother came and took him to lunch. I labored alone. But even with him there, I was alone. There was no one for me.

Eventually, they decided that the pitocin drip needed to be stopped. They turned it off around 8 pm.. Twelve hours of non-progressing contractions. My contractions stopped. They assured me they’d start back up on their own in the night. At 10, the end of “visiting hours”, they sent my partner home. I was again alone. Just me and my baby belly.

I slept until around 2 that morning, when I was awoke with a contraction. Oh, it hurt.

I called the nurse. “Please, I want an epidural.”

Nurse tells me she’ll give me a shot.

A bit later, I plead, “please, I want an epidural.”

“Here,” the nurse tells me, “Have another shot of demoral. It will take the edge off.”

I didn’t need the edge off. I need the pain off. No pain. I was so tired. I hurt so bad. I clung to the bed rail, and begged, “please, oh please, make it stop hurting…” I cried. Only the poor new mother in the bed next to me heard my cries.

At 5 a.m., the nurse tells me I can call my husband-to-be back (note: how lovely, *I* got to call him, in all my pain). She also tells me that the anesthesiologist will be back in around 6. I wasn’t given an epidural because they didn’t want to call anyone in during the night. I lay in agonizing pain so someone could get all their sleep.

I get my epidural only to have it work only on one side. Unfair, just so unfair. They gave me more, and more.. and finally had someone check my reflexes. As if I were lying about the pain. Eventually, they gave up. It was time to birth.

They moved me from my little cold “Labor Room” to a gurney they wheeled across the hall into the “Birthing Room”. This is the surgical room. It’s cold, it’s unfriendly. From the gurney onto the surgery bed. Lights, people – everywhere. It no longer mattered. I just wanted, needed to have this baby.

The nurses told me to hold my breath, I held my breath. They chanted to push in their rushed, loud voices. I pushed. It felt good. I pushed and pushed. It was relief to the pain I’d felt for hours upon hours. The doctor cut, attached the vacuum and pulled my little baby straight from my womb, I ripped more. Nothing gentle and beautiful. Ahhh… but it was done. The pain was gone.

They took Cassie away. Stitched me up with several stitches. Wheeled me to a room, where I layed flat on my back to “recover” in what was no longer referred to as my “Labor Room” but instead the “Recovery Room”.

After some time, a nurse comes in and aggressively pushes on my uterus. She says it’s to make it contract. I feel a huge rush of blood as she pushes on me. It soaked the bed under me. I cried again…”I want my baby.”. Again, it fell on deaf ears.

Four hours, I’m reunited with my first baby. It was worth every second of pain. I’d do it all again. I do not, however, feel that what I went through was necessary and I do feel it could have been much different. But, it was my experience and I won’t wish it away.

The rest of my hospital stay was no better than my laboring and birth experience. But I had babe in arms and I was happy.

Today, at the time of this writing. My little baby turned 15 just a few short hours ago. Amazing how time flies. I don’t remember all that happened during this labor and birth (probably a good thing) and time has surely distorted some of my memories.

by Judi