If there’s two things that Husband and I do a lot of, it’s talking and researching. We talk about everything, I mean really everything. There is no such thing as a taboo subject between us, if it needs to be discussed, we’ll discuss it. That’s not to say that sometimes we don’t get a bit heated, or even end up having a full-blown row, but there’s an understanding between us that no subject is off the table. As for the researching part, I’ll give you an example. About two months before Christmas, Husband and I decided that we wanted to buy an exercise bike and a new media player for our lounge. We ordered them last week. The two and a half months in between were spent discussing which bike/player we should buy and what our best options were, scouring the internet for reviews and deals, finding out which shops we should buy from, before eventually ordering each item. It may not be everyones way, but it works for us.
When we discovered that I was pregnant the opportunities for discussion, analysis and research became boundless. A whole new thing for us to obsess over! One day, I think fairly early on in the pregnancy, Husband and I started a conversation about Caesarian vs. natural birth. Husband was of the opinion that, if we were offered an opportunity to have a c-section, then we should take it. His mother, plus various other females in his family had needed c-sections for one reason or another, and that was fairly common for their family.
I, on the other hand, believed that a vaginal birth was all part of the process of becoming a mother, a rite of passage, and anything less was a cop-out. Obviously, if a c-section was needed for emergency purposes, that’s fine, but there was no way that I was going to scar myself if I didn’t need to. We agreed to disagree, and as it turned out, my Midwife confirmed that elective Caesarians weren’t offered to first-time mothers unless there was a medical reason.
So, my pregnancy went along and I won’t lie, it was miserable. I developed gestational diabetes, SPD, all of the markers for pre-eclampsia, as well as polyhydramnia which meant that, as well as feeling like shit, I was literally double the size that I should have been. I was eventually admitted to hospital to be induced and it all went downhill from there. I won’t go into the details, but I ended up being rushed into theatre for an emergency c-section.
Sausage was not a well baby when she was born and had to spend the first eight days of her life in the NICU. But she fought through with the most incredible strength and is the happy, intelligent, stunning two-year-old who I write about almost daily.
A little while after we brought Sausage home from the hospital, Husband and I decided that we needed to face looking at my labour notes. There was one section which caught our eye, two times, the first was noted as “Time of Incision”, the second was “Time Infant Born”. The times noted down were 21:16 and 21:17. One minute, from cutting me open to bringing my daughter into the world. That one minute was the difference between the child we have now, and a future I don’t even want to think about.
So yes, I am scarred. From hip to hip, and in my heart and soul. But I now know that there’s no such thing as a ‘cop-out’ when it comes to giving birth.
And I could not be more proud of, and grateful for, my scars.