I was supposed to have the homebirth of my dreams.
I’d done everything I could possibly to do prepare for my homebirth. To prepare for the birth that I hoped would heal some of the trauma from my first delivery.
I’d done the exercises, drank the tea, ate the dates, spent a week choking down everything I could to increase my iron, and I woke up in labor on my due date.
I’d said goodbye to my toddler, hoping that he would be back home in a day or so to meet his new brother.
I’d labored for 20 hours, and pushed for four of them.
But the baby didn’t come.
And when it was gently brought up that maybe we needed to transfer to the hospital before the baby stopped doing so well, I burst into tears.
I’d failed.
I’d done everything I could, and my everything wasn’t enough.
It was agony leaving everyone behind, leaving my mom and the midwife and the photographer who was supposed to capture my first moments with my newborn son. The first moments that I didn’t get with my firstborn.
It was agony sitting in the car, my body voluntarily pushing as we drove to the hospital.
It was agony realizing that despite my best efforts, we were going into the hospital during the beginning of the COVID pandemic, and none of our loved ones would meet the baby until he was two or three days old.
Our firstborn wouldn’t meet his brother until he was two or three days old.
My dreams of holding both my boys at home, introducing them to each other, disappeared.
I’d failed.
Not only had I failed to deliver my boy on my own, I’d failed to have the home birth I wanted.
All I had done was prove everyone right when they said I shouldn’t have a home birth. In trying to save money, give myself peace, heal my past trauma, and stay home with loved ones in the time of COVID with its uncertainties and visitor restrictions, I’d just made everything worse.
I ran the marathon, but didn’t cross the finish line.
I went into the hospital knowing that I had PTSD from my first delivery and there was a good chance this was going to make it worse. I went into the hospital room alone, because my husband had to park the car and I wasn’t allowed to have anyone else. I went into a c-section knowing that in doing so, in having my second c-section, I was limiting the number of future children I could bring into this world.
I went into the birth of my son feeling like I’d failed.
But I didn’t fail, because childbirth is not failure.
I brought a small human into the world.
He might not have entered the world in the way that I liked, but he’s here. He’s safe. He’s perfect.
I gave up my wishes for myself to make the decision that was right for my child.
And that takes a strength I didn’t know I had.
I have to reframe my thoughts and feelings about his birth. I didn’t fail. I sacrificed for my child’s best interest. And really, isn’t that what motherhood is all about? Doing everything we can for our children? I just started a little earlier with him.
The opposite of failure is success, and I successfully brought a new life into this world. It’s okay to mourn the birth that I wanted, and it’s okay to wish that it had turned out differently.
But having a c-section is not failure. Childbirth is hard, and scary, and sometimes traumatizing, no matter what form it takes. But if it takes a different form than what you wanted or intended, it is still childbirth, and you still brought a new life into this world, and you are not a failure.
You are not a failure.
(Now if I just repeat that often enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it myself.)
Brett