I got to the hospital and they wanted to actually make sure my water broke because I had no pain. I had to wear a thick pad and walk the halls. My husband had me laughing and water was just gushing out. About an hour later, I had to show the pad, which was drenched and bloody. Then a resident wanted to check me. She took a sample of the fluid and came back and told me that my water didn't break. I told her yeah cause of the gushes I was having. She wanted to check me again, she was between my legs and told me to push. I pushed so hard and sprayed all over her! HA. THEN, she comes back and tells me that my water STILL hasn't broken!! WTCrap! They admitted me anyway. I didn't even have all my stuff cause I figured they would send me home. 

I walked the halls…..walk….walk….walk & walk and NOTHING!! I sat on a ball, nothing! Was having very mild contractions but no biggie. I even said "if this is what contractions are, I can do this NO PROBLEM", then I said "I know I will eat my words later"!

They gave me a Cervidil. Contractions were coming more frequently still, the pain wasn't that bad. I was told the next morning that I would be induced. The rest of the night, I had little to no sleep. The contractions kept me awake. 

Jan. 27^th, they gave me the evil drug pitocin and was on my way! Boy, did I eat my words! I was dilating SOOOOO SLOOOW and was in SO MUCH PAIN!! I was given Stadol. Just took the edge off, still felt the contractions. They kept checking me and wasn't really dilating!! GRRRR!!! I was doing good with the contractions, THANKS to my mom!! She and I had eye contact and she was breathing with me. She was my focal point and what we were doing was definately working!! My midwife told me when I get to 4 cm, I can get a epidural (YEY) hours passed and I was checked, I was 4!! YEY well, so I thought, she wouldn't let me have one. WHAT?????

I begged for a c-section! She was like "no, you can do this". I begged for anything! I got NOTHING! One nurse was horribly rude to say the least. I looked at her and said "it just hurts so bad", her reply "what did you think was going to happen???", WHAT???? GRRRRR!!!

Hours and hours passed, I was checked, I was 5 (YES, only 5) FINALLY, they gave me my epidural! The BEST invention EVER!! Hours and hours passed again, they checked, I was FINALLY ready to push. I pushed, pushed, pushed for 2 and 1/2 hours, no baby. They told me I was going for a c-section, BUT they never turned off the pitocin. My mom freaked out, my sister called the hospital and screamed at the nurses. It was shut off then I was off to the OR for a c-section. 

While laying there, I was cold and SOOOOOO scared! I was shaking uncontrollably. They were ready to start. My arms were not belted down like I'd seen on TV and they kept shaking off the table. I kept asking for my husband and finally he was there by me. I felt them cut me. I told them, they said "we didn't tell you that you wouldn't feel anything", WHAT?????

So, Leah was born Jan. 28^th. First word out of the doc's mouth was, "WOW, she is a big girl!". They showed her face over the drape and went to clean her up. I told Don to go take pics. On the way back he said he saw all my innards! (ha-ha) They weighed her right in front of us as I was being sewed and stapled shut. 9lbs, 13.5ozs, WOW she was way bigger than I thought! Was bigger than what all the docs thought also. I just couldn't get her out! TOO BIG!! BUT I had a BEAUTIFUL baby girl. 

The rest of my visit was horrible. I didn't get to shower till the next day. Don actually washed my body while I stood there in horrible, awful pain! I ended up staying at the hospital for 4 days after giving birth. My aunt worked at he hospital as a lactation consultant, which was great. She tried to get Leah to latch, wasn't having it. I had to pump then bottle feed her. I told my aunt my birth story and told them that I had a horrible experience and that I will never give birth in the hospital (thanks to the nurses) and never have the same docs again! She brought in the head of the hospital to talk to me. She wanted the names of the nurses (I had other rude nurses, and I couldn't remember their names!) and to write a letter to the hospital. I never did. But I will never have a baby there again!! Horrible hospital! 

A week later (yes, a week later) they wanted to take my staples out. Few days later, was at the ER. I had an infection that luckily, I caught early. The staples were taken out to early, but I didn't know. Horrible doc!! 

So, even though I had a horrible hospital issue, what my scar says when I look at it is "even though you didn't have a vaginal birth, its amazing that your body carried a baby for 9 months and still gave birth to a healthy happy baby. It doesn't matter how she was brought into this world, she is here." 

What my scar says when I touch it is "we brought Leah into this world together. You didn't give up, I am here cause you needed other assistance bringing her into the world".

I have no bitter feelings toward the scar. I rarely touch it though. It is hard, bumped out and numb. Sometimes it burns or feels like it's being ripped open. I am ok with it. It's a part of me. I think it as a gift from my daughter that I will have forever. I would do everything all over again… well, almost everything.

Part 1. http://babyslime.livejournal.com/281749.html

Part 2. http://babyslime.livejournal.com/282008.html

Part 3. http://babyslime.livejournal.com/282126.html

 

My first son, Jericho, died of a fatal abnormality called Classic Potter's Syndrome. There is no cure or treatment, he was born without kidneys and the cells which make them never developed. He died peacefully, without tubes and wires, in his father's arms. 50% of babies affected with it are stillborn, and the rest pass within hours of birth, mothers carrying babies afflicted do not carry beyond 35 weeks. While my son lived about an hour... I never got to see him alive due to medical mismanagement of my unnecessary cesarean. I fought, but not hard enough, and he was taken from me while I lay unconscious on a cold slab. I was so disconnected from the experience that it took over a year for the grief to truly hit. He was 34 weeks to the day when he arrived. A little early, but chubby and a head full of long black hair.

 

The doctor and nurses that tended to me that night were very unkind, and when I received his handprints the following day it was clear they hadn't even tried to give me something clear. They didn't even bother to unfold his fingers, even inking the top of his knuckles instead. It was pathetic. What I got was partial, smudged and barely classifies as a set of prints. It was devastating.

 

When I was pregnant with him he favoured one side; he always sat there, bum down, pushing against this one spot on my inner hip. I know now that it was his hand that I was feeling. None of my other babies have favoured a spot quite like he did.

When he was taken from my body the only mark that was left behind was an ugly scar. Every time I looked at it I felt angry and depressed: I didn't remember my surgery, I didn't remember his last kicks, his last breath, or see his face while he was still alive. I was angry that it was all I had, and I hated to see it. I still hate it. I wished he'd left something real, like stretch marks, or even padding from the extra weight... instead the surgeons carved me bare and replaced his memory with their disgusting sense of vanity. I desperately wanted something of his to be left on my body; something other than a scar from a surgery that I didn't have any part of, didn't want, and didn't need.

I decided I wanted a tattoo of his handprint in his favourite place. Unfortunately, because the prints were so mangled it took me years of canvasing tattoo artists to find one talented enough to say they would attempt to reconstruct it. Everyone I asked said they couldn't draw the details of a print and at best it would look like a "paint blob" with no definition or individuality... just a generic baby hand.

I finally made the appointment a few weeks ago when I found someone special. The artist I chose took his partial set of prints, and a template that my best friend had provided from her newborn daughter (she was one of the only people present at his birth and death, so having her involved is special to me) and reconstructed his hand using tracings, one little curve at a time. She painstakingly kept all his palm lines in tact (the only part of his prints that was preserved!) and made such a perfect reproduction that it really does look like he pressed his hand into ink and touched me.

 

Now when I look at my stomach, the scar doesn't look quite as bad... It's still horrible to see, and hard to imagine it's really there, but at least now there is a part of my son there too. This is his place, and he has finally made his mark.

 

The first photo, the smaller and uncensored black and white, is one I took less than a month following the surgery: I was trying to show how the scar made me feel.

The second is from the day after I received my tattoo. The scar looks exactly the same as it did almost 5 years ago... but it feels different today.

 

I hate my scar, every time I see it it reminds me of the day I was stripped of my rights as a human and physically forced into surgery I didn't want and didn't need...  Worse than that, it reminds me every 

day that in a following pregnancy I had placenta percreta, nearly lost my uterus, nearly lost my baby and nearly lost my life, all because I had a previous section for failure to let nature do its work and the placenta stuck to that scar inside me.  Before that I had three miscarriages, at 6, 10 and 17 weeks.

Even my blissful home birth between the sections does not dull the fear and pain.  My body and my mind are scarred, my children deprived of their mother for the hours they were cared for by a system which 

does not much care, deprived of that human touch, taught that the world is cruel and they can be abandoned when they need the most support.

This is my scar, which is considered 'healed well' according to my notes ...  The first is lying down, the second standing. At 8 months old it is probably as healed as it will get, but it is a source of constant pain and irritation, never mind the aesthetic issues.  The two scars are evident and there is considerable tethering of the scar to the underlying tissue and a gap in the fat layer.  The scar is also about 3cm above my pubic bone, and actually was much higher than that when the skin was stretched during pregnancy...  The first section was unplanned but not emergency, so it is not as though there was no time for preparation or to be careful about the position. This is apparently a 'good scar' according to the obstetrician who did it, although I'm not sure how much experience he has of scars well after the event.  I am waiting for a second appointment with a reconstructive surgeon to repair the tethering which is causing pain now I've seen the obs. team to rule out any internal damage.