Birth

My baby was late. I get it, I'm Brazilian. Punctuality isn't our forte. But all that talk of how magical being pregnant is, or the elusive pregnancy glow, goes out the window during your last few weeks carrying a bowling ball around. A bowling ball that is stretching your skin and pressing on your bladder.

For weeks, people had been asking me what my birth plan was.

"No drugs, a doula, a big tub of water." And that's how Maya was delivered. It was beautiful, poetic, painless.

Oh my God I AM JOKING! That was not at all close to either my answer or how childbirth actually goes down.

My answer, honestly, was "a hospital and a lot of drugs".

My baby was measuring big, and based on my OBGYN's guestimate of when I was due, she had to come out, and soon.

[Brief explanation on the guestimate: counting the weeks of pregnancy starts from the menstrual cycle that precedes the actual conception. BUT I had an IUD in, and my husband knocked me up before I even got a period, hence giving him the nickname of American Sniper].

So Doc called the hospital and scheduled me in. She told us we just needed to arrive at the hospital and tell them we had a scheduled induction and they would send us to the right place.

So Monday night, my husband and I arrive at the hospital via the parking lot. As we walk in, we're greeted by a security guard.

"Hi, we're here for an induction."

If a picture is worth a thousand words, the image of his face said "confusion" said one thousand times.

"Go to the Assumption Hall."

I knew that wasn't the place, because the Assumption Hall is a big room with no windows where the hospital holds all the (relatively useless*) maternity classes.

*I learned more from binge watching Jane the Virgin.

We nod politely and head to the lobby.

"I feel I'm having Deja Vu", I tell husband, as again, another security guard stares at us in confusion when I tell him what I'm there for.

At one point, he figures out that the best way to get rid of the pregnant woman with fancy words is to call someone, so in walks Wheelchair Dude, and I'm whisked away to the maternity ward.

A few hours later I'm in pain. I mean, PAIN. That pain scale? One to Ten? I know what then is. Ten is labor. No man should ever be allowed to say ten.

"DRUGS", I demand. "I was promised drugs!"

The nurse said something about "relief for a couple of hours" and "feels like you've had a couple of glasses of wine". So, basically, you're offering me something that is going to get rid of the pain, albeit temporarily, and give me my first buzz in nine months? WHERE DO I SIGN.

I'm honestly happy I don't know the name of whatever delicious chemical they dripped in my IV. I haven't stopped thinking about it. I'm not alone in loving this unnamed, magnificent high. Talking to my sister:
"And then they gave me this great, amazing--"
"Oh, I know. I know exactly what you're talking about."

But two hours later, as warned, it wore off and I was back into excruciating pain.

Time collapses after that. Hours go by. I dilate slowly. I meet my new best friend, the anesthesiologist, who exchanges the momentary pain of a massive needle entering my spine for hours of numbness. I find out that my baby's heartbeat is erratic, the doctor is worried, the word "c-section" is mentioned.  He breaks my water, and apparently things calm down, for a few hours later, my contractions are coming frequently - and, oddly, they have shifted. You see, when they first started, they felt like what I expected them to feel like, as if my uterus is being squished by the fist of a particularly strong giant. But slowly, they move... backwards. Like, towards my... butt.

So when they tell me it's time to start pushing, I know, deep in my heart, that some amount of poop, however small, will be involved. And my husband, my romantic partner, the love of my life, will be there to witness it.

"Don't look! Don't look!" I would yell at him, every time he would walk past my wide open legs.

"I can see the head", my mother would say.

"Don't look at the head! Don't look at the head!", I'd yell at my husband.

"Push", the nurse would say.

I pushed and I pushed. There was, indeed, some poop. There was yelling. There was a nurse shift change. But there was no baby.

---

I can hear her, but I can't see her. There is a massive blue tarp in front of me, covering my wide open belly. I cry, I shiver. I just want to hold her, this amazing little creature I've been carrying around for nine months.

And then I do. And I know, holding her, hearing her breathe, smelling her head, that life will never be the same. That I will never be the same.