When I imagined having a baby, there were not two, and there certainly wasn’t a cesarean. Early in my pregnancy, I dreamed of delivering a tiny baby through an uncomplicated vaginal birth. Much to my surprise, two tiny babies were growing inside me – how amazingly blessed we were, especially after experiencing a loss earlier that year.
My water broke at 1:45 am like a movie moment, jolting me from a deep sleep. I immediately turned to Mark and said, “My water broke.” It was five weeks early. In a classic tale of labour, my doctor was away on vacation, we hadn’t packed a hospital bag, and my appointment to determine the type of birth we would attempt was still two days away. Even my scheduled wax was for the next day. I wasn’t ready, but the babies were.
By the time we arrived at the hospital about an hour later, I was already 3 cm dilated. The on-call OB came to discuss the birth. Between contractions, I faced a decision that was mine alone to make. I wanted a vaginal birth, but after reviewing the past two ultrasounds, they determined baby B (the second twin) was 16% bigger than baby A. The doctor explained that anything over 15% could lead to complications. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
I experienced a few more contractions while weighing my options. I felt confident Baby A would be fine, but I worried about Baby B. When I shared this concern with the OB and told him I’d opt for the cesarean, he agreed it was the right decision. Then he said something that made me feel empowered: “I get it, you’re going to take on the risk to make sure the babies are OK.” Hell yes, I was. In that moment, I felt powerful.
The birth experience unfolded quickly – first a spinal block, some laughing gas, then into the operating room. At one point, I asked if they would tell me when they were starting. The response: “We already have.” Then, in a panic, I realized, “Where’s Mark? He’s not here!” They had forgotten to bring him into the room. They finally retrieved him moments before Baby A was born.
This wasn’t a movie-perfect cesarean where they lower the sheet so you can witness your baby being born. Instead, they simply presented a crying baby around the side of the curtain before taking her away. After both babies were cleaned up, I finally got to see them briefly as they were placed on my chest, wrapped in towels, then whisked away to the NICU. Mark followed them while I remained in the OR as they stitched me up. I lost so much blood that I nearly needed a transfusion.
By 5 am, both babies had arrived. Later, we discovered that baby B was only 50 grams bigger than baby A – just 2% of body weight. That slight miscalculation left me feeling betrayed and angry. This wasn’t simply incorrect data; it resulted in what felt like an unnecessary surgery.
This will be my only pregnancy. For months, I grieved the birth experience I had imagined – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I felt cheated out of. I didn’t get to hold Evie and Poppy immediately after birth because we were in the operating room and they needed NICU care. Due to the spinal anesthesia, I couldn’t visit them until I was able to walk, which was 10 hours after they were born. I worried about our connection. Was our initial separation caused by someone’s measurement error, affecting our bond?
I’ll never know what would have happened had I chosen a vaginal birth. I’ve had to trust that I made the right decision at that moment with the information available. Although this acceptance was difficult at first, I gradually realized that despite my body’s long healing journey, our girls were born healthy and without complications.
My cesarean birth was the first sacrifice I made as a mother – choosing their safety over my ideal birth experience. While the data may have been wrong, my instincts as their mother were right. And that’s something every mother should remember: sometimes the birth we get isn’t the one we planned, but the strength we find in those unexpected moments defines our first steps into motherhood.
Copyright © 2023 Flourishing postpartum. All Rights Reserved.
