By that evening, after almost 2 days of non-productive labor we made the decision to have a C-section. Baby was being monitored and was fine but my water had broken at 1 am the previous day and it was now 6pm. Again, not what I had planned, but it was OK. I was nervous but I knew that I could focus on my breath and that would carry me through. My mom and sister would be there to hold my hand and comfort my fears.
The anesthesiologist explained that since the epidural hadn't worked properly (it only affected one side of my body) we wouldn't be able to use one for the C-section. Instead, we were going to do a spinal block. I had never heard of this but it was OK, as long as I had my breath, and I was ready to meet my sweet baby! As I was being moved from my room to surgery the nurse said, "A spinal block can be sort of an uncomfortable feeling for some people because they can't feel anything below the neck. Don't worry, even though you won't be able to feel yourself breathing we'll keep you talking and ask you to squeeze our hands. As long as you can do those things you know you are still breathing," she said with a comforting smile.
Remembering this moment brings tears to my eyes and fills me with panic. The walls were crumbling down. What do I have if I don't have my breath? Every preparation and plan I made for this birth had to do with my breath. It was the one constant. If all else failed, I always had my breath. "No matter what else happens, stay with your breath," was my mantra. I lay on the table in the operating room, crying and waiting for my mom & sister who would be allowed in after the spinal block was in place. I was so terrified that if I hadn't been completely exhausted I probably would have tried to get off the table and run. When the spinal block was in place it was just as they said it would be, I could not feel my chest rising and falling. That precious feeling of the expansion of the inhale and release of the exhale was now a void.
The nurses asked me questions. I answered. They asked me to squeeze their hands. I did. I was breathing. Even if I couldn't feel it I knew it was true. I let go of the panic. Everything would be OK. Just let go.
I felt a shift as I let go. It was going to be OK. A wave of relief washed over me. Even though I couldn't feel my body I know that I relaxed. The nurse asked me to squeeze her hand. She asked if I was OK. I felt so calm, so perfectly peaceful, so detached. I was aware of the flurry of activity around me, the call to the surgeon over the intercom to report "stat", the nurse's voice, "We're going to put you to sleep so we can help you breath. Here comes the mask." Then the mask coming down over my face. None of this concerned me. I observed all of it but it did not touch me. I was not afraid.
I woke up in a different room, alone except for an unfamiliar nurse standing next to me with a bedpan. "Here," she said. "You might be nauseous from the anesthesia. When you feel better we'll bring the baby in. He is out with your family and is doing fine." I didn't need the bedpan. I felt fine. They brought me my little one. My first words to him: "There you are." He was perfect, healthy and beautiful. He still is.
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