A birth interrupted

Written four weeks ago:

I debated long and hard about how to write this post.  I found some words, scratched those, formed others. I thought about my blog friends, my few readers. What they’d say. How they’d compare this to their own experience. Most of all, I debated long and hard about whether to write at all. The last week has been both the most fulfilling and disappointing of my life.  Accordingly, my words are dichotomous, my feelings fragmented, my thoughts fuzzy. My daughter was born a week ago.

There’s no running away from it. I detailed in black and white right here, what I thought about birth, how I hoped my child’s would be, what I believed, how I worked towards it and the vision that carried me through my pregnancy.

I decided to write both ways. First, the way, I GoTB react to it. React to most setbacks in life. Harshly, disdainfully, resignedly.

Labor started on Monday morning. It felt like cramps but when I went to the doc, she felt my tummy and said “you’re having contractions.” Yayy! This is what I had wanted – a natural start without any induction. Once again she said I was going to have a good size baby 8.5-9 lb! I laughed it off. You just have to see my 5 ft, 3 frame to know how impossible that sounded. Regardless, I was determined. I had learned size was not anything to fear in labor. My mother-in-law pushed a 10 lb baby out without drugs. That baby is married to me now. So my mom and I carried on with our morning – her a bit tentatively, me cheerfully. I took her to the MET. Of course it was closed for the Monday. At this point, the contractions were getting a little harder to manage so we took a cab home. I told her I was taking a nap and started breathing and managing my contractions the Bradley way. I counted breaths, I stayed hydrated and I timed my contractions. I walked, I climbed stairs, all in an effort to bring the baby down. At 3 pm my water broke and I asked my husband to come home. There was some meconium in my water but it didn’t upset me too much. I called the nurse – she asked me to come in but I told her I wanted to labor at home a bit longer. She seemed concerned – contractions were now 5 mins apart so said ok- just 2 more hours. Almost exactly 2 hours later we left for the hospital. I was in it intensely now. I was in the zone. I took my electrolyte drinks, ate and left. At the hospital I stayed calm through admission but threw up promptly as we got to our room. We refused IV but got hooked to the fetal monitor. At this point I could no longer talk but stayed focused only on my husband. He counted breaths through contractions with me – he was my rock, everything I could ask for. We were going on about the 15^th hour of labor now, about 6-7 of those active and intense. I started getting back pain and suspected that the baby was posterior i.e. sunny side up. I couldn’t believe it – all the prenatal yoga, watching my posture – even at 36 weeks she was anterior in her ultrasound. What happened?? The doctor came in and confirmed – yes, baby was posterior. Now I was about 8-9 cms but had some work to do . Baby had to turn and descend.

Contractions were coming in every 30 seconds, which basically meant on top of each other with no break and were 80 to 90 seconds long. I looked at my husband, defeated and begged for pain medication. He looked me in the eye and asked me to tell him if I really did. No he wasn’t being hard on me. I had drilled it into him not to take my pleas at face value and to help me get past self doubt. But I was sure. I took the epidural in tears, ashamed at my lack of strength. The night was spent on all fours trying to turn the baby. In the wee hours of the morning the doctor came back. I was still at 9 cms. An hour later, no change.

Then I heard the words I hadn’t prepared for. Not once in the nine months leading up to this moment. She said the baby was not descending and I had to have a c-section. My mind blurred. Surely, this couldn’t be happening to me. Not after everything I had visualized, what I’d planned. The dim realization that a birth could not be planned occurred much later. We asked for my OB – she was at home. We were just asking her for her second opinion. Instead to our surprise she said she was coming in. On seeing her I burst into a fresh set of tears. She said how surprised she was to see me still laboring. She was so sure I would have had the baby by now. You and me both, sister.

But she concurred with the advice – c-sec was the way to go. She felt the baby was too big to fit down through me. And so I was cut open and my baby girl was delivered to me. I was numb with drugs and couldn’t even hold my arms out to hold her. Yes she is my joy and makes every day of the nine months and 30 years of life prior worth it. But it doesn’t change my birth experience from being traumatic. It doesn’t make me stop feeling like a failure. I join the ranks of hundreds of such women, and still I am alone in my grief. I mourn this privately lest someone take it as ingratitude for a healthy child. To those who chide me I have no words. All I can say is you don’t know. You don’t know what it is to come so close to birthing the baby you’ve carried for nine months only to have her delivered to you like a package. You don’t know how excluded I feel from my own baby’s birth. You don’t know how it feels to know that what’s most natural turned out to be the most impossible.

Coming soon: the post I should be writing.

Update. Stop.

I am so terribly tardy on a post that I’m not even going to bother explaining. I yearn for the days of telegrams when you didn’t have the luxury of verbosity. Had awesome baby shower. Stop. Mother arrived. Egad. Stop. Hacking Cough. Pulled rib muscle. Stop. Couldn’t take it anymore, rushed to hospital. Stop. Prodded and poked me, I hate docs. Stop. Gave me pain meds. Heaven. Stop. This coming from the girl resisting the epidural. Stop. Doc claims I am 2 cm dilated. Stop. To my credit, not hyperventilating. Stop. Feeling a bit better. Mom and I getting along. Hallelujah. Stop.

Mood forecast: slightly cloudy, torn between wanting to have baby soon versus struggling with rib pain. Want to be healthy for labour.

Verdict: Control is a tricky thing. The more I want it, the more it eludes me.

So be it. Stop.

Babies a little while longer

I haven’t written anything about Veeru and Basanti in a while. Truth is they’ve been more on my mind than most things while my husband and I wait for the baby.

In so many ways this feels like we’re having a second. V&B have been part of our lives from the beginning of our marriage, when we just bought our apartment, when we first became “us.” You could say we were one of those couples to jump into having kids way too early. They sleep with us in our now increasingly small bed. They lounge around with us on weekends. They hang out by the door the minute they hear our footsteps outside. They are the center of our lives, and we, theirs.

I am worried that soon the spotlight wil be off them. They will just be the “pets” in the household. That I will look at them with fear for the first time as I worry about the safety of the baby. And it breaks my heart.

We put up the baby’s crib this weekend. Cats love secret new places, getting into inaccessible nooks and corners and true to their nature they delightedly slipped behind the jail-like bars. Innocently, they scurry in and out as though we built it for them, excited for the new game they now have. For their sake and ours, I want this delight to last just a bit longer.

The evil glint is all pretense. They're suckers for chin rubs and cuddles.

Natural birth in an unnatural city

A couple from my husband’s school first talked to me about the Bradley method. This method makes natural birth its mission. I listened with interest and I knew a lot of it fit well with my general views but was wary so as not to be “taken-in” by it. Then my husband brought home the book “Husband-coached childbirth” from the library and as I feared, we’ve both bought into it almost entirely. The Bradley method preaches natural birth in every way imaginable – a vaginal birth sans painkillers, minimal monitoring equipment and hook-ups, the husband/partner more important than the doctors themselves, the baby in your arms the second it’s born, and preferably leaving the hospital a few hours after birth. Of these I feel varying degrees of passion for each of the missions. It’s not hard to want natural – at least for me. We live a fairly natural life eating food with few or no preservatives, are not big fans of drugs in general. Moreover I do buy into the theory that when the perpetuation of an entire species depends upon this, procreation need not be that mechanized. Below are my priorities for the birth:

1. I’d like to avoid a c-section. This is of utmost importance to me. Sujatha wrote here about the growing percentage. Of these in urban areas, a minority are ‘emergency” c-sections – most are preferred either by doctor or patient or both. I live in NYC, one of the most urban, commercialized cities in the world. My hospital Cornell Medical while world renowned for dealing with complications has a very high scheduled c-sec rate. This scares  the crap out of me. But I’d like to stand my ground.
2. No epidural: Make no mistake, I am a wimp. I don’t have any crazy threshold for pain and I milk every bruise for what it’s worth. A cat scratch on my knee and I’ll limp for days. But I’d like to try to go without. Studies show that the spinal epidural can be found in the baby’s blood 3 mins after being administered to the mother. Epidurals can slow down labour and be counter-productive. They prevent your body from giving you the necessary codes like when to push so that you are more a puppet in the doctor’s hands rather than understanding your body’s cues. There are other studies that show slower lactation, breast-feeding etc. Of course the Bradley method will select the studies it thinks fit to promote its mission but regardless of the studies, I’d like to try.
3. I’d like to labour as long as needed: I don’t want to be induced. I don’t understand induction entirely. Although I know that rate of induction is related to c-section rates. I don’t need my birth to be quick and convenient. If the bus comes the minute I arrive at the bus-stop, I am happy for the convenience. The birth of my child is allowed to be inconvenient.
4. I’d like the child in our arms immediately: My child doesn’t need to cleaned/ bathed before I hold it. God knows I’ll be dealing with all sorts of gross stuff after, why not right away.
5. I want information: I don’t want to be an obedient patient. I want to understand what is being done to me and why. Most importantly I want a clear understanding of what is medically necessary versus a nice-to-have. I want to know what’s an emergency and what’s not. None of the points 1-4 are as important as the health and safety of my baby so instead of fighting me I’d like the docs and nurses to explain things to me and be collaborative. My birthing experience is not more important that my child itself.

Want to know what happened to the friend who turned me on to the Bradley method? She said her delivery was a “horrific nightmare”. She yelled “Fuck you” at her doula. She screeched with pain since she had a posterior baby. She threw up in her hair and demanded an epidural the second she got to the hospital.

I get it. We can decide these things and want these things but the experience is not entirely in my control. I am ready to be flexible, open and sensible. If I am unable to be, my husband will take the lead. But I also plan to rigorously practice the positions and pain management techniques taught at the Bradley class. I plan to take the precautions and act the way I should for the next few months leading up to the birth. I don’t do things haphazardly and I will dedicate myself to the method but I will not be disappointed if things don’t go the way I hope.

What do you think? Have you heard of the Bradley method/ know anyone who’s tried it? How much of this resonates with you? How much is hogwash? Also do you specifically know anyone in NYC and experiences they might have had?

I’m all ears. And thank you.

Treat Rape as Rape

It’s not that I have high expectations from TOI. I usually expect the worst, barf and move on. But Anu in her feminist site pointed us to this article about the Shiney Ahuja rape case and it really made me gag. Is this an editorial? A news piece? Some type of insightful feature story? I don’t know. I’ve stopped expecting any semblance of journalistic rigour from these papers. Regardless the stance of the writer is deplorable – the last line says it all “A word of advice to all the women out there- choose your maid with care! “Not only is this article poorly researched (picks a few similar stories, creates a pattern, almost cultural and social phenomenon out of nothing – I haven’t ever seen any commentary in the Western media about the growing epidemic of men and maids cavorting), but the conclusion is so disconcerting, I am left speechless. Well, not quite speechless. No surprise, apparently our maids like all of us other women in short skirts are responsible for tempting poor unsuspecting men into rape.

The other angle of this story that flummoxes me is people wondering why he needed to go after a maid. I don’t pretend to be oblivious to the obvious class and superficial differences people are alluding to. It’s not a generalization to say that the maid community is probably not as attractive as Bollywood so maybe this reaction is justified. But this is rape. We’re not talking about Shiney’s girlfriend and why he chose a maid over a Bollywood star. We are talking about exerting violent power and sexual aggression. It could be a maid, a bombshell, a 10 year old boy. It’s rape. Maybe people are wondering why someone needs to resort to rape.  Again, this is not how I tend to feel towards the situation because I feel like rape is so far removed from just the act of sexual intercourse that it’s hard for me to talk about it as though it was in lieu of a dry spell in the man’s life. Rape is not a last resort for lack of sex. It is a completely criminal and conscious act towards an unwilling victim which cannot be rationalized. The only thing that can save Shiney is if it’s proven that it was consensual. If so, then the above line of questioning can continue. But until then, this can only be treated as the heinous crime that it is. And that’s it. Questions leading with “Why would a man of his stature with access to hot women need to…” will only serve to divert the issue and create fodder for the public and media but do very little to address the very serious accusation of rape. I say we stop asking “Why maid” and start demanding investigation and justice for rape. Period.

For Rashmi

I am enraged and terrified. There are always 2 sides to a story and the layman will vouch for the underdog which is what we are all doing for Rashmi – read MM’s post here.But how could we not?

As someone who will be (hopefully) a mother soon, this story is my worst nightmare. Of course, my situation is not the same. This is my first child. What annoys me most is the hospital’s claim (Wockhardt has a long rebuttal in MM’s comments) that Rashmi chose Dr. Latha because she wanted a VBAC. This is conjecture and probably not useful to any lawyer fighting on facts but I know, I just KNOW that no matter how certain a woman is about how she wants her birth to be, no matter how much she is set on a certain type of experience she would not, would not put her child at risk.
We hear about miscarriages, right up until the third trimester. But when a full-term child dies during delivery it makes me very very suspect.

Wockhardt presents a different image of Rashmi – someone who is sending “random” emails and “purposely” harming the doctor’s reputation. That Rashmi doesn’t want mass media attention speaks volumes for the kind of person she is and the change she is seeking. The kind of person she is, is a mother.

A-whard (please channel Urmila Matondkar)

Shockingly this award isn’t for who can wait the longest between posts. But it’s from a friend and I can see why – she’s a flesh-and-blood friend, not virtual and sooner or later we might meet and after we’ve talked about such-and-such teacher in 7th standard, talk might turn to blogging and she might need to fumble and look for excuses as to why she never a-wharded me anything. Such is a friend. You virtual ones are useless. I didn’t mean that – please read!

Seven things I love and award seven bloggers I love:

1. Film: yes I mean film and I mean it seriously. French are my favorite, I think film-making is in their blood. But I devour everything from B’wood to documentaries to shorts. I got to at least 4 film festivals in a year and when we have to make budget cuts in the house, movies are the last to go. Actually they never go.

2. J.D. Salinger

3. Animals/ Wildlife: As is obvious from this blog’s devotion to Veeru and Basanti. I am vegetarian almost entirely due to animal rights issues and it’s one of the driving principles in my life. Even the most helpless of humans, children and the old included, don’t bring out the emotion that a helpless animal can. It’s not thought out, it’s viscerally who I am. But yes cats are my favourite!

4. Beer: You have a very pregnant woman writing on  a very hot muggy NY day, grrrrr.

5. Gujarati thali/food: Dhokla, muthiya, dal, kadi, aam ras. Oh you knew what I meant by gujarati thali?

6. My husband: Marrying him is my biggest accomplishment and I’ve done nothing to deserve him.

7. Water: Oceans and rivers, seas and lakes. I need to live close to water.

And the a-whard goes to: Since I’ve never awarded anyone before (i am useless too), I will start with my blogroll:

OJ who is my eyes and ears into Bombay, the home that will always be. And this is her second such award (claim it already!)

MM who will probably dismiss this because she gets too many awards already whattodo poor thing

Nino’s Mum who is my secret favouritest friend, she just doesn’t know it

Sujatha who intimidates me both with her writing and her mothering (in a good way)

Thinking Cramps who writes beautifully, just not enough

Tamil Punkster: who needs to write; NOW

Amrita who writes more posts than I pee in a day (and I’m pregnant!). And does it well (and i pee pretty well)

Letters to the dead

Disclaimer (sort of): Since so many are wondering (as I would), this is half “inspired”, some autobiography and some pure fiction. Read on.

To my dead grandfather,
This letter will not begin with Dear or end with Love. Not even with With Fond Memories. Yes there are fond memories but they’ve been forcibly and consciously replaced with hurt, disappointment and disgust. The perks of being an adult – you get to choose your memories. They say in death we eulogize. We claim virtues that aren’t even there. We exalt the person to a height where they’d gasp for air if alive. Not for you thatha, the words don’t come to me.

I see the life of your children today. My mother is the oldest. She has three sisters. You chose those husbands. My mother had the temerity to choose hers. At the age of 27. In 1978 that should have been okay, even late. But you taunted her “is this what I educated you for”. Her sisters jeered at her, called my father “avan” – the utmost disrespect for a son-in-law. It’s small of me to care about those trespasses, I know. My mother was pregnant with me in the first three months. Coming home for her delivery should have been joyous. Awaiting your first grandchild should have been a blessing. Instead your wife and my grandmother said “Have you come back already, lugging your stomach?” My mother said nothing. She was still smarting from the letter you sent detailing the expenses of the wedding in a neat tabular format. (it included the cost of the auto to the registrar’s office). You didn’t even use the inland letter so it could be sealed. It was out in the open, on the 25 paise postcard. You wanted my father to read it. He did.

My aunts went on to do PhDs (my mother only has an MS). You took your time looking for their husbands. They sat smug in the knowledge that they hadn’t wasted their life on a man. Grand marriages came in quick succession once they were 30. My mother remembered her plain cotton sari and her registered marriage and sat palely on the sandal-scented mandaps. She dutifully did the eldest-sister duties and went home to the man she shouldn’t have married.
Sister 1’s husband beats her. He quit his job and lives off her. He’s taught his daughter choice Tamil expletives which she uses on her mother. They laugh at her obesity and look away when she talks. She is Treasurer at the leading bank in Chennai.

Sister2 married the dream and went to America. Her husband lost his job and verbally abuses her. He came home drunk last month and smashed his phone into the wall. He said he wished it were her head. Her son is a valedictorian but now he does drugs. She teaches advanced calculus and was voted best Math teacher in her district in Virginia.

Sister3’s marriage is said to be on the track back to normalcy. He doesn’t drink or smoke as much. He also doesn’t stay with them and visits once a month. She is an IAS officer.

My mother will retire this year. She’s had a low-profile but successful teaching career. Her colleagues love her; they cannot bear to see her go. Her ex-students drop by to visit her at school. They say they cannot imagine tenth standard without her. My father and she fight constantly. But he has never come home drunk, lifted a finger on her, missed a PTA meeting or Sports day, forgotten her birthday or anniversary or the fact that she fasts on Tuesdays.
She is nervous to retire and wonders what will happen to the life she’s built for herself over the last 31 years. But she comes home to a man and daughter who will play scrabble with her and praise her sambar no matter how many Sundays go by.

I just wanted you to know that that last part? You had nothing to do with it.

Your granddaughter, GOtB

Paparazzi

Spot the baby bump!

So ya that’s me and unfortunately no one is stalking me so I have to take my own photos. My almost non-existant bump here (taken at 10 weeks) is much rounder now at 18! Hope that explains the silence and general dumbfoundedness…..

The case of the missing leftovers

Dear B,

Today before I went for my shower I placed your brother’s leftovers in his plate on the bathroom mat. You know how he’s a fussy eater and gets his second wind half an hour later and comes scrounging for the rest of his mumum. You were sitting in your usual place under the dining table on the orange rug. It’s where you sit after your breakfast, which you eat in entirety.

I came out of the shower in what must have been less than 10 mins to see the leftovers gone. A brief moment of elation later I realized your brother Veeru was nowhere in sight. I would’ve suspected nothing if I hadn’t caught you looking nonchalantly away. A bit too nonchalantly. Also, you were in the exact same spot I saw you last.  As though you’d never moved. As though.  Just then your brother came around sniffing hungrily, half-disappointedly at his plate. Now I know we’re not always fair to you. I use pejorative words such as “pudgy” and the one that’s stuck – My Fatness. I wouldn’t do that if those words weren’t so err… accurate. Now it’s not so hard to see which of your surreptitious habits has led to your current err…state.

So can you see how I’m not to blame when I pulled you by the scruff and sniffed your whiskers and mouth? Unfortunately I only caught a whiff of your sweet feline smell, none of the fishy odour I expected. Admittedly my ways are elementary and not quite Holmsian but I stick to my theory. You look like the cat who licked all the cream.