When my due date came and went, I tried everything from eating pineapple to acupuncture in hopes of jumpstarting labor naturally. However, after two weeks of waiting, I found myself at 42 weeks pregnant with some minor complications, leading us to the hospital for induction. My midwife assured me that, aside from the medications, we could still follow our plan for an unmedicated labor and “natural” birth.
The next 36 hours became a series of frustrating attempts to get my cervix to respond. As my baby began to show signs of distress, with heart decelerations and dropping oxygen levels, the midwife worked tirelessly to stabilize his vital signs. But when his heart rate fell dangerously low, she urgently summoned the doctor.
The obstetrician quickly assessed the situation and declared that it was no longer safe to continue labor; it was time for a C-section. I felt a brief wave of sadness, but without hesitation, I replied, “Yes, do it.” In that moment, I realized that I was making the ultimate sacrifice for my child’s safety—a true testament to motherhood.
A team of specialists assembled swiftly in the operating room, including an anesthesiologist, obstetrician, pediatrician, and several nurses. My partner, Mark, donned scrubs and watched anxiously from a small window as they readied me for surgery. I longed for him to hold my hand, but in those pre-surgical moments, I found a quiet strength within myself. I focused on my breathing and listened to our carefully selected birth playlist.
Once Mark was allowed in, he took a seat beside my head. While the surgery itself was painless, I felt intense pressure as they began to work. In the final moments before birth, the pulling and tugging was so forceful that it shook my whole body.
At 9:02 p.m., our long-awaited baby boy was born. I only caught a fleeting glance as they whisked him away for examination, and for what felt like an eternity, silence filled the room. Why isn’t he crying? Mark, sitting nearby, could see the pediatrician vigorously rubbing our limp, purple baby. I heard a tiny squeak, which wasn’t particularly reassuring, but that single sound made the wait bearable. Then, finally, his mighty wail filled the room, and I burst into tears of joy.
“Lucas is here. My Lucas is safe.” Mark was invited to be present for the examination, and I felt a pang of exclusion, unable to witness my baby’s first moments. Still, I listened with pride as a nurse marveled at his long eyelashes and announced his weight: 9 pounds and 4 ounces. Within moments, his breathing stabilized, his color improved, and his APGAR score jumped from a 3 to a 9. He was not just okay; he was thriving—all because they acted quickly. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Mark brought Lucas over for our first introduction, laying him gently across my neck. I studied his familiar features, close enough to feel our connection. My first words were, “There you are,” as I kissed his tiny lips, which mirrored my own.
As much as I yearned to hold him properly, I knew Lucas needed more skin-to-skin contact with someone who could support him fully. After a few quick photos, my two favorite people left the room together.
With everyone safe, my mind began to process the whirlwind of events. Pretending to doze off while the surgical team stitched me up, I reframed the experience: This wasn’t what I envisioned, but it was what my baby needed. Any disappointment I felt stemmed from my own desires; this was no longer about me.
While a Cesarean Section is often viewed as the pinnacle of medical intervention, I realized that a mother’s primal instinct to protect her child is the most natural thing in the world. At that moment, I found a sense of peace with the surgery, even though I still felt an undeniable sense of loss.
Following a challenging pregnancy, two days of painful contractions, and major abdominal surgery, Mark stepped up to capture the emotional finish line I had imagined countless times. While I was overjoyed to have a healthy baby, an emptiness lingered. The tiny person who had been a part of me was now in another room. Instead of cradling my son, I was behind a curtain, being stitched up.
But I forced myself to focus on Lucas, who was being cared for by his father. He was in the nursery, nestled against Mark’s bare chest, swaddled warmly in a blanket. I took solace in knowing he was safe with the one person who loved him as much as I did. My arms ached for him, and the sacrifice felt both profound and beautiful; it was as if I had known him for a lifetime.
The nurses helped me sit up and wheeled me into recovery, where I finally reunited with my boys. This part of my memory is a sweet blur of love, relief, and morphine. I kissed Mark, nursed Lucas, and called my mom to share the joyous news.
By almost midnight, our little family was moved to a postpartum room. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but I was too overwhelmed with happiness to notice. We spent hours marveling at our perfect newborn. In that moment, all of life’s complexities faded away; the world felt beautifully simple.
Would I have opted for a different birth experience? Absolutely. But I wouldn’t change a thing now, much like I wouldn’t wish away the rain from my wedding day. Life’s defining moments are meant to unfold as they do. Lucas’s birth was exactly as it was meant to be—perfectly necessary. Wherever my son needs me, I will go. It doesn’t get any more natural than that.
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