What They Don’t Tell You
Here’s what they don’t tell you …
Birthing is the most profound initiation to spirituality a woman can have.
-Robin Lim
about being in the hospital and actually delivering a baby…
They don’t tell you that as soon as you walk through the threshold of those hospital doors and fill out the mountain of paperwork, you belong to them. Them being the doctors, nurses, lactation consultants and any other medical professionals that happen to walk through your bedroom door during your stay. They don’t tell you that filling out paperwork is essentially you signing your life away for the next couple of days. They don’t tell you that you will never be the same person exiting the hospital that you were when you entered (besides the fact that you actually leave with a lifetime parting gift).
When I finally secured my place in the triage, they hooked me up to the monitors . . . logistical stuff. This was to measure the baby’s heartbeat and my contractions. Shortly after, the nurse practitioner shamelessly stuck her two fingers inside of me. “1 ½ centimeters,” she confirmed right before washing her hands and leaving. Minutes after the door closed, I felt a gush of water seep from between my legs. I initially thought it was discharge. I was used to that. Then, more came. It was more vicious this time and a lot more flowed out. “What is happening to me?” I thought. “Could I be peeing on myself?” But I had no control over this … if it actually was pee. A little embarrassing. I shared my feeling with my partner who advised me to call the nurse back in. “Duh”
As soon as she returned, so did her fingers… like they never left. “Yup. Your water broke,” she confirmed.
Upon being officially admitted to the hospital, the army of nurses treated the door to my hospital room as though it was revolving, barging in and out of my room just about every hour. Upon each visit, someone was sliding their fingers between my legs for their routine check. Once it was time for me to actually give birth it was showtime! [Literally] The lights came up… along with my legs. Everyone stood around me ready to play their position aaaannndddd ACTION!
The director and her assistant stood by; one telling me to push on cue while the other talked me through positioning my body for the push. “Wow! This baby has a lot of hair.” The comment after push #1. “You’re doing great! Just keep pushing.” Push #2’s nudge of encouragement. Finally, there was an uproar of excitement. My audience lovingly applauded me and congratulated me right after the splash of (God knows what type of) liquid(s) rested atop the first ounce of bare skin it could attach to. “Great,” I thought, “at this point, “I should be clear of anyone invading my not so sacred body anymore.” Ooohhh how wrong was I. It was just getting good! The director bka doctor chatted with me as she stitched me up, mounds of blood and all. Once she exited the set, her assistant director bka the nurse applied pressure as she pushed any remaining blood out of me. She watched it secrete as she pushed. [I may or may not have vomited in my mouth as I typed this.] Once she finished, it was onto her next mission: following me to the bathroom. She helped me put a pad on and wiped me up.
Just when I thought I was good for the duration of my stay, I realized I continued to feed myself nothing but lies in between the delectable meals served up at the hospital. It was more of the same. More nurses, checking between my legs. The difference this time, however, was that I was relocated in the hospital. My penthouse upgrade came with a bonus: the professionals on this floor were certified to touch a new place on my body… my breasts! (So at this point, I had lost all of my dignity.) The nurses and lactation consultants in the penthouse all had the common goal of getting my baby to latch for successful breastfeeding. I wonder, however, what training looks like for them.
Does it involve fondling fake breasts?
Does it require aggressively snatching boobs in exchange for certification of some sort?
How about rubbing the breast?
Are they required to comment on the size of breasts?
Upon entering my room a consultant parted her lips to repeatedly assure me of how “endowed” I was. I smiled after her first comment, but, after the fourth, looks of confusion hesitantly plastered across my boyfriend and I’s faces. The woman just would not stop and I felt like a slave on the block. My story ends in me finally taking my baby home and leaving the nurses and lactation consultants behind. I also left parts of my body with them in exchange for a newfound … uuhhh … freedom.
Needless to say: I had never felt sooo exposed in all of my 30 years of life!
