The Birth of Phoebe

Birth, Life, and Almost Death

Dear humans:

It’s been a while.

Two months ago, our daughter, Phoebe, was born. Before she was born, I had ideas of writing up her birth story and sharing it promptly, as I had seen so many others do. Even though I knew I could not control the birth, and knew that my life would change in ways I could not foresee, I still thought that I would be motivated to write. I was not.

Part of me felt guilty for not writing. There I was, not only with an incredible life change, but with an extremely traumatic birth story. Wouldn’t it be good for me to write about it? Wouldn’t that help me process? But all I wanted to do was be with people I loved: Phoebe and Alex, my mom and sister and brother in law and Alex’s mom, all of our friends who wanted to visit… I did not want to seclude myself, even for a few minutes or hours, to “process my feelings.” I needed the comfort of living, breathing bodies, alive and vibrant and grounded in the present moment. I needed joy.

It’s easy for me to get caught up in what’s “good for me.” So often, my default mode is planning, looking ahead, doing things that will “make life easier, later.” Sometimes, this is helpful, fun, even necessary; other times, it comes at the expense of finding joy and ease in the present.

So I gave myself a break. In that break, I was able to observe, to feel, to be present without so many thoughts of “I should write about this!” I trusted that I would write again, in due time. Eventually, I did.

Who knows when the next piece will come, but for now, here is my birth story - or at least, one version of it. I’m sure there will be others. In due time.

If you’re someone I know reading this: thank you. Thank you for your kind words surrounding Phoebe’s birth, for your visits, your food deliveries, your help around the house, your love in all forms. And whether I know you or not, I hope you, too, are finding space to be present.

From my heart to yours,
Abby

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The Birth of Phoebe

Statistically, I told myself, I would be fine. The chances of dying from an emergency c-section are approximately 9.7 in 100,000, or 0.0000097 percent. I was healthy, not that old, and my pregnancy had been quite uncomplicated, up until now. Surely all these things counted for something.

As I stared at the ceiling, my husband’s hands rubbing my shoulders, I started listing off all my friends who had had c-sections - there were five or six I could think of. Not only had all of them survived, but they had all birthed healthy babies. I would be fine, I told myself again; we would be fine.

And I was, at first. Even though the procedure took nearly twenty minutes rather than the four they’d promised, and even though they’d needed three doctors to pull her out, she came out perfectly healthy. They weighed her, cleaned her, then placed her on my chest. Just like that, we had a baby.

As soon as the procedure was over, the tone in the operating room shifted from urgent to downright jovial. The doctors started stitching me back up, and began asking us friendly questions. What will you name her, they wanted to know, and what other names did you consider? Were there any other red-heads in the family, they had to ask, because she’s such a cute little red-head!

We, too, began to breathe more deeply, and to believe that the hardest part was behind us. Forty-eight hours of labor, Misoprostol, a Foley bulb, Pitocin, an ineffective epidural, two hours of pushing, an emergency c-section... That was all over now, and our sweet little baby, Phoebe, lay there, healthy and perfect, on my chest. My belly had been sewn back together; just one more step, and the surgery would be done. So they pressed on my belly (what we would later learn was called, rather inappropriately, a fundal “massage”) to help my uterus contract down to its original size. It is a common practice with c-sections, but in this case, it was soon clear that something uncommon was going on.

As soon as they pressed down, we heard a powerful squirt, and the room went quiet.

“Oh,” said the doctor. “We gotta find that.”

The tone shifted abruptly again, this time from relaxed to urgent, almost frantic. I felt my heart beat loudly and my body go cold.

“We need to open her back up,” the doctor said quickly, “and we need to put her under general.”

Phoebe still rested on my heart, eyes closed, peaceful. One of Alex’s hands still squeezed my shoulder, the other cradling Phoebe’s back. I don’t remember if we said anything to each other, and there wasn’t much need to; there were too many things going on, and too many things to feel.

My body grew colder as I heard the doctor’s voice again: “We’re going to open her back up. Everyone prepare for a massive.”

Somehow, I knew that this meant “massive blood transfusion,” and somehow, it felt familiar. I had received a transfusion during my spinal surgery, 22 years earlier, but it was not “massive,” nor was I awake for it. In spinal surgery, I had not felt the chill of my blood leaving my body, but still, I felt like I had been here before.

A few seconds later, the nurses told Alex that he and Phoebe would need to leave - that they would be starting the second operation now. We’ll take you to the nursery, they said, and make you as comfortable as possible; the doctor will come get you when it’s done.

I kissed Phoebe once more before she was lifted from my chest, and kissed Alex as he bent toward me.

“I’ll see you soon,” I said, even though I had no idea if this was true. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he said, and was escorted out.

I glanced up at the IV pole to my left, hoping to see a bag of blood, but there was none.

“Is more blood coming?” I asked the anesthesiologist. My teeth were chattering now, my arms and shoulders, shuddering.

“It’s coming,” he assured me, calmly, and I had no choice but to believe him.

Another moment later, a second anesthesiologist leaned toward me. “I’m going to put you under general now,” he said. “And one side effect of this medication is memory loss, so you may not remember this.”

“That is absolutely fine with me,” I said, or maybe just thought, and closed my eyes as they put the mask over my face.

The first thing I saw when I woke up was a hallway. It was a flicker of beige and metal and blue scrubs, and then I was asleep again.

The next thing I saw was the inside of a room, more beige and metal, the doctor, and my husband.

“Abby,” the doctor said with a relieved confidence. “I am very glad to see you on the other side.”

I don’t remember if I said anything in return, but I remember seeing my husband’s face, thinking how much I loved him, how scared he looked, and how scared I still was. What had happened? Would Phoebe be scarred forever? Would Alex? And would I really be able to heal from this?

The next morning, I was wheeled from the ICU to the maternity ward, where we spent four more days, learning to be a family of three. I learned from the doctor that, at some point during the birth, my cervix tore, which led to my losing over five liters of blood. I also learned that a typical human body has about five liters of blood. Thankfully, during pregnancy, blood volume increases by 30-50%, so I “only” lost about two-thirds. In those first few days, I could not walk or stand or roll over without a nurse or Alex helping me, which meant there were essentially two babies to take care of. I could not pick up Phoebe, but I could hold her, gently, as long as someone placed her just right and supported us with a dozen pillows. As Phoebe learned to breathe air and drink milk, I re-learned to breathe deeply and drink water and eat. I also learned to trust.

Since I was not yet producing enough milk to feed Phoebe, I watched as Alex fed her bottles of donor milk. Since I was not yet strong enough to pick her up, I watched as Alex held her, rocked her, swaddled her, and changed her diapers. I watched as he soothed her when she cried, watched as my mom and his mom and my sister and brother in law held her and doted on her. I was too thankful to be jealous, but I did miss her.

It was a strange feeling, learning that my own child did not need me in order to survive. She had her father, her grandmothers, her auntie and uncle, all of our friends and family beyond the hospital walls, not to mention an entire team of nurses and doctors invested in her health. At this stage, she hardly knew who I was.

Then again, every time she was placed in my arms, she seemed to know me, and to know exactly what to do. And once again, I felt like I had been there before.

It’s been eight weeks since Phoebe was born, eight weeks since I almost died. Sometimes, I miss those first days in the hospital when all we were focused on was our survival. We were not distracted by work or house projects or gossip or plans for the future. We were simply present, grateful to be alive after I almost wasn’t.

In some ways, it’s not so different, now that we’re home: we’re still responding to every cry to be held, every need to be fed, every pee and poop. We’re also (slowly) getting back to the tasks of daily living. I do not resent these tasks, for I know that we cannot always be in a totally present state, focused solely on survival. But I do want to remember how simple life can be. I want to remember that it’s okay to cry without explanation, and to ask for help doing basic things. I want to remember that I do not need to try to create new life; life, as they say, finds a way.

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A note for my yoga people/ folks in Portland:

• I am planning to return to my Tues/ Thurs noon classes at The People’s Yoga SE starting Feb 4. I’m excited (and slightly nervous) to come back, and am looking forward to seeing many familiar faces when I do! :)

• I am also set to lead a 4-week series called Yoga for Everyday Life: The Yamas, starting in April. Throughout the series, we will look at how certain yogic principles (the yamas) relate to our daily lives, and explore simple practices that you can take with you, on and off the mat. While this series will include some gentle movement and meditation practices, it is not primarily an asana class. This series was originally scheduled for Wednesday evenings, but I have since learned that evening is a terrible time for a new parent to leave the house (or at least, this new parent!) - so it is now Saturday afternoons, April 26-May 17, 2:30-4pm at the SE Hawthorne Location.