A few months ago I decided I would quit trying to Take Control of My Fertility (because after a year...shit gets old) and instead focus my energy on Taking Control of my Birth Plan. Sounded much more exciting to consider the possibilities of my labor and delivery than getting wrapped up in the consistencies of my cervical mucous - screw you mucous!
I am absolutely petrified of labor. I recently expressed to someone 'I am not the type of woman that desires to run into the woods and spread my legs and scream-out in the awesomeness that is my vagina' This scenario, does not excite me. In an extreme sense this woman, in my mind, represents the Natural Childbirther. She is almighty, she loves herself - and her vagina, she probably has a really kick-ass vegetable garden, and she believes she was born to have babies and that her body is capable of tolerating incredible amounts of pain. But because pain usually means (bad!) and negativity is not helpful in childbirth, we don't call it 'pain' - its called A RUSH! Now isn't that special?
This is what I have learned so far as I have been skimming the pages of the one and only Ina Mays Guide to Childbirth. The whole first section of the book is filled with pages of birth stories intended to illustrate how beautiful and organic, and natural - child birth can be. Its loverly. The stories are told from women who have birthed at a place called The Farm. Its where the hippies go. Kidding. Kind of.
The stories are great. They are uplifting and exciting and devoid scary medical intervention. I get it. Only problem is, that for someone like myself (a hippy poser who only likes to imagine the potential her vagina has to be 'awesome' - but would rather not find out) - it only makes me feel MORE incapable. I was beginning to contemplate birth control, which would be counter-productive at this point. So I skipped past A LOT of the stories.
A few days ago I moved into a chapter called 'Sphincter Control'. Now were talkin my language! I'm getting to the part where I almost died of gas pain last night - and why this labor shit is NOT FOR ME.
Last night Zack and I were invited out to dinner of our chosing, with Mr. Buck (my Father-in-law). We have both been craving Italian - so Italian it was! I was SO EXCITED. I had been looking forward to this dinner all day, in fact, in my mind, I had the pleasure of those first few bites of Wedge Salad several times. I would move on to a main course of either Chicken Marsala or Lasagna...and then dessert (because I always have dessert). I was amped.
As we are walking into the restaurant my stomach was feeling a bit dodgey. But whatever I'm just hungry. We sat down and began to chit-chat with Mr. B and suddenly a wave of really intense horrendous gas pain struck me all at once. Awesome. I excuse myself to the bathroom hoping that the walk there and back and a squat will loosen things up. No such luck. I am practically doubled over in the bathroom stall trying with all my might to fart - for the love - could I just FART - there is a Wedge Salad with really good Blue Cheese and bacon and a fucking Creme Brulee I have to ENJOY. Please, Oh God.
But nothing happened. I left my jeans unbuttoned (classy!) and returned to the table. They knew something was wrong - but how do you explain GAS PAIN over dinner at a nice restaurant? Oh, just like this "I have terrible gas!". And so all were let in on my misery. Nevermind me.
Buck and Zack tried to carry on a conversation about politics or the cosmos, while I silently labored my gas. I writhed and wiggled felt hot flashes and just wanted to lay down. Instead I leaned forward in my chair just a tad...but enough to send me straight to the floor. Its amazing the table didn't TKO my face on my way down. The look on Mr. B's face across from me was priceless. The waitress came rushing over to help me off the floor - I was in total shock and laughing hysterically. I was so worried that my ass was hanging out of my unbottoned jeans as I stood up - it was quite a scene.
I compose myself - hang pathetically in the background of important conversation for another 5 minutes and then have to excuse myself once again. I have GOT TO FART DAMMIT.
As I'm back in the stall I am sitting there, face clenched, sweaty, and utterly miserable - I think of the Sphincter Control chapter. It basically explains techniques to use during labor to help loosen all your sphincter muscles - to help ease the RUSHING. And considerning I'm having some pretty intense RUSHES and my ass is a sphincter - I figured now was as good a time as any to practice Sphincter Control. I mooed like a cow (I was alone in the bathroom, thank you), I relaxed my face....I willed the gas OUT. It did not come out.
I hardly ate any of my main course (the Wedge was delicious though!), hobbled my way through Creme Brulee - and my was it fine...and soon enough we were in the car and on our way home. The ride home might as well have been the ride to the hospital. To deliver my Gas Baby. People, I have never hurt so much in my life. I was gutted. Couldn't recline my seat because all Zacks crap in the back - and I was just DYING. All night last night - horrible pain. This morning? Finally feeling a little better.
All of this to say that once again my pain scale has been redefined and the outlook for my willingness to accept, and invite, and survive an unmedicated childbirth?
Seriously questionable.
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