I’ve been giving much thought to the forthcoming events of late August or early September. Before I had the wild child, who entered this world weighing 10lbs 7oz, I was all set (in my mind, anyway) to do the whole natural mother thing. Embrace every moment of the pregnancy, have a natural birth with no epidural or other interventions. Just me, my sturdy frame, and my strong will. I was a bit terrified of the potential for rippage and/or slicing to circumvent such rippage. But I was hopeful that I’d be able to get through it, dilating and stretching at just the right rate so that the little man would come gracefully into the world without his mother’s bits being sliced or torn. But along came gestational diabetes, and with it the possibility of a too-large-for-a-safe-delivery-through-the-birth-canal baby. I remained hopeful for some time, but being a mother of advanced maternal age, I was subject to many diagnostics during that run, and quite early in the third trimester his weight was estimated at 9 lbs. Of course, they say there is much latitude in those ultrasound estimations, but even so. It did look like I was growing a very large boy.
With mixed emotions, I opted to schedule his birth at 39 weeks. So I skipped water breakage, labor, and all that good stuff. As it turned out, he WAS a giant baby. But not Michelin-man, marshmallow, Pillsbury Dough Boy fat, the way some GD babies are. I was relieved at that, and actually thankful that I chose the C-section route in which he wouldn’t be battered and broken trying to get his huge self out of me. I think that those super squishy GD babies have suffered from the poor sugar control, too much sugar and not enough insulin, and who knows what the ultimate ramifications are. I had GD, but carefully controlled my sugars and injected two kinds of insulin twice each day. I think this helped him, because he was muscular and sturdy, and not overly fatty. Just a very, very big boy.
Fast forward to now. While under the assumption that this little love was a girl, I was wondering about the possibility of VBAC. Gadget thought I was nuts to even consider it. In his mind, pain is bad. Labor is pain. Why would anybody want to go through that? Men are such wusses. It never ceases to astound me.
My doctor said that, generally, boy babies are larger than girl babies, and second babies are larger than first babies. This is all wild generalization, of course, but the thought of a baby that is bigger than my cyclone boy… …is daunting, to say the least.
Time will tell. He may end up being a normal 6-8 pounder. However. I’m already huge, whereas I wasn’t this big at this stage before.
And so the thought of whether to hold on to the notion of VBAC or accept the notion of another C-section. Which is where I stumbled across the phrase, “too posh to push.” As in the tendency for some celebrity moms to forego labor for the inconvenience and strain it may pose to their deluxe physical forms. Or something like that.
Now, I don’t truly consider myself too posh to push, but the thought of a rupture, however remote, terrifies me. Terrifies me! I don’t want to rupture, hemorrhage, and possibly die, all because I want to be earth mother. I have children to live for. I have to ask myself whether my motive for going through VBAC is merely for my own selfish fulfillment, because I am woman, hear me roar, and millions of women have been doing it since the dawn of time. I don’t want pride to be my driving factor. The thought of a controlled incision in a very carefully controlled environment is so much less terrifying. And rational.
I’ve read so many pros and cons for repeat C-section vs. VBAC, and it seems to me that the cons for surgery are mainly due to the fact that it’s surgery. Surgery, anesthesia, and all the risks that accompany surgery. Any surgery. I’ve had several surgeries under general anesthesia, with little or no hemming and hawing as to whether I should be going forward, and survived them all with flying colors. So why the stigma when it comes to C-section? If (hopefully when) I lose the extra hundred pounds that I carry around, and my ancient un-elastic skin is flapping and flopping in the wind like a sad deflated balloon, I imagine I might opt for some surgery to tighten it all up ship shape, given the financial resources. Why is there less or no stigma in that kind of surgery? Or bariatric surgery. I’ve considered it in moments of darkness (but won’t ever do that).
The engineer in me asks why I would expose myself and my child to the risk of rupture, however remote. The risk is real, and unpredictable. The engineer in me sees the predictable risks with a controlled incision in a controlled environment as the better choice, given the luxury of choice. And in this day and age, I have this luxury of choice. Plus, my hospital is excellent.
I will most likely have a repeat Cesarean. And it’s not without its benefits! I will get 8 weeks of paid leave, as opposed to 6, and my insurance plan entitles me to 96 hours in hospital as opposed to 48. I want those 96 hours, every single one of them, because I want much much much more help with the breastfeeding and I want to be there when my milk comes in, if possible. I don’t want a repeat visit to emergency because my giant hungry child isn’t latched, won’t latch, isn’t getting fed, is turning yellow and dropping alarming amounts of weight because of my oversized underproductive misshapen mammaries. I have great hopes that this child and I will be able to successfully breastfeed. Great hopes!
