I’ve often touted my opinion that having a C-section is still “giving birth”.
Well, it is.
OK, it doesn’t even compare.
Granted my younger sister and her husband spent much of their recent pregnancy considering their birth plan, as there are so many critical options to weigh. Natural versus Epidural? Vaginal versus C-Section? Breast versus Bottle? Public School versus Private?
I may not have been a huge contributor to that debate, although my sister did ask for me to share some of my two medically required C-section experiences. Thankfully, she was able to make her own decision, which was strongly in favor of a vaginal birth.
I really commended her decision. Having been present in the birthing suite for two childbirths as part of a PBS documentary, I had seen the… ordeal… first hand. And it was for that exact reason, in addition to the fear I had of seeing my little sister experience such a level of physical pain, that I opted not to be in the delivery room when my nephew was born.
That is, until she asked me to be there.
This was not part of the birthing plan I had anticipated. I expected her husband to be the only one in there, way closer to one end than the other. So when it became a bit of a family affair, as my mother (a former labor and delivery room nurse herself) received the same invitation, I went (silently, I think) into panic mode.
Typically a strong first responder in emergency situations, I called upon some previous experiences to help me prepare. My own medical emergencies in addition to the previous deliveries I’d seen and a front row seat for a very lengthy facial reconstructive surgery while working on Extreme Makeover were just a few of the experiences I had to pull from. And I had survived all of those. Sort of.
But this was different. This was my little sister. This was the girl who despite all the incessant teasing, bitch slaps, and painful noogies, I would do anything to protect… even if that meant watching her endure agonizing pain in order to provide the slightest bit of comfort when asked. Damn you, Jeni.
So, I prepared now just as I did then. I gave myself the same pep talk my mother had given me before watching the plastic surgeries. “You will not puke! You will not pass out!” (Read those aloud, like Bobby Knight would.) Almost everything after that is a blur.
Everyone had a role in the delivery room. Mine was take photos and video, which I believe I deserve an Oscar for. Between takes, I attempted to make my sister comfortable by placing icy washcloths on her forehead and keeping her puke bucket clean.
Long story short, 40 hours of (frighteningly) active labor, 3 hours of (blood curdling) pushies, 2 cord wraps around his neck and one very strange vacuum later, I learned a very important lesson.
The mode of transportation is completely insignificant because the wonder of holding him or her for the very first time is just the same.
|Welcome to the World, Tyler James Bianco! xo|