Jimisha’s Birth Story
We are so honored to share birth stories on the Enriched Birth™ blog. Familiarizing our audience with birth and how differently it can be experienced by each birthing parent is something we care deeply about. We share these stories in their original form so that they reflect the feelings and voice of the authors. Sometimes birth is ecstatic, peaceful, positive, and joyful. Sometimes birth is painful, difficult, and disappointing. But birth is always raw, always incredible, and always personal.
Our goal as childbirth educators is to give expecting parents the information, tools, and resources to feel empowered and thereby have a more positive experience - even when their birth does not go as hoped. Birth can not be controlled, but as you’ll read in many of these stories, the availability of consistent support and informed decision making are such important aspects of a birth experience.
Thank you for reading!
I’m well aware of the kinds of stories people expect when they read about labor and childbirth experiences. Inspirational stories. Uplifting stories. Empowering stories.
This is not one of those stories.
For context: my son was conceived one month after I graduated from college and moved back home with my mother. I was 22 years old, unemployed, and completely unprepared to be a parent. My son’s father and I had been off and on for the better part of 4 years, but our tenuous relationship couldn’t handle the strain of an unintended pregnancy. We broke up a week after I gave him the not-so-happy news (and hindsight has shown me that we both dodged a helluva bullet there), so I found myself single, broke, pregnant…and pissed.
To say that my pregnancy wasn’t a joyful one is an understatement. I didn’t want to be pregnant. I felt like I had failed myself, like I had wasted my potential, like I would become a statistic. And I knew that my life would have to drastically change in ways that I wasn’t ready for. Over the years, I’ve asked myself many times why I didn’t simply terminate. I certainly considered it, and I found out about the pregnancy so early that it would’ve been a matter of swiping a credit card, popping a pill, and taking a nap. I still don’t know the answer to that question, and the only conclusion I’ve come to is that my son was meant. Of course, that provided little comfort at the time.
My pregnancy was a roller coaster, and not in a fun, exhilarating kinda way. “Morning” sickness kept me nauseated and irritable for months. I wasn’t a huge fan of the changes that were happening to my body (except for maybe the huge tits and gorgeous skin--that part wasn’t so bad). I spent my days nibbling saltines, listening to really dark, emo music, and applying for jobs, because somebody was going to have to feed and clothe my offspring when he arrived. That’s how I referred to my son when he was in-utero. He was never “my baby,” or “my child,” but rather “my fetus” or “my offspring,” and, occasionally, “my little parasite.” And sure, as far as coping mechanisms go, maybe that wasn’t the healthiest choice, but the thing about a being pregnant with your first (and ONLY!!!) child is that you have a few months left to be selfish and irreverent about the whole parenting thing before you become wholly responsible for the well-being of another human being for the foreseeable future. What can I say? I leaned in.
Before I knew it, 40 weeks and 3 days passed, and my offspring was ready to make his grand entrance. I’d read all the books, been to all the appointments, taken all the vitamins. I was terrified. The online teaching gig I’d found paid just enough for necessities, so I couldn’t afford fancy childbirth classes or a doula or professional pictures or any of the other cool trappings of millennial mama pregnancy that Medicaid don’t cover. It was just me, my midwife, and my awesome delivery room team that consisted of my mama, my oldest sister, and my best friend…and 2 or 3 nurses whom I’d never met a day in my life.
All the books told me that I should make a birth plan. I didn’t because, honestly, I wasn’t too picky about the particulars. I wanted ALL THE DRUGS. I wanted my offspring to be cleaned of all the icky bloody stuff before anybody threw him on my chest. And I wanted disposable gloves for changing poopy diapers. Everything else was negotiable, so long as they managed to get the whole ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible. I had, however, followed the books’ advice and packed a hospital bag, and I had baby things all over my room, so for the most part, I was prepared for the little intruder’s arrival.
Contractions caught me completely by surprise. I had lower back pain throughout my pregnancy, especially at night. The midwives always said it was gas, but if that was the case it was the most persistent gas EVER because I popped Tums and GasEx like Skittles for months and neither of them worked. So when back pain back woke me up late one evening, I thought it was business-as-usual. It was my mother who realized that the pain was lasting a little longer and my moaning and groaning while doubled-over was a little more intense. She prompted me to call the midwife, who told me to start doing the timing thing and not to come in until the contractions were x minutes apart (this was a decade ago, so I don’t remember how many minutes). She also told be to try taking a bath for relief. I took the bath. There was no relief. I kept on moaning and doubling-over and timing, and I guess my mama got tired of that because eventually she told me to get dressed. I reminded her that the midwife told me to wait until the contractions were x minutes apart. She said something like “I don’t give a shit.” And off we went.
When we got to the hospital’s labor and delivery center, there was someone waiting to stick her entire hand up my vag. Fun times. She must’ve been satisfied with what she felt, because she told me they’d get me checked in and take me to a delivery room. When I got there, the first thing the nurse asked was if I wanted an epidural. HELL YES. So they sent a guy in for that, which wasn’t a walk in the park, but wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. They hooked me up to some things, gave me a button to amp up the juice when I needed it, and pretty much left me there with my team to wait for go-time.
The rest of the night and the following day are a blur (because repression is REAL), but I still have some impressions of the experience.
The Good: I couldn’t have asked for a better team. The midwife on call that night happened to be the only one I hadn’t seen during my prenatal check-ups, but she seemed nice and competent so I wasn’t too concerned about that. My mama, sister, and bestie were champs. I’m well aware that childbirth is something that humans do, and not something that only women do, but as a cis woman, I wanted to labor surrounded by people who would keep me grounded and who had been through what I was going through (my sister actually gave birth to my youngest niece three months before my son was born). For me, that meant a group of awesome ladies who I knew would have my back.
The Bad: On TV and in the movies, the birthing process is all very tepid and there’s a nice little blue sheet that covers the legs and the OB or midwife gently lifts it up to the knees and says something like “Okay, let’s take a peek!” In real life, there’s no peeking, because there’s no sheet. The hospital gown was pushed up to my chest (along with my knees) and my whole naked lower half was completely exposed and wide open for everyone in the room to see. I’m pretty sure my best friend is scarred for life. Looking back, I have a sense of awe of the entire process and of the fact that labor and delivery is something I actually did, but at the time, I thought it was quite possibly the most undignified thing I’ve ever experienced.
The Ugly: The goddamn epidural wore off. Well, technically the midwife said it didn’t, and I was just feeling “pressure,” which is how the body knows to push. All I know is that one minute half of me was blissfully numb (good thing, because sis stuck her hand up my vagina a couple more times and I don’t know that I would’ve been able to keep from kicking her had I actually felt it), and the next minute the shit HURT. So I pushed and panted and all that jazz, but my offspring was stubborn. Go figure. After a few tries, some old white dude came in (the OB, they told me later) and said that his heartrate was dropping slowly, so I needed to get him out NOW or else they’d have to do a C-section. Was it a real threat, or did he just feel like I needed a little motivation? I’ll never know, but it worked. Somehow, I pushed hard and long enough for an actual tiny person to exit my body.
Looking back, the whole thing was fairly uneventful. I vaguely remember the midwife doing her thing down there and delivering the placenta. Apparently, I had a small tear, so she sewed me up and that was that. “My offspring” became “my boy” the second I laid eyes on him. They cleaned him up (because no icky bloody stuff) and gave him to me. He had the greasy stuff on his eyes and looked like a little alien. But there he was. It was pretty weird.
By that point I hadn’t eaten anything other than ice chips for almost 24 hours, and I was HUNGRY. But I delivered at night and the cafeteria was closed, so after they wheeled us to another room, the nurse brought me the only thing she could find…saltines. My mother and sister left, and my best friend stayed with me through the night. I didn’t realize until I had to change the first diaper that no one had brought me any gloves.
I stayed in the hospital for two extra days because my blood pressure spiked and wouldn’t come down. I’m pretty sure that was due to stress. A couple more impressions stand out from that immediate post-partum period:
I chose to have my boy circumcised. It seemed to be the “normal” thing to do, as I’d never actually seen an uncut penis. (I’ve seen a few since. 10 out of 10. Would recommend.) If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have made a different choice. It was painful for my baby, and it was horrific and traumatic for me. In fact, the first time I really felt like a mother was when I stood, bawling, over my infant, also bawling, while a nurse showed me how to “clean” his cut genitals. I wanted to punch something.
The day after I gave birth, I had to go to work. Online adjunct teaching gigs don’t come with maternity leave, and I was in the middle of two courses when I delivered, so I had my sister bring her laptop (I didn’t have my own) to my hospital room, and I graded around 80 papers with my fresh-out-of-the womb newborn next to me because I had a deadline, and I couldn’t afford not to meet it. And the challenges didn’t end there. The financial and emotional difficulties I experienced after my son was born led to what was likely a couple years of postpartum depression, although I wasn’t formally diagnosed because I didn’t have health insurance. This is one of several reasons why it’s impossible for me to tell my birth story without pointing out the socio-economic issues that make the labor and delivery experience less than ideal for so many people. In 2020, an inspirational, uplifting, and empowering birth is a luxury that all too many parents simply cannot afford.
My baby is 11 years old now, and he’s a beautiful, kind, and curious person. He loves to laugh and is LOADS of fun. He gets on my nerves a lot, but I’m sure the feeling is mutual. He makes me feel light and full at the same time. He was meant. Still, there are times when I find myself wanting a “do-over” pregnancy and birth experience, one where I’m happily coupled and financially stable and not stressed or depressed. Then I remember that I’ll be an empty-nester in 7 years, and I come to my senses. Cheers to that.
Jimisha Releford can be found on Instagram @jimisha_iman. She’d love for readers to follow @thelearninghour and donate to their Workspaces 4 Kids Campaign.