Nearly four years ago, my life took an unexpected turn in just one day. While the situation I faced may not be as challenging as what others have gone through, it certainly shook my world.
At that time, I was 35 weeks pregnant with my third child, planning a home birth. All my ultrasounds were fine, and I had been diligent with my diet and self-care, reading over 40 books on pregnancy and birth to prepare for this experience. I had a natural birth previously and thought I was well-versed in childbirth. I envisioned a peaceful water birth surrounded by candles and essential oils. The sections on cesareans in the pregnancy books didn’t concern me—I was a doula and a natural birth mom after all.
That particular day, I felt restless but dismissed it as typical pregnancy nesting. We had a picnic with friends, and I was uncomfortable sitting on the ground, which seemed normal given my stage of pregnancy. After we got home that night, I put the kids to bed and went to sleep around midnight.
Around 2 am, my son got up to use the bathroom, needing my help. As I sat up, I felt a warm gush and immediately thought my water had broken prematurely. Rushing to the bathroom, I discovered it was blood, not amniotic fluid. The bathroom looked like a disaster, and the bleeding continued.
I called for my husband, and we tried reaching our midwife but got no response. Without local help, we hurriedly put the kids in the car and headed to the nearest hospital. I felt lightheaded from the blood loss. Luckily, a friend volunteered to meet us at the hospital to take the kids.
When we arrived, my husband parked the car while I headed inside. The medical team began running tests and called in an on-call ultrasound technician. I overheard the doctor mention “placenta previa,” a condition I hadn’t read much about since I didn’t consider myself high-risk.
The ultrasound confirmed it—the placenta was covering my cervix. My heart dropped, knowing two things: first, my baby would be arriving much sooner than anticipated, and second, a natural birth was off the table.
It was a humbling moment that my plans could change so abruptly. I wasn’t prepared for the baby’s arrival, and no one was around to help.
As they prepared me for an inevitable c-section, my mind was racing. My main concern was the baby’s health, though I was petrified of having a c-section. Being wheeled into the operating room alone, leaving my husband in the hallway, was a heart-wrenching experience.
As our baby boy was delivered, the doctor realized I was still bleeding internally. Our baby had trouble breathing, and as my husband went with him for respiratory help, I barely had a moment with him before they left. Surgeons and nurses swarmed in, administering various medications, leaving me in a haze.
The following eight days felt like a blur. I was recovering painfully, visiting my baby in the NICU while on iron supplements to regain my blood levels. Allergic to one of the medications, I endured relentless itching but refrained from taking more meds to ensure my milk production.
I pumped milk furiously every couple of hours for days. Thankfully, after five days, I held my baby for the first time when his IV was removed. We witnessed many tiny fighters in the NICU, praying for those with greater challenges than our son had.
Fortunately, our baby stayed in the NICU for just eight days, and my recovery, although slow, wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I have immense respect for those who face graver birth struggles. I feel incredibly grateful for my healthy son and my own recovery. While I don’t entirely subscribe to the “all that matters is a healthy baby” notion, it is undeniably crucial.
Pregnancy had always been a joyous journey for me; I cherished my pregnant and post-pregnancy body. However, the c-section scar—a prominent reminder of a delivery that didn’t go my way—affected me deeply, often bringing me to tears. Even years later, glimpsing that scar could dampen my spirits.
I came to realize that the scar was upsetting because it symbolized my lack of control and my hard-learned humility lesson. Reflecting on it, I felt thankful for the c-section that saved both my son’s life and mine, and for the insights it offered into the experiences of other women undergoing cesareans and VBACs.
The scar represented parts of life beyond my grasp and emphasized my own arrogance—a tough pill to swallow. Yet, I ultimately embraced gratitude for the lessons the scar embodied.
Ironically, it wasn’t until I accepted the scar that it began to fade, becoming hardly noticeable. It’s funny how life works; those big concerns diminish when we let them go.
This entire experience made me realize how we often fixate on one aspect of our appearance, letting it affect our self-worth when it usually goes unnoticed by others. Letting go of the scar’s emotional weight allowed me to be thankful for this reminder of life’s uncontrollable nature. It required time and contemplation, but I now genuinely appreciate this lesson in letting go.
If faced with another cesarean in the future, I hope to plan a gentler one with my doctor and know what to do for a quicker recovery.
Do you have scars that serve as reminders, whether painful or joyful, of your past? Feel free to share your stories!
