As it turns out, my labour was a textbook case of asynclitic fetal positioning. While my son was head down, he was not lined up properly; he wasn’t able to put adequate pressure on the cervix to fully dialate, and it’s possible that even if I dialated to 10, I’d have not been able to push him out, but rather push him into the side of my bony pelvis. Thank heaven for modern medicine, had it not been for the surgical delivery I don’t know that I’d have my son.
He was pretty much unaffected by the medication and the surgical birth; he didn’t have any of the problems that can be associated with such. He had been awake (and kicking) all through labour, and was alert and staring at my husband during the whole time that I was in recovery. I believe that my attempts to keep the medication away until there was nothing else I could do were beneficial to him.
He entertained himself on his first day of life by dazzling everyone that saw him, nurses made special trips into our room to admire the blonde baby, holding up his head to look around, and staring into his dad’s eyes… finally a face for all those silly songs.
My recovery from the birth was also surprisingly smooth, though not as flawless as his. I had been very present and made the decisions with thought and precision. I owned my decisions and did not feel like a victim or that I had been robbed of the birth I wanted. As I lay in my bed, visiting with family and getting to know my new son, I realized that even if I knew at the beginning how it would all end, I would have made exactly the same decisions at the same time. I still would have held out before asking for the medication, so that during my 36 hours of labour we would have as little chemicals as possible in our systems. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.