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| William Gerald Zhao born 4/16/14 |
It's been four days since William's
birth, since then and even long before it's been a process of letting
go—letting go of expectations and also realizing I am no longer in
control. Thankfully, living in China for this long has prepared me a
bit, so it's a lesson that has not been that painfully
learned.
Though nervous about going through
labor naturally, I had come to embrace the idea. I wanted to attempt
it at the very least. Chinese women seemed surprised by this. Why
even subject yourself to a vaginal birth when c-sections are
available? A fair enough argument, I suppose, but I felt like trying
things the way nature intended. Nothing against c-sections, really,
as that's how I made my way into this world, but it wasn't what I
wanted. But it is what I got. I suppose I'm not that surprised; I had
read words of caution online, that labor and delivery pretty much
never goes as you expect them to, such was the case.
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Ming's mom, Ping, and William in the
hospital |
I thought something might not be quite
right last Monday night and Tuesday morning I voiced my concerns to
Ming. We went to the doctor Tuesday afternoon and she confirmed what
I was beginning to fear—I was leaking amniotic fluid. My water
didn't burst, but had slowly dripped until there was hardly any left.
Not only that, the baby wasn't positioned well for a vaginal birth.
Then it came, her unsurprising recommendation: c-section. I felt a
wave of disappointment rush over me, but after it came a sense of
relief. He was going to be born and it would be soon. The waiting was
over.
Doctor Xin told me I'd have to check-in
to the hospital at eight o'clock the following morning. She would let
me decide if I wanted to attempt an induction, but advised against
it. I said I'd think it over, though I already knew I would be having
a c-section. I wasn't going to fight for the labor and delivery I had
wanted; I was going to heed her advice.
Tuesday night was a flurry of last
minute preparations, emails, and phone calls. There would likely be
no mad dash to the hospital, no apartment left in disarray, no
friends and family back home wondering if the time had come. This was
a fairly calm, cool, and collected approach to having a baby. And so
it was, the next day I walked (waddled) to the hospital, solemnly
agreed to surgery, and signed the paperwork. I was in the operating
room by ten, with Ming, in scrubs, as my “translator.”
But even the c-section did not go as
expected. It was no wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am procedure. The epidural
didn't take well and I was feeling too much; there were several
moments of excruciating pain. I moaned in Chinese, “teng, teng”
(“It hurts, it hurts”) while Ming provided his unnecessary
translation of “she says it hurts!” The nurse administered more
drugs and I slipped into a hallucination of colors, shapes, and an
overwhelming sense of dying that was narrated by the chatter of
Chinese surgeons. In a space of time that felt like a moment, I
regained consciousness and looked over to see Ming. “Is the baby
here? Is he okay?” I asked groggily. “He's here! Look!” Ming
put him in my face but all I could see was a peachy-colored blur.
That was okay. He was here. He was healthy. I wasn't, in fact, dying.
The time: nearly 11:30 am. His time of birth? Well, that I still
haven't quite determined.
I was brought back to my room where I
spent nearly two days lying flat in bed, unable to hold or even feed
my baby boy. Everything was done around me, for him, and for me. And
there was nothing I could do to change that. I watched in horror as
they fed him water, scoffed at his “complicated” American baby
clothes (that were replaced by their more practical Chinese
counterparts), and pushed aside my carefully packed disposable
diapers, as well as the cloth ones (Ming's mom opted for slices of
old shirts instead). I was ordered not to consume anything cold or
sweet or salty. I was told what to do for reasons I still don't
understand and I obeyed, defying Ming's perception of me as
being “so America.” In other words, I was no longer headstrong
and overly confident in my own judgement, adamant about making my own
decisions. Somehow, that part of me had slowly slipped away.
Sometimes I wonder if it makes me somehow weaker or maybe it just
makes me more mature. I guess it doesn't matter. My boy and I are
both home and healthy, that's what really matters.
