Trapped on a Bed

It's time for a confession. I don't want to have my surgery. I know, I was so flippant about it before, making jokes about how much I look forward to having a "sick day" and getting to relax. But that's not how I'm feeling about it now. Not at all. It was a classic case of misdirection via lame attempts at humor. I was trying to convince myself that all was well.

The truth is this: when I think about surgery, I immediately recall my two most recent experiences. And both of those happened to be the cesarean births of my two sons. I was that mom, the one who planned for a natural birth, who had a detailed birth plan, who prepared as best I could all in order to avoid unnecessary medical intervention, specifically a cesarean. And then I was that mom who had a ridiculously long labor that went nowhere, who tried to push her baby out for hours, and who, in the end, still had to have surgery. My only recourse at the time was knowing that I wasn't one of the "unnecessary" statistics, but that only helped so much.

I know that what is most important is that my babies and I all were ok. Of course I realize that and acknowledge it. But I have to say, that first cesarean was everything I was afraid of and was a confirmation of everything I had tried so hard to avoid. It wasn't because of the pain of recovery, although that was horrible. And it wasn't because there is a risk of infection, which I had, and was also horrible. It wasn't even because it was not the birth I'd envisioned, although sometimes even today I have pangs of something missed and will always cry when I see images of new mothers having their babies.

No, it was that I couldn't do what I needed to do: I couldn't be a mom to my newborn baby. I have never felt so helpless as I did laying in a hospital room listening to my baby cry and not being able to get up out of the bed on my own to pick him up. Never. I remember calling the nurses on the intercom to please come and help me get up so that I could get my son and nurse him. And it just seemed to take them so long. I remember the first days at home, feeling like I was missing out on learning how to take care of my son, not being the one to change his diapers because it was so hard to move, not being able to address so many of his needs because of my slow recovery. I remember having trouble bonding with him because I felt so behind.

And now, when I envision this upcoming abdominal surgery, that's what I see. It's all I've been thinking about. And I know that the procedure I am having is nothing like that of a cesarean birth. But I'm still afraid. Something could go wrong. I could end up being just as immobile but for a slightly shorter period of time. I'll still have my husband and my parents there to help with my children, just like I did after my kids were each first born. But I know there will be times when I'm the one they need. I see myself stuck on a bed, hearing my son cry for me.

But then, when I think back through the exhausted haze and try to remember the end of that memory I have from the hospital room, I remember that I did get up. I couldn't stand to wait for the nurses to arrive and help. I lifted myself with my arms and pushed myself off the bed ever so slowly. It was incredibly hard, but not impossible. By the time anyone arrived, Sam and I were back on the bed nursing and drifting off to sleep.

This is an original post to the Philadelphia Moms Blog.

Beth also blogs at Total Mom Haircut.