I have a scar. A scar I never wanted but a scar I have all the same. My caesarean scar.
Before I got pregnant I sat for hours watching One Born Every Minute to my husbands disgust, I planned my birth down to the after birth photographs. And I didn’t envisage that this would be the after birth photo that I had:
My first photo with my eldest son wasn’t taken until hours later when I was on the recovery ward as my need for a section was so immediate we went from the dimmed lights of the labour room to him being born in 7 minutes. A category 1 caesarean.
For a long time I blamed my body for failing me, for not doing what it should have done naturally. I hated the fact that my blood pressure rising meant that it was safer to attempt induction than to wait. I was upset at the way that what I had as my birth dream quickly faded into a nightmare.
A nightmare that nearly lost my son. That led to worried glances back and forth between midwives and doctors. One which saw me hurtle down the corridor with a doctor with her hands up me trying to assess whether my unborn child was getting any oxygen.
His heart rate dropped dramatically and as the team raced to pull him out of me they did so with seconds to spare. He was born blue, unresponsive. But alive.
Thanks to the scar I never wanted.
That same caesarean scar came back to haunt me through the pregnancy with my second son one that was once again fraught with hypertension complications. This pregnancy differed only in the fact that it took place in Dubai, with a toddler roaring round the place. All was well until the final stages where my blood pressure rose.
And with it came the decision that the baby needed to arrive, and arrive now.
At 38 weeks and 2 days I went for a routine check that landed me in hospital beginning a process that I never wanted to do again. A low dose, extremely monitored induction process.
I was terrified.
And I had every reason to be given my last birth.
Turns out I was right to be worried, that this birth was to be the VBAC that never was. After none progression gentle hands taking mine and a suggestion that we head to theatre.
Desperately wishing it wasn’t the case, that my scar wouldn’t once again be opened, I agreed.
The surgeon cut through the scar, the one I never wanted, and discovered my uterus had ruptured and my baby was stuck. They saved our lives at that point, got him out alive and well. Pink and breathing if swollen.
And brought him straight to me as they set to work. Checking my bladder wasn’t effected. Piecing each tear back together. Slowly, painstakingly stitching me up.
Leaving me with the caesarean scar I never wanted.
But the scar I am oh so grateful for, for the scar that smiles at me when I look in the mirror is one which brought me two healthy baby boys.
And although I never wanted the caesarean scar, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
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