I was only 27 when my first son was born.  I had the ideals of a young newlywed, still within arm's reach of the passionate vegan/liberal/anti-establishment girl of my not-too-distant past.  My birth plan was simple:  no drugs, no tubes, a vaginal birth.  After 30 hours and a diagnosis of "failure to progress," my male obstetrician told me he needed to do a c-section.  "We gave it the good ol' college try" were the words he offered me, as I stared out the window of my tiny Manhattan hospital room and gazed at the 59th Street Bridge. 

Despite the terrible birth experience and the painful recovery, I was blessed with a healthy baby boy.   Though I mourned the loss of my "perfect" birth, I was not so delusional to ignore the truly horrifying traumas women go through, with much more depressing outcomes.  I knew I was one of the lucky ones.

Two 1/2 years later, after moving to an apartment in the suburbs and leaving my obstetrician for a midwife, I gave birth to my second son.  He was a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarian).  Just what I had prayed for.  It was one of the worst experiences of my life.

After my labor had progressed quickly for several hours, the time came for me to push. When my son came out the midwife plopped him on my chest.  His blue, squishy body lay still against me.  Within moments hands reached in and grabbed my newborn, putting him into a glass basinette, where doctors and nurses crowded around him doing procedures.  Seconds before the birth we had been discussing whether my older son would be able to visit that night, seconds after we were staring in disbelief as figures in blue scrubs ran down the hall, wheeling my baby away.

The next minutes are shady--broken memories flit across my mind.  The midwife rubbing my back, with a look of panic in her eyes; the empty view of the deserted hallway seen through the tiny window in the door.  When the doctor walked in her face was tense and serious.  "Your son was not breathing, as you know," she said.  "We intubated him but he began having seizures and he has something called acidosis which we're trying to regulate."  

"What does this mean?" I barked at her.  I forced out the words:  "Do you mean that he may not make it?"  

"We don't know anything yet," she said, the coldness in her face palpable.

Then the sobs began.  This could not be happening, I thought.  Acidosis was what my father died from after complications from a terrible car accident.  How could this possibly be happening less than two years later?  My insides burned with despair, and as I made that horrible phone call to my mother, who was watching my 2-year-old, I slipped into numbness.  

The NICU became our home for the next week.  My son was a tiny doll, burdened with tubes and machines all around him.  Swaddled in his hospital baby blanket with a little white cap on his head, he was a mystery to me.  My baby, who had not yet known the warmth of his mother's arms.  I would put my hand through the little glove that entered his isolette and stroke his tiny fingers.  I sang lullybies and when his eyes were open I know he was calmed by the sound of my voice.  He was mostly still because of the phenobarbitol they were giving him.  

"A bad transition" was what the doctors diagnosed.  His seizures stopped, and on the third day I was allowed to feed him the breastmilk I had pumped, but only using a tiny little bottle.  After much persistence, I convinced them to let me actually nurse him the next day.  It was a miracle.  Neurological tests, heart exams, brain evaluations--no serious condition showed up.  After a few false positives and other such scares, my son was released from the hospital.    

  Sometimes it is important to hold on tightly to your strong beliefs, but sometimes the things you detest may not be so bad.  The question will remain in my mind forever:  if I had opted to have another c-section, would my son have been born breathing?  Some doctors suggested that his difficult passage under my pubic bone caused too much stress.  I have accepted the fact that I will never know the answer.  I am also too grateful to think about it much--my son is now a healthy, active 10-year-old.  We often joke that the way he came into this world fits his personality perfectly--he always has been a very dramatic child, who, in younger years used to hold his breath when he was angry.  

Three years after my son was born, I finally got that birth experience I craved.  My daughter was another VBAC, but this time everything went perfectly.  When she came out my sister was the first to hold her in her arms.  She was screaming her head off.  

"Don't worry," the doctor told me, "that's normal for her to cry like that."  

"Oh, I know," I said,  "Believe me, I'm happy."