To Drug, or Not to Drug

*These thoughts were written well before our global pandemic; and yet, I am still contemplating the finer details of my birth plan because I had made a decision-- a decision for myself-- to move forward with preparing for an unmedicated birth. I had an image, a snapshot of the hospital room, the way I expected it to be: my husband, my mom, and my friend-- a doula, a grounding-mindful-soul-pleasing friend. Now, I have to accept that the photo I was developing within the privacy of my mind has been skewed and distorted by an unexpected intruder, Covid-19. However, as I took time to process the change and accept that I have to manage more unknown in a time filled to the brim with more questions than answers, my words from all those months ago are still poignant and powerful-- and still part of my truth.

Give me all the drugs. When are the drugs getting here? Is it too late to get the drugs? Are the drugs on their way? Is that the man with the drugs? When are the drugs getting here? Give me all the drugs. That was the stream of consciousness for birth number two.

Perhaps, I should bring it back to the days of my dewy-first-time-mom glow and my birth plan. My plan was simple-- get it done, birth that kid… without drugs. There had not been many challenges in my life that I did not overcome, conquer, and even rise way above. So, based on my tenacity of life my birth plan for kid number one was to overcome, conquer, and rise way above the pain that I had been “supportively” and explicitly told about-- with no training, practice, books, classes, or coach (with experience). Well, plans can change; my plan changed. I failed; a sentiment that was solidified when my Dad stood in the labor and delivery room on a call with his buddy, and as he looked at me basking in the relief of an epidural, he said, “Oh yeah man, she’s good, of course she ended up with the drugs, she doesn’t even look like she is having a baby.” Failed. Even now I feel the desire to tell you how many hours I lasted before I changed my plan, my plan. I won’t because it should not matter.

A lot of things should not matter in regards to my birth plan. A lot of things should not matter in regards to your birth plan. A lot of things should not matter but they do.

As I embarked on growing human number two I knew I needed a birth plan. My birth plan was drugs. The first experience was great, no problems, I did not lose all feeling, I was an active participant of the birth, feeling contractions, pushing to meet the little human who had occupied my body for nearly 41 weeks. I recovered quickly and walked over to the toilet while still in the delivery room; a detail I share to defend my choices, to prove that the drugs did not make me useless, that I still felt things, enough things to feel that I was present in my daughter’s birth. So, yes, give me all the drugs. Reflecting back to my not-as-dewy-second-time-mom glow I know I chose drugs as a “fuck you” to my Dad, to the others who seemed to take stock in the fact that I couldn’t hack an unmedicated birth. This is my body, my choice, my way-- fuck off. So, give me all the drugs; however, the best laid plan can change. I had the drugs, and some more drugs to do this and do that-- as is the case sometimes-- and I did not like the experience as much. I was not happy with how there seemed to be more stress on kid number two, more stress on me, and more stress on my birthing team. This plan sucked.

Growing up, I always knew that my mom had unmedicated births. And once I was pregnant, I was reminded about her strength, her toughness, her tenacity-- a lot. So, I expected some thoughts about my birth plan, my success or failure in following the plan. That was how I was taught-- fail or succeed. Be tough or be nothing. Did I mention that I was told about my mom’s unmedicated births?

So, now I ask myself the question, as I grow human number three: to drug, or not to drug myself? On top of asking myself this question-- nearly every single day-- I am asked by others: strangers, friends, mom-friends, family. Often, after a successful delivery-- one in which mom and baby are a bit exhausted, sore but happy and healthy-- the mom is asked if she had an epidural or not? Why? Why is that a fucking concern of, well, anyone? That line of questioning is as problematic as asking, “Did you tear?” I will confess: I have asked about epidurals; I have not asked a woman if she tore during delivery. Asking about epidurals or perineal tears is unnecessary, is a bit of an invasion, a bit grotesque and what we should do is place those questions in a category of: None of My Fucking Business or On a Need to Know Basis-- and you do not need to know. I digress a bit but it feels like a valid side-step. A public service to remind people that all birth plans are personal, beautiful, and changing.

I am trying to decide for the birth of this little (almost) human of mine-- drugs or not. Am I trying to collect a badge of honor? From who? Am I trying to prove that I can survive and thrive in an unmedicated birth? Who am I trying to prove it to? The answers to those questions worry me because often, I am not the first answer; it is other people-- family, friends, mom-friends, and even strangers. The struggle to decide is also tightly knit with the strong possibility that this will be my last pregnancy, my last chance to… prove that I can do it unmedicated. But like everything in life, this matter is gray. I know that I do not want a repeat of my second labor. I know that I would need to prepare. I know I am not sure who I want to be supporting me during my unmedicated or medicated birth. I know that my plan can change within my control. I know that my plan can change out of my control. I know that I need to make this decision based solely on what I want. I know that I have nothing to prove to anyone-- or at least I am working on knowing.

I do not have the answer yet; but I do know that I was not a failure then, and I will not be a failure this time.