In the labor room

Don and I were together in the labor room for about two hours, still waiting for the doctor. In those days, mothers first went into a labor room before having the baby in a delivery room. Everything was so sterile and cold. Today, having a baby is much more humane, because moms can have the whole family present during birth in a lovely, welcoming, birthing room that looks a lot like their bedroom.

Having strong, uninterrupted labor pains for two hours was excruciating, exhausting and terrifying. The nurses were uncommunicative and wouldn’t tell us when the doctor would arrive. No such thing as a patient’s “bill of rights” existed in those days, and the nurses weren’t inclined to reveal much about the doctors.

As the pain became more intense, Don and I were increasingly feeling abandoned. Just when we were feeling totally lost—and wondering if Dr. Bradford would ever come— the nurses began tending to me in a more hurried, anxious fashion. All their movements suddenly became quicker, more urgent, and Don was reluctantly whisked away by the nurses to the father’s waiting room. We both knew that something was wrong. I was rushed into the delivery room where doctors and nurses busied themselves with all kinds of preparations, which further alarmed me.

It’s hard now to believe how expectant parents were treated then, being separated from each other during the birthing process. Don’s absence added to my desperation at such a crucial time.

Finally, Dr. Bradford appeared, seemingly unruffled and calm. I, on the other hand, had now been alone in my anguish, experiencing severe and continuous pain without any letup, for six hours.  After examining me, the doctor became dismayed. He frightened me by telling me that I had not dilated at all. Dr. Bradford seemed so surprised because six hours of labor normally should have brought about several centimeters of dilation. Now he realized what I’d known all along—that my baby was struggling to get out, and, as I’d feared, my body wasn’t cooperating.

Hopes and dreams

Still, I tried to push away my fears so I could experience what other mothers experience—the joy and excitement of a new human being arriving here at any moment. As we drove to the hospital, Don and I began to talk about our hopes and dreams.

“Of course,” Don said, “I’ll be happy if it’s boy or a girl. In my heart of hearts, I’d kind of like a boy, though. Then a girl. Or, the other way around.” He laughed. “What am I saying? Either is fine, and in either order.”

“Me, too. We don’t have a lot of choice in what we get. But we do have a lot of choice in how we raise him or her. And I want to make sure he or she—especially if it’s a girl—has choices maybe I didn’t have.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like a choice of career. Being encouraged to do great things. And not being automatically ruled out of traditional male arenas, like business. I feel I’m just as smart and capable as my brother, for example. But look who’s got the inside track on my family’s business.”

Don nodded.

“I want our baby—whether a boy or a girl—to become all that he or she’s capable of becoming. Not held back by anything except ability,” I added.

“Sure,” he said. “How could I disagree with that? But what’s most important is that he or she experience love…joy…freedom. That’s more important than any specific  career or tangible goal.” He paused, then added with a smile, “Though learning to throw a tight spiral pass is a must.”

“No, being able to cook a really good blintz is a higher priority,” I laughed.

“An even higher priority than favoring his or her father?”

“In looks or personality?” I asked.

“Both!”

“Now…wait a minute.”

So it went as we dreamed and joked our way to the hospital and pondered the creation of our own little family. But hanging over our playful sparring about our future and that of our child’s was the fear and anxiety that still clutched me in its fist.

In the 15 minutes it’d taken us get to the hospital, my pains had increased, coming closer and closer together until there was no interval at all between the contractions. Instead, one long, hard, continuous pain wracked my body. And that began to worry me. I’d never heard about labor being one long, continuous pain. (In those days, couples didn’t attend birthing classes, so we had no preparation or understanding about the process.) As the pain mounted, my fears returned with a vengeance. I knew Dr. Bradford had achieved his ultimate goal: I was definitely having “a test of labor.”

One week to delivery

One week before the original scheduled delivery date of June 15 (also Don’s birthday), I told Dr. Bradford of my concerns, thinking that maybe the baby should be delivered even before the appointed day. He laughed and said, “Oh no, my dear, I think it wouldn’t hurt at all to have you go through a test of labor. I believe it’s always better to have a child delivered normally. Besides, your baby has now dropped into the birth canal, and it’s too late to deliver the baby by Caesarian. You have nothing to worry about. The baby is small enough to go through the birth canal without difficulty. Trust me.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Chills ran through my swollen body as his words began to sink in. Didn’t he understand? The trusted Dr. Rogers had said I was NOT to have the baby drop into the birth canal, I was NOT to have a vaginal birth, and I was indeed going to have a happy, healthy baby.

That was the game plan, the charted course, the expectation. That was the way my life was supposed to be. Even though I more than understood the meaning of each of the words Dr. Bradford spoke, I couldn’t believe they would be uttered together in that sequence. I felt as if I were strapped onto a dangerous roller coaster, with no safety mechanism in place, no brakes, and no way out. I felt absolutely no trust in Dr. Bradford, who’d just placed me in this fearful state. I felt utterly, totally helpless.

He made no sense to me. He acted as if he knew my body—and me—better than I knew myself. His confidence began to erode mine. I started to doubt my own feelings. Today, of course, I have strength as a woman and as a patient with rights. But that’s not at all what I felt then. Today, faced with the same situation, I’d remove myself immediately from his care, no matter how close I was to my due date.

But being 20 years old, living in the 1950s, and from something of a sheltered background, I didn’t even believe I had rights. And I certainly didn’t have the strength of will I have today.

Still, I knew then that I had big problems, but I couldn’t challenge Dr. Bradford: After all, he was the expert. He ignored me and treated me patronizingly as if I didn’t know what I was talking about. In anguish and unable to convince him, I returned home, feeling depleted and almost wobbly. I told Don what had happened, hoping that he would fix it, explain it, or resolve it in some way. He couldn’t. In fact, he felt as lost as I.

Our baby is coming!

Then came the time for our baby to be born. A quiet Sunday evening on June 24th, and I was sitting on the bed in our apartment, chatting with Don. All of a sudden, I noticed I was wet and the sheets around me were soaked. I knew right away that my water bag had broken. We looked at each other, realizing this was the moment that we’d been waiting for, although the expected jubilation was tempered by my anxiety and fear about what could be happening inside of me. At first, we both acted nonchalantly, calmly. But then our façade gave way to gave way to nervousness, great excitement, and, of course, great joy.

We wanted to feel happy, so we compartmentalized our anxiety to allow the happiness to unfold. I couldn’t contain myself. I was shaking all over with excitement and anticipation. We were going to have our baby! I promptly began to experience mild labor every five minutes or so. In fact, the pains were so mild, I wasn’t sure it was labor at all.

We called Dr. Bradford, who told us to go to the hospital. I was grateful for an instant when he said to go. But then made a second statement that brought back the fear and distrust. The doctor said he’d meet us there “when the time was right.” What did he mean by that? Why wouldn’t he meet us now? Does he again think that I don’t know my own body and the messages it was sending? Suddenly, I was worried all over again, and I prayed fruitlessly that Dr. Rogers and all of the countless plans he’d so carefully laid for me would be there now, instead of this man.

Part 1 of 3

Part 2 of 3

Part 3 of 3

One week before the original scheduled delivery date of June 15 (also Don’s birthday), I told Dr. Bradford of my concerns, thinking that maybe the baby should be delivered even before the appointed day. He laughed and said, “Oh no, my dear, I think it wouldn’t hurt at all to have you go through a test of labor. I believe it’s always better to have a child delivered normally. Besides, your baby has now dropped into the birth canal, and it’s too late to deliver the baby by Caesarian. You have nothing to worry about. The baby is small enough to go through the birth canal without difficulty. Trust me.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Chills ran through my swollen body as his words began to sink in. Didn’t he understand? The trusted Dr. Rogers had said I was NOT to have the baby drop into the birth canal, I was NOT to have a vaginal birth, and I was indeed going to have a happy, healthy baby.
That was the game plan, the charted course, the expectation. That was the way my life was supposed to be. Even though I more than understood the meaning of each of the words Dr. Bradford spoke, I couldn’t believe they would be uttered together in that sequence. I felt as if I were strapped onto a dangerous roller coaster, with no safety mechanism in place, no brakes, and no way out. I felt absolutely no trust in Dr. Bradford, who’d just placed me in this fearful state. I felt utterly, totally helpless.
He made no sense to me. He acted as if he knew my body—and me—better than I knew myself. His confidence began to erode mine. I started to doubt my own feelings. Today, of course, I have strength as a woman and as a patient with rights. But that’s not at all what I felt then. Today, faced with the same situation, I’d remove myself immediately from his care, no matter how close I was to my due date.
But being 20 years old, living in the 1950s, and from something of a sheltered background, I didn’t even believe I had rights. And I certainly didn’t have the strength of will I have today.
Still, I knew then that I had big problems, but I couldn’t challenge Dr. Bradford: After all, he was the expert. He ignored me and treated me patronizingly as if I didn’t know what I was talking about. In anguish and unable to convince him, I returned home, feeling depleted and almost wobbly. I told Don what had happened, hoping that he would fix it, explain it, or resolve it in some way. He couldn’t. In fact, he felt as lost as I.

Don’t miss my next blog discussing “person first” language. Discover how the words we use have tremendous impact on our attitudes and how we think about people with disabilities.