It doesn't work

OK, I knew when I started this blog I was kidding myself. I mean, I have a journal that I write in semi-regularly for my daughters, and I can't do that consistently. It is a journal I created so they would have an idea of my thoughts and our experiences during their young lives. I have gone easy on myself, writing every week or so, or less at times. And then I created a blog? Who am I kidding?
Well, then, the worst happened. The evil beast reared her head. Someone else wanted to read my blog! Vanity! Flattery! Of course I'll update it!
So it doesn't work. My blog, and perhaps many other things as well. At least not in the way I would like.
So many people I know are sure that their bodies don't work either. Most of these people are women, of childbearing age who, usually through no fault of their own, experienced heinous treatment at the hands of medical professionals. Not only were they treated badly in a physiological sense (painful birth interventions, iatrogenic interventions, inappropriate treatments), they were either explicitely told, or at least led to believe that their bodies don't work.
I am one of those women. At times, my body hasn't seemed to work. My first child was born after a somewhat wild pregnancy, the last two months of which I spent believing I was having too many contractions (turns out that's how my body WORKS). Then I was forced into a cesarean section after several stupid interventions which only further served to convince me my body didn't work. (It didn't occur to me that it was the interventions that didn't work, mind you! Nor did it occur to me that maybe I worked but the whole birth context I was in didn't work...)
Then my amazing marvelous super duper daughter was there, and breastfeeding worked, so it all went a bit underground. Underground, that is, until I wanted her to have a sister or brother. To make a long story short (well, as short as this kind of long story can be) I had four miscarriages in a row. They occured at varying times in the pregnancy -- 10 weeks, 13 weeks, 11 weeks, and 7 weeks. Yikes. It looked bad for the sister/brother plan.
I can't even begin to paint the bleak picture that was my life during these miscarriages. They happened over 2 years, and I can honestly say those were probably the most depressed years of my life. The only way I can be sure of this is that now, having come through this fire, I am truly happy (anger and frustration notwithstanding, cf previous blog of November 9!). I am happy. I have two daughters now.
After my 4th m/c, I was blessed by the help of my midwife to leave France and get a consultation at a very reliable and solid research center in London. It took 3 months between the appointments and tests, and although I knew the odds were slim and none that I would get an 'answer' as to why I was having what is referred to as 'recurrent miscarriages', I figured it was part of the process of healing. (Only 2% of women who have m/c have them for recurrent reasons. M/c are a shockingly normal part of reproductive life, but that is probably the theme of a future post.)
I remember the day I went to London for my diagnosis. It was December 16th, 2004. The plan was buffeted by winds and rain. It was not a fun flight. I walked into my doctor's office and expected to hear, "Well, it turns out that those m/c were just bad luck. You have no problems." I was prepared for that.
What I heard was, "Well, it turns out that the test show some strange clotting problems, and it is likely that these clotting anomalies are what are causing your m/c." What followed was a detailed description of what these researchers knew about antiphospholipid syndrome (APS), and the treatment which had proved quite favorable. It involved taking low-dose aspirin and heparin shots for 34 weeks of the pregnancy; starting with a positive pregnancy test.
Despite my anticipation to find out the contrary, I was quite happy to know that there was a reason. And I was incredibly fortunate.
On December 18th, or therabouts (perhaps 24 hours later, these things are hard to gauge accurately), daughter #2 was conceived. I thought she would be. My body worked after all. And I realize now, after all this time, I never really thought it didn't work, even with this diagnosis of APS, it worked. I consulted with my ob in France who was willing to follow up with the appropriate prescriptions, and he gave me these so I could start treatment immediately if need arose (which it did 2 weeks later!).
And it worked.
I won't say it was easy. That pregnancy was not the end of my mental disaster area. It was part of the process, though. I had more ultrasounds than I care to mention. I did it fully conscious of my choice. I agreed to some prenatal testing and not others. Again, fully aware of my choices.
I stumbled at 24 weeks when my ob tried to cajole me into scheduling a cesearean, and I nearly did (who knows what odd cognitive processes lurk in the minds of vulnerable pregnant women)! Thankfully I had many IRL support people to remind me that I didn't want to plan my child's birth this way.
I literally freaked my midwife out at 41 weeks when I had a dream that I returned to France without my baby. (Ah, the crazy dreams of pregnancy!) I fretted until 42 weeks 5 days when baby #2 magically chose her own birthdate.
The birth of this child did end in a cesarean, for reasons this time that did make more sense to me. Her head 'engaged' quite early, and as near as my midwife and I can figure, she put herself in an occiput posterior (face up) position at that point, 'fooled' us by having her bum front and center on palpation (yes, they are freakishly supple little creatures!) for the following weeks. And if the OP position wasn't enough, she had engaged in a 'brow' presentation, the full circumference of her head descending into my pelvis. It was hard for her to extricate herself from this odd position as it turns out. And we tried many, many things to do it! An irony not lost on me since my first cesarean was supposedly for a 'too small' pelvis, this cesarean occured because my roomy pelvis allowed this nutty child to position herself anyway she wanted.
C'est la vie.
But my body works. I can guarentee you that. Yes, I had 2 ceseareans, both times for reasons that were beyond my control. Yes, I have APS, and I can't promise you that it isn't remarkably indogenous to me (well... I conceive easily... perhaps this is a way to limit pregnancy in a person like myself???) or perhaps due to external meddling (I am also rhesus negative an no one can tell me that the rhogam shots I agreed to were completely innocuous!). Who knows. But I have two daughters.
What didn't work were my plans. (siblings 3, perhaps 4, years apart... a beautiful vaginal birth for both... stay at home with them indefinitely...) No, my plans were not to be. But my body worked.
And I'll tell you that I unconditionally (well almost!) accept my body. It frustrates me at times (I hate getting the flu!). It angers me at times (quit getting bruises for brushing by soft furnishings!). And it disappoints me at times (hey! is that another patch of celluite???). It scares me even (my, those labor pains were remarkably strong... hmmm... another lost baby due to a m/c... that is frightening!).
But the rest of the time it works. I breathe, eat, sleep and physically function pretty well. I conceive children ridiculously easily. I breastfeed in a way that suggest my true calling may have been wetnursing. And I take all of that for granted most of the time.
I'd like my body to do many other things. Some of them we will accomplish together, others we won't. But I still maintain, that it works. What doesn't work is me imposing my absurd plans and timing on my body.
And therein is a lesson for all of us women.