This scar represents my own grit. My own tenacity. My own stubbornness. Things I now pass down to my daughter.
The other morning, I took my clothes off before stepping into the shower. In my little bathroom, I stopped to check out my mom-of-two body in the mirror. My breasts drooped. My stomach stretched flat until below my navel. There, protruded my kangaroo pouch where my uterus stretched twice for two healthy babies.
Then, my eyes glanced lower to the scar from my first birth—my C-section. The swooping line had faded. The right side seemed darker, but the left side turned light. The scar almost smirks at me now.
While in the shower, I cleansed my scar gently with a lavender loofah. Although the cesarean occurred over six years ago, I always wash it softly. A sense of sadness washed over me—I don't want my scar to fade. My scar reminds me of determination, redemption, and love.
Yes, it was years ago when the doctor took his utensils and sliced me open, but for some reason, I felt like the scar would always look like it was painted on.
My C-section story mimics one of far too many women. I felt like I was bullied into it. I had only labored for 18 hours and was dilated to a seven. "Trust me," my obstetrician said, "I've delivered hundreds of babies. You're not built to have this baby naturally." True, I'm only five feet tall, but I didn't really buy into the lie he was trying to to get me to believe. "Just give me one more hour," I begged, "I'll progress."
"I have eight other babies to deliver tonight," he said.
He wasn't lying.
"A C-section is a routine surgery," he continued.
After more pleading on his part, I finally gave in. The nurse wheeled me into the OR and I delivered my first baby at 9:33 pm on June 12, 2012. The recovery, the breastfeeding—everything about early motherhood—pushed me inches close to depression.
When I went back to see my obstetrician for my six-week check-up my doctor looked at my incision to make sure I was healing okay. "Wow," he said, applauding himself, "who stitched you up? That is one clean incision." From those arrogant words, I made up my mind: My next birth will be a VBAC.
And almost two years later (and working with a new provider), I gave birth to my daughter. I had her vaginally. My strong-willed daughter decided to thunder into this world five days late. And her birth was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
From start to finish, her labor lasted 50 hours. It was two days of agony, doubt, and full-blooded grit. After pushing for over two hours, I remember looking up at the white clock. I wanted to give up. At that point, I had labored for 49 hours. There is no way I'll be able to mentally recover from another C-section, I thought. Sorrow filled me. I didn't have any will left within me—I didn't think I could push anymore.
I was wrong.
I thought of the arrogance I encountered with my first obstetrician. He took my will away from me. He took my right to a natural childbirth. He even took some of my joy.
But I also felt like I let him.
So, the second time around, I made the decision to push—harder. In a way, that doctor empowered me to speak up for myself and believe in my determination. After another hour—three hours total of pushing—the time had come. At 3:54 on June 25, 2014, my daughter was born via VBAC. Her ferocious cry woke my spirit. As her black hair laid on my chest, we sobbed together—a determined mother and daughter.
So, now that my scar is starting to fade, I feel sad. This scar represents my own grit. My own tenacity. My own stubbornness. Things I now pass down to my daughter. I was not going to allow someone else tell me how my next baby was going to be born. My joy belongs to me. I took control of it, as much as I could.
I used to feel a little ashamed of my scar. To me, it represented my inability to speak up for myself. It represented my weakness. But now, my scar represents strength. So, now that I notice it is starting to fade, I feel like I want to tattoo it on permanently.
I look forward to the day when I'm changing my clothes in front of my daughter and she asks, "Mom, what's on your belly?" I'll tell her, "This scar is where your brother came from—and where our unified courage was birthed."I hope this scar stays dark just a few years longer. Because it means that I can tell my daughter about her birth story—one where we defied the odds together—as a team.