Bubby's birth: Why I choose hospitals.

A few days ago, a high school friend (and favorite photographer) of mine had her first baby. She gave birth at home, in water, with no medication. She posted on her Facebook page that it was the best decision she's ever made. I applaud her for taking matters into her own hands, reading up on various birthing methods, choosing the one she thought was best and sticking with it. I am sure it was a beautiful experience and I can't wait to see the pictures her sister (a budding photographer) captured during her labor and delivery.

Remember when I watched The Business of Being Born a few months ago? That documentary cited lots of reasons not to have babies in hospitals. Lots of sound reasons backed by stats and logic and all that fun stuff. But while I do NOT think home births are weird or crazy or irresponsible, they're still not for me. All the evidence in the world will not change that.

My opinions (just like everyone else's) are formed based on the experiences I have had in my life. For instance, I will always try to eat a 50% raw diet because doing so has majorly improved my health and well-being. I also think breastfeeding is great but formula feeding is a wonderful alternative if you can't. And if you're feeling blue and/or panicked all the time and hate being alive, you should get professional help (that post is coming soon).

I will never choose to have my babies outside of a hospital. I know some of you are shaking your head, thinking, Why does she feel this way? She can have a home birth! She's even had a VBAC! Yeah, you're right, I did, and guess what? That was scary, too. But this post is not about my VBAC; it's about coming thisclose to losing my first child. Nothing puts that chilled-to-the-bone fear into you like seeing your daughter's heart rate plummet to the levels of death. At that point, I wanted nothing more than to save my baby. That's why I signed the waiver and allowed the doctors to cut me open to remove her from the dangerous environment of my womb. I would have rather risked dying myself than lose her.

Did the hospital cause my need for a C-section, as The Business of Being Born purports? The short answer is no. In fact, when I got to the hospital that fateful Thursday morning, the nurses almost sent me home because I wasn't even dilated. But one nurse had the sense to monitor me for a bit, just to see how things were going in utero. I'm so glad she did, because this story might have had a tragic outcome had she not. Within minutes, it became very obvious something was already wrong. Fetal heart rates are normally between 120 - 180 beats per minute; Bubby's was around 100. I was nearly a week late and had been contracting irregularly for weeks beforehand. The complication had already been underway long before I arrived at the hospital.

The on-call doctor asked if he could break my water, another sensible move that confirmed things were unstable: he found a decent amount of meconium in the fluid. Meconium equals fetal distress. Things were quickly adding up. My heart screamed, "Get this baby OUT!" But the doctors -- caring doctors who didn't want to intervene beyond what was necessary -- said, "Let's let you labor on your own for a while."

So, I got an epidural and tried to sleep while my body did its thing. And nothing happened. Irregular contractions, a low fetal heart rate and no dilation. After a few hours, they started me on Pitocin, a labor-enhancing drug that makes contractions a lot harder and more frequent. All the while, I'm thinking, This baby needs to be born and QUICK. The thought of a C-section loomed.

The Pitocin did nothing but confirm the one thing I'd suspected all along: a complication. The strong contractions produced by the medication were causing little Bubby's heart rate to dip even further. The labor nurse felt around Bubby to see if the umbilical cord was around her neck -- it was. And at the very moment she confirmed this, Bubby's heart rate suddenly dropped into the low 60's. Mine shot up to stratospheric levels.

My baby is going to die.

The nurse called -- shouted, really -- for assistance. Some other nurses ran into the room and quickly turned me over. One of them stabbed my arm with a shot of terbutaline, a drug that stops contractions. Another asked for my husband's cell phone number -- he'd left to get breakfast just minutes prior. It took me a minute to recite it for her; my mind was obviously on other things. I was shaking, crying, my heart pounding.

My baby is going to die.

Things calmed down and after a while, Bubby's heart beat recovered enough not to incite panic. A new doctor, Dr. Glenn, came in to tell me it was time for a C-section. Tears ran down my face as I listened to his prognosis. I didn't want to be sliced open, but more than anything, I didn't want my baby to die. And as it was, she was dangerously close. So it had to be.

Dill came back to this scene of chaos and confusion. He was asked to put on scrubs. I was given a strong (and disgusting) antacid. Then, they raced me down the hall to the OR.

It was time to get the baby out. No one had to tell me this; I had known it all along. I was relieved to be in the frigid operating room, but still nervous. Anything could happen. I would not breathe easy until I heard her first cry.

Soon, my little baby was pulled out of my womb. Dill watched as they performed the surgery. He told me the umbilical cord was wound tightly around her neck a few times and had been laying against the top of her head. I imagined little Bubby trying to descend down the birth canal, her only source of blood and oxygen being clamped each time she moved down. That had been her struggle for the past few weeks. It broke my heart to imagine it. But thankfully, it was over.

She let out a healthy and much-anticipated cry. They dropped the curtain so I could take a peek. I gasped when I saw her: she was beautiful. Pink, chubby and healthy. She was a carbon copy of me, only she had chipmunk cheeks and huge feet. I smiled and sighed with relief. She was here and she was fine.

One of my favorite pictures.

The truth: a C-section saved my child's life.

I know many, many mothers throughout the world have babies at home, often without assistance, and their babies are born completely healthy. These mothers laud their births as the best experiences of their life, incredibly empowering, moving and spiritual. That is wonderful. But I feel incredibly blessed I was able to have my baby in a hospital where doctors used necessary medical interventions to save my baby. My situation was not normal; I am aware of that. And it isn't likely to happen again. But it happened. And as such, the hospital is where I want to be when I'm having my babies.

However, after my second birth experience and all it entailed, I do believe the way we labor in hospitals is not helpful to the delivery process. We lay flat on our backs, we don't get to change positions as needed. When it's time to push, we're flat on our backs, forcing our bodies to defy gravity. This just doesn't work. I have the scars and damaged goods to prove it.

It seems the best way to for me to have a baby is in a hospital with the security of a nearby operating room and the ability to perform an emergency C-section, yet with the naturopathic aide of a certified nurse midwife who will permit more freedom during labor. Best of both worlds, right?

(No, this is not a pregnancy announcement.)

What's your preferred method of baby delivery? Are you still trying to figure out what's best for you, or have you already zeroed in on your ideal birth experience?

P.S. Don't forget to enter the giveaway here! It ends Friday.