I’ve been pregnant three times, and I have two beautiful, amazing, awe-inspiring boys. My first pregnancy did not make it, ending in a preterm birth at 21 weeks. Because of my loss, my second pregnancy was highly medicalized — I had every intervention known to man, and things STILL went south. Because of THAT, my third pregnancy was wrought with anxiety and fear.
Now, pushing 40, my window of fertility closing, I would LOVE another baby, but I’m terrified of being pregnant again. I can’t do it again. Nope. Nope. Nope.
After so many complications and traumatic experiences involving pregnancy and birth, everything from my loss to a C-Section gone awry (awry is a nice way of saying I FELT MY C-SECTION), I just can’t make myself go through it again. You could promise me that it would be a routine pregnancy and delivery, no complications, no problems, and I still wouldn’t.
After my loss, my OB and I decided to take no chances, and I opted to have a vaginal cerclage placed when I was 16 weeks pregnant. The placement was an outpatient procedure, and I was assured it would be a piece of cake. I arrived at the hospital, checked in, and after a bit was taken back to the OR for epidural placement. That’s when things started getting hinky.
After my epidural had been placed, my legs were suspended, displaying all my parts — ALL OF THEM — to the OR …which was filled with people. Not just a few. Not just a handful. There were probably 15 people milling about with others passing in and out, willy-nilly. At least half of them were men. I was shaved (by a man) and prepped (by a man), then left, legs hoisted into the air, exposed to the world, for 35 minutes while we waited for the maternal-fetal medicine doctor to arrive.