“You did a way better job than the doctor!”

 

I’m praising my husband as he successfully packed my cesarean wound. That whole sentence sounds super sexy, right? 

 

11 days ago, Moe and I welcomed our baby girl--Isabella. Baby’s birth was probably the scariest thing I had to undergo, mainly because I just realized I’m an actual wimp, and the thought of an eminent c-section overruled all logic and replaced them with impending fear.

 

We did everything we could. I laid in awkward yoga positions, walked for miles, tried acupuncture, moxibustion--we basically did everything BUT offer up the blood of our first-born. Still, no matter what we did, our efforts were frugal in the outcome of her delivery.

 

“She’s too tight in there, her butt is wedged in your pelvis; we have to do a c-section,” my doctor’s voice trailed off. I nod, but honestly I knew this was the answer I’d be given. I ask for Moe, but before he could even walk in, the pressure I felt on my stomach turned out to be the incisions; they had started to cut me open before he got there.

 

“You’re going to meet your baby in a minute!”

 

A minute? A freakin’ minute? So...it took all but four seconds to slice me open and they couldn’t wait for the father of my child to come console me first? I must admit: I was a wreck. The c-section itself didn’t hurt, but feeling like I got wheeled onto an episode of Grey’s Anatomy didn’t help, either. Luckily, my anesthesiologist was also a gun enthusiast, and while that was slightly distracting, the control-freak in me couldn’t help but freak out about the whole procedure. 

 

Recovery was hard. It was so hard, I found myself crying a lot. Hot tears of frustration would well up each time I had to get up from the bed. I mean, come on, I’m supposed to be better than this. 

 

I’m always critiquing myself, even after a c-section--go figure.

 

Bella, though, is an absolute angel. I remember looking down at her face and feeling an overwhelming amount of joy. I was so afraid of the not-so-taboo-now PPB (postpartum blues), and the moment I saw her, every ounce of pain was worth it. 

 

Back to the story.

 

So I’m laying there--baby on my chest, pain emanating through my body, and the nurse tells me I must walk. After I walk, I was told I must pee. Sounds super easy, right? Wrong. I felt like my body had betrayed me, that it had given up the good fight, and all that was left to fend for myself was my staggering dignity. 

 

Between the Percocet and Motrin cocktails I was given, every movement hurt. This recovery process was hands-down the most challenging thing I have ever waded through, and I feel like a giant wimp for admitting that. Sure, c-sections are “major” surgery, but there are a ton of women out there who either handle it better than I can, or are better at not bitching about it. In either case, I’m glad that the final outcome is the most gorgeous baby I have ever laid my eyes on.

 

But all complaints aside...you know what this milestone has taught me? That just when I thought my husband couldn’t be more amazing, he always manages to outdo himself--every single time.