Concrit = CONstructive CRITicism, for those that may not know.
If you haven't read the post before this (Rays' story) then please do so now.
Ok, read it? Here we go.
First off, wow, it's obviously been a few years since I've written anything seriously. That was atrocious. Some nasty mash-up of facts, keeping it simple, sad attempts at waxing poetic and just...yeah, bad.
Things it calls to my attention: Once the labor part of the story hits I seem to have removed myself from the narrative almost entirely. A little troubling to me but not terribly surprising. I was aware that I had some feelings of failure in that arena for my body not doing "what it should", and the way I wrote it, it really brought to mind the fact that I basically had to beat it to a bloody pulp to get myself IN active labor and dialating.
I have trouble visualizing how the labor flowed.
I have trouble translating my experience into a normal act of the body and a natural part of life. I think this is made fairly clear in how I glossed over most of the labor, interventions, and hesitantly mentioned the "medicine", ie pitocin, which actually did nothing for the labour except make my life harder. That's probably the only decision I do regret a little...from 1-5cm the pitocin did absolutely nothing, it was all done with cytotec, the foley catheter, and the last cm in the few hours I spent resting while NOT on the pitocin, before they broke my water. I think I should have taken a break from the pit once they broke my water, walked around a bit, and seen if the labor would go ahead on its own.
I really couldn't think of a nicer term for the c-section than "make a new way for you to come out". While this story is not something I'll be introducing Ray to at a young age it'll obviously need some revision over time. But honestly...there just isn't a nice way to present a c-section. I don't want him feeling like it was some horrific, violent thing, that they cut him out of me, but what other way is there to say it? I don't mind the scar, and the little reminder of his birth. It's a little sore still and kind of a bother but I'm not ashamed, you know? The recovery wasn't terrible (thank you Mama) but I don't want him to think I at all blame him. I dunno.
It is Anthonys opinion that Ray was ready to come when the contractions started in early May, and that putting a stop to those (while obviously the right decision, 30 weeks is doable but risky) put a wrench in my bodies natural rythym. I'm actually thinking this could be a big factor. As a result I made a few more trips in, ended up on terbutaline (nasty, jittery stuff) for a week or more, and I think as far as contractions go I ended up in a rut, so to speak. Like the old ruts in a dirt road from a cart, worn so deep that it's nigh impossible to guide the cart out of them? Makes some sense to me.
Well this is the last post on this subject for a while. I don't mean it to set the tone for the whole blog or come off as terribly whiny, this has all just been mulling around in my brain the last few weeks and as ever, writing it down helps me order my thoughts a bit.