The Halo Effect

The mental birthing plan that I had made for our first child went something like this: lower self into birthing tub, open legs, and release child into rose petal water. In case of pain, squeeze husband’s hand.

27 hours of labor, an epidural, a spinal block, and one C-section later, my son was born.  Never in my life had I been given so many drugs or had so many needles been inserted into me. I thought I was going to die.

Afterward the harrowing experience, I read about the theory of birth pain amnesia. It was the idea that a woman’s body purposefully forgets the pain of labor so that she is capable of having more children. I hoped that this theory was true because less than one year later, I found myself pregnant again. This time around, I was much more realistic. I signed up for a planned cesarean.   

On Friday July 22 around 9 PM, I waddled myself into the maternity ward of our local hospital in Germany. I calmly pulled out my Mutterpass, or mother passport, which contained all the necessary information about me and my pregnancy.  It took mere seconds and all the paperwork was done. There would be no bill. My public insurance covered everything. As an American, I was still in awe of this, even after living here for several years. 

But the relief was only momentary because a sinister voice started sounding in my head, “Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Ignition!” It was the countdown to my next contraction.

 I grabbed onto the hallway’s handrails as if the world around me was about to get sucked up into the after burn.  A midwife yelled at me, “Nein, langsam atmen!” (No, breath slower!) And I exhaled a puff of air into her face.

When it was over, we were led into a large birthing room, just past the office where I had scheduled my c-section. 

It was planned for next Tuesday.

My contractions had started slowly that morning. By evening, they were five minutes apart. I had no choice but to go to the hospital, praying it would not take 27 hours before I could have a cesarean like last time. 

The sun had set. Barbecues from the park that we had passed on the way here were now extinguished. Only a hazy light remained outside.  The midwife turned on a small star light in the corner of the room. We were in for a long night.

My waters slowly broke and as soon as they changed the padding on the bed, more liquid came out.  I moved on my side, on all fours, I knelt on the floor, all the while demanding water or juice from Pierre, my husband.   

I asked about an epidural. The midwives said no because an epidural was to help with the pain during the start of dilation.  My cervix was already more than half way open. Or perhaps they just told me this to shut me up. Hospitals in Germany don’t like to use epidurals because of the risk of complications.

Whatever the reason, this actually made me feel kind of proud of myself. During my son’s birth, my cervix had only dilated to a grand total of five centimeters in 27 hours. Perhaps I could do this; I was a warrior, I thought to myself.

Then, the next contraction came, and I whined for the epidural again, “Bitte, bitte, biiitte!”  (Please, please, pleeease!) I was an inflatable warrior. The pain was too much. It pulled the plug on what pride I had left. I was reduced to a puddle, begging for drugs. But the midwives told me “Nein, kein PDA” which meant no epidural. 

I started to daydream to distract myself. I stared at the star lamp. I glared at the birthing bathtub that I was not allowed to use because of my previous cesarean. I thought about my husband wolfing down lamb chops before leaving. He did not want to pass out from hunger like he almost did last time during our son’s birth. I also thought about what PDA meant in English: public display of affection. 

When Pierre and I first started dating we would PDA all the time.  Once even in the supermarket produce section where some half-wit asked us to take it to the meat section.  

Kissing led to love, love led to marriage, then to the baby stuck behind the birthing-mother-neck or Gebärmutterhals, as cervix is called in German.  And who did this to me? Pierre! I could kill him. He had no idea how this felt, and it was all because of his supermarket kisses!

The contractions had mysteriously slowed down, explaining why I had time to think about lamb chops, female anatomy in German and super market kisses.  The drilling at the small of my back was now reduced to an ever present grinding. I was still in pain, but it was like I was floating on a strange pain cloud. 

The midwife checked me. I was fully dilated and the baby’s head was engaged. The baby would most likely come out of me via the standard route. I did not know what this was like. I was in uncharted waters.

Last time, I exhausted myself and then a team of professionals took over and cut the baby out.  This time, it was looking like I would need to push the baby out, all by myself. But I had about as much energy left as the chalk outline of a dead body.  

I thought about the suction cup apparatus from birthing class. That could help me get the baby out. Unfortunately, I could not remember what it was called in German. I stuttered, “Staub . . .Staub . .. Staubsauger!”  Or literately, “dust sucker.”  The German word for vacuum.  

The midwife chuckled, no they would not suck dust out of me.  The other midwives in the room and my husband also laughed. Nor was it time to use the “Saugglocke” or sucking bell as the suction cup for the baby’s head was called in German, if that was what I was trying to say.   

My hands were wrapped around the headboard, I was writhing in pain, all the while flashing my naked butt to the entire room. Yet everyone was having a jolly time because I said, “vacuum” instead of “sucking bell.” The two sounded very much alike for a non-native speaker of German! Deflated, I put my head down.  

Pierre told me to think of the beach in Isabella, Puerto Rico. I think that he must have seen the picture from Isabella that I packed in my hospital suitcase. It was an image of my “happy place” from one of our vacations together before kids. He had not seen it, he just somehow knew, and I instantly felt reconnected with him.

The midwives couldn’t properly detect the baby’s heartbeat. They looked up me trying to figure out how to get electrodes to stick onto the baby’s head, which was apparently full of hair.  The electrodes kept falling off, but I didn’t care. I was in the warm sand, sipping a margarita, listening to the waves crash against the shore in Isabella. Pierre was snorkeling, and I was reading a book in the sunshine.  

Then someone dumped the margarita on my head.  The electrodes were in place and had detected that the baby was in distress.

 I had to come down from my perch by the headboard and lie on my back.  Everything below the belt was in so much pain, I only had the strength of my arms.  There was nothing to hold onto to except Pierre’s neck. I wrapped my entire left arm around him, putting him in a headlock and squeezed to turn myself around.  Pierre started choking.  

My legs were put into the stirrups. The first doctor of the evening arrived with, what else, the suction cup or Saugglocke for the baby’s head.  

I needed to push on the next contraction. I had nothing left, but a force from beyond came to me.  The contraction arrived, and I pushed like hell. It felt like my pelvis was about to shatter. Nothing happened.  

The baby was in distress, stuck in the birth canal and there was no time for a cesarean.  The suction cup was not even helping. I thought this is it. This is where the mother-ship capsizes, killing both mother and child.

One of the midwives looked me in the eyes and said, “wir helfen dir!” (we will help you!) And somehow, the German words reassured me.  Another contraction came. I got up on my elbows and summoned the force of the sea and the ocean. I released a guttural battle cry of the desperate woman warrior.  I harnessed the pain of a baby that I lost at 12 weeks into pregnancy and the 27 hours of labor for my son. The baby inside of me needed me right now. I gave everything.  A fire ignited within me.  

Like a cannonball blasting threw a birdcage, a baby flew out of me.  Not just the head, so that the doctor could remove the suction cup, but the entire baby: flying.  Pierre saw the baby sail towards the floor. The doctor instantly dropped the suction cup to free her arms to catch the airborne child. The baby was just as quickly thrown onto me. For I was bleeding badly. 

I asked if the baby was a boy or a girl.  No one knew, the doctor and the midwives were busy checking on me. I looked at the umbilical cord and was confused.  Then, I realized that I was looking at the wrong part. I lifted the cord to see that it was a girl. She was born on Saturday morning at 12:16 AM. I had been in the hospital for only three hours.

The doctor inspected me and said matter-of-factually, “The good news is that your anus is intact.”  And proceeded to stitch me up, remarking several times that it looked crooked.  

As she sewed me up, I held our baby girl in my arms. She was gorgeous, like her brother.  She had so much hair that she looked like she was wearing a wig. Her arms and legs squirmed and her tiny grey eyes resembled mine. 

I could not believe that I had contained this little person inside me. She had floated around in a dark bubble where I provided her everything. Now she was moving and gasping for air all on her own.

An entire life with all the possibilities for friendship, strawberry ice cream, rock collections, heartache, unemployment, a master’s thesis, and a new generation where in my arms. Whatever she would be, the world needed one of her, and our family needed her.  

She turned her head to the side after nursing and fell asleep, all puffy-cheeked with clenched fists in the air. She was adorable. The pain, humiliation, and exhaustion, it was all forgiven. 

In researching birth pain amnesia more closely, I discovered that a mother does not necessarily forget the pain of childbirth. What happens is that the immense joy she feels upon seeing her child slowly starts taking over the memory.  Happiness floods in each time she looks back, making the experience positive overtime. It is called the halo effect.   

Despite the pain, a thin golden halo has appeared around the memory of both our son and daughter’s birth. Holding our long-awaited child after a marathon labor was more effective than a morphine drip. I remember the pain of their births, but what I remember more, what stays with me, what helps me through the hard times is that rose-colored moment when I held that new little life in my arms.

To read our first child’s birth story: https://frozenocean.home.blog/2018/11/21/sons-birth/

If you like this, please comment, share, and be sure to follow this blog!