Story #94 - Marilou, Boucherville QC (CANADA) - Birth Story, COVID, Weight-Based Stigma, Fatphobia & Missing our Village
For this second pregnancy, I thought I'd be more zen about birthing my baby and trusting my body. I thought I wouldn't have to grieve too many aspects of my daily life since this was my second rodeo.
Then COVID happened.
Quickly, I had to mourn the certainty of a pseudo-normality during the weeks that preceded and followed the arrival of my son.
I was at the end of my pregnancy when the regulations were put in place by the government here in Quebec. I had an uncontrollable and irrational fear of becoming sick. I kept thinking that the virus would get out of control and force me to give birth alone.
In a world where we want to value the father's role and presence at birth, it's incredibly violent to consider stripping that moment from them.
There was a period at the beginning of the pandemic when the medical establishment mentioned that women could have to birth on their own, and it traumatized me. That didn't last long, and I don't think it was ever implemented where I live, but that fear stuck.
The other challenge I had was to trust my body. I had to be induced with my first son, Léonard, and it left me with the lingering feeling that my body had failed me. During my whole pregnancy, I was afraid that my body wouldn't know how to start on its own. Finally, our second son, Baptiste, came on March 28. His induction date was the following week, at what would have been the peek of the first wave. It felt like dodging a bullet.
I was lucky to be surrounded by a great team. My family doctor* was very reassuring, both as a medical professional and as a mother. Ultimately, it's her who helped me defuse the feeling of helplessness I had towards my body and its ability to birth my child.
I had two strippings, one at 38 and the other at 39 weeks. I didn't know what early labor felt like because my water had broke at the hospital due to the medication with my previous son. But I started to have what felt like contractions on Friday evening. We didn't want to go to L&D too early, especially not with COVID, so we monitored it for a while. I waited until after dinner on Saturday to call the hospital. I ate, took a bath, and felt some liquid coming out. It was time.
It was a lot to organize our trip to the hospital. We needed someone to care for our toddler, even though the province was technically in lockdown. My sister and her partner worked from home, so they offered to come and care for Léonard. It took about 30 minutes for them to arrive, and when we finally got to the hospital, the nurse checked me: I was at 7.5 cm. She was like, "Wow! You are in control!"
For Léonard's birth, I had lost the wonderful nurse who had followed me throughout labor. Her shift ended as soon as I started to push, and the one who replaced her ruined everything. She kept telling me to stop screaming. She'd say things like, "Don't push with your face, you'll pop some veins." Or "Stop crying! He won't come faster if you cry."
It took me a while to understand that obstetric abuses and violence are real. It was minimal compared to what others go through, but it was so rough. In the end, you are told that your baby is healthy and well, so you should be happy. But I know I would have been happier with the other supportive nurse. The outcome would have been the same—a healthy baby—and I wouldn't have had to endure cruel comments.
Birthing my child was the most intense experience I've ever had in my life. Why shouldn't I cry?
This time, COVID seemed to have played in my favor. The nurses were careful despite the extreme context in which they're working. I was lucky because Boucherville and Pierre Boucher Hospital are now a hot spot for COVID. The maternity ward is always more protected, but the circumstances are still awful.
(Family photo)
Everyone thought that it'd be a long labor or that I'd have to be induced, but no.
I remember my partner saying, "Just a second, I'm going to pee and I come back," but he didn't make it. I had two gigantic contractions, and my brain went numb. Two more surges and I was at 10 cm, with the need to push. Nothing was ready in the delivery room—which was the same as with my first! The doctor almost didn't make it on time to catch him. I was a little in shock when Baptiste came out after four pushes.
My body did it this time. And on its own.
I've always had a conflictual relationship with my body. When my partner and I decided to have children, I was considered overweight, and I knew it would taint every interaction I would have with my providers. Weight bias and medical fat shaming are very real and cause a lot of damages. I cannot count the number of colleagues or friends who have been shamed, if only indirectly, by their doctors during their pregnancies. It also happened to me with Léonard. I thought it was a battle like any other, but I think it runs deeper than I'd like to admit.
I'm lucky to have good self-esteem, but comments about your size can absolutely make you feel vulnerable. You question yourself. Although I'm educated on the topic and know that there's no solid evidence that your size can harm your pregnancy, you wonder about the risks. It's ingrained in our culture to hate bigger bodies and make you feel bad for having one.
Between my two boys, I breastfed for a while—eleven months. I didn't get my period back during that time, and when it did, it was all over the place. I ended up consulting because, deep down, I thought that something was wrong with my body. I didn't trust it could just need a little more time to adjust. My postpartum with Léonard had also been rocky, between changing job, not having enough time, and him not being able to adapt to kindergarten. But instead of thinking to myself, "You probably can't get pregnant because of hormonal and lifestyle changes," I blamed my weight.
After the birth of Baptiste, they put us into a room with six other people. The babies were only separated by curtains. Not ideal.
We negotiated our discharge for the following day. We didn't want to be stuck in a hospital that's full and treats COVID patients on the other side of the ward.
It sucks to have had to go through that. It wasn't the plan to swap the magic and joy for incertitude and anxiety. I wasn't calm. I had to deliver this baby, so we could go back home and be safe. I'll eventually get over it, but I'm not there yet.
What's going on in Québec makes no sense. They opened up the schools for economic reasons so parents could go back to work.
The guidelines put in place are first and foremost economical. They are not human.
Everyone knows money rules the world. But what's more intelligent: to allow people to shop at Walmart or deprive them of seeing their families? How come a 60-year-old woman is forced to go back to teach elementary school all while she is not allowed to see her grandkids?
The government thinks people are idiots. You feel like you're doing something illegal if someone wants to come over and drop a meal off for you and your new baby. Meanwhile, in every big mall, hundreds gather "safely."
It makes me angry beyond words.
(Family photo)
At least when we came back home with Baptiste, my sister was there. I was able to unpack everything with her, and we received so much love from them. We also had missed Léonard, and were so excited to be reunited. He was curious but distant, which we expected.
But the following days, things got harder.
On our first night, he got trouble sleeping, but he was still our sweet boy. One the second day, though, the crisis began. It was never against the baby himself, but us. It's hard. Welcoming a sibling is a huge adjustment. You have to compartmentalize your time between a toddler, breastfeeding, organizing the house.
Because of COVID, we didn't have the resources and support systems we expected to get, which is yet another thing to grieve. Both my partner and I had a rough time with the baby-blues period. At some point, I wasn't too sure I would not let myself go entirely. The hormones don't help. Neither does the isolation.
Léonard would ask us why he couldn't see his grand-parents as much as he used to.
It was heartbreaking.
Still, we carry around an immense feeling of guilt. Although it's not our fault, we are shattered to see him so sad. We got a little used to it now that it's been two months [5.9.2020]. We've found ways to entertain him, but this time in our lives definitely feels like we're in the eye of the hurricane. It's everything that comes with becoming a parent, multiplied by 1000 due to isolation and lack of support.
People are like, "But why did you have another child now?" Every time I roll my eyes. Yes, it was our choice, but it doesn't mean we know how to handle this very unique situation.
We have a tight-knit family, so to be deprived of their presence right now is heart-wrenching. I keep thinking about that infamous "Third Day" after the first baby was born two years ago. My parents had come over to eat pâté chinois and met Léonard for the first time. It felt so homey and wonderful.
Things are so different this time.
We'll get through it, but it doesn't mean I'm not emotional about it. If ever we have another child, I promised myself to savor every single moment and not take anything for granted. I know there's no ideal situation, but COVID made everything feel like we're in a constant state of emergency.
I keep thinking, "Some have it so much worse!" In 2017, I learned I was pregnant on the one-year death anniversary of my 21-year-old cousin. I had to remind myself that my emotions were valid even though my aunt had lost her child, who was once a little baby like the one I was growing.
Guilt doesn't do any good to anyone. It won't bring my cousin back. And it won't alleviate the pain of not having my parents around to visit.
Life is weird. My son looks a lot like my cousin. He loves everything he used to love, too. Sometimes, I'm scared I'll forget him. And then I see him in Léonard's eyes. It helps to keep him alive. It brings me back down to earth.
Especially when I miss my parents... and their pâté chinois.
*In Quebec, general practitioners are allowed to monitor pregnancies until the patient's due date. They do not attend the birth.