<\/p>\nThe section was scheduled for 3:30 pm. Preparations began.<\/p>\n
But first, I needed to get into a hospital gown.<\/p>\n
So far, I had refused a hospital gown every time, opting to wear my own robe (for admission and overnights) or my own honest-to-goodness clothes (for days). Wearing my own clothes made me feel human, made me feel autonomous, made me feel myself.<\/p>\n
Now, though, I was preparing for what was, for me, the least human, least autonomous, least ME procedure.<\/p>\n
I was preparing for a repeat c-section.<\/p>\n
And the nurse was waiting for me to change into a hospital gown.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I briefly considered whether it was worth it to fight.<\/p>\n
My carefully crafted birth plan, intended for my VBAC attempt, was worthless at this point. <\/p>\n
I had worked so hard to be reasonable<\/em> in my birth plan. I gave my wishes, yes, accepting that there were circumstances under which those wouldn’t be possible or reasonable. Even as I wrote of the interventions I didn’t want, I could think of at least one scenario in which I would accept each one. My biggest request was that I be involved in every step of the process. I wasn’t going to give blanket consent to anything. I wanted to give my own consent every time a line was placed, a medication given, a monitor hooked on.<\/p>\n And now I’d just given consent to the one thing I’d worked so hard to avoid. A repeat c-section. With that, I’d given consent to be hooked to a machine, to be laid flat on my back, to be anesthetized. All those things I’d hoped to avoid this time around? I’d just given consent to go ahead with them.<\/p>\n They were necessary.<\/p>\n The hospital gown was not.<\/p>\n I decided to hold my ground. <\/p>\n I was going to wear my own robe. <\/p>\n My nurse pushed back. “I don’t want to ruin your beautiful robe,” she said. “It’s not going to make it out of the c-section in any condition to wear it again.”<\/p>\n “That’s fine.” I insisted. “I bought this robe for 99 cents at a used store ten years ago. It’s served me well. I don’t care if it’s ruined.”<\/p>\n After a couple more almost identical back and forths, she relented. I would keep my robe on.<\/p>\n They wheeled me into the operating room and the first thing I heard was another nurse calling out, “Somebody get this woman a gown.”<\/p>\n She was peeved, it seemed, that no one had bothered to properly prepare me for surgery.<\/p>\n But my nurse stood firm. “She doesn’t want to wear a gown. She’s quite adamant on that point.”<\/p>\n The anesthetist gave a sigh. “I need to access her back,” she told my nurse. “I need a sterile field to place the spinal.”<\/p>\n I chose to ignore how the anesthetist had been acting as if I weren’t there, weren’t my own person. <\/p>\n I was<\/em> my own person. That was exactly what the robe represented to me at that point.<\/p>\n I spoke directly to the anesthetist. “Cut it.”<\/p>\n “But, but, your beautiful robe.”<\/p>\n “CUT IT.” I didn’t shout, but I was<\/em> firm.<\/p>\n I was wearing this robe to surgery, one way or another. The robe was of no import – being able to wear it was of the highest import. <\/p>\n My nurse found some scissors, lifted the back of my robe. “I’m trying to cut as straight and as careful as I can. Maybe you can sew it back up after you’re done.”<\/p>\n I appreciated the effort, but it really wasn’t important. I’d already said that I didn’t care whether the robe was ruined. I really didn’t. The important thing was that somehow, in this birth that was so far from what I wanted, I remain me. The robe let me do that. <\/p>\n I’m sure it’s difficult, on the other side of the operating table, to understand why patients make what seem like such unreasonable demands. <\/p>\n How difficult is it to put on a hospital gown? Not at all. Why can’t she just do as she’s told, follow procedures? Doesn’t she understand how difficult it is to work around a robe that doesn’t have access to the back?<\/p>\n No, I didn’t understand, until you told my nurse, how valuable access to my back is for you.<\/p>\n But please, try to understand my side. <\/p>\n For you, this is just another day at work, albeit one in which you’re dealing with a difficult patient. For me, this is a day when something I’ve been working for for the past 20 months slips from my hands. This is a day when my life is in danger, my baby’s life in danger. When I’m forced to deliver my baby six weeks early via surgery.<\/p>\n For you, the robe is a nuisance. For me, the robe is the last thing that keeps me myself.<\/p>\n I’m so thankful for my nurse. Even though she didn’t understand why it was important, once she understood THAT it was important, she advocated for me.<\/p>\n She may never know (but I do) what a difference a robe makes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The section was scheduled for 3:30 pm. Preparations began. But first, I needed to get into a hospital gown. So far, I had refused a hospital gown every time, opting to wear my own robe (for admission and overnights) or my own honest-to-goodness clothes (for days). Wearing my own clothes made me feel human, made … Read more The Difference a Robe Makes<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0},"categories":[1290],"tags":[1592],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17425"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17425"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17425\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17443,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17425\/revisions\/17443"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17425"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17425"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/bekahcubed.menterz.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17425"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
<\/p>\n