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::sings:: I’ve got the funk. I don’t want the funk.

And I think I know why I have the funk.

I have no motivation.  None.  Zero.  Nada.

Because I have no plans.  No goals.  Nothing to motivate me to DO anything about anything.

Depressing, right?

I am horribly fat.  Or at least I feel horribly fat.  None of my clothes fit right thanks to the lovely “Mother’s Apron” I’ve got hanging over my c-section scar. You know what I’m talking about.  That stretchy, saggy, flap of flab that is EXACTLY WHERE YOUR WAISTBAND GOES?!?!  Yeah, that one.  (And really?  Did that NEED a name?!?!)

I hate it.

I have no idea what to do about it.  And I’m at a loss.

See, here’s the thing.

I want another child.  I feel like everyone around me who has already reproduced once is moving on to number 2. Or 3.  And I?

I am in Reproductive Purgatory.

Either we’re “One and Done” and I need to accept that or there needs to be a plan in place for Baby Human #2.

In my heart, I want another child (or two) so I know that we’re not “one and done.”  And I know Dan wants another child (or children). 

But I’m absolutely terrified of the thought of going through all of the post-baby “ick” I went through the first time.  I’m terrified of not getting to even attempt a VBAC, or of being told “Sure, we support VBAC” and then being baited and switched into another c-section mid-contraction.  And honestly, I don’t know if I can emotionally take another c-section. I truly don’t.

I don’t feel like I gave birth.  I feel like I gave life, but not birth.  And I suppose the fact that I gave life should be the more commendable outcome, but unless you’ve experienced what I’m talking about, you just don’t know how having the idea of your perfect birth fall to pieces can crush you.  I know that my c-section was the main contributor to my PPD/A.  I know that with everything I have inside me.  I can’t know that I wouldn’t have still suffered, wouldn’t still be suffering, had I delivered vaginally.  But I know that the c-section led to my feelings of inadequacy as a mother.

If I couldn’t even give BIRTH how could I POSSIBLY take care of this child?

I haven’t written much here about my feelings regarding my c-section in a long time.  In depth, maybe never.  And part of that is because when I start talking or thinking about it, those feelings of failure come back in full force and I open myself up to criticisms like “C-sections save lives!” and “All that matters is your son is here!” Or worse–fights about how I shouldn’t feel the way I feel and that to feel this way is a slap in the face to every woman who has ever had a c-section.  Which, if you’ve passed Reading Comprehension 101, you know is not what I’m saying at all.

I know some c-sections are necessary.  I do.  I know that they save lives.

I know that the ultimate outcome is that my son got here safely.  I do.  I know that.

But none of that changes how I feel as a woman who feels like the system failed her.  A woman who feels like the time she went into labor (a weekend) wasn’t conducive to the doctor’s schedule and as such she was forced to make an uninformed decision so the doctor could get back to her regularly scheduled programming.  A woman who is terrified that she will not be able to attempt the birth she wants despite all the knowledge she has gained and emotional trauma she has survived.

More often than not, c-sections are used as time-saving measures to help a doctor stick to a schedule.  Or, perhaps even more often than that, they are performed because they make hospitals more money.

The hospital cost of my c-section was $30K.  The cost of a vaginal delivery at the same hospital would’ve been about $10K.  Thank God I have great insurance.  When I received my provider’s pre-payment schedule in the mail, their part of a normal, vaginal delivery was $300.  A c-section? $3,000.  Yes, that’s an extra zero.  Does any of that seem all warm and fuzzy to you?  Like patients are more than just dollar signs??  I didn’t think so.

But really, it’s not about the money.  (I mean…it sort of is…I’m getting to that…)

It’s not about the cost for me.  I don’t care if the hospital bills my insurance $30K for a vaginal delivery.  I just want to be able to have one, and I want to be supported in my desire to VBAC.  Maybe that’s selfish of me. 

Where money DOES come into play in this situation is in our ability to afford another child.  Right now, it’s not do-able, and I know that.  My head knows that.  I know that we are living with the budge we’re living with and that soon, hopefully, we will be able to ease up just a smidge.  I know that there is a light at the end of this tunnel. 

My uterus, however, does not have a brain and it sees all these cute little chubby babies and it remembers all the cute little chubby baby sighs Joshua used to emit when he was sleeping in “piglet pose” and it just screams “BABYBABYBABY!”

And my heart just hurts.

I don’t have a plan.  I don’t have a goal.  I don’t have any motivation. 

So there I am. In a funk.  A deep rut from which I can’t quite seem to climb out.

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