Breech Birth: Emili’s Story

Since the publication of the Canadian Term Breech Trial in 2000, birth practices around the world have changed dramatically with regards to breech babies.  For a detailed look at the recent history of breech birth management and criticism of the Term Breech Trial, read our articles Breech Birth in Canada and Breech Birth: Why Not Cut? published earlier this week.  As a part of our series on breech birth, we asked Emili Butrin to share her story with us.  Breech births became almost universally surgically delivered in the U.S. after the Term Breech Trial was published, and Emili’s birth was affected by this change.

Emili Butrin lives in West Bend, Wisconsin, U.S.A., with her husband of 5 years, Jonathan, and their two children, Elijah (3 ½) and Jonah (1 ½). She is a stay-at-home mom with several odd-end jobs on the side, including cleaning houses, nannying, and taking photographs. She is also on the road to becoming a certified doula and IBCLC. She is passionate about women and babies, the birth process, breastfeeding, and attachment parenting.  You can read more about Emili and her journey on her blog, Unmarked Graves Where Flowers Grow.

The following is one of two guest posts this week which are accounts of her births. Elijah was born in January 2008 via cesarean section because he was “big and breech”. Jonah was born a little less than two years later – a successful VBAC.

Elijah’s Birth Story

January 23, 2008. My husband and I ate dinner in our favorite restaurant enjoying every bite of food, the orderliness of our table, the quiet…. oh, the quiet! That evening was splashed by waves of anxiety on my end, the blending of excitement with twinges of fear. The next day, one way or another, I would hold my first child in my arms.

Back home that evening, I felt dreamy as I walked through each room. Was everything in its right place? Was our humble home ready for the burst of life that was about to fill these spaces? I folded the last of the freshly laundered baby clothing while Jonathan and I watched the movie Once (to hear this particular soundtrack, even today, I am transported to that apartment – the emotions, the sounds, the feel of soft, never-been-used onesies folded neatly in a laundry basket).

To de-stress, I took a long, hot shower and finished packing my bag for the hospital.

And then, right before calling it a night, I did one last round of pelvic tilts, and begged my baby to flip down, head-toward-earth and away from my heart.

You see, a week earlier, my blossoming babe had been pronounced breech… and sure enough, he was still there: the smooth, hard sphere of a smallish skull right underneath my breastbone, and the faint flutter of feet on my cervix. “Flip, sweet baby. Please?”

January 24, 2008. The outside was covered in a thin layer of ice. We drove on slick freeways to the hospital. I read my Bible; I prayed for peace.

My child presented butt first (frank breech) and was estimated “big” (over 9 pounds). At the behest of my midwife, an external version had been scheduled. If the version was successful, the tentative plan was to induce labor and proceed with birthing; if the version failed, a cesarean section would follow. I mean, I was there, prepped and ready, so… why not?

I was unaware, to say the least, about my options in the matter, and didn’t think twice about the plan of action. It was one week before my actual “due date” so I wasn‘t “late”. I hadn’t experienced contractions, and was never even checked to see if I had dilated. For my midwife, the decision was simple – I had a big, breech baby that needed to come earth-side pronto.

I entered the hospital room where I would labor, if laboring is what would have happened. I can say at that point, strangely enough, any fear that kept tapping at my heart faded completely. I was at peace with whatever would happen – even more so than my loving husband who was visibly shaky. I wrapped myself in a typical, ugly hospital gown and hopped onto my bed; Jonathan stumbled into a futuristic blue jumpsuit and paced the floor.

Before the procedure, a nurse recommended that I get an epidural, as the external version could be quite uncomfortable. I took it – which ended up being a horrendously painful ordeal. I remember feeling that long, long needle puncture the small of my back. I can still smell the chilling sterility of it all.

But within minutes, numbness flooded my legs and abdomen. A different nurse dragged a blunted object across my tummy, asking if I could feel it. No, I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything. I looked at my purple-painted toenails and tried willing my foot to move. Nothing.

The doctor, a man I had never met before, entered the room. He was silent and serious, and noticeably lacking in social skills. He launched into the procedure quickly – bending, pressing, kneading my belly. He worked on the version for a good 15 minutes before announcing the baby simply would not flip. He was “too big… too stubborn… too high up.” I remember glancing down at my belly and being shocked by the misshapen mound that was my lower half. The doctor wiped sweat from his brow. The failed procedure certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.

From then on, everyone around me moved in double time, as if I were bleeding out on the bed. But I felt fine. My baby’s heartbeat stayed strong and rhythmic. I was able to say a few quick words to my parents, sister Sara, and mother-in-law before I was whisked away through the steel doors of the operating room.

I remember looking up at huge circular lights on the ceiling and thinking, “Is this really happening right now? Really?” But they weren’t words of panic. Oddly enough, I felt cool and collected.

And, of all times, that’s when it hit me: where in the world was my midwife?! Completely MIA. I learned the difference right there between a CPM (Certified Professional Midwife) and a CNM (Certified Nurse Midwife: a distinction unique to the U.S.). My midwife was the latter, acting more like an aloof OB than the personable, engaged, “granola” midwife I thought I was getting. I should have known from day one: when I had asked her about home birth, she looked at me as if I had two heads. I should’ve taken the hint.

At any rate, no midwife; in fact, the same doctor who attempted the version was the one doing the slicing. Yay.

Everyone bustled around – only the kind anesthesiologist near my head was still, softly cracking jokes. Everything around me was either a pale blue scrub or cold stainless steel. I was freezing, and probably reacting to the epidural, so they threw blankets on top of me to help control my shivering. My husband came into the operating room after what seemed like an eternity. His presence instantly warmed me.

I asked, how much longer. “Oh, well…. we’re almost done here!” the doctor exclaimed. That to me was the single craziest thing about the whole ordeal – how fast they unzipped layers of my flesh to get to my child. Scary and cool at the same time.

I began to feel nauseated and could clearly feel palpating hands in my abdomen. I believe they were rearranging my guts at that point. Ugh. NOT. PLEASANT.

But. You know what was pleasant? Amidst the stir of nurses, the dull pain that was swelling from my chest to my legs, and the fact that this whole scenario was miles away from what I had envisioned for myself in the very beginnings of pregnancy – there, on the table about an arm’s reach away, was the one thing that made the whole experience worth it. My baby. My Elijah. They pulled him out and plopped him down on a table – naked, purply-red, and fat. Not the biggest baby I had ever heard of (9 # 8 oz) but still: roly-poly enough to get my drugged-up self shocked.

And shocked too because of the cool red afro he was sporting! I couldn’t believe all of the thick, matted red hair on top of his head. Jonathan and I were speechless.

Baby Elijah let out a lamby cry right away, and Jonathan brought him over to me so I could kiss his warm, chubby cheek. I burst into tears instantly.

He blew bubbles and made plenty of infant “creaky” noises. His head was perfectly rounded – an almost sure-fire indicator that he had been “sectioned out” not pushed out. His legs were bent up, breech-style.

Later that afternoon, about six hours after the surgery, I was able to stand on my feet. I wobbled just a bit from my bedside to the adjacent wall, feeling as if my body had been split in two. It had been split in two. I was afraid to sneeze, laugh, or talk. I thought for certain I would tear the liquid glue holding me together.

I remember thinking: did I do something wrong? What could I do to prevent this from happening again? Elijah was sleeping in his bassinet. My wound throbbed; I felt defeated. But at the same time, I felt a fire lit underneath me. I was compelled to talk to other mothers who had underwent the same ordeal I had. I stumbled across the word “doula” for the first time, and was instantly taken in, thinking to myself, “I wish I had had me one of those…” and “I want to do that for other women!”

I thought about any future births. I knew I wanted to have vaginal births with my subsequent children. I knew I wanted to have a midwife who was personable and knowledgeable. I knew that I wanted to maybe try a home birth. There were many things I started to consider.

“life was meant to be lived; curiosity must be kept alive. one must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life.”