I Blame Padmé Amidala

CONTENT WARNING

distressing language, suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, traumatic labor

Fear and Shame

I'll never forget watching Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith with my father. He was so excited to show me these movies. Episodes IV, V, and VI came out during his childhood, and he wanted to share his love for the series with me. He was as excited as a little kid. We made popcorn and settled in front of the big screen with the surround sound blasting, ready for the experience of a lifetime. The rise of Darth Vader.

I loved Star Wars too, and it was always a pleasure spending quality time with my dad. But I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that Revenge of the Sith scarred me for life.

When Padmé Amidala died in childbirth, that was it, I knew I never wanted to have children of my own. There was no way I was going through that. I never even imagined dying in childbirth was a possibility, and that one scene was enough to cement this fear in my developing brain for the rest of my life.

Then, I got pregnant at 21 years old. I was a junior in college with my whole life ahead of me. And now, I was a disgrace.

It didn't matter that I had been with my partner for two years at this point. It didn't matter that I was an adult capable of making my own decisions. It didn't matter that I no longer believed the same things my parents believed.

Catholics should never get pregnant out of wedlock, and I did.

And I was throwing my life away.

And I would never finish college.

And I always made the wrong decisions.

And my pro-life father told me he supported whatever decision I made; you can infer the implication.

And I don't even know what compelled me to make the decision I did, but I kept the baby.

It was the most shame I ever felt in my life, for more reasons than one. Reasons that are hard to explain for people who don't have my experience. The main shame was the religious guilt I still carried with me, despite being a non-believer for nearly a decade at that point.

I didn't want to tell anyone. Obviously, my partner and I told our immediate families, but that was it. I couldn't even tell my grandparents. I don't even want to know what they said when my parents told them, but I do know my nana's reaction wasn't good.

The Incident

I was lucky enough to be on my mother's health insurance; a union plan from the hospital she worked in. I didn't have to pay out of pocket for anything, but I had to use the hometown hospital, and many people knew me there as my mother's child.

I was really nervous to go in for my first ultrasound. What if I saw someone I knew? I brushed those thoughts away. I wasn't showing at that point, and people go to the imaging center for a plethora of things. I was just being paranoid. I would be fine. And I was because I didn't see anyone I knew, but I got to see my baby for the first time.

It was weird, and uncomfortable, and I didn't feel anything happy like people are supposed to feel. I felt alien in my own body. It was painful and strange and the technicians talked to me like I was the baby.

I went alone as my partner was working. I had never felt more alone.

About a week later, I was sitting in one of my classes when I got a text from a childhood friend. I don't even remember what class it was. I don't remember what we were studying. But I remember I was sitting at the second table back on the eastern wall of the room. My laptop was open for "note taking" though I was more than likely fucking around as I tended to.

"Are you pregnant?!?"

I froze.

My cheeks got hot. I felt dizzy. I wanted to throw up, and not from the morning sickness. People from high school knew. Everyone was going to find out.

I remember Googling distressing questions in that class, immediately after getting the text:

"can I get an abortion at 16 weeks?"

"i don't want to be pregnant."

"how to stop a pregnancy naturally?"

I was freaking out. I couldn't do it. I didn't know if I even wanted this baby. What was I doing? Why was I doing this? I just didn't know. I hated the word mother. I hated the way people treated mothers. I hated the way pregnancy was always portrayed in the media. Feminine. Fragile. A blessing.

It felt like a curse, one that I placed on myself.

"You can't tell anyone. Please don't tell anyone."

I pleaded with my friend.

She was upset that I didn't tell her. She wanted to know why I didn't tell her.

I told her I didn't tell anyone.

Then she told me who she heard it from...

I didn't understand how this person could know. I told her it was a lie, then I blocked everyone.

I blocked everyone on everything. Phone numbers. Instagram. Facebook. Friends I had known for years. I was so ashamed of what was happening to me that I couldn't take it. I couldn't face them. It was easier for me to pretend they weren't there. To delete myself from social circles. To retreat further inward than I'd ever been before.

I finished school for the day, I kept to myself as I always did, and I cried the whole drive home. I told my mom immediately what happened. I told her that people knew. I told her that someone from high school found out somehow and told my closest friend.

My mom froze as she was cleaning the dishes. She turned to look at me.

"I was worried something like this would happen..."

"What do you mean?" I asked through tears.

Then she told me.

A person from my high school's mother was the receptionist at the imaging center where I got my ultrasound. The person who told my friend I was pregnant. I may not have known anyone in that office, but someone knew me, and someone violated HIPAA, throwing my already distressed life into even more broken pieces.

We filed a report. That person got fired. And they got to go back to work at a different medical facility. I felt guilty for ruining someone's livelihood, but I couldn't believe that had happened to me. I didn't get to go back to letting my pregnancy remain a secret, but they got to find a different job. The one thing I was hiding from the world, shielding for my own emotional safety, was spilt at the family dinner table like a fun piece of gossip. It was out there, and there was nothing I could do about it but avoid it.

I later reconnected with the close friend who texted me in class. She didn't tell anyone. She told the sparse amount of people who already knew to "keep their fucking mouths shut about it." And it didn't end up getting out like I thought it would. But I didn't know that until much later because I didn't talk to her again until nearly two years down the road. We're still very close friends, and I'm grateful for her loyalty despite my harsh reaction removing myself from her life.

Where is Home?

My parents and I never had a very harmonious relationship, and pregnancy made it that much harder.

I was very depressed, distressed, and emotional. I was sick all the time. I was breaking things out of anger. Having mental breakdowns. Resisting the urge to harm myself. Questioning everything that brought me to this point.

My whole life I had been the failure. I nearly flunked out of high school. I did things my own way. I was rebellious. I went against the grain. I didn't like being told what to do. I was combative. I could be mean. It was a defense mechanism. Years of bullying, at home and at school, hardened me.

You're a loser.

You're going to drop out of college and do nothing with your life.

You're clueless.

You're throwing away your potential.

You have to leave. Get the fuck out of my house.

That was it. The room that had always been mine was no longer mine. I was moving in with my partner and his parents. They were very supportive. They had advice. They gave us tough love. They told us how it was but they never shamed us for our decision.

It still didn't feel like home. No where did. I stayed in my partner's room most of the time. I went to school. I worked as a waitress. I slept a lot. I cried a lot. I still thought about hurting myself. I still Googled distressing things. I still questioned my decision. But I kept it all in.

I continued hiding my pregnancy from the world when I could. Baggy clothes were my best friend. I only told my professors during the spring semester because I was due in early April. I had to get things in order to be out of school for the birth and still accomplish the work I needed to.

I ended up being able to get a special sticker to park close to all my classes. I didn't have to walk too far, which was a blessing because things were getting harder toward the end. My professors were mostly good about keeping it on the down low. I think it was pretty obvious I didn't want people to know.

I did have one professor who called me out in art history. We were discussing a famous statue of the Madonna and the Son. La Madonna della Pietá (Our Lady of Piety) by Michelangelo. We were talking about a mother's love and sacrifice. She looked at me and said, in front of the whole class.

"Ashley, you'll know what this feels like soon."

She gave me a wink and continued lecturing. I don't think anyone looked at me, but it felt like the class was staring. I sunk into my seat and felt my cheeks get hot. I wanted to cry but didn't. I kept on keeping on.

I didn't want to know what it felt like.

At the time, I was also undiagnosed for bipolar disorder. On top of my fear and raging hormones, there was a more sinister mental illness bubbling beneath the surface. I was a miserable person. I can't remember any positives. I have exactly one picture of my baby bump. Just one.

I really didn't want to be pregnant. I wasn't proud. I wasn't excited. I wasn't looking forward to meeting my baby. I didn't like the changes that were happening to my body.

My inflated breasts disgusted me. Reading about motherhood disgusted me. Seeing pictures of other pregnant people made me furious. I hated their happiness. I felt it was fake. I couldn't understand how anyone in their right mind could enjoy any of this because I was so goddamn miserable.

I was a robot. I was going through the motions, doing what I needed to do to survive, and barely hanging on by a thread. I had never been more depressed in my life (until post-partum, but that's a later chapter).

I thought about Padmé Amidala a lot. I cried for her. I cried for all the people who lost their lives in childbirth. I cried knowing I was next.

I didn't know what to expect. I begged and pleaded for a cesarean section with my doctors. They wouldn't do it.

"There was no reason to."

Isn't my fear and aversion to the whole thing enough? I researched all of the things that could go wrong. I psyched myself out. I was manifesting my own downfall without realizing it. I tried to watch videos on really positive births to get myself in the right mindset. They never worked. I was terrified. I couldn't do it. I knew I couldn't do it.

Labor

My son was a week and one day late. His due date was April 8th, and he came into this world on April 16th.

I begged my doctors once again, this time, for an induction.

"No, you really don't understand. I have finals soon. I need this thing out of me."

They listened this time, and I went into the hospital on the day that Notre Dame burned. I remember scrolling through Twitter on my phone while I waited for the pitocin to kick into high gear. My partner hung out with me the whole time. I was actually happy. The pain wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

Yeah, it was painful. But it was tolerable. I was progressing slowly, but I was progressing, and that's what mattered. I tried to stay positive. This would all be over soon, and I'd never have to be pregnant again. I just had to get through this. I just had to get over my biggest fear.

The doctor came in around 11:00 PM to check my progress. I was around 4 cm dilated. She told me she was going to break my water. Looking back on it, I was never asked. It was never a matter of "do you want us to do this?" it was "we're going to do this."

I didn't question it. I didn't know better. I wasn't a doctor.

Now, manually breaking a person's water is incredibly painful. I'll spare you all the details, but I cried the whole way through. I felt violated. The disgust was creeping back. The fear was coming to the forefront again. I knew I was about to start spiraling. I tried to keep it in. But I felt it coming. It was inevitable.

Breaking my water sped up the labor process and intensified the pain. There was no longer a nice cushion of fluid keeping me from feeling every contraction to its full potential. I held out as long as I could for an epidural, but by 12:30 AM, it was time.

They missed the first time. That was awesome. But they did get the epidural into place the second time, then it was sweet, sweet release.

At least for a few hours.

I was able to get some much-needed shut-eye as I'd been awake since 6 AM the morning before. That is, until, I woke up around 5:00 AM in excruciating pain. So much pain in fact, that by my reactions, the nurses assumed I was close.

They brought the doctor in again, and she checked me. I was 6 centimeters dilated and some other number that I can't remember. I think it has to do with how close the baby's head is to the cervical opening.

So I wasn't close, but I was in agony. On top of the epidural, the nurses offered me some additional pain medication, and I kept riding the waves as they came, begging for things to get easier.

Things did not get easier.

By 9:00 AM, I was checked by another doctor. The night shift had retired and a new team was there to assist me. I was still 6 centimeters, after hours of contractions. Not only that, but I progressed backward in whatever other number was measured. My contractions were getting weaker, but the pain was not.

I had so many opioids in my system and nothing was working. They even pushed fentanyl into my veins, but I felt every little thing. It was grating. Horrifying. Disturbing. I was shaking uncontrollably. Crying out for help. Disoriented. Scared. Alone in a crowded room.

My partner was beginning to panic. He could tell things were going south. He called both his mother and mine and they rushed down to the hospital as fast as they could. I was spiking a fever. My heart rate was out of control; so was our unborn baby's.

Shortly after our mothers arrived, the decision was made to rush me into emergency surgery. I remember looking up at my mom through the shakes I was experiencing. I was on my side with a peanut-shaped pillow between my legs (I still don't know what it was for). She had tears in her eyes.

"It hurts."

"I know."

I was in the sterile, white room within 15 minutes of the decision being made. The doctors had to act fast. They didn't know what was going wrong. They couldn't know until they forced their way into my abdomen. I could barely understand what was going on because I was on so many drugs.

My partner stood there, holding my hand, telling me everything was going to be okay. I tried to believe him, but I couldn't.

They were in my abdomen for a long time. While I couldn't feel the pain. I could feel the pressure, and I felt them struggling to get our son out of me. They eventually did. When they pulled him from my stomach, my heart skipped a beat. Not in a good way. I felt it flutter uncomfortably. It was painful, like my chest was caving in on itself. It took my breath away.

I'd learn later that I was losing a lot of blood.

I expected to hear a baby cry, but I didn't.

The room was silent.

"Is everything okay?"

Nobody answered our question.

My son wasn't breathing.

They did get him up to speed eventually, and in an amount of time I couldn't comprehend, we were introduced.

I don't remember how I felt when I finally met him. The nurse held him out in front of me. He held my pinky. We didn't get much time together before he was whisked away, and my partner went with him. They had to get our child some shots and antibiotics because he was running a fever too. They had to be sure that it wasn't an infection.

I remained on the surgical table, by myself, yet surrounded by blue masks, for a long time after that. So long, in fact, that I began to feel them stitching me up at one point. I remember looking over at my vital signs, and they were not good. I asked the anaesthesiologist next to me if it was normal. He simply stood in front of the screen so I couldn't look anymore.

Everything eventually went dark.

Coming Back From Death

I didn't know it at the time, I didn't find out until a physical with my primary care provider over a month later, but I suffered from a post-partum hemorrhage, a condition that amounts to 11% of maternal mortality cases. I don't know why I couldn't deliver my child naturally. I don't know what went wrong. I just know that things did.

I stayed in the hospital for 6 days, being monitored closely by very caring medical professionals. Much of that time is a blur. Much of my son's first year of life is a blur. Things did not get immediately easier from there, but things are easier today.

I overcame my greatest fear, and I'm better for it. Despite all the horrors that I went through, I wouldn't change it. I continued going to college, and I graduated on time. I didn't let having a baby hold me back, despite how difficult things were for me.

I was grateful to have the support of my partner's parents, with whom we continued to live. I wouldn't have made it through those newborn nights without the person I call my mother-in-law, despite any legal documentation to prove it.

I was able to mend my relationship with my parents. They came around once my son was born. I was told, "they always do." Our relationship is actually stronger than it has ever been. Now that I know what it's like to be a parent, I know how deeply they love me, despite the mistakes they may have made along the way.

I still don't know why I had a baby other than I was just supposed to. I became a softer person, though I haven't completely lost my fiery side. I was forced to grow up, which was something I needed. I very easily could have been trapped in a cycle of substance abuse, as I was inching toward an addiction to psychedelics.

The external pressure of needing to care for another person forced me to see life from a different perspective. It forced me to take more responsibility for my actions. Good and bad. I learned that I can still be a person and a parent. That I didn't have to lose myself in this new role. I learned that it felt good to be myself, so I continued to do the things I loved, despite societal pressure to drop everything and only be a parent.

I took my kid with me to these things, even as a tiny infant. We went to art museums, beaches, and photography excursions. It wasn't all good. But it wasn't all bad. I changed, I grew, and I became a better version of myself.

I want my child to be proud of the person I am, despite the person I am being unconventional. I am motivated by giving him an exciting childhood full of wonder and imagination. I don't want him to feel the way I did in my own home. He taught me what love truly is.

I didn't have a baby because I wanted a baby, but I learned that I needed a baby. While the ordeal almost ended my life, it ended up saving it instead.