This week, a woman I have never met nor been in close proximity to hurt me physically with one sentence: “Childbirth can be orgasmic, promise!”. I laughed so hard that the stitches holding me together after the birth of my son felt like they were undoing themselves in protest at such a ludicrous comment.
Sex can be orgasmic. Having sushi for breakfast the second your kid is born is orgasmic. Drinking more than one consecutive glass of pinot noir in a single sitting post-birth is orgasmic. The frozen glove of glorious relief on your ‘affected area’ is orgasmic. Childbirth? Nope.
I’m not saying it doesn’t happen; this woman is not a liar. Anecdotes by a lucky (?) few back up scientific studies that say it can happen. But, do you know what else can happen? Spotting a Venezuelan Poodle Moth. It’s just pretty damn unlikely.
So, as one woman depicts her orgasmic birth experience, here I depict the antithesis – because painting childbirth as a pleasurable picture is something I certainly can’t resonate with.
For me, child birth felt traumatic because I’ve never even had a UTI. Thursday morning, I find the ‘plug’ (totally gross discharge thing that I thought was disgusting at the time because my poor innocent soul didn’t know what was to come), I thought I’d see my baby’s face by that evening. HAHAHAHA. No.
Contractions start on Thursday midnight – and don’t stop for 55 HOURS. I am tired, sweaty and hating the sound of everyone’s voice in what I can only describe as ‘underpants of pure pain’. Hot tip: fudge the results of your contractions to get the green light to go into hospital because you can outsmart medical science. The hospital tells me to go home because “You’re only 3cm dilated” – I can’t outsmart medical science. I want to cut this kid out with a butter knife because it seemed like a better alternative.
Saturday night, and no-one is laughing. I think that nothing for the rest of my life will ever be funny again because I will be in labour until my 86th birthday if my soul doesn’y voluntarily fall out of my body before this baby does.
Going back to hospital six hours later with legitimate contraction results, the Gas Machine is my new lover and should be offered at the door like a party favour because, manners, doctors and nurses. Manners. An epidural is finally offered and, thanks to my new boyfriend, I don’t feel anything. Mum passes out and takes the attention of the hospital’s entire medical staff while I sit in a corner with a javelin in my back. I go numb almost everywhere. A 10-cent piece of pain does not get reached. This is all going swimmingly.
In the space of five minutes, I go from being prepped for a C-section to “NOPE! Start pushing!”. Thinking what we’re all thinking when we’re about to perform the miracle of birth: “Don’t poo, don’t poo, don’t poo, don’t poo… K, poo”. Then, 45 minutes of pushing, the erasing of every inch of dignity I had in life, and my little man enters the world with zero gratitude, instead pooping all over me. Forceps, being (gulp) cut, and stitches make up the patchwork of the literal worst thing to happen to my body (not the outcome, obviously. Calm down. My son is the greatest.). Real sexy.
When I went to mothers group four weeks later, it was the first time I could walk without feeling like my ‘region’ had gone a round with Danny Green, and the word ‘orgasmic’ did not come up. Labour stories are fingerprints; they vary from “I sneezed and gave birth” to “I nearly actually died” – but to expect an orgasm is a very big reach. Mums-to-be, take heed: Yes, an orgasm can happen, technically speaking. But, to go in expecting sexual pleasure when your legs are harnessed up, left starkers in fluorescent lighting, or being bum-up at home or floating in your bodily fluids in a bath, is just setting yourself up for a rude shock.
Childbirth is most likely to be a lot things: painful, long, distressing, sweaty. A lot of other things: life-changing, poignant, beautiful and the greatest damn reward you’ll ever receive. But, orgasmic? Nope, not likely.
