Giving Birth with an Abusive Partner

When labor began, I just stayed home.  For a long time.  Alone.  With no food or help.  He had a handy man at our house fixing some plumbing situation that wasn’t crucial, and I think he spent most of the day with him.  Because plumbers need support while they are working, right?

I drove myself (not a practice I usually recommend) to my mom’s house to take a shower, see plumbing issues above.   I stopped at a market on the way to get myself some food on the way.  I think my mom wanted me to stay so she could support me, but I did a quick photo op once I was scrubbed up and went home, again, driving myself…in labor.  I constantly look back on that opportunity to spend my labor getting support from my mom, but I was conditioned to leave. 

Back home, things took an interesting twist when “we” decided to walk a few blocks away to a taco joint.  Tacos! That I wasn’t eating so my butthole didn’t explode in labor!  By this point, I was contracting consistently, and I felt like my insides were planning on falling out.  First baby, I was only 3 cm but perspective. He must have been hungry after supporting the plumber all day.

Once at the hospital, I only remember laboring alone in my birth space.  I have no freaking idea where he was or what he was doing.  In all fairness, when in your birth brain, we don’t remember things as clearly.  I literally cannot recall him massaging me or supporting me during any positions at any time.

In the bathroom, vomiting and other fun toileting activities, alone.  Showering, alone.  Leaning over the bed, rocking and breathing, alone. My knees kept buckling because I was so tired, I was falling asleep.  No idea where he was.

Apparently, my mom tried to come into the L&D room to check on me at some point and he slammed the door in her face to prevent it. Alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone.  I labored alone. 

Did my mom end up filming the birth? Yep.  She stood in the corner for 3 hours of pushing holding a stupid video camera (before camera phones were a thing).

Even though I was unmedicated, I ended up on the hospital bed, with my “supportive provider” breaking my bags of waters and  directing my pushing instead of assisting in  positions that would have actually moved her down effectively.  

The only time I remember my husband stepping in and “helping” was during this stage of labor. He was a personal trainer.  So the only thing he was good at was counting and loudly “inspiring” me like we were in the gym training.  I didn’t need anyone counting loudly at my vagina.  I was good.  .