My husband’s vasectomy made me feel empowered
TW: I have to start this with a trigger warning because it contains horrific details of obstetric violence, painful accounts of the abuse women go through, and birthing rape.
In 2018, my husband and I decided that we were done with making babies. After three stays at the NICU totalling 3 months, three prem babies, preeclampsia, Tetralogy of Fallot, a placential abruptia and placential accreta, and child loss, we had to be. I couldn’t put my babies, my husband, my family, and myself through that trauma again. On the day that Ila (our youngest) was born, my poor sister, who had her driver’s licence for all of 4 days, had to manouevre through traffic to pick up our eldest child, Lily, all while my mom stayed on the line to ensure that I wouldn’t pass out from blood loss. So. we. were. done.
We chatted to my gynae about possible contraceptive methods – the Mirena, the pill, a hysterectomy. At the time, I didn’t know that I had endometriosis, just that I was in excruciating pain, so I was (almost gleefully) onboard for a hysterectomy, but ultimately chatting to family and friends who had had this procedure and the side effects and complications attached to it, made me change my mind:
- Injury to nearby organs
- Anesthesia problems, such as breathing or heart problems
- Blood clots in the legs or lungs that could be fatal
- Infection
- Heavy bleeding
- Early menopause, if the ovaries are removed
- Pain during sexual intercourse
And when it comes to the most common side effects and risks of birth control, it ain’t no picnic either:
- nausea
- headaches or migraines
- decreased libido
- discharge
- eye changes and blurred vision
- risk of blood clots, (once in the lungs, it could be fatal) , osteoporosis, hypertension, high blood pressure, and cardiovascular problems such as a heart attack or stroke, and an increased risk of breast, ovarian and cervical cancers
- severe abdominal pain
- shortness of breath or chest pain
- changes in mood
- depression
- gallbladder disease
- liver tumours and jaundice
- elevated triglycerides and pancreatitis
- heart valve disorders or arrythmia
- diabetes
My husband, Will, is a gem. He was adamant about a vasectomy, since he didn’t want any more children and it seemed like the easiest solution. So, in May of 2018, he booked himself in, and Ubered (gasp!) to hospital to get the snip. Despite all of the past traumas, I was still broody. In all honesty, I have a baby-shaped hole in my heart that will never be filled. I explained to him that if he should one day remarry, how would he react to his partner wanting a baby? He assured me that this was the only family he ever wanted to have. And I think he left on his own because deep down he was afraid that I would again try to talk him out of it.
Word got out of “the big snip” and on the day of the procedure, he received messages of ‘good luck, god speed’. Before... friends would cup their genitals in passing, others thought that I was having my husband neutered like a dog (as this was something I was doing to him), and he was sent a rather cute photo (I must admit!) of support from friends and acquaintances all cupping their nether regions. I took the day off to do the Florence Nightingale thing and take care of him, as he did me after the C-sections. But then the first thing he said to me when he returned, made me think.
It wasn’t, “Bring me a donut cushion for my balls. Do we have any ice? Please bring me a glass of water so I may take my pain meds; I’m hungry.” He instead said, “How do women do it? How do you get wheeled into theatre, down that long cold corridor, and not feel absolutely terrified? I was going in for a small incision where complications are rare, while you all are literally putting your lives in danger, without fear. I mean, there’s a reason that the phrase ‘died during childbirth’ exists. I’ve witnessed a C-section. How do you not think of yourself at that time?” I was taken aback. No mums I had spoken to ever mentioned fearing for the lives. And I didn’t. In fact, on our way to the hospital I yelled at Will, “You choose this baby. If it comes down to only one of us making it, you choose our baby! I swear to god, we can’t survive this again. I DON’T FUCKING CARE ABOUT MYSELF!” while shaking with adrenalin and remembering what the ER doctor had told me about placental accreta. What an incredibly hurtful, selfish and awful thing to yell at someone who loves you. <ashamed!>
His vasectomy date also happened to fall around Mother’s Day, and Nikki and I had spent the morning with a few other moms at a public hospital through the Embrace. Connected through Motherhood initiative. As traumatic as hubby and my birthing stories were, in comparison, my private hospital stay was a privileged 5-star resort. I mean, I literally got a foot massage and pedi. That day, I found out that maternity pads are a luxury. A warm bed or any bed at all is a luxury. An episiotomy with drugs is a luxury. 24-hour NICU care when you have a preemie is a luxury. We were all in one room that was freezing cold (the kind of cold that gets into your bones) and so hot on the other end, with a taped-up fan, while everyone sat on hard, cold metal Home Affairs seats. On the other end, you could almost feel the germs breeding in that hot corner. We shared stories of being first-time mums, what essentials we all need, what support is out there, breastfeeding tips and just listening, My heart was broken – because at first glance I could tell which moms had just experienced loss, who had preeclampsia, whose babas had gestational diabetes just from the compression socks, and unusually swollen feet and faces, yet bed rest at home because the wards are full was mostly the only solution, support or education given. I’ve been in that position of being terrified and lost, the difference is that I received 24-hour care and detailed information, medication and hourly tests and an airconditioned ride home. I mean, I literally had a nurse milking me while teaching me about breastfeeding, massaging the breast, burping, pumping, while bringing my meds on the hour, side snacks and jungle juice to up that milk supply etc.
I had visited only three public hospitals prior to this – in one, the NICU for extremely prem babies was a ward shared by ill people coughing constantly, and the “bonding space” for Kangaroo care was a dark, abandoned, freezing cold waiting room or cafeteria with office chairs and no windows, and blankets momma brought there in a crowded bus. Another hospital had hardened blood on the walls and floors, and visitors wandering in and out of wards, and the third had patients in pain, beeping for hours before a doctor showed up. Another mom shared that her 27-weeker baby (who has no suckling ability yet or immune system) was sent home with her on day 3. Most microprems have at least a 100-day stay in the NICU. She was smart enough to feed her baby breastmilk through sterilised tiny syringes and not go anywhere or allow any visitors. How many mothers don’t get this medical advice? How many get sent home with an immune compromised baby? How many have no choice but to take baba along to clinic visits, if they do make it? On her 3-day stay, she had to take her baby, connected to tubes, to the shower, to the “eating area/vending machine” and once could ask her husband to sit with him while she went to the cafeteria - because baby kidnapping is prevalent in a hospital that barely has funding for staff, supplies and equipment, let alone security guards, security gates, and camera equipment. I’ve read horror stories of women, especially the abuse of women of colour because we apparently “have a higher pain threshold” – where episiotomies are done without permission and without pain medication before, during or after. And callous mom-shaming, even slut-shaming of “Nou wil djy jou biene toe hou; maar toe djy dit moes toegehou it, wou jy nie - maak oep, is te laat!” when moms were curled in labour agony or possible victims of rape. I was told (well, yelled at while being wheeled into theatre, which left me with all sorts of shameful reflection on what I should’ve done differently) by my gynae that my child and I would not have survived had we gone to a public hospital, and I believe him. Still, I am grateful that he saved our lives. I wish I had met all the moms in different circumstances, because it was an incredible, humbling, bonding experience, as privileged as my story was. I am aware that there are angels, heroes and essential workers doing the utmost in care and working 48-hour shifts, with very little funding, support and essentials, but there are far too many horror stories to ignore.
I read Shana Fife’s story of her traumatic, life-changing experience at a public hospital – being left for 12 hours outside in the freezing cold with a day-old C-section cut because there were no beds available. And there are millions more horrific stories of abuse – serious neglect, babies falling from the womb when moms have told doctors that they’re in labour, babies being sent home sick and passing away, babies receiving 16x times the recommended dose of either medication or a vaccine and passing away, moms dying of infection because their cries weren’t listened to and complete dismissal, even discrimination. And don’t get me started on the millions of moms who experience birthing rape or obstetric violence – where patients are subjected to painful gynaecological procedures and invasive treatment or being dehumanised by medical professionals, not necessarily OBGYNs, bullying, cohersion and emotional, mental or physical abuse, misuse of power – all without consent, drugs, dignity or care during pregnancy, childbirth or post-miscarriages – it can include performing caesarean sections when natural childbirth is possible, without obtaining the voluntary, expressed, and informed consent of the woman, responding too late, being treated with cruelty and disrespect, denying early attachment or doctors shoving their hands, up to almost elbow length into our vaginas - a systemic problem of institutionalised gender-based violence, even racism. Studies have shown that up to 75% of women have experienced obstetric violence. A quick google search will reveal thousands of horrific stories that nightmares are made of. Please view with caution. I wanted to share a video but it’s too distressing. And this doesn’t even include the millions of women who complain either about pain or infertility and are dismissed for 10 years before getting a PCOS or endometriosis diagnosis. All of this leading to PTSD, depression, anxiety as well as postnatal depression and baby blues, mostly seen in women who have no access to medical professionals, therapy, funding, medication or even basic education thereof. Some even succumb to their suicidal thoughts with no help or support available.
So, before Will asked, “How do women do it? I was honestly proud of the fact that he stepped up, was brave, grinned and took over the responsibility. But now I've realised that there are no sympathetic crotch-holding pics for us, we get shamed for not taking the pill when we show up to the gynae office again, or shamed for taking the pill, and there is SO little awareness of the violence women face – whether they want to be mothers, or simply when it comes to basic medical, including gynaelogical, care for those who don't. And the fact that there is one thing in contraception, reproduction or anything to do with genitals where men can actually take over responsibility and risk, albeit minimal, made me feel empowered. Even though I didn’t expect that it would.
I absolutely love this! Keep writing Kim I always love reading what you have to say.
ReplyDeleteThat means the world to me. Thanks tash. Much appreciated <3
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