We often imagine spontaneous labours, hasty dashes to the hospital, and dramatic “it is time!” moments when we hear about birth. For some, it’s a different story. A planned caesarean, also known as an elective C-section, is the preferred path for a variety of reasons. While the term planned may suggest clinical precision or lack of drama, in reality, it is an emotionally charged, powerful and unpredictable experience. What A Planned Caesarean Like.
This is an honest, raw and real look at what a scheduled C-section feels like. It’s a reassuring, first-hand account of the experience.
The Calm Before Birth: What a Planned Caesarean Like
It starts early. It begins early. As the sun begins to rise, the sky is blushing pink. It’s surreal to walk into the hospital and know that our baby is due today. It’s not a surprise. The date has been circled in the calendar for several weeks. The friends joked about not needing to play a game of “guessing the birthdate” at the baby shower. The countdown was precise.
Even with the best planning, nerves will still be present.
We completed some paperwork at the admissions desk. We are then shown to the waiting room, where we will find other couples who are also expecting. Each of us is filled with a mixture of excitement, anxiety and quiet anticipation. The atmosphere is somewhere in between a wedding and a job interview–excited, hopeful, but with an undercurrent of unease.
The Waiting Game Has Begun
We are not the first ones on the list for surgery, so we have to wait. Since the previous night, I have been fasting. It feels unfair considering how much energy this baby took to grow. It’s hard to concentrate on anything when hunger and anticipation mix.
As the couple in front of me is called out, I watch as they leave the room wearing their hospital gowns. It’s a human thing to watch others leave the room before you. You wish them luck, you wish everything went smoothly, but you also try to imagine what is about to happen to you.
Next, the second couple will be called.
Time passes slowly. Lunch is served at mid-morning. I am reassured by the fact that our delay is only due to emergency births. Rationally, I can understand. I’m getting frayed emotionally. My stomach rumbles and my nerves tighten. Just as I begin to wonder if my appointment will be cancelled, the nurse appears with the words that I have been waiting for: “It is time to change.”
Preparing for the Theatre
Our scrubs are handed to us. My husband is oddly charming with his disposable cap and pale-blue gown. This part has a quiet seriousness, as if we were crossing sacred ground. We go down to the theatre and I am placed in a small waiting area outside the operating room.
Nurses and surgeons dressed in scrubs are moving with a well-rehearsed choreography. Everyone who approaches me, despite the chaos, is kind and calm. The people who approach me are calm and kind. They check my ID card multiple times.
Then, I was told that it’s now time to have an epidural.
The Part You Feel Most Vulnerable
My husband has to wait outside. The fear begins to creep in, quietly but powerfully.
The anaesthetist begins explaining what is about to take place with a smile. I nod, but I’m wondering: My husband isn’t here. I need him next to me. I want to be with someone I know while I curl up in a position that I can only describe as “cat-like, while trying not to cry.”
Local anaesthetic initially stings, but then the pressure increases as the epidural is inserted into my spine. No pain, just a feeling of being exposed. My legs start to tingle within minutes and become heavy. It’s working.
The nurse shaves off the lower part of my abdomen. I am grateful to no longer be able to feel anything, physically.
In the Operating Room
My husband has been brought home. I feel a sense of calm just by seeing him. He sits next to my head while they wheel me into the theatre. The room is bright, with round lights above and sea blue-gowned employees. Our obstetrician welcomes us with a smile that is reassuring. The atmosphere is friendly and professional.
The surgical field is shielded by a large blue drape that hangs across my chest. The anaesthetist, the obstetrician and I make light conversation. It’s almost surreal. It begins with barely any pause.
What Surgery Feels Like
You don’t feel anything, but you still feel things.
It’s hard to describe the feeling of pulling, tugging and pressure unless you have experienced it. The thought of what is happening behind the curtain makes me feel sick.
My husband is aware. He whispers, “Are you okay?”
I can manage “Yeah,” but “just not… pleasant.”
He squeezes my hand. It helps.
It’s almost like someone is digging around in your stomach, which happens to be a handbag. I wonder if there is something wrong. Is it stuck? Is the baby stuck? You feel like things are taking longer than they should.
Before I panic, my obstetrician tells me, “Okay. He’s almost there.”
The First Cry
Then, all of a sudden, it happens.
The room is shattered by a sound that’s sharp, raw and life-changing. My baby’s cry.
Before I see him, my eyes are filled with tears. As I’m still lying flat, I can only see him as the midwife brings it over. The tiny face of the newborn, his shrill wail and the vibrant pink of a new life.
He is placed right next to my face. It’s just too short. I want to pick him up and cuddle him, feeling his weight on my chest. For now, I’m content to press my cheek against his.
He’s then whisked off to be cleaned and weighed. I can hear my husband talking to the midwife. Their laughter and awe are evident. While I listen from across the room, I am also aware of my body being stitched together. It’s an odd, disconnected feeling – half here and half above.
Meeting my Baby (properly) and Recovery
As soon as I reach the recovery area, it all starts to feel real.
My baby is placed onto my chest. His skin is hot, and his breath is uneven. He instinctively turns and starts to root at the breast. It’s not a textbook latch, but the first one is enough. He’s feeding. I’m feeding. We’re doing it.
I let my tears flow freely as I stroked his little fuzzy head and inhaled that wonderful newborn scent. Not out of pain or fear, but from relief. From joy. The overwhelming joy of knowing that is here.
Aftermath: What no one tells you
In the days and hours that followed, I was grateful for pain relief. The epidural wears slowly off, and when I first try to sit up, it feels like someone is holding me down with a brick. For a while, I hunched over. I feel raw, tender and tired, but I still feel powerful.
It’s permanent. There is a scar. It’s oddly something I am proud of. Although it wasn’t how I had imagined my birth to look, it was still. It was still me, my body, and my story.
What You Should Know About C-sections
Here’s what I’d like to say if you’re about to have your C-section.
It’s not the easy way out. It is not possible.
You are brave.
You can feel excited, nervous, disappointed or relieved.
You’re still giving birth.
It doesn’t matter how calmly a planned C-section is organised, it still has the same intensity, love and strength. A planned caesarean, whether it’s by necessity or choice, is still the start of your birth story. It can be as emotional, empowering and life-changing.
It’s still birth at the end of the day
Just like everyone else, you will meet your child. You will love and hold your baby and marvel that this tiny person, who was once inside of you, is now outside.
You’ll also cry when you hear them cry the first time. Not because of their arrival, but because they finally acted.
