My Pregnancy After Loss Part 6:

MY FAMILY CENTERED CESAREAN

After quite the emotional night; the day was finally here — my baby’s (hopefully) birthday. And mine, too — my birth day.

I will never forget the drive there. We were quiet. We held hands. The emotion was enormous — thick, almost unbearable. I wish I could describe it fully, but it was a drive etched in my soul. One we had taken many times before… but this time, everything was different. I listened to my music, I prayed, and I cried. Was this it? Was I finally going to meet my baby? Would I get to bring her home?

God… please. Please let this be it.

We parked. Walked up to Labour and Delivery — a place we knew far too well. I picked up the same phone I had used when I went in to deliver Vienna… and then William.

“Hi, it’s Kristin Mundy — I’m here for my cesarean.”

We were taken to triage and waited for our nurse. They gave us the head nurse that day. Everyone seemed to know we were coming — they knew our story. It felt like every single person was on Team Mundy, and for the first time in a long time, we felt held. After so much pushback while advocating for our birth preferences, we had no idea what to expect… but we were met with kindness.

For weeks we had been told absolutely not, you cannot do skin-to-skin in the OR. But our nurse walked in and said, “Oh, of course we can do that! You know what? Let’s get a midwife in the room to support you.”

I was floored. It felt like a miracle. It might not sound like a big deal to some — not doing skin-to-skin — but as a mother who had never delivered a living baby before, I needed to know she would come straight to me. Straight to her mama.

I was prepped. Put on the monitors. Got my IV. Each member of the team introduced themselves. Our anesthesiologist sat down with us, walked us through every detail, and assured us Scott would be allowed in the room — no question. He was completely on our side, wanting us to have the most beautiful, healing experience.

Honestly, it felt like something out of a movie. I’ve been at so many births, so many cesareans — I’ve watched clients be brushed aside, dismissed, ignored. But here I was… being treated with such care, such dignity. It was surreal. I felt so lucky, knowing full well how differently it could have gone.

Our OB was running late — thirty minutes late to be exact. And when you're waiting to meet your baby after stillbirth… thirty minutes feels like a lifetime. I was so fidgety. And exhausted. I hadn’t slept. I actually started to wonder if I should be put under general — I wasn’t sure I could stay awake much longer (haha). But the moment our OB arrived and they started wheeling me in, something in me clicked. Mama was ready.

We entered the OR. Our music started. They inserted the spinal — it worked perfectly. And again, our anesthesiologist was a dream. The first song that played:

“Baby, don’t quit your daydream…”

Woah.

It was such an out-of-body experience. The emotions were so intense — so layered and overwhelming — that I couldn’t even cry. I just laid there, holding my breath, while Scott sat at my head, clutching my hand. I knew he was feeling it all, too.

Then came the pulling, the tugging. I always tell clients: “It’s going to feel like someone is doing the dishes inside your stomach.” I didn’t really know what that meant until then — but I was right. It felt exactly like that.

It all happened so fast.

“Kristin,” my OB said, “are you ready to meet your baby?”

And I was like… Wait. Now? Already? Not really — but let’s do it.

And just like that, as I held my breath one final time…

I heard it. A loud, belting cry.

Our OB had warned us again and again that she might take a while to cry — being born breech, via cesarean. But Sena waited for no one. She came into the world with a cry that said, I’m here. I’m okay. You can breathe now.

The tarp was lowered, and they lifted her up. I just stared at this beautiful baby in absolute disbelief. She was so chunky. So healthy. She had pouty lips, a delicate little face, and a big, bold voice.
She can’t be mine, I thought. She’s too beautiful to be mine.

All I could muster out was, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Hello, baby girl. Hello, baby girl. Oh my god. Scott! Scott!”

They waited the full two minutes to clamp her cord — though it felt like forever — then brought her to the warmer for a quick check. After that, the midwife scooped her up and placed her on my chest. A moment I had waited forever for.

She was her. She was ours.

I looked into her eyes, studied every inch of her skin, kissed her warm cheek. I did everything I hadn’t been able to do with Vienna.

6 lb 13 oz of absolute perfection 🤍

Born at 9:08am (fun fact: my baby’s were born at 9:27pm, 9:52pm and now, 9:08am)

She looked just like her big sister and brother — a reminder that was both achingly beautiful and deeply painful.

But… the three of us were finally together. Mommy, Daddy and our baby.

While still in the OR, Scott, Sena, and I soaked in our very first moments together as a family — I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.

It took a little while to stitch me up, and the OR was—as expected—quite cold. Just as they were finishing, Scott and Sena headed to recovery, where our doula was waiting.

There, she helped him do skin-to-skin, and at last, he got to hold his baby girl. I was so grateful we chose to do it this way. I wanted Scott to have his moment, uninterrupted—to not be in caretaker mode for me, but fully present with her. With them.

When I was finally wheeled into recovery, the first thing I saw was him holding her, skin to skin. My heart exploded. In that instant, I fell even more in love with him. We had made it. He had his daughter. His wife was okay.

There’s so much to grieve with loss—not just the babies, but the moments that are supposed to come with them. The ones that seem small, but aren’t. I didn’t just want a baby. I wanted a family. I wanted the life, the memories, the love.

I started to get some minor shakes (normal), and they wrapped me in a warm blanket and gave me a banana. Then, they handed me my daughter—and she latched. Another quiet milestone. Another piece of motherhood.

Once we knew I was stable, Sena was doing well, and everything was calm, we were transferred to our postpartum room. And just like that, a new journey began—motherhood after loss.