For the last five months I have been trying to work through the most profound experience of my life: birth and motherhood. This has been written through many tears, revised countless times during all hours of the day and night, but despite how many drafts I attempt it will never really explain how becoming a mom has changed everything.
Motherhood was certain something where I had underestimated the cost and sacrifice of having a child. One may see the pictures and videos on my Facebook of the happiest baby alive and a pretty equally happy mom behind the camera, but it does not reveal the months it has taken me to crawl out of the “baby blues” and exhaustion. Since becoming a mother, I have realized that pregnancy, birth, and motherhood mean different things to different women. Some women value certain things over others, some have dreams of the kind of birth they want, some women could care less about bouncing back into those pre-pregnancy jeans. This post is about my birthing experience and the post-partum period that I thought I was prepared for. Warning, it is long!
The first few days and weeks following birth are what I would like to describe with the German word, heikel. (Definition: sensitive, touchy, precarious). The wrong statement or a thoughtless comment could cost you that mother’s friendship. “Well in the end a healthy baby is all that matters” is a statement I often heard in the beginning when I expressed my disappointment and sorrows over my birthing experience. It’s like I was cut off mid-sentence, propelled into this notion that a mother should be rejoicing over her newborn and not expressing deep disappointment and sorrow over crushed dreams, because some insignificant event like a birth went unplanned.
Please do not be mistaken. Although my son does have (two) holes in his heart, I am extremely grateful to have an otherwise healthy child. I am proud that, despite his rough beginnings, he is in the 90th percentile in height and weight. But this kind of statement, while true, is just not something you say to a woman who is trying to process a traumatizing emotional experience. It was just the number one statement that made me shut down and feel invalidated, because my disappointment and grief over his birth really was legitimate. My diligence, research, and preparation for a natural birth just did not matter to many people, and I was truly grieving a loss. I had not brought my son into the world in the way I had so wished for. After he was born, the focus was on my son and I needed to fit society’s idea in being a mom who’s only acceptable response should be joy and pure bliss over her new baby. So here I will share details of birth and my post-partum experience in the hopes it will help other mothers navigate through their own. It is in no way to instill fear or doubts in any moms-to-be, but to share some details I wish I had known.
Always loving to plan and the need- no drive– to be prepared, I found a competent and sympathetic gynecologist who understood and respected my desires regarding birth. Through her I found an amazing midwife who was a priceless component and a godsend through it all. I trusted I was in the most loving and competent hands (and I certainly was!)
I read about every blog outlining the most essential things in preparation for having a baby- from writing a birth plan to packing for the hospital 2 months before due date, to stocking up on post-partum supplies, to maintaining a healthy and fit pregnancy. I made the lists early on in pregnancy and proudly checked them off as my due date gradually drew nearer. I suffered from a serious case of nesting along with perfectionism which tested my loving husband. Our freezer was filled with home cooked meals; the pantry and bathroom stocked up with the essentials; the nursery squared away to the last Pinterest-inspired detail; the clothes washed, folded and organized according to size. Everything was perfect and awaiting our baby.
I read a few birthing and parenting books- but not too many as to get confused with conflicting information. I had a rather smooth pregnancy with little complications. Of course the sleepless nights, horrible heart burn, kidney stones, edema, Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, etc are considered a normal part of the process. Daily and religiously I practiced relaxation and breathing techniques, filling my mind with positive thoughts about birth. I watched countless videos of waterbirths and mothers who could immediately hold their babies. When someone was inspired to share a negative birth story or laugh at my plan for a natural birth, I would cut them off and block it out. I had a plan and envisioned what it would be like to welcome life into the world. Years prior I even had dreams of the moment- a room filled with calm thoughts, ambient lighting and soft colors. During my nursing program I had the honor to be at the bedside of three births- one natural, one with an epidural and one cesarean. Each being a very different experience but still beautiful and profound nonetheless. In my OBGYN rotation I had also taken care of women who had vaginal and surgical deliveries, and witnessed first-hand the strong contrast in their post-partum recoveries.
Despite aaall that, I barely entertained the thought of the possibility that I would deliver by cesarean section. I was determined to deliver vaginally, and resolved that a surgical route would be the very last option, indicated by an emergency. But hours of hard labor came to a stall and the time came when it was clear that I would not be granted the desires of my heart. The cesarean section was a decision I didn’t understand why it was even there to make. After my son was born, I understood it was really for the benefit and safety of my baby. A good friend nailed it on the head. It was the first lesson I would learn in being a parent: sacrifice.
As I was prepped for surgery, I tried everything to remain calm. To say I was disappointment would be a gross understatement. All the breathing techniques I practiced where slipping out the window. Laying like a “T” on the operating table with my arms stretch wide. Perhaps sacrifice can only be displayed through the sign of a cross.
I knew I would meet my son soon and I didn’t want him to feel my anxiety and deep disappointment when he would enter the world. I heard women’s stories of the operating room being freezing cold, that one feels some “pushing” and “tugging,” that one might get the “shakes” on the operating table. Exhausted from being awake 30+ hours, laboring through the night and feeling like a total failure, I laid on the operating table half naked in a room colder than the North Pole, connected to 8+ different cables, trying to keep it together but still shaking uncontrollably as though I were seizing. Perhaps in an attempt to display some humanity, a woman from the operating team simply asked me how I was.
I lost it.
Obviously, she wasn’t aware of my birth plan. I bawled my eyes out. Panicking, fearing I would feel them cut into me. A man behind a mask and scrubs repeatedly rolled an ice-cold metal object along my rib cage and touched my legs, asking if I could feel anything. While I could sort of move my legs, they were completely numb to the touch. My wonderful husband was by my side the whole time, whispering encouragement in my ear. My body was paralyzed, my legs were strapped to the table, and it felt as though a bowling ball was pushing on my already compromised lungs. A green sheet was laid over my face. Then my body was suddenly ripped open and exposed and there certainly was strong tugging-more like punching and ripping inside my abdomen and rib cage. I could barely breathe and I was certain I would throw up. Brutal.
It was so traumatizing and emotional I could barely open my eyes. I couldn’t wait for the whole ordeal to be over. Someone said “it’s a boy!” and for a moment my heart soared. My mind was so disconnected my husband had to tell me to open my eyes. My midwife brought him next to my face, I kissed him, and then he was gone. My arms were shaking so uncontrollably I couldn’t hold him. With my permission, my husband left with the midwife to accompany my son and I laid there alone as the surgeons talked as if I wasn’t there, asking things like what my blood loss was. Ignoring my sobs, I was just another body to cut open and stitch up, another operation. The same woman came by and briefly held my face, offering comfort. It was the worst 28 minutes of my life. My will was slain; my body truly offered as a sacrifice.
I read about the “fluctuating hormones” for the post-partum mom, but in truth the combination of utter exhaustion, surgical pain, hormones rising and sinking hourly, sleep deprivation while this tiny, beautiful person lying next to me demanded my broken and battered body. It was by far more than I imagined. It felt as though I was hit by a train without breaking any bones, swept away in a hurricane of every human emotion. I was falling asleep between sentences and throwing up while breast feeding. Barely could I hold my son or move in bed due to pain, let alone bring a glass of water to my mouth. Breastfeeding was the extent of taking care of my son. I felt I was a horrible mom when the nurses had to take him for diaper changes and temperature checks. Suddenly my intimate parts became regularly inspected and assessed from nurses. The first time getting out of bed felt like I would never walk again, and when the nurse helped me remove the bandage after my first shower I nearly passed out. Welcome to full blown motherhood. And I was absolutely wrecked.
Three days post-partum, just as I was processing his birth and beginning to have joy over my son, the most horrible thing happened that any parent could experience. I came out of a heavenly shower to my husband holding our son in tears. My son was blue, had a fever, and the new and unwanted sound in his heart needed to be checked out. With babies you have to be one step ahead of any possible infection or complications. Since the hospital where I birthed did not have a NICU, plans were made to transfer him to the children’s hospital across town. I watched a compassionate EMT lay my newborn son in an incubator and whisk him away.
My world broke.
My gynecologist worked immediately to transfer me to the women’s hospital so I could be close to my son. Pumping every three hours, scarfing down food between sobs, forcing myself to nap, and being wheeled to the NICU every few hours day and night was all I could do. There was no capacity to answer texts or even announce our son’s birth. My sanity and emotional state was fragile and on the rocks. Not only did his birth go 180 degrees in the unplanned direction, he was also lying in an incubator instead of being cradled in my arms.
Then the day came when both my son and I could go home. My husband became the sexiest and most incredible husband alive. He took care of literally ALL the housework, meal prepping (hey, all those frozen casseroles came in handy!), helped me while breastfeeding (it was quite painful despite a good latch), even kept track of the feedings, stayed on top of my pain medication… basically kept me from falling apart. Showering, breastfeeding, eating and sleeping were my only capabilities. Eventually the pain from the incision and other complications caused me to resent my son, because you know I just wasn’t exactly “bouncing back.” Believing I would never recover from the cesarean section, I cried to my husband and said, “He did this to me!” Yeah, baby blues makes new momma’s say some crazy things.
It has taken me months to process those first weeks of his life, where waves of disappointment, anxiety about future births, and mix of about 50 other emotions and thoughts come and go. Yet my son’s love and adoration for me has broken me then made me new and whole. The bond we share has helped me forget the pain and rough beginnings. In all this I am grateful for the wisdom I have gained and most of all the compassion for other mothers that could have only been learned. With time I have become in awe of my body and its capabilities, accepting the fact that it will never quite be the same. I may fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes, but the awkward and continually changing tight-loose places reminds me of the amazing journey I am still on.
Every mother has their own birth story and has had to process the most profound experience of their lives. Here are to mothers, navigating the way through unrealistic expectations society places on us, while following our instinct in providing the best and nurturing environment for the little people we lay our lives down for. Few may understand your journey through motherhood, but hold close those who do.
