About a month ago, I walked into the hospital with one goal in mind: to have a healthy baby. Today, that healthy baby spent an awful lot of time screaming because his own hands kept getting in the way of what he wanted, or the gas in his belly was causing him some discomfort. What I haven't really talked about, though, is how he got here and the remarkably complex impact it had on my mental health.
I now have two children. My daughter is soon-to-be six years old. Her birth was considered normal, yet I still fell prey to postpartum depression. Of course, I hadn't really set myself up for success there. Her father was not the most supportive person, and he left us high and dry ten months after she was born. My doctor at the time was more concerned with giving me medications and telling me to wait it out when I failed multiple screenings.
So, when I was given another chance to have a child, I did all I could to give myself a better setting.
I was so absolutely confident that I would not fall into the same hole as I did then. After all, I had my amazing partner, who supported me in every way he could. I had a circle of friends who were there for me in every way they could think of. I was healthier than I had been since getting out of the military. Nothing could go wrong.
But then, my son's heartbeat plummeted. I had only just made the decision to get an epidural; they hadn't even gotten the needle in. I was in so much pain that it took me what felt like ages to process what my doctor was telling me. I needed a cesarean section, and I would not be awake for it.
When I woke, my husband was there, holding our son - swaddled and sleeping soundly. I honestly don't remember much beyond the odd sensation of bleeding. I was quickly rushed back to the OR for post-partum hemorrhaging. When I woke again, I was no longer in the same room as my spouse and infant. I was in the ICU mid-transfusion. Surrounded by the faces of strangers and the now-familiar face of my doctor, who smiled reassuringly.
The next morning, after running a fever that I didn't feel and dealing with the isolating sensation of being separated from my family except for the occasional precious moments they would bring my son down to nurse, I was given more scary news. I was still bleeding internally. My doctor tossed out the idea of a potential hysterectomy. "If the bleeding doesn't stop, and you don't opt for this, you could die."
My exhausted, isolated, frightened brain rushed at all of the possibilities. What would happen to my husband? My daughter? Would my daughter be taken away? Would my husband still even want to raise my children? At that point, all I wanted was for my family to be okay. And I was so scared that they wouldn't be.
For me, this story feels huge. And in many ways, it is. But I survived it. I even got out with my uterus. The bleed was able to fix itself, and three days later, I was able to go home.
So, if I survived it, and I even made out pretty okay, why do I write about it?
Well, it's simple, really. Because it was a traumatic experience. And trauma does a lot to a brain.
Of all births in the US, around thirty-two percent of them in 2020 were c-sections.* Potentially seven percent were considered an emergency. Thousands of women have gone through this same affair. In fact, I personally know of two who dealt with placenta acrreta, which resulted in a hysterectomy.
What my own mind tells me, then, is that what I dealt with was small. Insignificant. Just another birth in a long line of them.
And yet, it felt like anything but that. I fell into a pit of darkness that my heart still trembles over. I was so angry and hurt and lonely. I was angry at my body for failing me so suddenly. Hurt over the loss of so many precious moments with my husband and son. Lonely because I felt as though I had forgotten how to smile, and yet all around me were smiling and laughing.
Trauma has a funny way of being big in even the smallest of doses. It is subjective. My experience, though small in the eyes of women who have gone through so much more, is big to me. And that is why I talk about it.
Each of us will go through trauma in some way. It could be an injury. A death in the family. The loss of a friend. Some even have childhood trauma, from physical abuse to neglect to the generational trauma found in many of us. And though my stories may be big or small compared to yours does not mean they are any more or less significant.
My birth experience is my most recent trauma. I was lucky enough to have a doctor who continuously nudged me in the direction of therapy and enough of an understanding of myself to seek out someone who worked for me. This therapist has helped me to see that trauma as a whole impacts us in ways we don't even think about. She helped me see that my experiences were not small in the ways that mattered. And now, she helps me see that my needs - especially the ones I don't like to express - are okay to have.
Your traumas matter. Their impact on you could be affecting you in ways you hadn't even thought of. They could be creating physical reactions to coincide with the mental ones, resulting in a harder time calming down or even the inability to. It's important to recognize this and seek help wherever and whenever possible.
More importantly, practice self-care where you can. Set alarms on your phone. And if you're like me, and those alarms always go off at the most inconvenient moment, work on that voice that tells you that you're too busy. Even if it means just taking ten seconds to do a self-check-in.
You matter. Your experiences matter. Your heart and soul matter. Even in the heap of depression - post-partum or otherwise - you are an invaluable part of this world. Don't let anyone tell you differently, least of all that voice in your head.
And again, if you're like me, don't forget to let your friends help you when they want. Don't be afraid to reach out to them. Even if it's one extra person there to tell you they see your pain, that makes all the difference in the world.
Happy reading.
*Stats courtesy of the CDC: Basic Birth Stats | Birth Data
Comments