Last year, on his birthday I wrote and posted EJ’s birth story for the first time. If you haven’t read that yet, you can read it here. It was a personal account of the experience through my eyes. Nowadays, I share the details whenever I’m asked but I rarely talk about my feelings toward my traumatic birth or “TB” as they say in my Facebook support group. Talking about feelings about this is hard for me because it’s still very raw, and writing it down makes me feel even more vulnerable. I’m choosing to speak more about this so that other women who have experienced birth trauma know that they aren’t alone and their feelings are valid and real. Billy said to me after reading the first draft of this post “Babe, maybe you’re meant to help other moms.” Maybe I am. And if I can touch just one other mama who’s struggling, that is enough for me.
Even the simple task of organizing my thoughts around this post seems impossible. When I think about my birth experience, I feel so many emotions… Sadness, grief, anger, shame, indignation, envy… WHAT? No woman should ever feel those emotions about the day they brought a life into this world. But the reality is that, according to ImprovingBirth.org, somewhere between 24-36% of women in the United States have reported their birth experience as being “traumatic”. That’s like 1.2 out of every 4 of your friends who have had babies. I don’t understand why sharing these experiences isn’t more widespread. Maybe it’s because of the stigma that comes with c-sections, NICU stays, formula feeding, etc. Or maybe it’s because women are so scarred from their birth experience, that their only coping mechanism is to mentally block it out and never talk about it again. Believe me, that’s what I wanted to do… The first time I talked about it with strangers was at my first PEPs meeting (side note: pregnant women in the Seattle area- SIGN UP FOR PEPS. Best thing I ever did, and honestly the women I met there are some of my best friends, even 2 years later).
So, coming back to feelings… My TB still has me feeling robbed…of EJ’s first week of life, of breastfeeding and the bond that comes with it, of having my baby placed on my chest after birth and that precious skin on skin time. Of my husband (or anyone) not being in the delivery room. . . Of the ability to CHOOSE whether my husband and I had more kids or not. I feel guilty that I couldn’t be there to help my son or my husband when they needed me the most and guilty that I was so incapacitated that Billy was basically a single parent for the first few months of EJ’s life. I feel frustrated. Frustrated that there are no answers as to WHY this happened to me. Even more frustrated that it still affects me the way it does. Even MORE frustrated that the waves of emotion come out of nowhere and I have no control over it. Why can’t I “get over it”? Why can’t I be happy for my friends who have babies without feeling sorry for myself? It’s not fair.
I think this time of year will always be hard for me. That in itself makes me sad. My son’s birthday was supposed to be the best day of my life, yet it will always be a reminder of “the day my son and I almost died.” I was supposed to bounce on the exercise ball while my husband fed me ice chips. I was supposed to labor in the tub and get an epidural way later in the game. I was supposed to have a normal delivery, yet I had an emergency c-section. My husband was supposed to be right there with me holding my hand, yet I was all alone. My husband was supposed to cut the cord. My son was supposed to be placed on my chest and immediately start skin to skin. I was supposed to breastfeed him soon after. I was supposed to see him get weighed and measured and his first bath given. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BREATHE AND CRY AND NOT REQUIRE “vigorous resuscitation” FOR 6 MINUTES BEFORE HE TOOK HIS FIRST BREATHS.
I wasn’t there the first time he opened his eyes. He stopped breathing, was cut out of his mother, intubated, chilled to a hypothermic state, connected to all of these wires and I wasn’t there. I’ll always be thankful for my sister Amy, and my husband Billy who were there.. but can you imagine how that feels as a mother? The guilt goes even deeper. I somehow contracted an infection in my uterus that caused him to stop breathing. He was supposed to be the safest in there. Warm and cozy. GAH! I want to scream just thinking about it.
For weeks after EJ was born, (I hate saying this) but I wanted nothing to do with him. Somewhere in that first week, I emotionally distanced myself (probably to not literally have a mental breakdown while I was away from him). Afterward, my therapist said that if a mother gorilla was separated from her baby for a week and then it was given back to her, she would reject it. I would have literal panic attacks if my nose started running, if I sneezed. If anything was seemingly wrong with my health, I called my doctor because I was convinced I was going to get septic again and drop dead at any moment. I’d fall asleep and wake up screaming because I kept replaying the c-section in my head over and over. I heard sirens in my head for the first week, because the ICU was close to the emergency room in the hospital. I literally had to take Xanax every night to sleep. I knew I needed serious help, because I was in no way shape, or form “OK”. It’s hard to believe, but I called literally 15 therapists and said it was “urgent” before someone agreed to work me in that week. What if I gave up after the first 5? I saw the psychiatrist, therapist, my OB, and my primary care doctor A LOT in the first couple of weeks. Once I was on an anti-depressant, things were a bit better. I still considered this inpatient program for postpartum depression, but I toured the facility and it didn’t seem right. After continuing therapy weekly, I discovered that what I was experiencing wasn’t necessarily postpartum depression- it was PTSD which was “absolutely normal and expected” after an experience like ours.
I can’t really pinpoint the exact moment I was “OK.” I think it happened over time. It took a few weeks, but I finally bonded with EJ. I often wonder what our bond would be like if we had skin-to-skin right after birth, if I breastfed, or if I wasn’t so literally crazy after having him. I replayed the c-section (being alone, feeling myself dying, thinking EJ was dead, blood everywhere) in my head almost every night before bed until he was 10 months old. That’s a long time. It’s exhausting to cry yourself to sleep almost every night for a year. I’m so thankful something in me clicked and I don’t do that any more.
My traumatic birth experience affected me in a way I never knew was possible. It shook me to my very core, and changed me as a person. It turned my usually happy thoughts into usually sad thoughts. That has gotten better over time, but I think the sadness around this day will always linger. Regardless of the negative emotions, there is always a constant feeling of gratitude. I’m grateful that my son and I are alive. I’m grateful for the care provided by Seattle Children’s NICU and especially for Anne Camber and Anita Tsen at Providence. These are the doctors who saved my life, saved EJ’s life, and there’s not a morning I wake up where I don’t internally thank them for that precious gift.
The reason I write this isn’t to make anyone feel sorry for me. I write this so that people are aware of traumatic births, postpartum depression and PTSD. I want people to know that it’s OK to talk about these things. People will support you and love you and listen.
a life worth livin' 