The F-Word
I went out yesterday, for only the third time since we came home from hospital. The first time, I had to go to the bank, the second, I walked to the end of the street and back. This morning, I went to register Louie. Registering a birth, they call it. But that feels wrong. I don’t feel that I gave birth, or that he was born. I feel he was taken, removed from my body. There was nothing birth-like about it. Somewhere in my sub-conscious, I’m still waiting to give birth, because I haven’t done it yet. I’ve done labour - about 21 hours of it - but not birth. And I don’t know how to get past that.
I’ve tried to write about it in an articulate way, or in an unemotional way, or even in a way that makes sense, but I can’t. I can’t put into words the strength of feeling. I hate how things went. I didn’t ever want to have a baby while I was unconscious, and although I was awake for his first cries (having had a spinal block), I was given a general anaesthetic seconds later, and I missed the first few hours of his life. I hate that. I hate that he was taken away from me, that he was suctioned, that his first touch outside my womb was a surgeon’s gloves, rather than the hands of his mother. I hate that I have spent the first weeks of his life recovering from surgery, rather than enjoying time with my new baby and the rest of my children. I hate that in this dull, wet summer, I cannot get my children and myself out of the house for a while, because I can’t drive. I hate that this feels like a recovery period, rather than a babymoon. I hate that there are parts of it all that I remember only fuzzily, or not at all. I have no memory of the first time I held him. I am vaguely aware of having breastfed him in Recovery, but I don’t actually remember the experience. I hate that I can only fall asleep with the television on, because when I lie quietly, I cannot stop thinking about it all. I hate that I can’t roll over in bed without pain. I hate how my belly looks and feels - even though that hasn’t dramatically changed, because I already had a scar and an overhang as a result of an ectopic pregnancy sixteen years ago - but now it’s a reminder of so much more. I hate that the possibility of giving birth again - normally, not by surgical means - is no longer an option for me (because of complications from the obstructed labour and then complications of the surgery). I didn’t plan on having more children, but that was my choice - not something forced on me by circumstance - and somehow, that makes a huge difference.
I believe that if it hadn’t been for the fibroid, the birth would have been straightforward - Louie was in the right position, labour was going well, there was no reason to expect any problem. But the fibroid - a great big one - was in the way, covering his exit-route. And none of us knew - it wasn’t picked up on ultrasound at 29 weeks or when I arrived in hospital in labour. I know that we all did everything we could to get him out the usual way, but it was never a possibility, because of that fibroid. I hate that fucking fibroid with every fibre of my being, and I will curse it until the day I die.
Don’t get me wrong; I love Louie and am glad I have him, alive and well. I realise that the c-section was completely, 100% necessary. I know it wasn’t a consequence of anything I or anyone else did or did not do. I saw the fibroid, with my own eyes, while I was in Recovery after the surgery (don’t ask me why I wanted to see it - I asked instinctively) and I’m glad I did, because it was obviously far too big to allow him out past it, and it would have been even bigger before it drained of blood and fluid. I know that the surgery was, quite literally, life-saving for both of us. I am not ungrateful that modern medicine was there when we needed it. But I cannot ignore the way I feel about the experience. Perhaps some women can; perhaps they can put such feelings behind them or bury them deep inside and get on with their daily lives. Perhaps at some point, I’ll be one of them. Perhaps not.
I am trying, as advised by someone who knows, to grab hold of little positive moments in the experience and to, as she put it, build something around that which I can live with. I am trying to focus on my family, to enjoy these first few weeks of Louie’s life. But every so often, all too often, I fall to pieces, dissolve into uncontrollable weeping, drip tears all over me and whoever happens to be nearby.
This is not a place I expected to be, nor anywhere I want to be.
In: life
299 Views
Posts
((HUGS)) honey I am so sorry you feel bad right now. No words can replace what you did not experience or mend what you did experience.
Your friend
Amanda
XOXOXO
“Perhaps some women can; perhaps they can put such feelings behind them or bury them deep inside and get on with their daily lives.”
No, you aren’t in a minority by being desolate to have had this experience; like i said to you, i knew exactly what i lost when i had Fran and i knew, knew, KNEW that i had to reclaim that. You absolutely have to work you way through all this pain and grief, along with every other woman who goes through this. Honestly, the only thing, in my opinion, that people bury is how they publically acknowledge it - and at some point pain comes out. I’ve talked to loads of women who regret a planned c-section - and i’ve known lots of women plan v-bacs and then have planned c/s and a long way down the line they admit to regret, if not grief.
Like i said to you, you might not want to be in this club - but you are in good company and it is a club full of people who stand side by side. Whatever the reasons and circumstances for peoples different experiences, everyone knows it for what it was - and everyone knows it simply isn’t birth in the same way that vaginal birth is. I think the people who truly love their c/s’s are few and far between… who am i to say it, but i suspect mostly they are also in denial
It has been so short a time yet, tears are absolutely what you should be doing. Don’t try to be strong; weep lots, it is good for you. Weep, rage, shout, weep some more. But don’t let it steal more from you than it already has.
I had DS1 under a general. I don’t remember anything from when they gave me the pethidine on the Sunday afternoon until the Tuesday morning. He was, apparently, born Sunday teatime. I have absolutely no recollection apart from about 3 flashbacks (all of which have now left me with phobias) of any of the intervening time. I used to wonder if he was even mine, I had no way of knowing. The feelings have never gone away, I still resent everything that birth did to me. But I can live with it now. It still hurts but its not the central focus of my life anymore. It has taken a bloody long time though. He’ll be 10 in a few weeks. So honestly at this point in time the tears are nothing to worry about, I promise, just let them come, let the awfulness just spill out. The misery is much better out than in, don’t let it fester ((((hugs))))
hugs from me too Deb.
many places in the uk have a birth afterthoughts team, of variable quality, but set up to help women who need to talk through the birth, and usually affiliated with proper counsellors. i’m not sure how helpful they are - having never used them - but i think having people you can specifically rage and rant to must be useful for the grieving process?
hugs again
Gentle hugs to you. I haven’t been there so I can’t empathise, but I want you to know that I am thinking of you all.
Sorry to hear how hard things are, Deb. Hold fast to your beautiful boys and this time will pass.
I so understand how you feel about the registering of Louie–I had my two children without ever even having one single contraction–I still feel funny saying ‘I gave birth’. I’m sorry you’ve had this experience, but still thrilled for you and Louie for both coming through this.
Please just do what you need to now-cry, rant, vent–and don’t worry what any other woman would/could do–none have ever been through what ‘you’ have been through–they aren’t you. Take care!
I still can’t say I gave birth to my EMCS twins and they are 12, I can’t see that ever changing to be honest It’s just totally crap, regardless of whether it was necessary or not. What I currently find saddest about their birth, is not having any recollections whatsoever to tell them about how they came into the world, and right now that feels crap because they now know that it can be so different. Hold on very tight to those precious moments that you do have, and the knowledge that you know without doubt that he is yours; that is such a precious thing to have out of all the rest of the shitness, treasure it! I hope that those brief moments will bring you some comfort in time. Much love xx
hugs, I can’t find any of the right words but sending hugs anyway. xx
More hugs from here as well, you are grieving right now for what you have lost. The birth you had planned and hoped for, the babymoon with trips out and about, the first time he fed - all of these things have been lost in the sense of how you have experienced them before and had hoped to experience them this time. This is made even harder I would imagine by the fact you planned for this to be the last time you encountered these things. As I am sure you know grief follows a well documented and (for such an emotional journey) a logical path - you are at the beginning of that journey still and it is necessary for your emotional well being in the future to give full vent to the anger that you feel right now. Rage, scream, cry, do what ever feels right at the time without holding back, and your recovery will be easier, quicker and more complete. Acceptance will come in time, untill then know that what you are going through is ‘normal’ and you are in so many peoples thoughts.
x
I very much relate to what you’re going through.
My second child was born via emergency c-section at 32 weeks when I had a placental abruption. I felt many of the things you’re feeling. I was so grateful to the nurse who realized I was abrupting. I was overjoyed that she and I were alive, though I was also worried about her, being so early and tiny. I felt robbed of the last two months of pregnancy and robbed of the birth. She wasn’t born; she was cut out of me and whisked away to the NICU.
I had a hard time accepting that I was no longer pregnant, that I was not going to give birth, that I wasn’t going to feel her move inside me again, that I had been cut open and sewn back together. I was in shock, and in a state of disbelief. How was it possible that I wasn’t pregnant anymore? It took me a few weeks to wrap my head around what had happened. All my plans and expectations for her birth were for naught. There was no labor, no pushing, no endorphins, no joy. Only fear, blood, worry, pain.
I spent several weeks crying at the drop of a hat. When people congratulated me on the birth of my child, I wanted to shake them and scream at them that it wasn’t a wonderful thing, that she should still be inside me, safe and warm. I didn’t want to be around anyone, to have them judge me for feeling so distraught, to have them tell me to get over it. How do you get over it? You don’t. You learn to cope and it fades in intensity.
27 months later, I have a happy, healthy, vibrant toddler who shows no apparent ill effects from her entry into the world. I still carry emotional scars. I don’t know that they will ever heal completely.
Do know, that there are others who understand precisely the feelings you’re feeling, and that they are true and valid and justified. Allow yourself the time to grieve. Of course you’re overjoyed over your new son. But there is sadness there too, and it’s normal and okay and you need to let it work its way through you.