The Blog

Story of my Learning About BT

My story does not involve loss of life, a near-miss, or surgery, and it is complex, spanning my entire reproductive, and perinatal experience. I struggled for such a long time, and actually still do, to a lesser degree, with feelings of guilt surrounding the fact that I felt traumatized by my experience, and that its impact on me has been so profound. But a quote I recently discovered by Viktor Frankl, has been so helpful in how I think about trauma. The quote, from man’s search for happiness, draws an analogy between human suffering, and the behaviour of a gas that is pumped into a chamber. The gas completely fills up the chamber, no matter the size of the container, which is helpful in considering trauma as a complete all-consuming impact on the mind and soul, regardless of it’s perceived “size”. This analogy helps me understand that all trauma is valid, and deserving of compassionate space, and support. It burdens the mind, body, and soul to such a profound degree, it is all-consuming, and it all matters.

My Own BT Experience

While I don’t feel able to share specific details about my entire experience (and also don’t have awareness of all of the details surrounding the birth), I can freely and openly share about it in more general terms. I experienced infertility issues before spontaneously becoming pregnant, which happened after a “chemical pregnancy” following unsuccessful rounds of fertility treatments in late 2019. I hadn’t even identified or processed the loss of that embryo as a “loss”, until exploring things further in therapy much later, but it’s impact and burden on my mind and soul were extremely significant.

While I was pregnant, I never quite felt how I had expected I would. I felt anxious, completely preoccupied with worry, and terrified that I would somehow lose the pregnancy, or even that it wasn’t real, but a result of the hormone therapy somehow. I also welcomed my son in the late spring of 2020, during the first wave of the pandemic, so for much of my pregnancy, severe health anxiety and constant risk assessments, along with my shattered expectations of what pregnancy would look, and feel like, further traumatized me. The entire perinatal experience was so devastatingly isolating, and especially during the first year postpartum, I suffered from severe depression and anxiety symptoms.

The actual birth of my son is where my story gets further complicated still, but in general terms, I felt traumatized by obstetric violence, provider neglect, and a complete lack of informed consent, during a rushed forceps delivery with an episiotomy. There were so many masked and face-shielded professionals in the room at my feet, I don’t know who they were, or even what their titles were, I know I was told that my sons heart rate was rapidly decelerating, but I didn’t know what that meant or if he (and I) were ok. Through circumstances beyond anyone’s control, my husband was unavailable to me during much of the birth, which again felt traumatizing through isolation, and I felt like I had no voice and no information about what was happening. Only afterwards I found out I had had a forceps assisted delivery, an episiotomy, and later in my shared recovery room (an environment which was horrifying to me during that first-wave with no vaccines and little information about the virus) we discovered that my newborn son was experiencing rapid breathing, and had some excess fluid in his lungs. 

We were so isolated in that room. With no information. Hours and hours alone with little to almost no updates at all, and never from the same professional provider. When could we leave? Were we all gonna be ok? Is something terrible going to happen? Is my son ok? Will he need to go to the NICU? Also, WHAT THE F just happened in that delivery room?!? We stayed in our recovery room on the L&D floor for 3 days and 2 nights. I still don’t fully understand why. I knew they initially said they wanted to monitor my son’s breathing, but where was that monitoring? We were largely ignored during the recovery stay, and left completely alone on that third day until finally being discharged by another new face, in the late evening. I knew I was not at all feeling ok, but I also knew within the depths of my soul I had to get my son home. We were not safe here and we had to get out, I remember thinking.

In the early weeks and months postpartum, I was obsessed with checking on my son and hearing his breathing, watching his chest and belly as he breathed, obsessing over the monitor as he slept. I constantly thought I heard him coughing or wheezing or gasping, I felt completely neglected and isolated, and I needed so much more support (and an assessment toward treatment!). I have begun the process only recently, of obtaining my personal health records from the hospital where I gave birth, although that in itself has been such a headache of a process to make any headway with. But I am appreciating the fact that I am ready to better understand what happened during my son’s delivery.

As I wrap up my story, or the version that I am able to share at this point in time, I do want to share that I am receiving treatment for my mental health (for me that includes medication), I do feel hopeful, I am NOT OK some days, and I accept that someday is not forever. I hope this story helps to empower anyone else who is feeling a sense of guilt surrounding their feelings about their experience. Also, I hope anyone reading this understands that all Birth Trauma is valid, that it deserves so much more support, and that there can be hope.

Bio

Name: Krista Fraser-King

Instagram: @mindcaremomma

Personal blog: mindcaremomma.com

Facebook group: First Time Moms of Covid

Location: Ontario, Canada