I thought birth was going to be easy. I remember thinking “my body was meant to do this”, it can’t be that difficult! The only information I had was from a Pinterest board regarding what to pack in my hospital bag (which I didn’t use 90% of), and a few friends that had had babies before. All to which was helpful, but like they say, nothing can truly prepare you..
April 3rd was the scariest, yet most amazing day of my life. After all of the blood loss, internal and external tearing, bouts of unconsciousness, and overall trauma, I was forever changed. My memory of this day is fuzzy, and bits and pieces come to me as I navigate through my new life postpartum. I feel anxious most of the time, and have needed medication to cope with my new “normal”. I didn’t have that cinematic experience where my water broke, the scene where my husband and I are rushing around the house to find the hospital bag, and then speeding all the way to the hospital. In fact, leading up to delivery, it was pretty anti-climatic. I tried to labor at home for as long as I could, and mind you, this was at the height of COVID-19 pandemic, so several aspects of my delivery were impacted by restrictions. I had to be dropped off at the Emergency Room, alone, and walk through the entire hospital to the labor and delivery floor while my husband looked for parking. All of the parking garages were closed during that time because of these pandemic precautions. Eventually he made it to labor and delivery, carrying all of our excessively over packed bags, (and thankfully), was able to join me!
I labored all day, resting when I could in between increasing contractions. Periodically the nurse would come in and turn me from side to side. They finally told me that the baby was presenting OP (face up), so with the birthing ball wedged between my legs, they tried to physically turn the baby over by prodding and poking at my bulging, contracting uterus all day in an attempt to get him to flip. He wasn’t having it. Finally I progressed to a 10 and it was time to push. All of the birthing classes had been cancelled due to the pandemic, so the nurse quickly taught me how to breathe and push. By this time I was so ready to just get that baby out. I pushed for one hour and that is where things started getting a little fuzzy. I began feeling really sick and starting to fade in and out of consciousness. The last thing I really remember was blood. There was a lot of blood. My husband consented to a transfusion, as I was unable. I rolled on to my side, threw up, and began to lose my vision. I was done. My OB looked me in the eye and said, “if you don’t push, this baby has to come out one way or another. Your option is to push, or I will have to use forceps.” I pushed. At 8:13pm, Emerson Michael arrived. He was taken by NICU due to meconium, and the doctors attempted to stop my continued bleeding. My blood pressure dropped to incredibly low numbers and my vision started to disappear. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move, I had apple juice being shoved down my throat, and smelling salts under my nose. I am not sure how much time passed, but the sutures began to work, and my bleeding began to slow. I started regaining consciousness and Emerson was laid on my chest with nurse supervision to ensure I was well enough to hold him. As we were immersed in our skin-to-skin time, my vision started to go again and Emerson was removed. My husband was allowed to hold him while the medical staff again tried to assist me in gaining consciousness. Finally, the bleeding stopped. My blood pressure began to normalize, and I was starting to feel better. I was given my baby back and was eventually wheeled to recovery. The damage was severe, and extensive. My recovery was going to be long and painful with the new found responsibility of my baby. My life will be forever changed.
Falling Apart, Physically and Emotionally
Following the birth of my baby, I was sent home with a third degree external tear, two lateral internal tears, and a newly reconstructed anus. After I got home, I was following all care instructions provided. I was taking sitz baths, using my peri bottle, taking Ibuprofen, and icing my lady parts. At this point, the pain was intense, but it was manageable. I was warned about the first poop postpartum, but didn’t really invest too much thought into how it would play out. When the time came and I attempted to poo, I pushed and immediately felt excruciating pain. I had a feeling that I had ripped the stitches on one of the internal tears. I stood up, was bawling, and began to bleed excessively. My OB was on vacation, so I called the nurses hotline and was instructed to look to see if I could see any damage. (Also, NEVER look down there after delivering a baby… I promise you, you will never be the same!) I couldn’t tell what I was even looking at, there were stitches, it was swollen, there was so much blood.. So they had me wait until the morning to be seen at the OB clinic. Because my OB was out, the rotating nurse attempted to assess the damage and sent me home with very little information about what had transpired. The tear began to heal improperly, causing pain and discomfort. I would later need a corrective surgery to cut the part that healed wrong and re-stitch the wound. During this time, I came down with my first round of mastitis. I was miserable, but continued to put on a happy face as a new mom. I wasn’t connecting with my son. I was in constant pain and struggling to breastfeed, my marriage was rocky, I wasn’t taking care of myself, and I fought with constant feelings of anxiety and depression.
As the time passed, I continued to have chronic pain in my vaginal area. My perineum skin was beginning to split from the third degree tear repair following delivery, creating the shape of an “8”. The perineum was ripping open to my actual vaginal opening, and I would need another surgery to clip the skin between my vagina and perineum, this would create a large vaginal opening. The thought of not being able to use tampons again, intercourse being forever impacted, knowing I will eventually need a full vaginal reconstruction surgery, and my overall decompensating mental health due to my body “failing me” during the one thing women are “supposed to do,” I was starting to break. Following this surgery, I continued to have medical complications related to birth: 3 more bouts of mastitis, abscesses drained on my nipples, thrush, hemorrhoids, and an ER visit for an infection in my breast that was drained and followed by 21 days of antibiotics. I was granted an additional two months off of work to continue to heal, but I was a mess. My relationships were starting to deteriorate. I was fighting with my parents (who were trying to help), and my husband regularly. Anything would set me off into fits of rage. I wasn’t able to cope with small changes, wake windows were making me so anxious I would have full-blown panic attacks, and I would lay in bed for days unable to move. I needed help. I googled “postpartum therapy” and was directed to a provider in my area. She was great at listening and validating my feelings. She continued to say she didn’t think I needed medication, “because as a mental health provider, I know good coping skills”. At first, I agreed with her, I kept thinking it would go away, and my postpartum was just a 6-months stint of the “baby blues”.
Putting Myself Back Together
I quit therapy and tried to “cope” my way through my postpartum. I had connected with a friend who talked to me about her postpartum experience, telling me it was ok that I was feeling the way I was, and encouraged me to speak with my provider about how I was feeling. The day before my doctor’s appointment, my postpartum rage was at an all-time high. My husband and I got into an argument and I pushed him. My mom and dad came over and told me I needed to seek help, they took my baby for the night so I could get some sleep, and I attended my appointment in the morning. I broke down. I was so ashamed of myself. I was humiliated. I had put hands on my husband, the one person who had stuck with me and supported me through this madness. I was worried he was going to leave me and that my doctor would think I didn’t love my baby. She looked at me and said, “Cara, you have been through hell and back physically. In the 30 years I have been in Obstrecis, I have never seen anything like what you have experienced following delivery. It is ok to be feeling these feelings. Now let’s get you on some Lexapro and see how you do!”
The rest is history, I take my medication daily, I am working on repairing my marriage, and am happier than I have ever been before as a mom to my beautiful son. I found that reaching out to women who can relate to me has been my saving grace. Nobody understands motherhood like a mother! I am honored to be a part of this community, and owe other warrior moms my gratitude.
Meet The Author:
My name is Cara, I am a licensed Mental Health Clinician and associate professor for one of our local colleges’ Substance Use Disorder Professionals program. I am a first time mom and obsessed with my baby boy, he makes me laugh all day long! I love any sort of taco, an Aperol Spritz, fashion, traveling, Beyonce, and a booty-shaking spin class! I have the best husband and friends a girl could ask for and have recently started exercising my creativity with my new Instagram account @postpart_of_me_ , in hopes to connect with other moms on this crazy journey!
