The moment had come. That moment when all of the hard work pays off. The moment when you touch your baby for the first time, when you first hear the sound of their voice. The relief. The high. Lev, whose name means “heart” in Hebrew, was born. “He’s here, oh my god, he’s here!,” I said, as they put him on my chest. But, he was silent, blue, and limp. He was alive, but he was deeply struggling. Before I could bring my hands to touch him, the alarm bells went off and the midwife quickly cut his cord and handed him to a slew of pediatric staff that had flooded into our hospital room in response to the alarm. For several minutes, the team surrounded him on a warmer across the room trying to resuscitate him. I couldn’t see him. He was still silent and all I could hear was the murmurs of the team. I kept asking if he was going to be okay, but no one would answer me. My husband stood behind them with immense fear and shock in his eyes. The midwife who received Lev was in front of me concentrating on sewing my third degree tear as if there wasn’t this other emergency happening several feet away. My doula stayed by my side and reminded me to talk to Lev. I did. “I love you, baby. It’s going to be okay. Mama’s here,” I said with a shaking voice. I was reassuring Lev that it would be okay without knowing that to be true. Then, one of the pediatric team members said, “We need to take him to the NICU. Someone will come talk to you soon.” And they left the room with Lev. “But is he going to be okay?” No answer. “Go, go with them!”, I demanded of my husband. And now, the room was quiet. No crying baby. No tears of joy. Just silence. And shock. And fear. Confusion. Pain. Disorientation. Shaking. Nauseous. Weak. Exhausted. “Is he going to be okay?,” I asked my doula, but she could not answer.
Some time later, a NICU staff came to talk to me in my postpartum room. They shared that Lev had inhaled meconium and had aspirated. They had resuscitated him. He was now breathing, with support. I could go see him in the NICU when I was ready. But I wasn’t ready. I felt so weak I could barely move. I was still shaking. I felt drugged. I asked my doula, “Will I ever feel normal again?”
Five hours after Lev was born I was wheeled to the NICU to see him. He was in the little clear box and had lots of tubes and cords. The room was flooded with beeping from all his vitals being monitored. It’s a far cry from the relaxing cuddles I expected during the much awaited golden hour. I still felt too weak to hold him, but I touched him for the first time. In some ways, he looked so foreign to me. The situation felt so wrong. This couldn’t be my story. It almost felt like he wasn’t mine. That the whole experience wasn’t mine. Someone got it wrong. I then bled through my pajamas and all over the floor of the NICU. The postpartum nurse cleaned it up and I was wheeled back to my room, away from my baby. Later, I would go back to the NICU and hold Lev and nurse him for the first time. He was finally breathing on his own, but the NICU team had run a bunch of tests and there were more concerns they wanted to explore.
Lev in the NICU
After my second night in the postpartum unit I was discharged. I was fine, or rather, I wasn’t thinking about how I was doing. I could only think of Lev. I moved from the postpartum room to staying in Lev’s NICU room. I had imagined healing at home with my baby. I had imagined lots of time in bed cuddling and nursing while my husband brought nourishing food for me and refilled my big water cup. I didn’t imagine healing on a recliner chair, in a room where no food was allowed, and a hospital unit where there were no pads in the bathroom and no water cooler to refill my cup. Once I was discharged and staying in the NICU, there was no check-in from the postpartum unit around how I was healing. I was on my own. I felt like a shell of a human that once was.
The days passed and Lev got caught in a web of over-medicalization. Too many tests, an abundance of hospital caution, and so much monitoring led to a week dedicated to ruling all sorts of things out, none of which were related to his meconium aspiration. We felt so vulnerable, so desperate, so unknowing. So willing to do anything to make sure he would be okay. But still, no one could ever reassure us that he would be okay, that we would be able to take him home. After a very long week in the NICU, we were discharged. I was grateful that we only had to stay a week, that we got to leave with our baby, and that ultimately, he was okay.
Healing in the NICU with Lev at 3 days old.
With a simultaneous mix of love, gratitude, exhaustion, and pain we launched into a chaotic postpartum period. Since our birth experience, I’ve been working to heal from the sorrow, guilt, disappointment, loss, confusion, and fear that surrounded Lev’s birth. In my healing work I have learned that I will never be “healed.” And not in a dismal way. The thing is, it’s not about the endpoint. The experience of his birth transformed me forever and the active process of healing will also be forever. For me, there is no such thing as healed. Healing, learning, growing and adapting will be forever. My healing won’t be linear. It won’t be fast because there’s no such thing when there is no endpoint. And that’s okay. And most importantly, my sweetheart Lev, he’s okay. More than okay! As I reflect back on my story, I can whisper to my prior self, “Yes! He’s going to be okay! And you will too.”
The day we came home from the NICU. Lev at 1 week old.
Cody and Lev December 2020.
About Cody: Hi, I’m Cody! I am a health educator, advocate, and a mother to my incredible boy, Lev! After my birth and postpartum experience, I decided to shift my decade-long career in sexual & reproductive health education for a career in childbirth education & postpartum support. Along with my friend and business partner, I’ve recently established @intrinsic.birth, which provides empowering, science-based childbirth education & postpartum support. In my personal life, I love being outside, dance, and other creative endeavors!
The word trauma didn’t mean much to me before my miscarriage and my second pregnancy. I always associated that term with soldiers in war torn countries and car accidents. It never occurred to me becoming a mom would be the most traumatic thing in my life.
My husband and I got pregnant after a year of diligently trying to conceive right after we sought help from a fertility clinic. Before we contemplated any procedures I magically got a big fat positive test! I knew the odds of having a miscarriage. I’ve known many friends and family who have had one or more but I thought it wasn’t going to happen to me. I was wrong and I ended up having a miscarriage in the emergency room bathroom. I saw my perfect baby be scooped out of my underwear and put into a specimen cup by my nurse. Our first daughter was so loved and wanted.
We quickly started trying again. My heart was heavy but ready to become pregnant. A few months later another positive pregnancy test brought us so much hope. During this pregnancy so much fear and anxiety loomed over me. At 12 weeks I began bleeding but after reassurance and pelvic rest I was starting to think this baby was going to stay put. Fast forward to around 20 weeks when we found out our baby was a girl! This excitement was soon overtaken by my blood pressure trending upwards. I started tracking my pressures at home and was noticing some large elevations. I knew something was wrong.
Antepartum Complications
At 23 weeks, I went to my OB office with my mom for an ultrasound and checkup. I could barely catch my breath. I was so tired and my face was so swollen. I told my provider I didn’t feel good. I peed in a cup and headed to my mothers house before driving the hour home. The call that came just two hours later will be one I will never forget. I was told very gently, yet urgently, to have someone drive me to the hospital to be admitted to maternal special care. I would be receiving steroid injections right away because my protein in my urine was extremely elevated. I was diagnosed with early-onset severe preeclampsia.
After I was transported to my room, I was told that I would be here for a while. Little did I know when they said a while they didn’t mean just a night or two, it would be for the remainder of my pregnancy. That night was one of the most frightening nights of my life. I had sent my husband home that evening so he could go to work in the morning and he ended up getting a call to come back because I was headed to the ICU. My blood pressures kept rising to extremely dangerous levels despite being maxed out on every antihypertensive drug. My doctor told me I had enough beta blockers in me to “snow a horse”. I was on the verge of having a stroke. I spent the weekend in the ICU being watched, poked, prodded, and so many other humbling things. At one point during my stay I told my husband my soul was leaving my body. I was in so much pain but I knew I would go to the brink to keep her in my belly. On the way to the ICU I met with a neonatologist that discussed survival rates and the chances of severe disability. My daughter was on the cusp of viability. The words comfort care were discussed but she was encouraging and I felt that our little girl was a fighter.
After what had seemed like an eternity, I was back up in my room on the unit I called home. I don’t exactly remember everything from that weekend. I don’t know if the magnesium and meds made me forget or if it was my own brain blocking it all out. During the next week, I was on a rollercoaster of highs and lows, mentally and physically. My body had stopped releasing urine so I had about 22 pounds of extra fluid in my system. I could not bend my arms. I was unable to wipe after using the restroom because my arms were so bloated. When I was allowed to eat my husband had to spoon feed me. I was often not allowed to eat because delivery was imminent at any given time. A nurse would run in randomly and tell me to eat quickly when the provider would allow, not knowing when I could again.
The bloodwork was constant and grueling. Some days I would get 15 draws. My veins were so inaccessible that sometimes they would have to lance my finger and milk the blood into a vial. I was being tested for literally anything that could be causing my body to be resisting all the meds and also to make sure my organs weren’t failing. I would hold my belly and talk to my daughter to keep me going. I would endure all the pain in the world if it meant she could be brought into it. All of my specialists would just tell me if we can keep you pregnant for the next hour it would be a win. As the days went on it changed to keeping me pregnant for another night or day. I was told it would be a miracle to make it to 26 weeks. With my sarcastic optimism I countered with 30 weeks.
I was getting biophysical profiles done to make sure our daughter was growing properly and also showing positive signs of her living in my belly. My body had become a hasty environment for a baby to grow. We were starting to become optimistic that I was going to beat the odds. I started urinating more and I was becoming more stable but one night while my daughter was being monitored it all changed. I had watched that strip so many times I knew what to anticipate. Most of the time her strips didn’t look great but not horrible. I started to see her heart rate slow and eventually it stopped. I was hitting my call button and yelling as I heard my nurse sprinting down the hall. This petite woman flipped me so fast and looked like she’d seen a ghost. I was immediately transferred to L&D for the second time. Ultrasound found her just fine and moving around so I was able to breathe again. This happened again in the middle of the night but they found her on ultrasound just fine. I was sent back up to my room the next day which I lovingly referred to as my studio apartment. I started decorating and making a countdown on the wall because I thought I’d be here for a while. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. During her biophysical profiles it showed my cordflow was absent and she wasn’t getting what she needed to grow. My amniotic fluid also was almost gone. I felt like I had failed. I did everything right even before we conceived. It wasn’t fair that my baby’s life was in the balance because my body was failing.
Shit Hit The Fan
The next day marked two weeks since I had been admitted. It was the day I would make my fourth and final trip to L&D hopped up on magnesium for the fourth time. During the morning it was discovered that my placenta was giving up and the cord flow reversed. My body was taking from her. I was told delivery would be in two days after my second round of steroids were administered. I didn’t make it more than a couple hours before shit hit the fan. I called my husband to leave work and he made it just in time for my emergency c section. While I was on all fours trying to keep my baby’s heart rate up, my OB rushed in, put his hand on my shoulder, and said “you’re going to have this baby now!” Three attempts to get my epidural and minutes later she was born. I was told she cried but I didn’t hear it. I wasn’t able to hear my own baby cry. She weighed 1 pound 8 ounces. Her cord was wrapped around her neck twice and it had a true knot. It was a miracle she was born alive. We named her Wilhelmina. Such a strong name for a very strong little girl. I was given a few quick moments to see her before my husband and the NICU teamed rushed her to the unit. A very dear friend of mine who was an OB resident came and sat with me while I was being closed up. I was using humor to deflect from what was in my mind. I was worried she would die before I would really get to meet her. I was afraid I was going to crash on the table. I was afraid of everything so to keep me sane I joked with my OB about my guts being out of my body on a table next to me.
Recovery and The NICU
Once in recovery, a breast pump was attached to me and my shriveled grey placenta was in a tray at my feet and everything was a blur after that. I remember being back in my “studio apartment” with my mom and sisters surrounding me itching like crazy. I wanted to see my daughter but they said I needed to rest. When it was time to take the trip over to the children’s hospital, I stood up and lost consciousness in the bathroom. I didn’t tell my nurse when I came to because I didn’t want to wait any longer to see my baby. I remember standing over my daughters isolette thinking I was having an out of body experience. How can she survive coming this early? What are all these tubes and wires? Why does my stomach hurt so bad? One thing I knew for sure was that I loved her so much.
The next week was spent pumping, visiting the NICU, and trying to keep my vitals and blood work stable. I needed to get out of this hospital. Once she was out of me I didn’t want to be admitted. I needed to be by her side at all times.
Once I was allowed to go home I felt so torn. I was happy to get out of the hospital alive but I was leaving half of my heart there. Nobody expects to leave empty handed after giving birth. After fighting for our lives, it was our daughters turn to fight for hers. She would be faced with countless setbacks and obstacles during her 113 day NICU stay. We were there everyday watching her fight for her life. High frequency oscillating ventilator support, PICC line, endless IVs, blood transfusions, infections, heart surgery, retinopathy of prematurity, procedures, countless X-rays, feeding issues are just some of the things she had to overcome. When she came home it was like our family was complete. It wasn’t just our sweet baby that came home with us but oxygen tanks, monitor, feeding tube, and a whole lot of anxiety. All that baggage was heavy but it meant we could have her home we embraced it.
The Aftermath
Fast forward almost two years since she was born and I still struggle deeply with depression and anxiety. This trauma lives with me daily. I am reminded of it from an alarm going off or the smell of Palmolive dish soap. I blame myself for not remembering some of the biggest moments but I’m working towards healing.
About me
My name is Debbie, mom of two girls, (one on earth and one in heaven) wife, and I enjoy painting/crafting/drawing!
I planned a homebirth but ended up with a preterm emergency induction and crash c-section due to severe preeclampsia + HELLP syndrome. My baby had intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR) and weighed less than 5 lbs. He was in better shape than I was, and only spent 3 days in the NICU. There are substantial long-term health risks for both mom and baby following severe preeclampsia, and my anxiety about this lingers.
I had no control in this scary medical situation. I surrendered myself to the medical establishment the minute we walked in the hospital. My goal throughout my pregnancy was to be present for the labour and birth; the magnesium sulfate I had to be on made this almost impossible. No one took the time to explain why we should do something or if there were alternatives. Most people were professional, but only took care of what was medically necessary. For example, when it became apparent that a c-section was urgently needed, no one said anything to me. I heard them talking to each other and figured it out. I was in the OR and on the operating table before anyone spoke directly to me about the situation.
November 13th – 35 Weeks + 3 Days
I checked my blood pressure (BP) weekly the whole pregnancy. At 35 weeks it was above 140/90. I texted my homebirth midwives, but was unconcerned. Everything stayed normal for two days, until I got two high readings in a row. I had no symptoms, other than decreased urine output, but I knew that my homebirth dream was gone.
The midwives suggested testing for preeclampsia, and I ultimately connected with a hospital RN who was skeptical, but said to come in. Blood and urine tests confirmed that I had mild preeclampsia requiring an induction at or before 37 weeks. The OB gave us the option of getting steroid shots for the baby’s lungs and I received the first of two shots.
We were in shock. Not only would I have to give birth in a hospital during COVID instead of at home, but I would be induced preterm because of a serious pregnancy complication. I was so worried that I was going to die, but I had hope that we’d make it to 37 weeks.
November 16th – 35 Weeks + 6 Days
I finally connected with my OB and scheduled the induction for six days later. Our homebirth team prepped us for a multi-day induction and suggested that I contact my OB again to ask for the GBS test so we’d have the results in time.
November 17th – 36 Weeks
I got the GBS test and asked to do the labs again. By the time we got home, the first lab results were back. My liver enzymes had gone from 17 U/L to 554 U/L in four days – well outside the normal upper limit of 40 U/L. My stomach sunk, and I turned to my husband and said, “That’s not good. Can you get my phone in case the OB calls?”. He had barely handed it to me when it rang. My OB confirmed that this was now severe preeclampsia and that we needed to start the induction right away. I hung up the phone, laid down on my bed and cried. This was not what I wanted. I was so scared that I was going to die.
We arrived again at the hospital. They ran labs and a new OB came in and checked my cervix. It was closed, 40% effaced, and baby was at -3 station. She said my labs were stable and our only option was an induction starting with misoprostol. She also started a magnesium sulphate IV to prevent seizures, with the side effect of making me feel like I had a fever and the flu. She told us briskly how serious the situation was (“devastating” and “catastrophic”). I shared that I would like the birth to be as unmedicated as possible. She replied skeptically that they recommend I have an epidural.
We tried to create a cozy, relaxed environment to encourage the induction process. The BP cuff went off every 45 minutes, and the RN returned every two hours to refresh the magnesium, every four hours for Misoprostol, and every six hours for labs. They were limiting my fluid intake, which seemed extra cruel since I felt so hot and thirsty from the magnesium.
November 18th – 36 Weeks + 1 Day
11 am
We gave up trying to sleep and ordered breakfast. Our food arrived during shift change and the new RN said she was going to take my BP as soon as we were done eating. This RN had a “Military Nurse” flag on her badge, and her demeanor reflected that. She was extremely brusque and expected me to follow orders.
11:30 am
I started to feel period-like cramp contractions. We were excited that I was starting to feel something. The RN took my blood pressure and it was 168/95 – she said I needed BP meds and that I couldn’t leave the bed afterwards. I stood up to go to the bathroom first and my water started leaking. I went to the bathroom and a stronger contraction hit, requiring me to hold onto the wall.
12:00 pm
I got in the bed asking the RN about side effects of the medication and she dismissed me with a curt response. I asked for the TENS unit and a peanut ball. At this point, the contractions were taking all of my concentration. I felt completely taken aback with how long, strong, and frequent they were, after only having the first cramps a half hour before. They lasted 45-90 seconds, coming every 3-5 minutes. I was scared since this was supposed to be the easy part. How I was going to be able to do the hard part? I felt like a failure for thinking that I could have handled a homebirth.
I was completely unaware of the chaos surrounding me with all my focus on surviving each contraction. The BP cuff on my arm was going off every 5 minutes, and I would try to relax through the contraction and ragdoll my arm whenever I felt it tightening. I was getting annoyed with the people in the room talking to me and touching me – couldn’t they see I was just trying to cope?
I tried to turn to my hands and knees on the bed but got tangled in the IV lines on my left arm, the HEP lock and BP cuff line on my right arm, the wires from the TENS unit, and the wires from the contraction and fetal heart rate monitor. The RN was holding the two monitors to my stomach through each contraction, telling me that I wasn’t “getting credit” for the contractions because the machine wasn’t picking them up.
1:25 pm
The OB came in and checked me, also putting an internal fetal monitor on baby. I was 2 cm dilated, 90% effaced, and baby was at -1 station. All of the staff were excited that I was in active labor.
The OB noticed the baby’s heart rate dipping at the end of each contraction, and said that we might want to start thinking about a c-section. I thought, “Oh thank god – I don’t have to keep doing this.” The second OB suggested moving to the back for more options. With the next contraction baby’s heartrate dropped from 145 bpm to 82 bpm. They rushed over to me and rolled me onto one side, then the other – nothing changed. The OB said, “Call a code C!” (“Emergency C-Section”) and the room filled with even more people. I heard the RN on the phone say “no epidural” – I realised that they were going to want to put me under. They pulled the pillows and blankets off of the bed as they rushed me out of the room. I saw someone push surgical clothes at my husband as they whisked me by. We didn’t get to say goodbye.
1:45 pm
My room was across the hall from the OR. As they moved me I choked out, “I don’t want to be put under general anesthesia.” No one said anything. I took a deep breath and told myself that I wasn’t going to panic, and then we were through the swinging doors of the OR and into the bright white lights.
The RN gave me medication to stop my contractions. They lifted me onto the operating table and I was asked if I’d had surgery before – “no”; when I last ate – “11 am”; what did I eat – “a breakfast sandwich”. The anesthesiologist said, “She has a full tummy. It’s not safe with a full tummy!” I sat on the side of the operating table and the OB said, “We’re going to have to put you under to get baby out in time.” I felt this huge wave of defeat as my last hope for this birth was taken away, and whispered, “Okay.”
Then baby’s heart rate started to pick up again, reaching 110 bpm. They decided to do the spinal and I was given a pillow to curl over. I asked them to hurry.
1:49 pm
I felt a prick in my back and then my lower body felt warm. They laid me down on the table. I stared at the huge round white lights. I asked the anesthesiologist to drop the drape when the baby came out. She promised they would. I felt like maybe it would be okay.
2:00 pm
“Get the husband! Get the husband!” The anesthesiologist called as she put up the drape.
2:02 pm
My husband sat down. The OB called, “We have a boy!” I twisted to look at the anesthesiologist and said, “What?? It’s out??”. They hadn’t dropped the drape or told me what was happening. I had felt nothing. All of my research, effort, and striving to be fully present for this birth, for my baby’s first moments, and I missed it. It happened without me, while I was right there.
My husband was crying – I felt numb. He took a picture for me to see. I saw a little baby connected to wires. Minutes went by in silence. The baby cried once. Thank god. He was alive.
A while later, a cart came into view about 10 ft away and paused. They lifted the mask off his face for a few seconds, and then the cart was gone.
Back in the labour room, a pediatric nurse told us that our baby was doing great – he was breathing on his own. He weighed 4 lbs 15 oz. The nurse took my husband to the NICU.
8:00 pm
We arrived at the NICU six hours after his birth. I asked to hold him and I was told that he couldn’t regulate his body temperature so he had to stay under the heater. I asked about skin-to-skin and they repeated the same answer. I stuck my hand into the little box and stroked him. They wheeled me to the postpartum room and I told the RN that my face was itching. She said she’d bring some Benadryl but never returned.
I slept restlessly and woke still itchy. I called the RN. A new one was on shift, and she finally brought Benadryl. I slept deeply then.
November 19th – 1 Day Postpartum
My husband visited Baby S a couple of times during the night. He had had breathing issues and would have to stay in the NICU for observation. We went to the NICU and I held him for the first time. His forearm was the same width as my thumb. Later, they finally stopped the magnesium and decided to start regular BP medications.
November 20th – 2 Days Postpartum
I had no privacy. People entered while I cried and told me to relax. Another new OB cooly confirmed I was still at risk for stroke or seizure. I asked if my labour was normal for an induction, and she replied that it couldn’t have been that intense if I hadn’t asked for an epidural. A social worker visited and told me that “It could have been worse.” and “At least you didn’t die.”
That night my BP spiked the highest yet, even though I was on BP meds. We spoke with a different OB and told him that we wanted to go home; that I felt trapped; that if they would just leave me alone, I’d be able to relax and it would go down. He said it didn’t matter why my BP was high; it wasn’t safe for me to leave. He gave me a fast-acting medication and said they’d be back in 15 minutes to check it.
I didn’t want to die. I told them we’d stay. We tried to sleep for two hours before the next BP check. I was terrified that I’d die or be permanently disabled. For two hours I wondered if I would know if I was having a stroke, if I’d be able to wake my husband up, if this was how it was all going to end, and was grateful I’d gotten disability insurance. Finally, the RN came back to take my BP – it’d come down! We cried with relief. I wasn’t going to die that night.
November 21st – 3 Days Postpartum
I was still so scared that I was going to die. No one would reassure me that I would be okay. My husband felt it would help me to have our baby with us, and the neonatologist agreed, so he was discharged from the NICU. I didn’t want him with us. He was safe there. I couldn’t take care of myself and was relying on my husband for absolutely everything – how could I take care of a baby?
November 22nd – 4 Days Postpartum
An OB said we could be discharged. I’m thankful and afraid. We’re told multiple times that I needed to take it easy, to check my BP 3x/day, and that we might need to come back. I was overcome as they wheeled me out. I didn’t think that I would leave the hospital in one piece; I was saddened for the “me” who had come in five days earlier full of hope and determination. I cried on the way home.
1-3 Weeks Postpartum
I was in a fog for weeks, sleeping 16 hours a day and unable to care for myself or Baby S. He was cute and funny, but I didn’t feel bonded to him. It was COVID, so no family could travel to help. We had a night nurse to give my husband a break. The constant fear of my next BP reading haunted me. I started therapy immediately and had visits from my homebirth midwives.
4-8 Weeks Postpartum
I started to feel more human. I could move around the apartment and eat meals at the table. I came off the BP meds, but continued to take my BP daily, fearing it would spike again. I started to feel able to go for very short walks, and no longer had to carefully regulate my energy.
10 Weeks Postpartum
I spoke with a MFM who diagnosed me with “Preeclampsia with Severe Features and a HELLP syndrome variant”. This was the first I’d heard of HELLP syndrome and it retraumatized me. Why did no one tell me this? He implied that I should have had an immediate c-section rather than an induction. I questioned everything I had been told by the OBs. He gave me a 40% probability of a hypertensive disorder in a future pregnancy. We decided this was too much risk and began trying to come to terms with being a family of three instead of our planned-for four.
Now at 15 weeks, Baby S has become a lot more interactive and we’ve really started to bond. There’s a long road ahead, but I’m holding out hope that we’re going to make it to the other side.
The Author
Originally from the West Coast of Canada, Kelsey now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area of the US. She works in local government, and lives with her husband, baby, and feisty rescue dog. When not recovering from birth trauma she loves to cook, hike, and sew. You can connect with her on Instagram at @ke_gi_la (family account) or @kgmakes (crafting account).
In September 2016, I married my sweet husband! We wanted to wait about a year to try to start a family. Once we began trying, I realized something was not right. My cycles were extremely long and we needed to go through infertility specialists as I was not ovulating. This was hard to accept, but we made it through all those appointments and procedures and in the end only needed to take an oral medicine and an HCG trigger shot. In October 2018, we finally got that positive pregnancy test & our due date was June 22, 2019! I was so lucky and had a very easy pregnancy. No days of nausea and I loved every minute of it. Baby and mama were both very healthy the entire pregnancy.
Ryan’s Birth- Not What I Expected
I went into labor on June 23rd. My husband is a firefighter and, of course, was on shift when labor began. My water had broken and I was so worried about calling him home for false labor. I called and said “I think my water broke, I’m not sure though. I’ll call you back.” Meanwhile, my contractions were so close together, I was in pain, and water was indeed gushing out. I called him back and told him he definitely needed to get home. We got to the hospital around 10pm and I was at 5cm and progressing quickly. The nurse in triage asked me what my birth plan was. I was in so much pain, I said, “I don’t know what you’re asking, but I definitely want an epidural!” By the time I got my epidural I was nearly 7 cm. My only real birth plan was to have skin to skin immediately after birth and not die (I had an “unrealistic” idea that dying could occur, but often told myself that women do this every day!). I wanted to do skin to skin for hours after birth, as long as I could. I wanted to push that baby out and I wanted all those magical moments that happen afterward, but at the moment, all I could think of was the pain in my back. Around 3am, it was time to push. Everything seemed to be so calm and going so well, until it was not. I pushed and I pushed. After 4 hours and meconium being present in my fluids, the OB came in and said I was nearing my pushing time limit. The magic disappeared and as soon as she mentioned the words suction and vacuum, the lights turned on and 15 people were in my delivery room. We tried the suction and vacuum with no luck, it was C-section time. Again, not really my birth “plan”. I cried when she told me this, the cries came on their own. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying at the time. Now I realize it was because I tried so hard, I was so exhausted, and I wanted my baby here. I was wheeled into surgery and at 8:17am on June 24, 2019, my sweet miracle boy was born! He was 8lb 6 oz and the doctor said “no wonder you couldn’t push him out.” He was big (I am naturally very thin), “sunny side up”, and his head was crooked in the birth canal. The odds were against me in the pushing department. I cried when I heard his cries, but the magic continued to disappear at this point. I was so shaky and nauseous from the C-section that I could not (and honestly did not want to) hold my baby. I just did not feel well.
I had my eyes closed for the next hour or so just waiting for the feeling to pass. When I finally opened my eyes I saw the best sight, my husband skin-to-skin with our newborn baby boy. Remember those hours of skin-to-skin that I so badly wanted? I just could not do it; I didn’t have it in me. After the C-Section, the doctor told us that I had lost a “little extra blood”. But apparently this was not too concerning. The following day I was being checked out by the nurses and I saw a little bit of panic flush over them. They said that I was bleeding a bit more than I should have been. So they weighed all my pads and dressings and then called the doctor in. This was considered a moderate hemorrhage and the doctor used his hand to scrape the inside of my uterus to remove all of the clots that were sitting in it. After that I was given Pitocin to help contract my uterus and an iron transfusion to help my body replenish after the blood loss. I did not think much of this at the time and figured that with all of those interventions, I would be fine.
When Postpartum Becomes an Emergency
We left the hospital on June 26th and did not get much sleep that night, I am sure this is very typical for the first night home. On June 27th we were getting ready for bed and all of a sudden I started to feel as if I were peeing my pants, I wasn’t sure and walked quickly to the toilet. I was not peeing, I was bleeding. Bleeding A LOT. So much blood and my bathroom had so much blood all over it as well. I was so scared. My husband called 911 (He is a firefighter in our City and so he was calling his coworkers to come). Thank god for a calm husband, he was amazing even though I knew he was scared too. I could see it in his face.
The crew arrived and they were so wonderful and calming for me. The captain even stayed back and cleaned up the scary looking bathroom for us. They made me feel at ease at a time when I didn’t know what was going to happen. I thought I was going to die and leave my husband with this little baby boy. We headed to the hospital, my husband and baby following behind. Once in the ER I was immediately taken back. My husband and son showed up, but really, the ER is no place for a newborn baby. Therefore, we had family pick him up and take him home to care for him. The OR was occupied when I got there. As I am losing A LOT of blood, I am also receiving some, for over an hour! They called for a massive blood transfusion protocol over the hospital for me. I received so much blood and plasma. I then met the OB and the additional OB that was called in who would be doing my surgery to see what was going on. There were so many doctors and anesthesiologists and nurses, it seemed like chaos. The plan was that they were going to go in through my C-Section scar to investigate the cause of the bleeding (exploratory laparotomy) and then do a D&C to remove anything that may be causing it or insert a Bakri ball for uterine contraction. I was in there for quite a while and after the bakri ball was placed in my uterus and I was stapled back up, I woke as I was leaving the OR.
I Just Wanted To Live
As I was coming to I said that I was bleeding A LOT again. I could feel it. I was rushed back in and given the most heartbreaking news (At the time I was not heartbroken, I did not care what needed to be done. I just wanted to live). I needed an emergency hysterectomy, they were going to remove my uterus to save my life. The uterus that was supposed to carry my second child, the one that so successfully carried my first. It was the last resort and a life saving measure though. Blood had pooled around the Bakri Ball and “profuse bleeding” was occurring. I was in surgery for even more hours. I went to recovery completely out of it, but I was alive. I was in the hospital recovering for 5 days, away from my newborn. I experienced many things I hadn’t before. So many needle pricks, procedures, medications, people in and out of my room, etc. But anxiety, anxiety was the big one. I had never really experienced that before. I had so much anxiety about bleeding and going home. I had flashbacks of the blood and I was just scared. I asked the doctors what the chances of me bleeding again were so many times, I lost count. I was offered and accepted an Ativan one day in my hospital stay because I was consumed by the anxiety. I had never taken one, so it completely knocked me out, thankfully.
The OB who did my surgery was so wonderful and calming for me. The lactation consultants would come in and cry with me as I was pumping every three hours around the clock. I was just kind of a wreck, I felt like my life had just changed so drastically and I didn’t even know how to continue normal life or what that would even look like once I left the hospital. I missed so many days of my newborns life and I was so scared for myself that I didn’t even feel like I cared (I definitely cared). My sweet husband stayed with me every day/night because I could not be alone. He helped me up and down, helped me pump so I didn’t lose my supply, dealt with all the nurses in and out, all the noisy machines, and loved on me when I felt and looked my worst. Our family took shifts with our baby and gave him all the love that I could not, my friends and family came to the hospital and showed us more love than I’ve ever known, and my mama friends donated their precious breast milk.
Discharge and PostpartumPart 2
I thought I did not want to and could not go home or something bad would happen again. Once I got home I realized that being with my baby was the best recovery and the thing I needed most. Some of the anxiety went away, but I still had flashbacks. The flashbacks came mostly at night and I struggled with the nights and nighttime anxiety over bleeding again. Overall, I was doing much better with the anxiety than I had expected. Life with a newborn was a struggle, recovery was a struggle. I quickly realized that life goes on no matter the circumstance. Being in that tiny hospital room for so many days was so outside of my norm. Getting back to my (new) normal was what I needed most. I remember feeling so angry looking on Social Media. People complaining about the most mundane things and living their lives like nothing happened while mine had shattered. I had difficulty bonding and did not love the newborn stage like I had hoped. It was difficult, my mental state had shifted, and my body was healing.
I am now fully physically recovered, just have that scar as a reminder of what I went through. They think that the hours of pushing and him being pushed back up the birth canal for C-section caused some sort of tear that they missed. Unfortunately, they don’t really know for sure what caused the severe hemorrhage. I was not diagnosed with anything that caused it, it just happened. I wish they could have given me a more concrete reason. The doctor who performed my C-section said he had never had something like this happen in his 18 years, I think he is still scratching his head. The Doctor that performed my hysterectomy was a literal angel. We have emailed and she has expressed her guilt that often comes to her over the hysterectomy. I had never thought about how she must feel, making such a difficult and life-altering decision like that. My anxiety is much better now, but I still have times that I can feel it for different reasons and I had never experienced that prior to my trauma. My grief will always be there and it comes and goes and I go through all the stages. Sometimes it is all consuming and sometimes it is just faintly in the background. I always wanted two children. Not just one. I am grieving a child that was just an idea of the future. I feel guilt for thinking of a second child so often. My birth trauma has changed me and that is okay. I am a more empathetic person; you never know what people are dealing with!
About the Author
My name is Chelcy, I am 2nd grade teacher. I have been married to my husband Nick for 5 years and we have an almost 2 year old son named Ryan.
There’s something about ptsd that makes you think it’s not that bad – and then it is.
“My trauma wasn’t that traumatic” repeats constantly through my head, and then I’ll have flashback nightmares that remind me just how terrifying it was. Nightmares that make me scared to fall asleep. Nightmares that cause panic attacks at 3am. Nightmares that disrupt the little sleep I do get as a mom. Then there’s insomnia. The exhaustion of having a baby is so intensified by my PTSD symptoms, and I am so tired of being tired. These sleep disruptions are just another thing I was not prepared for, starting the moment my labor began.
My Birth Story
On a Tuesday morning at the end of August, I felt my first contractions. They were small, irrelevant cramps, but I knew they were contractions. They started 15-20 minutes apart and got close to 10 minutes apart. This is when I called my husband, and he came home from work so ecstatic that it was baby time. Contractions continued until after dinner when they finally started to get intense. I couldn’t speak through them, started grunting and focusing, and we left for the hospital around 10pm when they were 5-7 minutes apart. Once we got to the hospital and in triage, they slowed way down to 12 minutes apart – of course, just my luck. I had them check me just in case, and I was barely a quarter centimeter dilated. We were sent home and told to come back when my contractions were powerful and 2-4 minutes apart. I tried to lay in bed that night, but with strong contractions every 10 minutes I was barely able to make it through an episode of Friends. I did everything I could to distract myself from the pain, but I ended up next to my bed bouncing on my birth ball until 6am when I finally went downstairs.
Day two of contractions was taxing. I was still contracting strenuously every 5-10 minutes, and I’m now running on fumes after not sleeping the night before. We went on walks; short and slow walks that felt like hours. We watched my favorite movies and tv shows, and even had a friend stop over for encouragement. I made it again until the late evening before I could not physically handle it anymore. This was it. On the way to the hospital, I knew my birth plan was not going to stay as-is. I wanted to stay as unmediated as possible, for as long as possible. Not only because I wanted to prove myself, but because I had a severe needle phobia. But at this point, I had been laboring for over two days and I was beyond fatigued. Once in triage, my contractions stayed steady at 2-4 minutes apart and just as strong as they’d been before. I was ready. But my body wasn’t. I was a half centimeter dilated, and they wouldn’t admit me. Through my tears of exhaustion, I begged for help. I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed a break and I needed sleep. What lovely foreshadowing. Wednesday night I was given a shot of morphine and sent home to get some rest, and again, come back when contractions are 2-4 minutes apart and unbearable. Isn’t that what I just did?
Luckily the morphine kicked in on the way home, and I was able to get 6 hours of sleep that night. Thursday morning the contractions picked back up and grew to be extraordinarily powerful throughout the remainder of the day. I have never felt pain like I felt at this point in my labor. Around 5pm is when I knew this wasn’t going to be okay. I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t remain still. Sounds were coming out of my mouth that were inhuman. The sheer force of my hands burst open a stress ball that forced goo all over me and the walls. I wanted to punch holes in the walls, and scream until I had no more air to give. And yet, I was terrified to go back to the hospital only to be sent home. Once tears started pouring from my eyes, and I could not stand on my own, I was convinced to head to the hospital for the third try. Finally, after what felt like hours, they checked my dilation. This… this is the moment I have felt the most depleted and defeated. I was barely 2 centimeters. They said they couldn’t admit me until I was at least 3 centimeters dilated. I broke down. My contractions were 3 minutes long, and only offered me 1-2 minutes in between. I truly believe they thought I was exaggerating until they hooked me up to a monitor. My contraction intensity was topping the charts. I pleaded with multiple nurses to call my doctor and see if I could be admitted for an epidural. Thirty minutes later, they gave me the news that my doctor gave the go ahead to get me into labor and delivery. I wish I could say I was relieved – the contractions were still occurring and didn’t give me a single second to be relieved.
The triage nurse grabbed my birth plan, and before she even said the words I yelled that I needed an epidural. And then the nurse made a statement that sent me into this state of blankness. The anesthesiologist was backed up two hours. I could not process the thought of continuing like this for two more hours. I must have sounded like Godzilla when I lost it and said that’s not possible. No. I can’t wait. That’s when I was offered something I originally said no to. A drug I’ve only heard of in reference to overdoses in severe drug addicts. And here I am insisting on it through tears. Fentanyl. The look on my husband’s face told me I should consider other options, but that’s the thing. There weren’t any. I could not walk around the hospital screaming – I couldn’t even stand up by myself. I definitely could not wait two more hours for the epidural. So, I got my IV of fentanyl.
It only took a few minutes for me to feel some signs of relief. When my needle phobia kicked in, I realized there was an IV in my arm and I begged the nurses to tape it down and wrap it up so I couldn’t see it. It was sufficient enough – and it clearly wasn’t my main concern at the moment. \When the anesthesiologist arrived to give me the epidural, he checked the charts in order to time my contractions. The epidural needs to be inserted in between contractions to minimize movement from the mother. The nurse informed the anesthesiologist that I was having coupling contractions, so he had about 30 seconds to complete the epidural. Normally, contractions average a minute break in between, and the facial expression from the anesthesiologist sent yet another wave of fear through me when he said, “Wow, I’ve never done it that quickly before!” As he’s setting up, my contractions are lasting for upwards of 4-5 minutes, topping the charts, and giving me only 30 seconds to take a few breaths before they ramp up again. Now, I see the needle that’s supposed to go into my back. This, along with IVs, is my biggest fear. I now realize I’m also having a panic attack, but no one else notices because I’m also in so much physical pain. I’m hyperventilating from sheer panic, and can’t catch my breath between contractions.
Nearing midnight, I’m in a bed, hooked up to many machines, maxing out my epidural dosage. I try to get some sleep but am constantly being checked by nurses. A few hours later, my nurse notices that I’ve spiked a fever. It’s not too high, but it’s a precaution. The babies heart rate is also high. They woke me up to let me know that they’re going to be coming in more frequently to check on me. I’m not sure how much time has gone by when all of a sudden the monitors stop beeping. My nurse quickly walks into my room, and repeats some code into her radio. Four other nurses swiftly move into my room and start repositioning me. I knew what was happening, but no one said it aloud. They lost the baby’s heartbeat. It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes when the monitors were beeping again, the nurses let out a collective sigh, and left the room. My nurse, however, was still on edge. At this point I started violently shaking. I’m not talking about fever shivers, this was close to full convulsions. And I couldn’t get my body to relax. The nurse checked my temperature again, and my fever was exceptionally high. She told me that I was now on a Sepsis Alert. It was possible that I had an infection that could be passed onto the baby. Cue more panic.
Another hour or two of shaking, another dose of the epidural because it wore off, and a few minutes of sleep later, the monitors suddenly stopped beeping again. And again the nurses rushed in. As they were quickly repositioning me, my water broke. The second time we lost the heartbeat was just as silent as the first. No one was telling me what was going on, but I knew I was scared. I was laying there, shaking, with so many hands on me and things happening to me, and I couldn’t do a thing. After the nurses got the heartbeat back on the screen, they let me attempt to rest until I was fully dilated. An unknown amount of time later, they checked and I was finally 10 centimeters – fully dilated and ready to push. My doctor arrived in 20 minutes and was very calm, which helped. I started pushing, and quickly realized how exhausting it is. It wasn’t as painful as my contractions, but I did feel the urge to push, and it was incredibly overwhelming. Halfway through pushing, my fever spiked even higher. I needed antibiotics right away and they needed to check my blood. So now back to my needle phobia. I have an IV in my hand, an epidural in my back, and I am laying with my legs in the stirrups trying to push out my baby. Now I have two nurses, one on each side, taking blood from each arm. I never could have thought up this scenario, but this now tops the list of greatest fears.
After 67 hours of labor, and one hour of pushing, my 8.1lb, 21.26 inch baby boy was born Friday, August 23, 2019 at 6:15am. My husband was able to help deliver him, and I reached down to pull him to my chest. But he never made it there. He laid on my stomach for less than 30 seconds before they rushed my husband to cut the umbilical cord and put the baby in the incubator. My nurse called a code and even more nurses rushed in – including a Neonatologist. I only know this because he announced himself as he walked in the room. And just like that, after less than a minute of holding my baby boy, he was rushed to the NICU with my husband following close behind. I was alone with my doctor and nurse, delivering my placenta and being stitched up. Alone. It was two hours before I saw my baby in the NICU, and those two hours felt nothing like I imagined feeling just after having a baby. I put on a tough front, which I now recognize as a coping technique so I didn’t completely break. Nothing was how I expected. Not a single part of my labor. I spent the next few days recovering in my room, with my new baby across the hospital in the NICU. I needed to breastfeed every two hours, so the sleep deprivation set in very quickly. It took me 15 minutes to walk to the NICU from my room, 30-45 minutes to breastfeed and spend time with my son, and 15 minutes to walk back. By the time I was back in the bed and barely had fallen asleep, the nurses station would call to have me go to the NICU to breastfeed again. On top of this, every nurse that came in was pumping me full of fluids through my IV. I was so swollen that I was in pain. My hands and feet felt like they were going to burst, and my face looked like I had gained 100lbs overnight. For some reason, my chart had me listed as a C-Section patient, so I was getting double the amount of fluids. I told every new nurse I had that this didn’t feel right, they’d check my chart, and the C-section was still listed. I did not understand. No one was listening to me. No one told me that I wasn’t supposed to be that swollen. No one told me it was okay to shower, so I stayed in my hospital gown from delivery for two days. No one told me it wasn’t normal to feel nothing. No one asked if I was okay.
The day we were discharged and the baby was finally in my room, I didn’t want to hold him. I left him swaddled in the crib. I let my dad and mom hold him, I let my husband change his diaper. I didn’t know it then, but I do now: I didn’t get to bond with my baby. As we were leaving, my mom asked if I had my baby’s hospital bracelet and his footprints. Logically, my husband grabbed them, but I snapped and said I didn’t want or need them. I raised my voice. I was disrespectful and illogical. That should have been one of the first outward signs that something was not okay.
Postpartum
I have shut myself down to cope with my ptsd. I shut down immediately after giving birth. After multiple days of unbearable contractions, and an alarming final few hours of labor, my baby and husband were gone and I was alone. After all of that… I was alone. I did not get to hold my baby. I did not get to kiss my husband, or sigh a breath of relief. I did not get to look in my baby’s eyes and see if they looked like mine. I did not get my rainbow after the storm. Just more rain. And I felt nothing. Something in my head told me that this wasn’t how I was supposed to feel. I was supposed to be happy my baby was finally here, or scared of him being in the NICU, or sad that I was alone. But I felt nothing. And that nothingness stayed with me for weeks – until it turned to rage. Rage, nothingness, and tears. That’s how I remember my baby’s first year. I have moments of joy that I recall: sitting on the couch eating baked ziti while holding my newborn the first night we were home, waking up in the morning to his stretches and baby whispers, nursing him in the morning sunlight, long walks around our neighborhood, and all of the firsts. But I was robbed of my happiness. I loved my baby. I know that I did. But that instant connection that moms have… I didn’t have that. Maybe it was the traumatic labor, the NICU experience, being across the country from my family and friends, my husband’s deployment, or the pandemic. Regardless, I felt nothing.
Being a solo parent with a deployed husband during a worldwide pandemic has caused me to enjoy less of my baby’s first year. Stress of no help, no family, no break – it all finally gets to me when the baby has been screaming for an hour straight and refuses to sleep. I find myself miserable and wanting to leave, instead of being able to comfort my baby. Finally when he is asleep, I still do not have a break. I need to clean up the mess that was made in the previous few hours. I need to prepare dinner. I need to do everything on my own. There’s no time to sit and cry, so I cry while I unload the dishwasher and pick up toys. I cry in the shower. Yes, because I’m stressed, but also because I’m not able to enjoy this time with my baby. People need breaks. People need help. This isolation and deployment cause me to be constantly “on” from 5am until 10pm, then my brain is too overwhelmed to shut off. How can I be excited and happy about a homecoming when all I feel is stressed and defeated. There’s something about a screaming baby that makes you question everything. Am I a good mom? Can I do this? Does he hate me for letting him cry longer than I should because I just need to turn the baby monitor off for one minute? Is this all my fault?
The pandemic is hard on everyone in many different ways. But sometimes I feel like no one gets just how difficult this is for me. Having postpartum PTSD, while being forced to be alone because of quarantine and a deployment, is not how I envisioned the first year of my baby’s life. I have to share my baby’s first milestones through emails. FaceTiming people who have roommates, significant others, or family with them just makes me more sad that I’m doing this completely alone. I have really good days, and I have days where I don’t know how I’m going to make it until bedtime – just to do it all over again tomorrow. I’ve screamed into my pillow more times than I can count. I’ve had to walk out of my baby’s room while he’s screaming because I can feel myself reaching my breaking point. I feel like a worthless person. I have no identity other than being a mother. I don’t feel like myself. Having my entire day and night revolve around my baby is exhausting. Mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. This has been the most difficult time of my life, but I hate that I am wishing it away. I am thankful the deployment was only 3 months, but that was just the beginning of my postpartum mental health journey.
When people hear that a mother has a postpartum mental illness, they think of a sad mom crying on the floor because they don’t have the energy to do anything. What they don’t think of is the crippling anxiety, the panic attacks, the rage that emerges from a depth I didn’t know existed, and the happy face that hides it from the world. And the nothingness. Postpartum PTSD brings in another element. Not only do I feel all of those things, but I become triggered by seemingly unrelated events. When I am alone, overwhelmed, or feeling no control of a scenario, I get sent into a place where I face a monster or darkness. What happens after a trigger is either a blow up or a shut down. If given the choice, I’d choose the latter. My body fills with this immense pressure, much like a pot that’s about to boil over. Except I’m not boiling over water. I’m boiling over with rage. Something completely out of my control is my son’s sleep. This would send me into the wildest rage in the beginning months – outside his bedroom door screaming into pillows, punching anything I knew wouldn’t break my knuckles. Even now, 18 months postpartum, I’m still dealing with that reaction. That intense overreaction.
There are days like that, where I scream and cry and hate myself for being this way. I apologize endlessly to my husband for the way that I am. I didn’t ask for this. I truly didn’t know this was something any mother dealt with. I even apologize as I’m screaming out my rage, “I’m so sorry for yelling, but I can’t f***ing stop, and I don’t know how to calm down!” I have to prep my parents if I know I’m on edge that day. “Just know that if I’m mean or I yell, it’s not me. I can’t control it.” I don’t recognize myself. I would never do or say the things I do when I am in a trigger. But here we are, nonetheless. It still happens. No matter how many therapy sessions I have, or how many coping skills I educate myself with, triggers happen and they shave my patience level down to nothing. It could be one big trigger that sends me spiraling or into a panic attack, or it could be a handful of minuscule moments throughout the day that continuously fill up my rage teapot. Then that last, tiny, seemingly irrelevant moment will send me boiling over and screaming with rage, ending with a sense of guilt and depression that overtakes me like a dark wave in a storm. I’m slowly drowning, getting knocked over and pushed down, no matter how hard I fight to get back to the surface. Some days it’s anxiety, some days it’s depression, but most days it’s rage. Feeling out of control, overwhelmed, and alone.
I’ve come such a long way since the early days of not recognizing there was a problem. Being the first of my friends to get married and have a baby meant I was going at this blind, but finding resources on Instagram, as silly as that sounds, helped me tremendously. Knowing there are other moms going through the rough patches and the storms, meant so much to me. I wasn’t truly alone, and it wasn’t just me. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and after 11 months of suffering in silence I finally found my way to a therapist. Having a postpartum PTSD was not in my plan for motherhood, and my baby’s first year was nothing like I expected. But I am here, I can cope, and I will keep on this rollercoaster journey for my son.
I was induced at 39 weeks pregnant on Sunday, March 22nd, 2020. That was 11 days after Covid-19 was declared a global pandemic, 9 days after it was declared a national emergency, and 2 days after the first stay at home order in the States was issued. At that point in time, our knowledge was small, and the fear was big. The situation was worsening by the day, and as visitor restrictions tightened, I became afraid of having to labor alone.
We went to the hospital at 7:30pm. At 7:48 the next morning, I told the nurse and my husband that I was nauseous and felt like I was going to faint. They tried repositioning me, but I proceeded to lose consciousness temporarily a few minutes later. I was experiencing respiratory failure, and my oxygen levels were low enough to send me in and out of consciousness. At the same time, my son’s heart rate had dropped to the 60s. I was unplugged from the monitors and quickly moved for an emergency cesarean. My husband was left in the room alone, in shock about what had happened.
As the C section began, I was poorly responsive and cyanotic. My son, Henry, was delivered within minutes. He was born with an APGAR score of 0– he was blue, limp, and pulseless. He was quickly taken by the NICU team for resuscitation and a prompt cooling treatment, the protocol for babies who have been deprived of oxygen during birth. That would be the last time my son and I would be in the same room for another month due to the pandemic.
The OBs began closing my C section, but before they were finished, I went into cardiac arrest. A Code Blue was called, and they began CPR. The OR filled with 40-50 people who would work together to save my life over the next hour and a half.
I continued to arrest, so a large device called the LUCAS was used to perform chest compressions while the ECMO team was activated. At the same time, I began bleeding profusely from my C section wound. I was experiencing DIC, a condition that causes your blood to clot where it shouldn’t and then hemorrhage where clotting is necessary. A massive transfusion was called for.
Twenty minutes into my arrest, the doctors shocked me 3 times over the course of 5 minutes. Even then, my heart continued to malfunction. They continued CPR while replacing the blood I was losing until the ECMO team arrived. It would ultimately take about 25 units, or 8 liters, of blood products to stabilize me.
The team successfully placed me on ECMO 50 minutes into my arrest. ECMO is the highest form of life support and used for patients in persistent cardiorespiratory failure. On ECMO, my blood was removed from my body, oxygenated by a machine, and then placed back into my body continuously. This bought my heart and lungs the time they needed to recover.
Once ECMO flow was established and my DIC had begun resolving, I was stable enough to leave the OR.
Due to Covid, no one besides my husband had been allowed at the hospital for my delivery, but he was told that my family should come down once I had begun arresting. They wanted my family to have a chance to say goodbye because it didn’t look like I would make it. They all rushed down, were briefed on the events that were transpiring in the OR, then could only stay for a few hours before being asked to leave. It took about a day for my official diagnosis – I had suffered Amniotic Fluid Embolism, a rare, unpredictable birth complication.
I remained on ECMO for only two days, but I didn’t wake as expected after that. An MRI revealed that I had suffered numerous strokes as a result of my AFE, which were keeping me unconscious. My neurologist assured my family that I would wake in a few days time. He was wrong. Meanwhile, seven days after Henry’s birth, my husband brought my son home from the hospital. We are incredibly fortunate that Henry doesn’t seem to have been impacted by the circumstances of his birth – his MRI was normal, and he is developing beautifully.
When the Cardiac ICU started receiving Covid patients, I was transferred to the Neuro ICU. My prognosis became worse with each passing day. After two weeks of unresponsiveness and a mess of other complication, the hospital pushed to move me to a long-term care facility, as I would likely have long term physical and cognitive disabilities that would require months of treatment. On April 7th and 8th, a tracheostomy and gastrostomy were performed in preparation for that seemingly inevitable transfer.
But on April 9th, 16 days after my AFE, I finally began following commands. When I woke, I experienced hemiparesis on my right side. I couldn’t raise my right arm or hold a pen. My processing speed was quite slow. I had no memory of going to the hospital to give birth and believed I had miscarried due to a dream I had while comatose (the fact that Henry couldn’t come to the hospital reinforced this belief – I was no longer pregnant, and there was no baby). My inability to write accompanied by my inability to speak because of my tracheostomy led to days of confusion about where I was and what had happened—being mostly alone due to the pandemic didn’t help either. My husband had fought tooth and nail for an exception to the visitor policy, but he was granted only two hours per day. My anxiety always piqued as the night drew near – I couldn’t sleep, and I hated being alone in that hospital room. It would take about a week for me to remember going to the hospital to have a baby, and weeks to remember anything from my labor.
After 23 days in the ICU, I was approved for an inpatient rehab program. My husband’s visiting privileges would be cut to just an hour three times per week, but he was granted an exception to bring Henry in for the first time. A compassionate exception they called it (though it feels like that compassion was shown weeks too late). I didn’t want to go to rehab under these circumstances. I wanted to go home.
At check-in, I couldn’t sit myself up, stand, or walk. Movement of my right arm had improved, but I didn’t yet have the dexterity to write my name. I couldn’t put my hair up or brush my teeth on my own. I wasn’t yet approved to eat—all nutrition was still being managed through a feeding tube in my stomach. I was booked in for a 28 day stay with intensive physical, occupational, and speech therapy.
Meeting Henry for the first time, 1 month after his birth.
28 conscious days alone in a hospital was a no for me, and there has never been a better time for my stubbornness to shine. On April 21st, six days after check-in, I walked out of the hospital with no appreciable deficits. I was weak and my balance wasn’t perfect, so I couldn’t yet carry the 10 lb baby waiting for me at home. But I could at least hold him. Neuroplasticity is incredible.
My first year of motherhood has been unlike anything I could have imagined. A brain injury like the one I have gets better with each month that passes, but I spent the first 2-3 months of my time home too exhausted and weak to really care for my son. I’m also continuing to work through my grief and trauma surrounding Henry’s birth, which sometimes feels like a full-time job in a society that constantly reinforces that the day you give birth will be the “best day of your life.” I continue to be devastated by our month-long separation and the fact that everyone knew of his birth before me. I wish I could’ve been the first person to hold him. I try to balance my grief with gratitude for my survival and near complete recovery, but that can be difficult some days (those days are getting fewer and farther between thankfully). I am, however, so grateful for this birth trauma community – what a light when “normal” motherhood pages feel so dark.
