Back to the first birth - Part 3: Baby #1

Little T was home, but he had not arrived in the way I had hoped and dreamed would happen.

When the birth of your precious first child is not an occasion marked with joy, but one fraught with fear and pain....

I was numb from it all, and continued to be so for at least a good six months from when he was born. Emotional trauma.

I don't remember much.

I remember struggling to nurse him in hospital.  He didn't understand how to latch on with a conventional cross-body hold.  The first time I tried to feed him he just started to get upset. He was distressed. He didn't understand, didn't want the nourishment. He was being fed through a tube down his throat. I think another little part of me died then. But I followed my instincts and just cuddled him close. Forget about feeding, I needed to comfort him. I guess I did. He settled down again.
Would he do that for anyone? Or did he need his mother - did he need me?

I remember feeling like he was a stranger to me.

I doubted if he was my child at all.

What happened to my baby?

What if they had gotten him mixed up?

I'd never know.  I certainly couldn't tell he was mine.

He was just this little strange thing I had to take care of.

I was so detached.

There was no bond.

I remember reading somewhere that mothers who had trouble bonding with their child would sometime lick them, just like any new animal mother would lick theirs. I tried it. I thought it helped somewhat.

I was still detached.

There was no connection. No all encompassing mother-heart-love.

Just him. And me. Trying to figure it out together.

At least he smelt like my husband and I.  For the first few days.

At least he seemed to recognize my voice and my touch.

At least we worked out the breastfeeding.

He fed until he was about 18 months old, and would have kept nursing, but I was pregnant with my second child, so we sort of just stopped. But I was so grateful for every time he nursed. It finally felt like we finally had some sort of a connection. I think I would have lost it completely if we hadn't have had a chance to breastfeed. It would have been beyond what I could endure.

These things I do remember.

I also remember feeling guilty that I didn't mind putting my baby down, or letting other people hold him. In fact, sometimes it was a relief to forget I was now a mother to this stranger.

But sometimes my arms would ache unaccountably to cradle my little baby son, and I couldn't bear to go another minute without him as close to me as possible, tucked up under my chin.  Those moments I would latch onto with all my might, fiercely triumphant that some part of me knew that he was mine and I wasn't letting go.  Those moments proved to me that I did love my little boy, even though sometimes I still felt like I didn't.

I felt as if we had been estranged from each other, the relationship broken before it even begun....

Oh, how it hurt.

A pain too deep to carry, tearing apart your very core as a mother, even whilst you are trying to become that very one - a mother to your son.
 
I still bear the scar, but faith, prayer and peace from my dearest friend Jesus Christ has done much to heal those terrible wounds.

Now, though He upholds me, I still struggle with what was, and knowing how much better it could have been.

In some ways the birth of my daughter helped to heal the "could-have-beens" and in others, served to make them much, much worse.

So now I struggle with the guilt of comparison. Of feeling like I neglected my son, and didn't love him fully as a baby as I should have done.

I struggle feeling like I somehow deserted him because I was so constricted by my own pain; a pain I couldn't fully recognize or even comprehend at the time.

Nothing about Little T's birth made sense to me, or makes sense even now.  I still cry over it - the trauma is still there.  My heart still mourns for what was lost, and the bond I feel that was severed irrecoverably.

...   ...   ...

Back then there were the well-meaning words of advice.  Mental Trauma.

I was told I should be happy.

"Healthy mother, healthy baby" - I heard that phrase from my midwife, from the doctors, the nurses, and worst - my closest family and friends.

No one knew at first how those words stabbed.  Happy?  Happy that I had just been through the most traumatic event of my life?  Happy that I felt like I was about to die after being chopped up like a steak on a butcher's tray? Happy that I felt completely numb inside?

And then I couldn't hold it back any longer - no.  I was not ok. I was not fine. I was not healthy. What had happened to me and my son was not ok.

I poured it out to my husband first. He didn't understand, though he tried his hardest.

I got angry with my family when they said I should be happy.

I held my tongue when other mothers would recount their birth stories, knowing that I would burst into tears if I said anything more than "He was born by emergency c-section."

I hated using the word 'born'.

It felt like it was a lie, because he wasn't born.  He was yanked out of me, severed from my body in the cruelest way possible. They had gutted me and stolen my son away.

No. I was not happy. Not healthy.

I was so jealous of any mother that had their baby naturally. I tried to be happy for them, but my own pain would intrude. I knew I couldn't continue to let it be that way.  I had to find healing. I had to face it all - the pain, the grief, the fear.

I had to find a way to forgive myself, to forgive those that did this things to me, to forgive those that failed to support me when I need them too, and to forgive God for allowing this dreadful thing to happen.

I learned that I had done the very best for my baby that I knew how - it was because I loved him that I surrendered to this horrible experience. I did it all to save him. So I forgave myself for allowing it all to happened.

I forgave the doctors, but I don't trust them at all any more.  They did what they had to at the time, but it is because they did what they did in the beginning, that they had to do what they did in the end. I still don't believe they knew what was right or best for my baby and I.

I forgave those I felt had failed me, and I knew it was partly my fault for not communicating my fears and wishes better. I also learned not to listen to advice that I felt was wrong, or went against my instincts.  Sometimes it's so hard to stand up against the outside pressures, or emotional and mental exhaustion, but when it comes to your baby - it is not worth giving up as long as the decision is in your hands and you know what is right.

I surrendered my will into God's hands, though I still don't know why it had to be how it was.

But as with all things pertaining to unfathomable matters of the heart - matters in which I cannot fully understand my own feelings, thoughts or emotions - I lean on the One who is greater than I, the One who understands all the pain of humanity, and yes, even the pangs of a mother-heart that has been broken.

Jesus carries these pains for me, all I have to do is ask.


xxx,

b.

Back to the first birth - Part 2: Baby #1

So there we were at 7am.  Tired, sleepy and wondering exactly how long it would be before we would meet our baby.  I had the gel inserted, was told to go home and rest for as long as possible and come back before lunch time.

The contractions started within half an hour of the gel, and continued all morning becoming increasingly more uncomfortable.  Around 11:00am I said I wanted to go back, but first we had to take our dog around to the in-laws place so she could be looked after.  That meant an extra 30 minutes for the most painful, annoying car ride I have ever been on!

I had contractions that I was literally jumping out of my seat for, and then, as we were waiting at the lights, stuck in road works of all things (!!!) I had a massive contraction and my waters broke all over the front (suede!!) seat.

When we got the to the birth center, they said that they had to put a canular in, so we waited for that and once it was in I jumped in the bath before anyone could say not to!   An hour later they wanted to check me, and when they found out that I wasn't dilating, they said I had to go up to L&D for augmentation - ie, Syntocinon.

I didn't want to have the drip, but they said that once the induction was started, I couldn't do anything else.  The next however many hours where one long painful blur.  I quickly found out that Syntocinon contractions are far worse than natural contractions, and the midwife kept on turning the dosage up.

By the time 8:00pm rolled around I was exhausted.  I hadn't eaten much, and the little I had, I promptly threw back up.   I hadn't drunk much water either ~ and I couldn't get in the bath.  Each contraction felt like someone was stabbing a rusty, blunt saw into my pelvis and crunching it backwards and forwards.  Between all of that, and possibly being dehydrated, I knew I couldn't go on.

I broke down sobbing because I knew I had to take one more step I didn't want too...  An epidural.  After agonising over the decision with my husband for half an hour (or more!  I really don't remember) we decided to do it.

The anaesthetist came pretty quickly, but once he was there he wouldn't really answer my questions.  I wanted to know how the epidural drug would affect my baby, and he basically said in so many words 'not to worry my pretty little head about it'.   He didn't want to take the time to reassure my fears, and I felt extremely patronised.   I had the epidural anyway, because again, I didn't really think I had a choice.

 I think that went in around 9:00pm.   I rested, and they did an internal at 10pm, only to find that I'd only dilated 1cm by then.  It wasn't good news.  I tried to get some sleep and did actually get some good sleep, but woke up at 12:00pm.   It was shortly after then - I can't remember exactly when, but I thought something felt wrong.

I looked at the CTG machine (because of course I'd been hooked up right after the epi) and I couldn't see my baby's heart beat.  I thought maybe something had slipped, but I called for the midwife right away.  She came in and couldn't find it again, and went out of the room.

Everything slipped into chaos.  The lights where thrown on, so many people sudden where bustling around me.  A doctor said it was time to meet my baby as he did an internal.  I was confused - surely I wasn't ready to push?  I woke my husband - "It's time to meet our baby!"

Then "We have to go to surgery right now."  They were wheeling me out, practically running me down to theater.  I couldn't see my husband and I started to feel really sick.   I said so to my midwife and she said it was because my baby wasn't doing well.   I was so scared I couldn't even feel it.

I was in theater, they put me on the table and spread out my arms.  Lines, canulars and people were tangled around me.  I couldn't see my husband - I was begging them to get him for me; he was my rock, my lifeline - didn't they know that I couldn't do this without him?  That I needed him more than anything?

They were doing things to me, I could feel it - but not, and finally they let my husband in.  He held my hand so tightly.  And I stared up at the blinding white lights.  I felt them rumaging inside me.  Pulling at my insides.  It felt so wrong, so invasive.  I felt like a piece of meat on a butcher's slab.  The baby was out.

But I couldn't hear him make a sound.  I strained my ears, listening for his cry.  All I hear was "Code Blue" and I knew that it was all very, very, wrong.  I cried and cried.  I asked is my baby ok?  Is my baby ok?

No one told me.  No one knew the answer.  I cried.  My husband cried.  We cried together, waiting....

Then someone told me he was ok.  But I wasn't.

I couldn't breathe.  I felt like I was slipping away into this soft, deep void.  I sent up a wordless plea "Dear God, please look after my baby!  Please look after my husband!"  I knew I was going.  But then, He answered - He sent me back because it was not yet my time.

I was still crying, unable to breathe.

Then they called my husband over to hold our son.  We had a little boy.  I turned my head and saw the pure, utter joy on my husband's face as he held our little boy.  He brought him to me, as I was being taken to recovery.

I reached out and touch his little face, so crumpled and red.  Everything else was a blur.  We decided to call him Theodore - "Gift from God".  They wheeled me away and took my baby to the neo-natal intensive care unit.

I went to recovery.   I was numb.   I was taken to the Postnatal Ward.  I wanted my baby.

He had been born at 1:30am that Friday, and all morning I asked "Can I see my baby?  I want to see my baby!"   The midwives said that they would do what they could, but they needed a wardsman to take me in my bed and everyone was too busy.

It wasn't until that afternoon that they finally took me up.  I was wheeled next to his crib.  I said hello to my little sleeping darling, my little trooper.  He was all strapped up - he had a canular in his hand.  I ached to hold him, but I couldn't.

I touched his little face and spoke to him, and just like that, in his sleep, he smiled at me.  And I knew that he recognised my voice.

Then my body took over and though I fought it with all my strength, I could not stay awake.  I fell asleep before my time with my baby was even up.  I woke up again in the ward.

And I still didn't have my baby.  That night I fed him for the first time at 10pm.  Then I was taken back and I slept.  The next morning I woke up, and it was dreadful.  I needed my baby, my husband - I was not ok.

When I finally saw my boy again it was around lunch time that day.   Then, at four o'clock on Saturday, they finally released him out of NICU and he was with me for the rest of our hospital stay.

We stayed until the following Monday, and then finally, we got to go home.  Our new little family of three.

xxx,

b.

Back to the first birth - Part 1: Baby #1

When I wrote Little T's birth story down in my journal, it was cold.  Clinical.  Straight to the point.  I wanted to remember, but in some ways I wanted to forget.

The fear.  The helplessness.  The crying.  The feeling of being so out of control that the only way to cope is shut down completely.  Which is what I did.  I shut down.  And only now: 1 year, two months, and two weeks later, can I say - "Well, no wonder I didn't have my baby naturally!"

It all started months before Little T's EDD.   I'd had some contraction-type scares before 26 wks; ones that seriously had us thinking that we were loosing our baby.  The only thing that kept me hopeful was that fact that no matter what was going on with my body, there was no bleeding, and whenever they checked me it seemed that my cervix was well and truly clamped shut!

That was scary, and it was nerve-racking.  But then we hit 26 weeks, and things really went crazy.  At first I would have an "episode" of contractions only once or twice a week, and I would just ride them out until they stopped.  But then the episodes started happening more often, they would last longer, and they got a lot more intense and difficult to deal with.  This cycle of stop-start just kept going until the episodes were happening every second night for more than four hours.  We reached the 41 week +5 mark riding in on these episodes, when everyone had been sure that I wouldn't even reach my due date!

I was exhausted. My husband was exhausted, and we had no idea what was going on, except that I had an "Irritable Uterus", which meant that no one else had a clue what was going on either!  

Looking back now, I can see the signs of prodromal labor -

• Real contractions - ones that didn't go away, would get stronger, would time anywhere between 30 seconds and a minute long, and definitely didn't fit the Braxton Hicks standards
• 'Episodes' of contractions that would last any where over 1 1/2 to 3 hours long
• The contraction episodes pretty much always happened at night - either just as I was trying to sleep, or would wake me up in the wee hours of the morning
• I'd fool myself, my husband, and even my midwife!  It was only the internal exams that 'proved' nothing was 'happening'  

However, I knew nothing about prodromal labor back then.  All I knew was that I was so incredibly tired, that my confidence in my body's ability to give birth was just about shot, and that I had started to shut down because I just couldn't cope any more. 

And then my lovely midwife laid it on the line - the hospital attached to the birth centre I was with was starting to think about induction, and I had two options - to be induced or to come in every day (with an 30 minute drive each way, not to mention parking problems due to major renovations!) for monitoring.   

I felt helpless.  Induction was the very thing I hadn't wanted.  I had done the research - I knew that inductions can cause problems, and at the very least, usually end up with some level of further intervention.  It was a slippery slope I had determined I wasn't going to go down right from the very beginning.  

Now it was staring me in the face....  

I was 3 days away from hitting the 42 week mark, (EDD was that Saturday) and my midwife was going away on holidays that weekend.  I couldn't believe that this baby was ever going to come, and my rock, my darling husband, wasn't there with me to help me face this (in my mind) devastating news.  

I burst into tears walking to the car, and called my Mum.  She was lovely, but she didn't really get it.  She said that she knew it wasn't what I wanted, but if they had to do an induction, then there wasn't really any choice. 

That was the last straw that broke the horse's back.  I think that's when I was defeated.

I dried my tears and drove home.  My husband and I tossed the issue back and forth, but I guess in my heart I'd already given up.  I just couldn't trust my body, I couldn't trust my judgement, and all I wanted was for my baby to be safe.   We scheduled the induction for Thursday morning, 7am.

.....     .....     .....

Mistake #1:  Lack of communication

        My husband didn't really know how very upset and scared I was over the whole induction process.  I felt like there was pressure from the hospital, from my midwife who was going away, and inadvertently pressure from him as he utterly exhausted by this stage and I didn't want to put him through any more stress.  Because I'd started to shut down, I couldn't express all this to him - in fact, I didn't even recognise any of this myself.

But because of that, we ended up making a choice that we'd both regret.

Mistake #2:  The fear and the worry

        I didn't work through any of these emotions.  Like I said, I shut down.  I just stopped functioning on a emotional level, and somewhat on the mental level.  These emotions and thoughts would then continue to haunt me well after Little T was born, and I haven't even yet fully worked through them all.

.....     .....     .....

xxx,

b.