I've heard a lot lately. A lot about birth. A lot about children, babies, and parenting. A lot. Rarely, if ever, do I hear about the Mama. Unless, of course, she's doing the 'wrong' thing.
When our first daughter was born, we went the medical route. Undoubtedly, this was the safest thing to do, right? Sure. We educated ourselves, took classes, and planned a natural, unmedicated birth in the hospital. We were unable to afford a doula at the time. Unfortunately, I feel that a doula could have prevented our daughter's horrible birth, or at least quelled it a bit.
She born via section. I could feel them ripping my body and my baby around on that surgical table. The farthest thing from our planned birth as possible. The section was simply due to doctor's convenience, not patient health. She screamed and she cried and I couldn't touch her to comfort her. My arms were strapped to a table, I was shaking, I had the worst headache I've ever had in my life and I felt like vomiting. All for their convenience, might I add!
They wheeled us out of recovery and into the maternity care room and I looked at this baby, this beautiful baby and felt so disconnected. I had no idea who she was, I could barely hold my head up, and my abdomen was in excruciating pain. I was unable to move alone or even be alone with baby for medical reasons.
We had gone from an uncomplicated birth, to a very complicated birth that had torn me to pieces. To add insult to injury, I was treated like cattle, herded from here to there, poked, prodded, and talked to like I didn't know my own body and soul. I still vividly remember having my first shower after that surgery. The door, wide open, a (very sweet) nurse helping me as I cried to take my gauze and bandages off as the water ran over my incision and stung me from the inside out. It had to be done. And so it was.
I came home a few days later to a place with steps. Not conducive to post abdominal surgery in the least. I struggled every day, every feeding, and every night waking to simply get my body angled to feed my baby. I slowly slipped away. I slipped so far into depression. A black, dark, horrible place that I never want to be again. All the while, faking smiling for pictures, chatting with family, and hiding the pain I felt both physically and emotionally. "This baby wasn't mine. These people don't even know. Do they even care? Oh. Yes! Isn't she beautiful? She's doing fine, thank you!" The only person that ever knew was my faithful, loving, and understanding husband.
For 6 months, I was berated with questions about my baby's health, her milestones, and questions on feedings, night wakings, and solid foods. I slipped. I fell hard. No one knew. Rarely I was asked how I was feeling. How was I recovering. At my initial follow up with the OBGYN, I told the doctor that I didn't know (but had delivered our daughter) that I was having a really hard time coping. That I couldn't function and often felt and thought things I'd never admit to anyone. She responded to me with "That's fine. It's normal. We'll just get you some medications and formula for your baby. She won't be able to breastfeed on these." and walked away. Out of the room. She ripped the staples from my incision about 10 minutes later and that's the last I saw of her.
Our daughter cried. She cried so much. I had no idea how to help her. No idea what was wrong. I sat and cried with her for nearly 6 months. It was easier to sit and cry with her there in her room. I didn't have any connection with her. She was ripped from me and I just couldn't bring myself to know her. The depression got worse and the smiles more fake. One night, after crying so hard I nearly vomited, I threw my phone into a wall and smashed it to pieces. It was then, I knew. I needed to call a counselor. I started therapy and the tears flowed. He understood, he listened, and he asked "How do YOU feel?"
For the first time in 7 months, someone had asked ME how I felt. And I began. I began that long, so so long road to healing. By the time our daughter was 12 months old, I felt human again, but still depressed. When she was 15 months old, we found out we were expecting again. I cried hard. So hard. I was terrified we would have the same experience. (We didn't)
I think back on this all. I think to myself "How can people tell me this wasn't traumatic? How can people look me in the eye and say "At least you have a healthy baby!"" But it wasn't about the baby. She was healthy. She was beautiful. But her Mama was so broken, torn, and unnoticed that her first 7 months of life were tough for our family. She cried. I cried. Hard. Birth trauma is real. PPD is real. So so real! The next time a friend has a baby, ask her "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? How can I help?" Every mother is happy for the health of her baby, but not every mother is healthy for her healthy baby. Without the proper care, a child can't thrive. Our society needs to focus on women's health, maternal health, both emotional and physical. We've come to treat the body and not the soul. We need to learn to treat the body AND the soul, for what is life without a soulless body lacking in love and joy?
If Mama is well, supported, and cared for, so is baby. Never tell someone that what they experienced isn't traumatic. You've never been through it. Listen, love, and support. Always.
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