Writing out my experiences has always helped me process and heal. One of the first things I did when I was out of the ICU after birth was jot down the few little snippets that I could remember, because I knew I’d want to write it all out later on. I decided to write it as a letter to my son, to make it more personal as well as giving him a detailed account of his birth and what we survived together.
An unexpected beginning
This is the start of your story, sweet boy. It’s the story not just of your beginning, but mine as well, because I walked away from your birth a different person to the one I was before it.
I never really understood what “birth trauma” meant, not having gone through it myself. I always figured that there was a way of seeing any birth as beautiful and miraculous. Don’t get me wrong, growing and meeting you was an amazing journey, but we were definitely cheated of the fairy light lit, aromatherapy infused water birth where you’d naturally make your way into the world, into Dad’s hands and straight onto my chest for our first cuddle and feed. Instead of peanut balls, calm music and the golden hour, we got tears, uncertainty, separation and a life threatening emergency.
It still doesn’t feel fair. It probably never will.
Nevertheless, it’s the story of how you came into the world and that makes it important and special.
My pregnancy with you wasn’t easy, but wasn’t overly difficult either. My blood pressure was high from the start, which meant more frequent appointments with OB’s, and many short stays in hospital to check my blood pressure over a few hours each time. I went on maternity leave at 29 weeks on the advice of the doctors to try and keep my blood pressure down.
I didn’t know much about preeclampsia, but I had heard of eclampsia before. In truth, my only exposure to it was a tragic episode of Downton Abbey, watching my favourite character wracked with seizures and convulsions and pain that claimed her life after birth. Very scary, and something for the big screen, not my own life! I would come to learn that across the world, a woman would die from preeclampsia every 6 minutes. I was almost one of them.
From my antenatal appointments, I knew that hypertension was the biggest risk factor and that the other requirement for a diagnosis of preeclampsia was protein in the urine. Until about 30 weeks, hypertension was my only symptom, but during the last few weeks of pregnancy things changed. I started to get headaches, and my vision went a bit blurry with little spots all over the place. My feet, legs, hands and face started to swell until I could press my finger into my skin and have a deep indent that stayed there for a little while. But, without protein in my urine, preeclampsia wasn’t discussed. My right shoulder started to hurt, which I shrugged off as an old rotator cuff injury and was told not to worry about it, when it was actually my liver expanding causing referred pain. I got carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists, which made doing some very basic things difficult when combined with my swollen fingers. When I started to stack on weight quickly and get more short of breath, it still wasn’t discussed, and instead an OB tried to refer me to an obesity clinic. Even though I had been grilled on preeclampsia indicators my whole pregnancy, I was reassured at every appointment not to worry about it. But something didn’t feel right. The trouble is, when you have health anxiety, something always doesn’t feel right and it’s hard to distinguish a true worry from a false one.
On a Sunday afternoon at 34 weeks and 1 day pregnant, I thankfully decided to listen to my gut and go to hospital. I’d already run my increasingly sharp headache by an OB and they told me it was nothing to worry about unless it persisted for over a week, but something didn’t sit right with me. I also noticed that my blood pressure readings on the cuff I had at home were high, erratic and inconsistent. At the time, I just assumed the cuff was broken, because it didn’t seem possible to have so much variety in one day, or even one hour. As usually happens when you call with a symptom while having hypertension during pregnancy, I was “invited to come in” for an assessment.
Dad and I arrived at the hospital and I did the usual routine: wee into a tiny cup, lay out the bands for the CTG machine, and listen to your little heart beating away. We kept each other entertained for a while, waiting for an update. Even with my health anxiety, most of me assumed it would all come back borderline as it had the whole pregnancy and I’d go home. But then I heard a doctor say my name and that my urine was really high in protein and my heart sank. The OB walked into our cubicle and said that I had preeclampsia, and that I’d need to stay in hospital to try and manage my blood pressure. I had a little cry, knowing that preeclampsia is serious and can turn dangerous without warning and it made me anxious, even though I was assured it would be a rare event. Dad and I were grateful that we’d come to the right place and that you and I could have the care we needed.
For the next 6 days, I stayed in hospital, between the acute assessment unit and the antenatal ward. It was boring, but with visits from Dad, Grandma and Aunty Roo to keep me company, I was managing. My blood pressure continued to be an enigma, leaving each nurse, midwife and doctor confused about why it wouldn’t respond to the ever increasing doses of medication. The conversation changed pretty quickly from “we’ll do what we can to get you home”, to “we’ll do what we can to keep him in”.
On the Wednesday, I felt really unwell for the first time. My head was pounding and the room was spinning. My blood pressure was taken a dozen times by different people, all with readings that were somehow too high and too low at the same time – a medical mystery, I was told! Eventually it moved away from hypertensive crisis back to the severe category, and I continued on. My arms had burst blood vessels from the number of times my pressure was being checked every day and night, and how tight the cuff had to go to get the readings. I chugged along, the same routine of tests and bedrest every day.
Then came Saturday night. 35 weeks on the dot. Your birthday. The day before Birth Trauma Awareness Week, of all things.
Close to death and clueless
Dad and I were talking that afternoon about how I was feeling scared that preeclampsia could spiral at any stage with no warning, and that I wanted you to stay in for as long as you could. The plan at that point was to get us to 37 weeks if it was safe. Dad and I kept saying that we wanted you as “fully cooked” as possible, but that we’d do what we needed to if things changed. It was daunting that such a serious illness could be so invisible, and I was again grateful to be in hospital already. Looking back, it feels strange that I’d had this little panic on the same day it all went downhill, like a part of me somehow knew something big was coming. Or maybe God gave my heart a little nudge to prepare me, I don’t know.
At 7:30PM, a midwife interrupted our viewing of Only Murders In The Building to take my blood pressure for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and said it was quite high, again. I had more medication, again, and she said she’d come back in soon to check, again. At this point in time I had no symptoms that anything was wrong, and had been musing earlier that I was feeling much better.
She came back half an hour later and took it again. I could always tell it would be a bad reading when it took a long time with multiple checks, and I had a running joke that taking my blood pressure was like a game of bingo. I chuckled and asked her how bad it was this time, but noticed a look of panic in her eyes. She said she wasn’t going to tell me, and that she needed to ask a doctor what to do, and hurried out of the room.
She came back a minute later and said “I don’t want you to panic, but I have to do this. There’s going to be a lot of people in here, really quickly” as she pressed the red emergency call button on the wall behind me. I saw sweat on her forehead and worry in her eyes, and heard midwives and nurses alerting everyone that a MET (medical emergency team) call had been made for Bed 19 and to make room. I felt myself start go into shock and reached out for Dad, trying not to hyperventilate or cry while I listened to the alarm.
Within what felt like a minute, between 10 and 15 people were standing around my bed. Some were on the phone to their big bosses, some were talking to each other in hushed tones, and some where whizzing around me, checking my vitals and doing tests. They ran their fingers from side to side in front of my eyes and asked me to tell them when I saw double, nodding knowingly when I confirmed. They hit the reflex hammer against my knees, which bounced off the bed higher than they had ever done. I knew from my own research that hyperreflexia was a sign the preeclampsia had progressed, but didn’t know that combined with my blood pressure in that moment, it was an indication of an oncoming seizure. I’m grateful for how well the team managed the urgency without terrifying us unnecessarily in that moment, moving very quickly to save my life which was now in danger.
Each person was kind and empathetic, making an effort to introduce themselves amidst the chaos and trying to keep me calm. I heard my blood pressure readings called out, and the anaesthetist say that it shouldn’t be possible. I heard words like “urgent” and “emergency” and “now”. I started to focus on pacing my breathing like we’d learnt in our Calmbirth course, while reaching out for Dad’s hand like it was a lifeline through the various arms and legs working over my body. My blood pressure was checked by everyone in the room, and continued to get worse. I had more medication put through my cannula, and the team agreed to wait 10 minutes.
As those minutes passed, I prayed and breathed, while everyone kept buzzing around me. I couldn’t formulate a proper prayer, my brain was so overwhelmed and terrified. I just told God I was scared and I needed us to both be OK somehow. I felt the tears I’d been holding back start to come and I tried to stop them. The midwife noticed, and told me that it was alright to cry. Big, jerky breaths of frustration and fear exploded out of me, with Dad next to me, rubbing my arm and assuring me it would be alright. I tried to focus on your little heartbeat, blissfully unaware of what was happening on the outside world that you’d be joining in a matter of minutes.
10 minutes was up and my blood pressure was taken again. The systolic pressure was 230 and the diastolic pressure was 30. Dangerously high, on dangerously low. I saw grim looks exchanged, and knew that things were about to be completely out of my control. A surgeon introduced herself, put her hand gently on my arm. “I know it’s early and it’s not what you want, but you need to meet your baby now.” I was assured I was in good hands and that things needed to move quickly because it wasn’t safe for you or I anymore.
Being a social worker, I know a lot about the brain, and in particular, the amygdala. That tiny little jellybean that controls how we react to threats and danger – better known as our “fight, flight, freeze, appease” response. Having worked with a lot of traumatised children and adults over the years, my brain is very well trained to stay calm when people and situations escalate. But it’s a whole new ballgame when it’s your own emergency. For the first time in my life, I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to run away. All I could think about was getting to a safe place, at the same time knowing there wasn’t a safe place without the surgery. I could feel my brain at war with itself, my frontal lobe desperately trying to pull my flight response into line.
I looked across at Dad and even though I could tell he was worried, he smiled and said that it was exciting we get to meet you soon and that we could focus on that. Dad is always the person who can bring me back or down again, and I had a flood of thankfulness that he was there. A few days earlier, a family member staying in our house tested positive for COVID, so Dad stayed with Uncle P just across from the hospital to avoid getting it and not being allowed in the theatre. If none of that had happened, Dad would likely have missed your birth. I can’t even bear the thought of what that night would have been like without Dad.
Things moved in a blur. The midwife ushered me to the bathroom and helped me put on a surgical gown after I used the toilet. People moved in and out of the room on the phone, calling together the surgical team and getting a theatre prepped, saying that another unplanned C-section was going to have to wait. It was like a chaotic but choreographed dance. Dad put scrubs over his clothes and tried to get all of our stuff together.
I got back in the bed and started to shake and contract in my legs and abdomen, like my body was trying to do sit ups involuntarily. I thought it was from terror and adrenaline, but I’d later learn that I was starting to convulse and the reason for all the hurry was to try and prevent me progressing to eclampsia now that my neurological functioning was being impacted. Retrospectively, I marvel at the timing of how it all happened before it was too late.
Out of the frying pan into the OR
We moved to the OR fast, and I counted my breaths the whole way with my eyes closed as my lower half continued to convulse. We reached the theatre, where we were told Dad couldn’t come in until it was all ready to go. I was only able to half listen to the possible risks from the surgery and spinal block. I shoved my thoughts of running away to the side and signed consent through tears, before being ushered away from Dad. He sat on his own, praying and letting a few people know what was happening so that they could pray too.
The OR was swarming like a hive, with a bunch of people all doing different jobs, preparing instruments I tried not to look at. I moved across to the surgical bed, where I was asked to sit over the edge, silent tears running down my face. The anaesthesia nurse crouched down in front of me so I could see his eyes and told me that I could do this and that he’d help me get through it. I tried not to listen as the head anaesthetist talked through the procedure to his junior, marking my back with pens, as my brain still told me to jump up and get out of there any way I could. The local anaesthetic didn’t hurt as much as I expected, hunched over like a giant prawn, obsessively counting my breaths and trying to ignore the background noise while I hugged my knees. The nurse put his hands on my shoulders to keep me in position for the big needle, and I prepared myself. I felt deep pressure and a sharp sting as they hit a nerve, and another, and another. With each wince, the nurse called out that they needed to keep trying. After a minute, the pain went away and I was told to lie back and that I’d no longer be able to move for myself. The team shifted and pulled and pushed until I was in the right position. The spinal block set in so quickly – my legs felt like jelly but also as heavy as lead and somehow tingly as well. My head was still spinning and I felt sick, so the anaesthetist pumped more drugs into me as they inserted a catheter.
The team continued to make clear to me that we didn’t have much time, and that if anything went slightly wrong or I started to seize, I’d be placed under general anaesthesia immediately. I hoped with all my heart that wouldn’t happen, because it meant Dad would have to miss everything, but I resigned myself to the possibility given how the rest of the night had gone.
As soon as I was flat on my back, my arms were tightly strapped down, a blue curtain went up and the surgical team started the procedure. Being held down and restrained only made me feel more trapped, and my flight response continued to grow even though I couldn’t move. I had to remind myself not to strain against the straps and to stay calm. Even with most of my body numb, I could feel the urgency, like every minute counted, which they did. Dad appeared next to my head and held my hand tightly, telling me it would be alright and we’d be meeting you soon. I started to shiver from the anaesthetic, even though I actually felt really hot. The anaesthetist narrated the surgery from where he was standing, letting us know which layer the surgeons were up to. I could feel the aggressive tugging and stretching in my abdomen, like a pair of shoes bouncing around in a washing machine. I could only imagine how rough those movements had to be behind that curtain given that I could still feel pain with each push and pull even with the spinal block. My body and the scared part of my brain felt like I was being attacked and violated, even though the rational part knew that I wasn’t.
A few minutes from the start of the surgery, the curtain came down and there you were; covered in goo, squinting under the surgical lights with the biggest pout I’d ever seen. You started to cry, and so did I. Dad looked excited and said “There he is!”. After only a few seconds, you were whisked away to be checked, and Dad went with you as we’d decided beforehand.
I lay under those huge, bright lights, shivering and watching the room spin around me. I heard the surgeon say that everything was going well surgically and there were no complications as she stitched me up. I couldn’t hear you crying anymore, and hoped you were alright. Dad reappeared at my head with you wrapped up in the token NSW Health striped blanket and a knitted beanie. I couldn’t see your face or touch you because I was kept strapped down. All I could see was your perfect little button nose. Holding you wasn’t an option, so I snuggled my face next to yours while Dad held you next to my head and I tried to enjoy a minute of peace with you amongst all the chaos.
A nurse had Dad’s phone to take some pictures, and told us to smile. I tried, but couldn’t. My face felt so swollen from crying, the edema and the drugs, and I honestly didn’t feel happy in that moment. I felt relief that you were out and safe, and knew that I would love you with my whole heart. But I didn’t feel happy or excited, knowing in my gut that my journey that night was far from over and would probably keep me away from you. I remember seeing that photo for the first time, and initially thinking it was a nice one. But when I turned my phone to the side to see how my face actually looked, I saw pain, fear and sadness.
I was told you had to go and that I did too, because I wasn’t out of danger yet and had to go to the ICU. I told Dad to stay with you and cuddle you as much as he could and he promised. We said our “I love you”s and I was whisked away, feeling physically and emotionally empty and devastated, with no idea what would happen next.
I was taken to the recovery ward first because ICU had no beds yet, and was there for an hour, or maybe two. I was the only person there, one bed on its own in a huge empty space. I spent the whole time feeling extremely unwell, wishing that I was wherever you and Dad were. It felt wrong that I couldn’t picture your face because I’d only seen you for a few seconds. Between the waves of nausea and the pounding of my heart, I felt jealous that Dad got to stay with you and that I hadn’t even gotten to hold you yet. Even so, I knew there wasn’t anyone better to be with you in your first hours on earth. As upset as I was to be missing out, I was happy that Dad got the opportunity to bond with you from the beginning and I knew that would be the start of a special relationship.
As the sickness grew worse and the nurses around me became more hurried and concerned that the ICU wasn’t ready, I started to feel like there was a chance that I wasn’t going to make it back to you and Dad alive. I asked Jesus to make sure you would both be alright, and thanked him for his love and sacrifice in case it was the last time I had the chance. I lay in that ward, shaking and sweating, trying not to vomit as they upped the medication gradually. I had that many drugs in my system, who knows which ones were causing which symptoms, what was pure adrenaline and fear, or what was the preeclampsia continuing to progress.
After what felt like forever, I ended up in ICU. My bottom half still didn’t work, so the team pulled and dragged me into a fancy ICU bed. I was immediately put on a 24 hour drip of magnesium sulfate to prevent seizures, which is notorious for making you feel sick and exhausted. They put cuffs on my calves that tightened and massaged my legs to prevent clotting. The bed adjusted itself every little while into a slightly different position, so I wasn’t in the one spot for too long.
I spent a few hours drifting in and out of consciousness while feeling sick, shivering and itching all over my body. The rules were kindly bent so that Dad was allowed to come and see me for a little while and tell me how you were going. I was grateful, because neither of us knew where or how the other one was after I left the OR. I could hear that he was proud of you, and that you didn’t need lots of intervention – just some glucose and a feeding tube until we could try the real thing. He told me that you had a bruise on your head because the surgeon had to use forceps to get you out quickly, but that it would go away soon. Dad assured me that you were in the best of care when we couldn’t be with you, and that you were safe and warm and looked after in the special care unit. He sent me the photos taken during the surgery, and I spent a while just staring at your little face before my consciousness slipped away again.
Meeting you
It was a full 24 hours after your birth until I got to see you properly and hold you for the first time. I spent those hours lying still and alone in the ICU, drifting in and out of consciousness, getting photos of you from Dad which I stared at obsessively, trying desperately to get to know you by zooming in on every tiny detail. I couldn’t help but feel like a fake and like I wasn’t a Mum yet because you had no idea who I was and I didn’t really know you either. I worried that the natural bond everyone raves about had been broken before it even started. I felt like I’d failed you.
Thinking about the delivery felt like a strange but very vivid nightmare, and I knew that you weren’t going to feel real until I could see you. For the whole day, I was assured that I’d be taken up to see you and then it wouldn’t happen. The ICU is a busy and urgent place, so we couldn’t be the priority for most of that day. My head understood that, but my heart wanted to rip every cord and needle out of me and go and find you and Dad and refuse to leave.
Thanks to a lovely nurse, I was finally able to see you the night after you were born. Dad was giving you a cuddle when I was wheeled up to the special care unit, and you looked so comfortable. You and I both had so many cords that it took a few minutes for me to be able to hold you. I spent those minutes crying, because finally you were starting to feel real. I could reach out and touch your little head and ears, which were so tiny and soft, while the nurses and midwives adjusted and re-plugged things so we could be together. There were other people in the room with their babies, staring at me while I sobbed and stroked your little head. I saw another Mum in your room start to cry too, and hug her baby tighter.
It felt like a lifetime, but you were finally put in my arms. It wasn’t a comfortable position for either of us because of all the wires and cords, but it didn’t matter. I stopped crying once I was holding you and just stared at your little face. I saw the cut and bruise on your forehead from the forceps that pulled you out of me. I tried to kiss and smell your head, but my drips got in the way and tugged. Your feeding tube and cannula made me sad, but you still looked so perfect. I gently stroked your eyebrows and nose and forehead, feeling how soft your skin was. I wanted so desperately to see your little eyes open for the first time, but also wanted you to stay asleep and comfortable. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay very long because the ICU nurse needed to get back and I’d already kept her from her actual job. Being taken away from you a second time shattered my heart into a hundred pieces, but I knew that Dad had you and I didn’t need to worry.
Your birth was the start of not just a new chapter for our family, but a whole new book. Usually the complication or problem or trauma comes at least halfway through the story, but for us it came at the very beginning.
There was so much to come that I didn’t know in that first moment holding you. Recovery and postpartum wouldn’t be easy for us. Preeclampsia is still considered an immediate risk and danger for 6 weeks after birth, but its impact on my brain and my body would last much longer than that. You would be our little champion, putting on weight as you needed to and meeting your milestones on time even though you came early.
I’d have a much harder time.
Healing through the hurt
I’d take longer to walk properly after 2 days in the ICU, because my muscles had started to atrophy from the stillness, and because of the hurried nature of the surgery being a lot rougher than usual. I’d hobble up and down from the postnatal ward to the special care unit, having to take breaks every few steps because I felt like I was going to break in half. It would hurt so much that there would be times the pain would outweigh how much I wanted to be near you, and I’d feel like a terrible Mum.
I’d cry and feel embarrassed when Dad wasn’t around and a nurse or doctor would ask me a question, and I didn’t know the answer because I missed so much in the days after you were born. I’d miss your first bottle feed, crying in the foyer after having to do an unexpected COVID test and wait 10 minutes, with colostrum in syringes in a cooler bag instead of in your bottle. Having to ask permission to hold you, and not feeling like I could do anything my own way felt unnatural and wrong and knocked any maternal instinct I had from under me.
I’d listen to babies crying on the postnatal ward, wishing you were crying next to me instead of on a different floor. I felt jealous of the Mums in the rooms around me, having their babies with them and able to start getting to know each other and practice feeding. Instead, I’d look at photos of you while I tried to express milk every few hours, feeling sad and alone and like a failure.
I’d jump straight into countless follow up appointments to assess any long term damage to my body, instead of being able to focus on settling in at home with you. I’d see an optometrist to check whether I had any lasting eye damage from strokes and fluid buildup, with blurred vision and trouble focusing on things. I’d see the nephrologist who called the shots by phone on the night you were born, to check the state of my kidneys, renal function and ongoing blood pressure. I’d see a cardiologist after learning that preeclampsia can also do damage to the heart, and I’d already experienced palpitations and difficulty breathing. I’d see my dentist to check that my teeth hadn’t been damaged from the extra clenching. I’d bathe in moisturiser every day because my skin itched like crazy while the fluid slowly drained from my body, and stay dry as a bone for months. I’d be told that it would be at least 6 months before I’d know what my new normal would be. Each doctor and specialist would ask me how high my blood pressure got, and the same shock would show on each of their faces. They’d tell me it was a miracle I was alive, and for some reason, that didn’t make me feel better.
I’d contact my psychologist as soon as I was out of the ICU, knowing that I needed to get on top of my brain before it got away from me, and I’d resume my antidepressants within a fortnight of your birth. I’d be referred to a perinatal trauma therapist for specialised mental health care and to learn to trust my body again. I had to work really hard to practice grounding skills, and processing your birth through EMDR therapy. Going on that therapy journey helped me acknowledge the loss and the grief and the realisation that what should have been a sacred and bonding experience was broken and taken away.
I’d need the highest dose possible of blood pressure medication to stay stabilised and out of hospital, and daily injections for several weeks to prevent blood clots, leaving me with big and itchy rainbow bruises all over my stomach and legs. I’d wonder if I’d ever be able to stop taking the beta blockers, or if I’d ever be able to have my blood pressure checked without feeling panicked.
I’d be too scared to go to sleep for a long time, terrified that I wouldn’t wake up again. Panic would grip me when my eyelids started to get heavy, feeling like my life was slipping away. My muscles would twitch as I fell asleep, and my heart would lurch, worrying it was a seizure taking hold, even months later. Long after the risky period for postpartum preeclampsia had passed, I’d feel like death was always around the corner, waiting for me.
I’d struggle to feed you, stuck in a cycle of trying to breastfeed, trying to express the tiny amounts of milk I had and formula feeding. I wanted so badly for breastfeeding to work, but was told by every professional that I should expect it to be hard due to the preeclampsia, the trauma, the medication, and how little you were. I’d ironically make the decision during International Breastfeeding Week to exclusively formula feed you, for my mental and physical health and for our relationship.
I’d doubt any kind of instinct I had about anything at all, and have to work really hard to have any trust in my mind or my body again. Every twinge or ache felt like danger, not to mention how much I worried about you and all the things that could go wrong for a little one. I’d walk a tightrope of wanting to be vigilant but not wanting to project my anxiety onto you, and it was exhausting. This happened to the extent that I didn’t get you help when I felt like your breathing was off, because I was so fearful of my own sense of reality and judgement. When I’d finally call the GP to ask if something was wrong and was told to immediately go to hospital, I’d feel like a terrible Mum for waiting.
I’d worry that I didn’t know how to look after your properly, like I couldn’t be confident in things I knew I could do. Dad and I would take turns having you for the night so the other could get a full sleep, and I would feel the anxiety building throughout the evening as it led up to my turn. I knew how to feed you and change nappies, but I’d still feel like I’d fail to keep you happy and warm and safe. Missing out on all the initial stuff left me feeling unsure of every move I made around you, especially after the sun went down.
I’d look back on your birth and not see it as birth at all, but an extraction. It felt like it was just an emergency surgery to save my life, without any of that legendary birth beauty to be found, no wave of overwhelming love and connection that I’d heard about. A procedure to get rid of a toxic placenta, with you just happening to emerge from the same incision. I’d grieve the loss of any kind of birth story I could recall and tell without a pit in my stomach and flashbacks. I felt like I didn’t have the “moment” that made me a Mum, and it would take me weeks and months to slowly build up that feeling.
I’d crash physically a few weeks after you were born. Preeclampsia had put my body through more than I’d realised, and it felt like every pore and cell was exhausted. I’d have a full night’s sleep and still feel like I’d run a marathon, making caring for you a mammoth effort every day. Every night I would worry, because sleep would hit me so quickly that I never even had time to try and put you in your bassinet, suddenly waking up and realising with fear that you’d been sleeping on me for a few hours.
I’d develop an intense fear of unexpectedly getting pregnant, after being told that it wasn’t safe for me to carry another baby for at least 18 months. I’d question whether I could even stomach giving you a sibling one day, after everything we went through, knowing that the risk of having preeclampsia again was higher than the average person. Having you out and in the world needing me changed how I saw things, and having another child didn’t feel as crucial when I thought about the possibility of missing out on seeing you grow up. I knew deep down in my heart that I wanted you to have a sibling, but deep down was also where the trauma was living.
I’d have nightmares about checking my blood pressure and seeing those high numbers again, or that I was back on the operating table under those huge fluorescent lights, unable to move, alone and delirious. For the months following, I would suddenly remember some detail of that night that had been forgotten or pushed away. I’d be going about my day, when I would suddenly be back in the OR or ICU in my mind, helpless and unwell, afraid and dying.
I’d feel frustrated and angry when people would ask for my story and then compare other births to mine. I’d hear all about the long labours, the unplanned C-sections, the failed epidurals and the mean midwives. All of those things are valid and real and I am by no means the gatekeeper of birth trauma. Those stories aren’t better or worse, but they’re also not the same. One minute I was watching TV and eating dinner, and not that many minutes later, I was having my son removed from my body while I lay on an operating table with no idea whether I would survive. I’m yet to hear someone say “I know how you feel” and actually believe that’s true.
I’d have moments where you felt like a stranger that I knew I loved, but didn’t feel very connected to. When I went out to my appointments, I didn’t miss you like all the other Mum’s I know missed their babies after being away for a few minutes. When I wasn’t with you, I didn’t wonder if you were alright or long to be near you again. I would often hope that someone else would offer to feed you, deferring your care to others. The skin to skin time I was repeatedly told was so important made me feel nervous and uncomfortable, and I avoided it because it would end with us both in tears. I felt so broken and like you deserved a lot better than I could give you. I’d feel so much guilt about those feelings, but I knew I couldn’t pretend they weren’t real. I’d wonder if I missed the boat on feeling like a Mum because we were separated after you were born. I’d feel pangs of jealousy that you would settle so quickly when you heard Dad’s voice or were in his arms, knowing that he was your first safe place in the outside world even though I was also thankful for that truth.
I’d feel a constant and deep sense of panic and impending doom that was debilitating. It would feel like nowhere was safe, and that everywhere was dangerous. I’d sleep with a light on for the first few weeks when you were in the room, because the darkness I previously needed to fall asleep now felt like a black hole that would suck us both into it.
I’d struggle with intense separation anxiety; not from you, but from Dad. Any time he wasn’t home, I would feel afraid. He would be gentle and understanding as always, letting me know that he arrived wherever he was going, and letting me know when he was on his way home. I’d worry I’d never see him again whenever he walked out the door. Even just going outside to his workshop brought back feelings of being taken away from him, not knowing where I was going or if I’d ever see him again.
I’d feel really lonely inside my own head, and like I was stuck there sometimes. People would hear that your birth was hard, but not understand what nearly dying can do to a person’s mind. I’d struggle to share how it really impacted me, not wanting to hear more “at least”s. I’d simplify it and say that it was touch and go, but everything turned out OK. When people ask how you are, they often don’t want the real answer. They want to hear that you’re fine, not that your experience has made you question everything about yourself and that you don’t know who you are anymore.
I’d have a panic attack in the emergency department when we had to take you to hospital at 6 weeks old. Alone with you, worried something was wrong and surrounded by the noises and sensations that made up my scary dreams and flashbacks. I’d hyperventilate into a mask, trying to hold you still and comfort your screaming as they poked and prodded you. I couldn’t use any of the self soothing techniques I’d practiced in therapy, because my hands were full of you. It would take Dad’s arrival and calm presence to bring us both down.
I’d look in the mirror and not recognise who I saw. She looked like me, but her eyes were different. Sometimes they looked hollow or empty, or scared. I felt sad that you’d never get to meet the me that existed before you were born, but also knew that the version of me that was still coming would be even better.
Your birth had such a big ripple effect in our lives, but particularly in mine. I never thought having a baby would be something I’d have to spend so much time and effort mentally and emotionally healing from.
This story is hard for me to tell, took a long time to write and even longer to share. I need to honour the struggle, the trauma and the fear. It’s a radical thing to sit in the space of discomfort and loss, in a world that pressures us to jump to the happiness and the good things straight away. I learnt long before this experience that for me to heal, I need to sit in the hard space for a while first. I have to give the ‘what if’s some time in the spotlight so they don’t eat me alive, before the moving forward can happen.
Preeclampsia stole a lot from me, and gave me a lot that I didn’t want or ask for. I know that I’m one of many who look back on the birth of their child and don’t see it as a happy day. There are so many people who have almost died bringing their babies into the world, or watched their loved ones nearly lose their life. There are many people, adults and babies alike, who have lost their lives because of preeclampsia, and many other diseases, diagnoses, tragedies and mistakes. I consider myself blessed to be here, and thank God every day that I survived to be your Mum.
There must be a safe space for birth trauma to be shared. Birth trauma isn’t contagious, but is treated like it is, and I do understand why. I’m a walking reminder that childbirth can be scary and deadly, and people don’t want to think about it happening to them. When I was pregnant, I chose not to hear and see some stories, because I didn’t want to spend the remainder of my pregnancy focused on fear. That is a valid choice, that I encourage any pregnant person to make if they need to. But now, on the other side of it, I also see the value and necessity of stories being shared. When we share our stories, it not only helps us heal, but also helps to educate and let others know they’re not alone. The first moment that I started to believe I could be OK again wasn’t because of therapy, or medication or support from my loved ones. It was finding stories like mine, and breathing easier knowing that I wasn’t crazy or alone.
With all of that said, I’m also a big believer in the power of hope. Recovery and healing was only possible because I had hope that things could get better. Many of the things I shared above had flip sides, silver linings, lessons or led to something better. I found love and joy in you and our little family in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
When you were a couple of months old, I sat with a friend and recounted how hard your birth was and the impact it was still having on me. She asked if she could pray with me, which I welcomed. Even before you were born, I was struggling with God and felt disconnected, so having others pray for me meant a lot. There was one part of her prayer that burrowed its way into my heart and lives there to this day: she asked that being your Mum would be as sweet as your birth was bitter.
Early the next morning before you woke for your bottle, I opened the curtains so that I could see the sun rising. I’d started to do that after we brought you home, because the nights felt so dark and scary, and knowing that the sun would come up every day brought me comfort through the fear. When you’d finished your feed, I propped you up on my knees to stare at your little face. Especially your nose. I’ve always loved your button nose, because it was the only thing I got to see when you were born. My friend’s words rung in my ears, and I hoped with all my heart that they would come true. I knew I loved you, but I still didn’t feel bonded to you in the way I thought I should. I didn’t have that feeling that I’d heard Mum’s talk about feeling when they met their babies. It didn’t happen when you were born, and every day I would wait for it to arrive.
In that moment of worry and angst, your eyes focused on mine and you smiled at me. A perfect little grin, meant just for me. I felt the joy that I hadn’t been able to find since you were born, and I knew that my friend’s prayer was being answered.
And my darling boy, by the grace of God, it’s continued to be answered every day since.
