Two weeks ago was my sons 2nd birthday. My plan here on the blog was to finally write his birth story. And I couldn't do it. I've tried many times over the course of the last two years to write down what happened before I forgot. I am realizing now that I am never going to forget. The parts I was lucid for are forever ingrained into my memory.
Over the last two years, different
people have asked me about CJ's birth. That is one of the first
things a new mom asks you at a playdate when you have a young baby.
“How was your birth?” It seems like such a simple question. I
would always shrug it off and say, “Well, it was kind of tough.”
and leave it at that. Even with my OB/GYN at my yearly physical (she
wasn't my doctor when I gave birth) I would abbreviate everything. My
description of my birth would sound something like this “Uhmmm...
well I was induced but it didn't go very well and uhmmm I eventually
had an emergency C-section and... there were some complications...”.
I'd always end it with, “But CJ and I are both fine now” and add
a smile. I will never tell a pregnant woman my birth story. Those who
have asked I've told, “Well, what happened to me isn't the norm and
I don't want to scare you, so I'll tell you when you are done giving
birth”.
So for two years, I've kept silent.
I've pretended that anytime I think about my son's birth I don't
immediately get chills. I've pretended that I can't vividly remember
what it felt like when the doctor cut into my stomach. I've pretended
that I don't remember feeling completely violated by doctors and
nurses and midwives. I've pretended that I didn't almost die. I've
pretended that I can't remember the horrified look on the doctor's
face when I casually mentioned that I felt a crackle in my chest
every time I took a breath. I've pretended not to remember the nights
spent away from my newborn son. I've pretended not to remember the
nurse telling me I wouldn't be able to breastfeed because I'd been
separated for to long. I've pretended that I don't have nightmares at
least once a week.
And I just can't pretend anymore.
When I was in the Army, I was a Mental
Health Specialist. My main job was to treat soldiers with
Post-traumatic stress disorder. I could recognize the signs right
away - nightmares, shaking, flashbacks, denial. Yet I kept trying to
lie to myself about what I was feeling and I just can't anymore. I am
shaking right this second, covered in goosebumps, trying very hard
not to cry as I write this out. I hope that finally getting all of
this out of my head might help in some way.
Part of me feels ashamed. How could I
be traumatized by the act that gave me the most perfect creature I've
ever known? How can I not just be thankful that I'm still alive? I
remind myself how lucky I am, since childbirth used to be the number
one killer of women.
I am thankful. I am thankful for my
son, my life, and my family.
This doesn't change the facts. I
desperately want to have another baby. Hubby and I planned from day
one on a huge family. Yet the idea of actually giving birth makes my
stomach get all tied up in knots, goosebumps appear, and my hands
start to shake. I pray daily that I will be blessed with another
child. I pray daily for the courage to endure another labor. I pray that if I am blessed with another pregnancy, I will have the courage and the strength to be in charge of my own body and not allow things to escalate out of hand again. What else can I do?
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