My Birth Experience: the Highest Highs and Deepest, Darkest Lows

I have an irrational fear of dying young. Probably the aftermath of losing my mom. That’s become amplified now that I have a child. Especially after post pregnancy trauma. My situation is not typical. Unfortunately it still lives loudly in my mind. I fear not being here for my son. I know how hard it is to live without a mother. Selfishly, on the other hand, the idea of missing out on him growing up eats at me. I don’t want to miss out. Finally, I have a family and I’m happy. I’m afraid of losing all of that. 

My pregnancy was fairly normal. The first trimester consisted of extreme nausea. The second trimester was a breeze and actually nice if you don’t include the allergies/rhinitis. The third trimester became difficult as I became huge, very swollen, uncomfortable with a really awkward waddle, and developed severe PUPPS all over and constantly itched (I would scratch until I bled). We had a few minor scares with the possibility of baby’s kidneys being different sizes and the placement of my placenta in relation to my cervix. Both righted themselves with time even though my brain wanted to keep me up at night with worry. It was all exhausting, of course. Pregnancy is hard. The end result is well worth it, but it isn’t always this beautiful time like it’s portrayed in society. Women certainly don’t get enough credit for the experience. I don’t know how so many can handle doing it multiple times. I have to give credit where credit is due. I don’t even know that I’d want to do it a second time. I know some people have great experiences, and that’s amazing. I just wasn’t one of them. 

I struggled a lot with the fact that my mom is gone and wasn’t here for the biggest milestone yet of my life. She got to experience grandchildren with both of my brothers and to be perfectly honest, I’ve felt cheated at times. She missed most everything starting with my high school graduation. But this one was bigger than anything. She’d never physically be a part of my son’s life. I also hit the 16 year anniversary of her death. I was 16 when she died and the time was coming that her absence had surpassed the time I had the opportunity to know her. It was a mess of emotions; major highs and some deep, dark lows in a short amount of time. My feelings still go from opposite ends of the spectrum often enough. I can’t help that. I’m sure in time it’ll fade. At least I’m hopeful for that.

It was around 3:15 am on a Saturday morning. I was 38 weeks pregnant with my son. As with most pregnant women, our bladders don’t wait for a convenient time to wake us up. Not when something is constantly pressing up against it. The bathroom in our bedroom is roughly 10 feet away from where I sleep. My water broke on that short walk. I couldn’t believe this was happening 2 weeks early. I woke Randale up telling him that I’m pretty sure my water had just broke. I called my OB office to get the person who was on call. I received the call back shortly and the decision was made that it was time to come in. I gathered my things and packed a bag and we were on our way. I was admitted around 5am. And the wait began.

The baby’s heart rate wasn’t fluctuating the way it should be and they kept monitoring it. Through the next day I was having some contractions but nothing else was really happening. Within 24 hours of the water breaking we were told the risk of infection increased greatly. They made the decision to induce me using cervidil. 

Contractions increased but I wasn’t dilating. 8 hours later they decided to try another dose of cervidil. Same situation. Contractions increased. Dilation did not. The midwife tried to manually dilate me slightly more, which I will tell you is not pleasant. Time kept moving, but I still wasn’t dilating anymore. I was just in massive amounts of pain and my contractions became more frequent and stronger. It was time to try inducing with pitocin. This was now Sunday, and we weren’t getting anywhere. They tried massage, having me bounce on an exercise ball, different stretches. My contractions got more intense and I was finally starting to dilate. We were so close but my body just wasn’t getting to where it needed to be to have this baby. I was given pain meds earlier that just weren’t cutting it. I finally had an epidural which helped, but I still felt so much. At this point we had surpassed 48 hours. I was exhausted. I was in pain. I was pretty much done. The midwife sat on the bed with me and said to me that this was just torture for me, to remember that I had the power here and whatever my decision was, tell the doctor and don’t budge on what I want to do. The doctor came in with the suggestion that I keep trying. I told him I’d had enough and I just wanted to have a c-section and get my baby out. He agreed to it and there was no further discussion. The team would be called in.

It was sometime between 6:30 and 7am Monday morning that I went in for surgery. The team was super nice. The room was bright and freezing. Randale was sitting near me during the process. As they made the incision I felt a lot of pressure. Then at one point I could feel actual pain and I let them know. They said they were stopping the surgery briefly to manage my pain. And shortly thereafter, I was out. I missed the actual part of the baby being taken out. Apparently, when Randale was already holding the baby, I yelled out that I was having a baby. He stated that I had already had the baby. I wanted to know where he was and he told me that he was holding him. Then I was out again. I woke up as they were wheeling my bed back to my room. Randale was sitting in the chair holding our son. I was finally going to hold him for the first time. It was overwhelming and surreal, but the best thing that I’ve ever experienced. I can’t even put words to the feeling. 

In a typical c-section I should have been discharged home in about 48 hours. Unfortunately that wasn’t going to happen. The following day my temperature kept spiking, my pulse was shooting up, and I was having severe right side abdominal pain. And so it began. I was brought down for test after test. I had an abdominal ultrasound and a CT scan. I became a human pincushion. Not only did I have an IV in my hand which is normal, I was having bloodwork every six hours. I was also going back and forth between a clear liquid diet and being NPO. They couldn’t find much going on. The OB doc made the decision to refer me to a general surgeon in the hospital because they were unsure what was actually going on. I was ordered to have another CT scan, this time with contrast. I had to drink a lovely barium drink mixed with water. Even though these scans were short, when you’re in pain post surgery it’s like torture to lay on hard surfaces and attempt to hold your breath when asked to. My bloodwork was wacky. My lactic acid was off. But I didn’t look as bad physically as I did on paper. I tried to cling to that notion. 

There’s nothing scarier than having the on-call surgeon come in after 3am explaining to you that there is subtle evidence that your intestine may have twisted or flipped and could have killed off part of your bowel, and that they’d like to put a scope in my body to see if they can catch it twisting and perform bowel resection surgery. Legally she had to explain to us that killing off a part of the bowel could result in death. I was in pain, medicated and exhausted. The last thing I wanted to hear is that I could die. But I also wasn’t about to get under another knife without someone giving me a second opinion. I wasn’t in any state to make that decision. The surgeon also wanted me to have a HIDA Scan to check on the function of my gall bladder (which actually was not normal at all). This is basically a 2 hour test where you’re laying there in yet another hard surface and can’t move around. Uncomfortable on any day, but again, post surgery it was torture. The surgeon decided to pay me a visit during this scan to let me know that at this point she may not recommend surgery and she was not offended that I asked for a second opinion. I felt slightly better knowing that she had changed her mind. They sent another doctor from her group to assess me. He stated he was unsure why he was even there. He said I didn’t need surgery, I had an ileus and made some recommendations to help it along. 

I slowly started to get better. My pain was under control; I only had tenderness where before there was pain. I finally made it outside after several days. After being inside for so long, going out in the sunlight and early fall weather, I immediately broke down crying. We just sat out there in silence while I tried to let some of this go. The OB doctor came out and said that my bloodwork was getting better and since my pain had lessened so much we could start talking about sending me home. Nothing sounded better than that. Things were finally looking up. It looked like we’d be going home on Saturday which was only days away. 

Friday comes along. I’m spiking a fever again. My blood pressure was out of whack, I was severely anemic, and my pulse was up again. The doctor had come in while I was in the shower and I missed her. She came back a little while later to give me news that I didn’t expect. My bloodwork was wonky again. I was becoming septic. They wanted to transfer me to another hospital that could manage my symptoms if I didn’t want to be transferred to another unit at this hospital. I was alone at this point. It was terrifying. Randale had gone home to get the apartment ready for our homecoming since we left so suddenly. He had asked family to come and stay while he was gone, because it seemed that something always happened while I was alone. No one ever stayed for any extended amount of time and I know that really frustrated him. I remember him saying “everyone gives me a hard time saying that I baby you, and now look at what’s happening.” I called him and told him he needed to come back immediately. I called my family and asked their opinions on where I should go and we all came to a decision together, along with the doctors recommendation. They ordered a blood transfusion and were going to work on the transfer while we waited for the blood bags to come up. I didn’t look or feel as sick as I obviously was on paper but now I was panicking. Our families arrived before Randale did. Eventually he returned. Now it was just a waiting game between giving report and having the ambulance come to get me. I was being pumped with blood and it was doing its job. I was feeling better but I was still so afraid. The good news was that I would be admitted into the OB unit at the hospital. The baby could come with me. My dad was planning on staying there with me and Randale was going to go home to continue getting things ready. He would try to come up after if he felt he wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel, but if not he’d be there in the morning. The idea of that scared me. I looked at him while crying and said “what if something happens to me and you’re not there?” At this point I couldn’t rule anything out. He decided to come to the hospital to spend the night as well.

My mind just kept racing. Have you ever felt like you might die and writhe in pain over what it will do to those around you? The boyfriend who is now a single father. The dad burying a child. The son who will never know his mother. Then the realization that if it happens while he’s young enough, that he’ll have no memory of me and the pain won’t cut him as deeply. I was in such a dark place. I had a photo of my mom in the room with us and I got angry with her, wondering why she wasn’t with me through this. Of course none of it would have happened if she’d actually been there. Maybe that means she’s never been with me all this time. Those thoughts are very unsettling. I knew better than that. Yet I couldn't shake them.

 I finally was happy. I was in a loving and stable relationship with a genuinely good person. We just moved into an apartment in the heart of a city that I really loved just months before. I just had my first child. I was finally getting the things I really wanted. Why was this happening to me? I kept wondering what I had done to deserve it. I was throwing my own pity party in my head but I was the only one who was invited. 

Since I was leaving so suddenly I had to fill out all this paperwork about the baby in order to get his birth certificate. Here I was, panicked and disoriented trying to do something that actually required focus. 

The ambulance arrived very late. I knew we made the right decision transferring, but I was concerned with something happening while we were on the way. No one could ride in the ambulance with me. Luckily, I was fine. It was a bumpy and uncomfortable ride but I got there in one piece. My dad, Randale and my son arrived right behind us. I was admitted somewhere between 1 and 2am. 

I was visited by the OB doctor to get most of my basic information and then by a series of surgeons who had assessed my case. There were at least 10 of them all together between when I arrived and when I was discharged. They all were on the same page. I was dealing with an ileus. I didn’t need surgery. I had an X-ray confirming this. They allowed me to eat again. My bloodwork started to level out. My vitals were almost normal aside from my blood pressure being very high. They explained that since I had been pumped with so much IV fluid that my body was holding on to it. I was so swollen. The high blood pressure was the one thing that could have kept me there. Thankfully, it didn’t. They planned to discharge me later that day. I didn’t even have to spend 24 hours in that hospital. I was really going home with my family this time. Part of me was ecstatic. The other part was terrified. What if my body went bonkers again? If I was in the hospital at least I was in the right place if it happened. 

It was nice to be home. It was also very hard. I was recovering from major abdominal surgery, taking care of a newborn, and dealing with all of the recent trauma. I was most definitely depressed. I wasn’t having negative thoughts towards my son whatsoever. I just couldn’t stop thinking that I might die. It was just always there. A nagging thought that would not stop haunting me. I’d try to push it out but couldn’t make it go away. I was so worried so I scheduled a follow up with GI doctor from the last hospital. I just needed more reassurance that I was going to be ok. Some peace of mind. I was still having some right side abdominal pain, but with movement. They ordered more bloodwork and another CT scan with conrast. My bloodwork showed that I was still severely anemic and to follow up with my primary who of course ordered more bloodwork. The anemia wasn’t due to a lack of iron or B12. I was referred to hematology. I had an OB appointment where my blood pressure was still extremely high so I started taking water pills to help with it thanks to my stepsister's suggestion. In between I got a call from the local hospital’s GI department to make an appointment regarding my CT scan and of course I panicked thinking they wouldn’t make the appointment if nothing was wrong. My swelling had gone down and so had my blood pressure, but it was still high for me. The nurse told me it could be due to anxiety about my appointment. It made sense. There was plenty of anxiety surrounding that. The doctor came in. We told him my whole story from start to finish. He told us he reviewed my information. My right side pain was muscular. My CT scan looked fine and to go home and enjoy my family. I was extremely relieved, but still afraid. I couldn’t understand how I had gone from being so incredibly sick, to being better just like that. I was afraid someone was missing something. I didn’t pursue it any further because my pain started to subside. My blood pressure was almost back to normal. My anemia was leveling out. I really needed to try and let this go and stop letting fear rule my life. I didn’t talk to many people about it. Just little bits here and there, aside from a couple of people who I didn’t know very well, I may have been out with them once or twice, who reached out to me to share their stories. It meant so much more than they can imagine. 

It’s so strange how your way of thinking changes after becoming a parent. But what’s interesting, the difference after a traumatic experience like that. You notice things around you more. Songs change meaning to you. I would usually shut a song off at the mere mention of death. I don’t know if I was being superstitious or what. I just couldn’t take it. One song that really changed to me was by Mumford and Sons called After the Storm. Specifically this part: 

“And now I cling to what I knew

I saw exactly what was true
But oh no more
That's why I hold
That's why I hold with all I have
That's why I hold

And I won't die alone
And be left there
Well I guess I'll just go home
Oh God knows where
Because death is just so full
And man so small
Well I'm scared of what's behind
And what's before

There will come a time
You'll see, with no more tears
And love will not break your heart
But dismiss your fears
Get over your hill and see
What you find there
With grace in your heart
And flowers in your hair”

The smallest things would bring tears to my eyes. Partially from being grateful that I was still here. And partially due to that nagging fear. It’s still there. I’d literally sit and stare at Oreon and cry my eyes out, afraid that I’d miss out on his life. I’ve learned that fear can outweigh heartbreak. Maybe in some situations they overlap. It feels different than grief. I often wondered if that’s what my mom felt when she knew she was going to die. She had to have worried about missing out on our lives with us. Only we knew her. I feared my son wouldn’t know me at all. He'd have nothing to miss but an idea of me. 

 It took me quite a while to push out most of the scary thoughts and to develop a normal, functioning routine. It’s the major reason it took me so long to get my thank you notes out. My baby was born earlier than expected and we weren’t even fully prepared for it. With both of us being on leave, not earning our full pay with a baby to take care of, the expense of actually sending them out was quite a lot. The recovery and depression played a huge role in that as well; All I had in me was enough to care for my son. Anything else was too much. I apologize to anyone I’ve offended with the delay, but anyone who knows me will know that I appreciate everything that was given and done for us with all my heart. I just couldn’t work on anyone else’s schedule at this point. Like you often hear, you never know what internal struggles someone is going through and that really rings true for me. I’m not afraid to admit any of it. People don’t often ask, so I don’t often tell. Sometimes those who present as the happiest people are having their darkest moments. It’s different and deeply personal for everyone. But I really am thankful for everyone in our lives. I’ve lost touch with quite a few friends during my pregnancy and postpartum. It makes me sad, but I was warned that it would happen. Some just dwindled. Some were my own choice. My perspective has changed. My heart has been cut open at all different parts after giving birth. Life goes on. 

My birthday was only days after my discharge. I was able to spend it at home with my family and some really great friends who came to meet Oreon for the first time. I was not in tip top shape and really didn’t feel very well but it meant so much to me. 

I’m almost 3 months postpartum now. The fear I once had isn’t screaming at me anymore. Now it’s just a dull whisper. Whenever I feel a bit off, it gets a little louder. When I wake up in the morning and see my son’s silly smiles, it helps to turn the volume down on it. I’m amazed at what my body was able to do, but on the other hand I’m very unhappy with the physical state of my body. I’m thankful for being able to work out again. It’s a slow and steady race. Everyday is a little bit better than the last. Some days are really hard and some are so amazing. I’m not as far as I’d like to be, but I make progress daily. After arriving home, I could only make it 1-2 blocks on our daily walks. I slowly moved up to being able to walk all the way down Warren Street and back. I have a happy, healthy baby boy who sleeps through the night. I feel like that’s one of the little blessings he’s given to me after what I went through. Even after all of it, everything I experienced was well worth my son being healthy. It’s been one hell of a journey so far. I can only hope that it will get even better everyday. 

Insert generic holiday blog post title

I began this post on Christmas Eve and now I'm carrying it through to now which is technically New Year's Eve. I've done a lot of reflecting. I talked to my mom as I often do when I'm having a meltdown. I like to ask her  what to do or how to handle things. Holidays bring me such mixed feelings. I feel so lonely even when I'm not alone. So I'll sit. And think. Maybe not drink anymore. Margarita and two beers is probably enough. So Netflix. Maybe Talihina Sky for the the billionth time. It usually makes me feel better. Until I see a guy like Caleb married to a girl like Lily and I know I'll never be a 6 foot tall super model. 

Sometimes I think that every back pedal or every bit of pain is just another piece being peeled away from my soul. Positivity is a nice idea. I work on it. I really nail it once in a while. Sometimes I wake up and it doesn't seem like the world is immediately caving in on me. But then I give it a few minutes to process and it's like whoa. People are dying. Hearts are being broken. Someone else is just as lost as I am. I'm not alone in this even if it isn't someone close to me that is experiencing similar feelings. And it's comforting regardless. 

These past few months have been tough. I've lost some very dear people whether it be to death or just leaving my life in some capacity or another. I'm getting older and things seem to affect me more than they used to. Death is more real and in my face because let's be honest, I'm not getting any younger. By a realistic standard I suppose I'm still young but I know a ridiculous amount of people younger than I who have full fledged families while I'm here still trying to figure out if I'll ever even love someone again or if I'll be just some silly sack of sad wondering what could have been. 

I turned 31 and I thought "ok, if you live as long as your mother you've got 20 years left." Absolutely terrifying. 

People die. I know this. You don't get to avoid this truth while working in facilities with the elderly. It's a fact of life. It still makes you grief stricken because loss is loss no matter how you try to decorate it. It hurt losing an 83 year old person who was not a blood relative that i still held dearly in my heart that I had grown close to. It was heart wrenching to lose my 38 year old cousin to cervical cancer whom I had not seen in 6 years that had 3 young boys who will not be able to be raised by an amazing mother. A lot of this is due to the fact that her mother was very close to my mother. When my mother died I became very close to my aunt. It's devastating to try and understand her pain, and I know I cannot. What I can say is that it's so wonderful to see how well loved she was by so many people. When I go I hope people feel the same for me.  

I just feel that life is so fickle and fleeting. Some people never find love. Love never finds some people. If you can find someone that loves you despite your differences then maybe it's best to hold on if you can. Anything can change in the blink of an eye. Why waste time over some silly disagreements and nonsense when there are things that are so much bigger than that;  so much bigger than all of us? Who cares what little fights or fusses we had when in the grand scheme none of that really matters? Hold on tight to what you love. It may not be there tomorrow. 

Your comfort zone will suffocate you. Your fear will eat you alive.

Here we are. Again. I'm sitting here staring it in the face. That debilitating sadness that I can't shake. I know it will pass. This time I can't wait until it goes away. And again, I know it will. 99% of the people I talk to have the same reaction. Basically it's one big "REALLY?!" And I get to hear how wonderful people think I am. It's nice, but it doesn't change anything. Sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I'm just downright unfair and cruel. Maybe cruel is the wrong word. Unreasonable, perhaps. And so are you. We all are. We all have lows. We all have highs. Right now I'm lower than I thought I would be over a situation I didn't even want from the very beginning. I made a choice and my feelings followed suit. I guess it's good that I can admit I've been wrong. Some can't. But I'm not writing to justify my actions. I'm writing because I need to get it out. I'm writing because I should have been doing this all along.

Fear is a wild, ferocious animal. It will come to get you. It won't let you shake up your world and honestly we need to be shaken up every now and again. It will destroy you. Luckily I won't be here to see it. Sex and the city said it wonderfully and truthfully. Some people take up a few pages or maybe one chapter. Some day someone will finish the book. Just not today. And now I see why. Maybe I try and I fail and it's a cycle that can be disappointing at times. But guess what? At least I try. And one day something will stick. I won't have to worry about "what if?" I won't be haunted by regret. 

You love. You lose. You learn. I don't possess a fragile heart by any means. I've seen some grief and tragedy in my 31 years. I can get through anything. I shouldn't even leave it at that. I should be able to accomplish anything. I suppose I was hoping that in spite of my feelings, my opinions and my downfalls that someone would actually fight for me. Stand by me. Defend me. Show some empathy and understanding. Easier said than done, it seems. I know brighter days are coming. Right now the pain is coursing through my body like I'm willingly injecting it into my own veins. It's a part of me and I need to let it take its course. It will fade as everything does and sun will shine itself on me again. 

Sometimes these things blow my mind

I will preface this post by saying this: All of my female friends are amazing, strong, hilarious women. Yet why is it that we are so focused on men? I've had to call some friends out on this lately. I get it. My 30th birthday is around the corner. My biological clock is running out. Yes, I probably have a few good years left of child bearing but let's be serious right now. The chances are lower, risks higher and quite frankly it will be a hell of a lot harder to get my body back in shape and YES that is very important to me. I'm not really sorry about that. I would like to have a child. MAYBE 2. I don't know yet. But the idea of committing to a man for so long scares me like nobody's business. Maybe that's one reason the boy crazy behavior is getting to me.
I believe that my main reason for this being such an annoyance to me is that my friends overthink all this nonsense (as we are all guilty of at times). You have to let yourself feel everything but where do you draw the line? Lately I feel as though so many of my friends are not even able to hold a real conversation anymore. They're basing their self worth on whether or not they hear from a man, if he likes her or wants to see her. We all enjoy attention but why does it have to be all consuming? Our friends know how amazing we are and we know how awesome we are. Why is this not enough?
I will admit that after my last breakup I took some steps in reverse which certainly stunted my growth for a few months. I have no one to blame for this but myself. What I learned is that he was not worth all of the time I spent just completely broken over him. His words meant nothing as soon as another girl took interest in him. Maybe I am cynical. Maybe I don't care anymore. But I'd rather spend my time being happy over things that I create myself, with family or friends. Not someone who treats me as though I'm expendable. I understand that these things are all easier said than done but I believe it is well worth it.

Wrong Today

Something is wrong today. For one thing I'm still not used to typing with these long idiot nails. I became really sad while i was in the shower. Out of nowhere. Random. Am I actually sad? Is it PMS? Because I had a bad dream last night? Also, it's been raining for more than 24 hours.

I've kind of been in a funk all day. Everything is so irritating. There's only one thing that I can say that i've been sad about. But it's just really there today. Poking me in the ribs over and over. I try not to think about it and most of the time I do a good job.

I just don't understand how we can miss things that didn't even make us happy.

Everything in Time

This song really is just perfect for what is going on in my life at this time. Of course my favorite band from the age of 11 would have a song that just fits. Lyrics are from rockgenius.com.

She asked how we are
She asked If I was all weird again
And of course I am
But I'm trying really hard
So I lied to her
And I was wearing this prisoner face
So deep inside she had to know
Once again I've lost control

For everything, there is a reason
Everything, I hope in time, will come

Lying in your bed
I am a refugee you try to love
But the love that he killed
Keeps coming back and haunting me
Am I wasting all of your time
And all my cute days on regrets?
Is it healthy that we met?

Everything always in time will show
Then we will know it will show
Everything always in time will come

Is it wrong holding in on
To my best friend, my faded lover?
Who knows?
Cinderella Hope
And it's all because he made me laugh
Coincidence or fate
Running towards a catastrophe
Save me

Everything always in time is gone
It'll be gone, we'll be gone
Everything always in time will come
Oh it will come, it will come
For everything there is a reason
I believe for everything there is a reason
And everything always in time will come

Watching Mom Go

Now that I’ve lost I don’t know where to go.

I don’t know where ANYTHING will go.

 Uncertainty always was a real bitch.

I know who I am and I’m beginning to feel it again, but mom’s gone and she’s never coming back. 

I think I just realized this and I want to be with her again.

 I remember exactly how it felt to sit on that hospital bed holding her tiny hand and hearing that I looked just like her. 

 I saw her smile and I smiled too because she was always so pretty. 

Then the glass started breaking and fuses started blowing and I stood beside her.

 I couldn’t sit because of all the machines.  

I still held her hand.

 It was harder this time because she had needles stuck in her hands and tape holding them on 

and she looked so sick that no one could really say that I looked like her.

 She couldn’t smile with a tube down her throat 

she couldn’t look at me while she was on life support.

 I talked to her and she heard me 

 she squeezed my hand and i wonder if there was something she wanted to say.

 Then all of her children left but my dad stayed and I guess she felt like leaving too. 

With every bit of hope that I had left I looked at her and kissed her forehead

 I told her I loved her and I’d see her tomorrow morning. 

There would be no tomorrow. 

Only a couple of hours more of that loud afternoon.