Birth Story of the Week- Fay + Leon

This week Fay shares her birth experience. I'll be honest, it's not an easy read and my heart breaks for all women who have experienced a traumatic birth. The reality is that approximately 30% of women have experienced a birth they would describe as traumatic. And about 2-6% of those women will go on to develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a consequence to this experience. Trauma is subjective and is not something we can decide did or did not happen for that person. Thank you for your submission and courage to share, 
as I've said to you before so many women are remaining silent unsure how to move forward or find their voice and you just helped give them one!!

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I wanted to have a home birth. That was the plan. I hadn’t even packed a hospital bag just in case. I figured that if I did have to go to the hospital, I’d be released quickly after giving birth, or it would be an emergency situation and I wouldn’t need things right away anyways. 

The expected due date was February 10th, and my waters broke on Friday the 9th during the evening broadcast of the winter Olympics opening ceremony. I was excited that I was going to get to meet my baby soon. I wasn’t afraid. I felt a little crampy, but didn’t have any contractions then, so I called my midwife to let her know, and went to bed to rest as instructed. Knowing now how things turned out, I wish I would have gone for a walk, and just walked until I couldn’t anymore or I had a baby. Maybe that wouldn’t have changed things at all, but I don’t think it would have made them worse. 

When I woke up on Saturday, I still had no contractions. Evan went in to work, and I went to the hospital for a non-stress test to make sure the baby was doing OK. I went into a small, dimly-lit room with a few hospital beds in it and lay down on one. The nurse asked a few questions and attached some small monitors to my stomach. She (or my midwife, I don’t remember) checked my cervix to confirm that my waters were broken, and more liquid gushed out. It was painful to be checked. After some time by myself with the machines, I was told that everything was fine and I could go home to wait. 

I was told that if contractions hadn’t started by 1PM, that I was to start taking castor oil to start contractions. I did, and things started to ramp up in the evening. I was in so much pain; I was sweating and couldn’t focus. I was in bed rolling around and crying. The contractions lasted over a minute and were happening every minute or two, so we called our midwife, thinking that this was active labour. 

When our midwife came, she did another cervical check and said that I was maybe half a centimetre dilated. It was disappointing that I thought I was so much further along than I actually was. That I was in so much pain but had so much further to go. The cervical check was horribly painful again. I wanted so badly for it to stop, to be able to get away. It makes my stomach churn and my throat tighten to think of it even now. 

Our midwife left. Things continued on as they had been. It had been maybe two hours, and I couldn’t get any relief, and nothing Evan said or did made me feel any better. I felt so nauseous and went to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet twice. I wasn’t allowed to have a bath because my waters were broken, so I alternated between lying on the floor and leaning against the tub. I had read that throwing up was a sign of transitioning into active labour, so we called our midwife again.

Another cervical check revealed that I was only one centimetre dilated. I couldn’t handle the pain, and knowing I was so far from giving birth. I couldn’t imagine being in that much pain for 24 hours, let alone another few with no end in sight. My midwife asked what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I was afraid of having an epidural. I was afraid of having a catheter; the thought of it made sick. I wanted to be at home in my own bed. I wanted to be safe in my home and have my baby there, and afterwards get to snuggle up in my own comfy bed and wrap my blankets around my family and be warm. 

Everyone says that writing is cathartic, especially writing one’s own trauma. It takes strength to do so, and you need to be ready to write your story. When you do, it gives you control over some of your fear. When flashbacks and panic attacks jump up and surprise you, rocketing you back to the scariest moments of your life, without warning and without consent, writing your trauma allows you to decide when and how you want to return to that place and come close to it. I can decide to step closer to it, rather than the anxiety monster that comes closer to me. I can put down my pen and say “not now”, 

“I don’t want to go there right now”. 

At the hospital, I remember sitting on the bed, facing towards the window. I was offered laughing gas, but it didn’t help and it made it too hard to breathe. The anesthesiologist was called in to do the epidural. He was very kind and friendly. I was told to stay still, hunch over, and hold onto a pillow while he placed the epidural, and use the laughing gas. I was shaking, and the contractions were coming on top of each other, so I struggled to stay still. It took him three tries to successfully place the epidural. It was painful, but soon I had relief from the contractions and could sleep a little. I was also given Oxytocin to help move things along. 

I developed a fever and was given antibiotics. Despite the contractions being strong, I had only dilated to “maybe” eight centimetres by the end. My temperature was going up, and the baby’s heart rate kept dropping with each contraction. The doctor on call came in a number of times to check the paper print out that showed the baby’s heart rate. The doctor circled things on the paper, and explained to me what was going on, that she was concerned, and that a c-section might be necessary. The last time that she came in and checked the papers, she explained to me that she needed to perform a c-section right away for my safety and the baby’s. She said that she had waited a long as she could, but it needed to be done. She was sympathetic, and said that she knew that a c-section wasn’t what I wanted. She explained what would happen and left the room to get ready. My midwife said that the nurses would take me to the operating room to get me ready, and that she and Evan would come join me before they started the surgery. I was scared. 

I was rolled into the bright operating room, and there were lots of people there. Someone told me that there were some specialists there and a pediatrician, but I couldn’t focus on who was who. They had to move me from the hospital bed I was wheeled in on to the narrow operating table. A nurse said she had to grab a board to move me over, but a male nurse (maybe he was a doctor, I don’t know) said not to bother, that he had it. I don’t know who saw what happened or what he was doing, but no one said anything or stopped him. 

He grabbed me by the hand, the hand that had the IV needle in my vein, and lifted me up and put me onto the operating table. I screamed in pain. My hand was bruised for over a month and for a long time after, whenever I touched my hand or looked at it, I’d have horrible flashbacks and panic attacks. Eight months later, I still have a scar from the IV that serves as a reminder of that moment.

After that, I cried uncontrollably and shook. My arms were put beside me, and my wrists were strapped down to the table. I felt so scared and alone. The kind anesthesiologist came in and I told him that I was afraid that I would feel the surgery happening. He increased the freezing going through the epidural, and explained that he would use a needle on my stomach to check that the freezing was sufficient. I could feel the needle pricking me and I told him so. By the time he was done, I could still feel the sharp needle poking me. I don’t know if he decided that that was the best he could do, or if what I was feeling was considered acceptable. 

Evan and my midwife came in – both looked concerned, no doubt surprised by my transformation from when I was wheeled away from them to the state I was in then. I wish they hadn’t left me. Maybe they could have protected me, if they were there. 

Things happened quickly. The doctor told me that I would feel some pulling, but no pain. I gasped when she cut into me. I don’t remember much else. When the baby was born, he was taken to the edge of the room to be taken care of. I turned my head to the left to try and see the baby, but he was blocked from view. My midwife announced that it was a boy, and asked if we had a name for him. I said “Leon”.

Evan was called over while I was being closed back up. He told me later that one of the nurses (doctors?) had asked the medical team if the baby should go to the NICU. Our midwife said “no, he’s fine, let’s get him back to mom”. I feel so lucky that she was there. Evan brought our baby over to me and asked if I wanted to hold him. Still lying flat on the operating table, though my wrists had been unshackled, I tried to raise my arms to hold him, but they shook so hard that I had to shake my head “no”, that I couldn’t take him though I wanted to. 

I don’t remember leaving the operating room, I don’t remember holding my baby for the first time, I don’t remember breastfeeding for the first time. It’s not hazy, it’s not a blur, I just don’t have those memories. 

We stayed in the hospital for three more days. I remember Evan washing diapers in the sink in the room (we had only grabbed a few before going to the hospital, at the time only anticipating a short stay). I remember Evan sleeping so deeply that I had to throw pillows at him to wake him up. I remember being so thankful for the fruit I had for breakfast, especially the sweet grapes. Crying as I ate my tofu curry on rice, my first real meal after my records were corrected so that I would be brought food I could eat. 

I remember breastfeeding my little baby, who was only content when lying on me. His strong feet that would push into my incision, forcing me to try to find a more comfortable position to nurse in. I remember a nurse coming in to help me, who announced to no one in particular “ohhh, you have flat nipples”. I remember the nurse who said I couldn’t sleep with my baby, that he had to go in the clear plastic bassinet. He screamed for so long in the bassinet that night that he lost his voice. I asked another nurse how to calm him, and she said that I could sleep with him. 

I remember walking around the maternity ward, pushing the bassinet. My back hurt so much that I was hunched over, and it took a long time before I could straighten up enough to see myself in the bathroom mirror at home. I remember the doses of painkillers that the nurses forgot to give me. I remember begging to have the catheter removed because it was so uncomfortable. When it was finally removed, I was told to call for help when I needed to go to the bathroom. I did, but after waiting 20 minutes for someone to come, I went on my own. A nurse came in the room as I was working on leaving the bathroom, and I was chastised for not waiting. 

I remember a nurse showing us how to give our little baby a bath. I remember my favourite nurse who told us about her trip to Haiti, and when she showed us how to buckle our baby into his carseat to take him home. 

I don’t know how to end this. Maybe it’s so hard to wrap this up because it’s unresolved for me, not just part of my past, but a part of my everyday, as flashbacks make me relive those days. I don’t blame myself for anything – I just feel incredibly sorry for myself, that these things happened to me and that I was hurt and felt so scared.

I had my first EMDR session with my therapist three days ago (I’ve been seeing her for a while now). It involved bringing up my memories of the worst parts of my birth experience and working through them in vivid detail and following whatever feelings or thoughts came up with my therapist’s guidance. It was hard to willingly be so vulnerable and say “yes” to the fear and the flashbacks and let them overtake me. I think there’s a lot of power in that. It’s one thing to fall off a cliff, or be pushed, but it’s another thing entirely to choose to jump.

Immediately after the session, I felt lightheaded, numb, and not much better. My therapist said that we could do a few more sessions to keep working at it. She told me something at the time that I couldn’t comprehend or believe. She said that I did what I needed to do to keep my baby and myself safe, and that I showed strength and control. How was that possible when I was just there, strapped to a table while everyone else took care of things and I waited for them to be done? She said that up until that point, my body was a safe place for my baby, and I did everything I could to make sure that he was healthy and happy. I felt like all of that was just my body doing its own thing, and that I didn’t have much involvement in it. 

 

My therapist told me something and seeing my hesitation and doubt, smiled and told me to mull it over and jot down whatever came to mind. I’m sure she won’t be surprised that my views have changed. She said that although maybe I was right, and my ego and my conscious self weren’t involved or in control, my primal self was, and it possessed an innate knowledge and power. Even if that primal side operates without my express direction and intention, that is still me. I am more than my thoughts and my fears and my choices. Even at the worst of times, when all else fails and I can do no more, I can. I have a sick overdrive that I have never before been aware of, much less acknowledged or appreciated.

My body, me, I – endured. Through that horrible experience. My body waited and kept me present until I knew and could see that my little baby was safe. And then she let me go. She let my scared, tired mind rest for a moment while she took over and knowingly held and fed my baby with my body.

Although I have no memory of that moment, I do remember another special moment, when it was announced, “It’s a boy! He’s perfect, Fay!”. Waiting for that moment, the surprise of it, was so worth it. I was so happy and excited. We had decided on a name for a boy early on in the pregnancy, but I was never sure what we would name our baby if it was a girl. I remember our midwife asking if we had a name for him, and I was the one to say it to everyone in that room. This is the memory that I choose to hold on to and to cherish. I will raise this one up, focus on it, and relive those emotions, while relegating the rest of that day to its rightful place – in the past.

I'm so excited to be sharing Birth Story of the Week as a regular feature! 
This project is about bringing our stories together and providing a wonderful resource for new and expecting families in our community. All births are wonderful and should be celebrated, no matter what type of birth (home, hospital, midwife/ OB, doula supported or not) if you would like to share your birth story please email it to info@nestedbirth.com a photo or two would also be great. Stories will be featured on my social media platforms and blog. My hope is that we can educate families on the options available in our community, provide healing and empowerment through sharing and of course CONNECTION.

If you have experienced birth trauma, please reach out. Here are some resources:
http://birthtraumacanada.org/
https://improvingbirth.org/
http://www.vancouverbirthtrauma.ca/home.html
https://www.babble.com/parenting/birth-trauma/
https://www.mother.ly/life/how-to-overcomeand-healfrom-a-traumatic-birth