During my first pregnancy, I was scared. So very scared of what was to come - somehow the baby had to get out. And the thought of a c-section terrified me more than the fear of birth itself, crazy I know. I remember my mum gave me some words of advice that I clung to with dear life: 'Lauren, you come from a long line of women who have birthed without complications. Your great grandmother did it fine. Your nana did just fine. I did just fine. You have good birthing genes, it's in your blood...and your hips.' Now I don't know how medically sound her advice was, but I didn't care, because I believed from that point on that I would be fine; that my body was destined to fulfill it's role in life by birthing this miraculous little being and I would come out the other side just fine as did my foremothers (is that even a word?).
And through some miracle in itself, I did survive the process of delivering Lucy. I was actually one of those women who LOVED it. I was GLOWING and totally blissed out from the moment she arrived. I cared not as the midwives checked out my nether regions for damage. I cared not that Lucy poo'd on my tummy as I held her for the first time. All I cared about that our child was here, safe and sound and she just the most beautiful thing I had ever seen! I even wrote a blog about it - and how I would never swap my role in giving birth with anyone.
I have never felt such achievement than when I gave birth to Lucy, not ever in my life. I was in awe of my own ability to focus, to stay in control and calm, to get in the zone and believe in myself. I was in awe of my own body and what it did without my conscious decisions, how it really took the lead and I was just along for the ride. So it was no surprise to me that when I fell pregnant with our second child, I was very much looking forward to the birth, to the wonder and pure joy I experienced the first time. Sicko, I know.
Yet, it seems I did not account for the fact that labour might not go the way I expected it to. I expected that I would labour at home until I needed to go to hospital, at which point I would then labour in the bath until it was time to push, and then I would choose if I wanted a water birth or not.
I didn't expect that my contractions would start and stop so many times. I didn't expect that getting into the bath at the hospital would draw a halt to the whole proceedings, which is most depressing to a woman who is five days overdue. I definitely didn't expect that Lucy would come down with a fever the night before as I was in early labour and I would have to leave her for who knows how long while she wasn't feeling well. It was my very first moment of having to let go a little and prioritise my new baby over her, and it was much, much harder than I realised it would be.
If there was one word I could use to describe my second labour, it would be active. Or maybe excruciating. No, let's go with active. I had to move, i couldnt sit still. Greg was ever encouraging, making sure I didn't sit down for longer than five minutes a row (didn't I love him for that), and bravely suggesting we 'jog it out' every time I trudged up the two flights of stairs. In the beginning it made me giggle, him jogging next to me on the spot trying to get me moving, but eventually I remember staring him down and suggesting ever so politely (between clenched teeth) that if he mention jogging once more I just might crack it. It was active, because I had to physically move in order for my contractions to progress. Which I both wanted and didn't want to occur. On the one hand I wanted to meet my baby and have it all over and done with, yet on the other hand I really just wanted it all to stop, wishing that I could just forget it all and go home like nothing happened.
I no longer felt like a warrior princess. Instead I resented the process of having to deal with such excruciating pain in order to have children, couldn't Greg take one for the team this time? I tried my best to put my game face back on as we hurtled fast towards the business end, reminding myself that the end wasn't far away. That a little (a TRUCKLOAD of) pain now to progress the labour was worth it, as it would mean a quicker labour overall. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.
But as my body leant towards wanting to push, and midwife cautioned me against doing so as I wasn't quite ready, I wondered how much more I could take. How much longer I would have to resist the most powerful force my body has ever experienced. How much longer I would have to prolong this labour that I was no longer excited about. And then my body took over. I no longer could withhold the urge to push, and so I began the most active part of any labour.....getting that watermelon the hell OUT! And in four gigantic pushes, our little girl made her entry into the world.
She was taken immediately to the trolley to ensure she was okay, and I lay on the bed thinking one thing and one thing only. Thank FUCK that was over! (Please excuse my language, but I distinctly remember thinking those exact words!) I was done. I had done what I came to do, I was spent well and truly, and my down-below hurt to all buggery! My legs trembled aggressively, and I felt extremely shaky all over, apparently from the adrenaline. Personally, I felt like I was in shock.
And all of a sudden, it felt like my waters broke a second time. There was blood EVERYWHERE! It is not an exaggeration to say it was running off the opposite side of the queen bed I was lying on. My midwifes clothes were messed. Greg took several steps back from the bed to get out of the way. After the bleeding stopped, my midwife told us that she hadn't attended this bloody a birth in a long time. That it was the stuff of movies!
And then they tried to give me my baby. And all I wanted to do was sit up a little, but it hurt so bad. I asked Greg to just please give me a second before I could take her............and that was the moment where everything stood still. Time froze for a second as I realised with great trepidation that I wasn't feeling joy, pride, awe, or wonder at anything that had just occurred. My second born child was being offered to me for my first cuddle and I didn't feel joy, I didn't feel the need to see her, to hold her.
All I felt was a sense of stark clarity. My blood was everywhere. My legs were shaking beyond control. My girly parts felt so very sore that I thought I wouldn't be able to sit for a week. And I didn't want to hold my baby right away. I just wanted a second to get over the traumatic events that my body had just experienced. God, give me a bloody second!
From that moment on, I knew it was going to be different. From that very moment on, I knew that I wasn't going to have that influx of overwhelming emotion to carry me through. That I wasn't going to feel awe or wonder this time, instead simply a sense of the harsh reality of life, of what women are put through in order to expand their families. Of the worst pain I have ever experienced.
Within the first minute of Ava's life, I experienced feelings of not being as good a mother to her as I was to Lucy. Within the first minute of Ava's life I worried that I might not love her as much as Lucy. Within the first SIXTY SECONDS of Ava's life, I was already beating myself up for not feeling joyous, not feeling wonder, not wanting to hold her immediately. I felt like a bystander, watching myself and my reaction to this situation like a foreigner watching a scene they don't belong in. This wasn't me. I loved my birth experience, didn't I? Nope, not this time.
As I did finally hold her a few minutes after her arrival, our little girl without a name at that stage, I looked down and knew that I did love her. I didn't feel a beautiful rush, but I knew without a doubt that I loved her. Again, I felt a sense of reality more than anything, and the fact was that she belonged to me, she was my daughter and I loved her. I fed her immediately and used that time to try and regroup myself, my emotions (or lack of), and we tried to figure out a name for her. Our second princess. A sister for Lucy. Our tiny Ava Isabel.
I have become teary and emotional writing this one tonight, because although the day Ava arrived is almost 4 months ago, I still remember these feelings with clarity. It is terrifying not feeling the way you expect to about your baby. Not knowing when these feelings will end. Not feeling what you think you should be feeling about your baby.
The bliss never arrived. The trepidation stayed and grew into raging guilt and anxiety. The hormonal rush I wanted so desperately never came. Instead, I was left feeling inadequate.
And Tiny One, if you ever read this I want you to know the following:
- Your mother loves you very much, always has and always will.
- The lack of hormones released after your birth has nothing to do with how much your mummy loved/loves you, and all to do with a automatic, physiological reaction to birth that cannot be controlled, enhanced or explained.
- Forever your mother will remember every contraction, every feeling, every step your daddy made me walk up during labour for you to arrive. It will always stay with me how much I went through so you could have a safe arrival into this world. And no matter the pain, I would do it all again for you. And I will always fight that much for you with just as much gritted determination.
And I know I'm not alone. As hard as it is to talk about it, it is better to reach out. For those of you out there who have struggled too, it does get easier. You aren't to blame, as hard as that may be to remember.
Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Gloomy (at times).
