Once we were allowed to go home, I thought all was over and behind us. I thought it was only a matter of taking the many iron supplements I was given upon discharge and paying attention to my body and emotional state while I recovered my strength. Besides the usual other things one needs to take care of following a natural birth, I mean. I was definitely weak; going up a flight of stairs or carrying the baby for longer periods left me breathless and exhausted. I certainly never contemplated the possibility complications could linger on and turn into something worse further down the line.

Everything seemed to be going fine. The midwife did not detect anything out of the ordinary during the follow-up meetings during the first two weeks after birth. I was puzzled at first and concerned to an obsessive point after a while about the ongoing bleeding (lochia). It wasn’t heavy, nor brightly colored, nor painful or anything, but I could not understand why it was still going on if the uterus had been cleaned. I was told everything looked normal. In around two weeks or so it had gone down to some brown-red spotting, which sounded like within the range of normal… but it went back to a red constant diminished flow. It bothered me terribly. And it went on like that until I decided to advance my check-up with the gynae at 5 weeks post-partum. 

An ultrasound revealed two bits of something were left behind in the uterus. I was told another uterus evacuation intervention was needed. That caught me completely off guard and I was under shock. Several dates were suggested to me and I initially opted for the later one. I needed time to process it all. It was a quick procedure that would have me out of my home for 4-6 hours, all included. The nurse explained to us the administrative procedures; depending on the date chosen, different hospitals were involved, with different anaesthetists, different payment methods and rules about keeping baby with me. I went home crying… I felt so much resentment and impotence; I was upset. I shared this with our midwife, our mommy friends from the hypnobirthing class, with my best friend. They all had kind words of support for me. 

My mom, who was still visiting, was very much in disbelief and angry. Between my husband and her, they convinced me to undergo the procedure the following day. What was the point in delaying it? Just get it over with as soon as possible. My husband went back to the gynae office and arranged everything. The next day, at 13.00h I was to be at the hospital to complete the necessary forms and make the upfront payment. Gynae charged no fees for this, but we had to pay for using the hospital facilities. 

We had to cater for the baby’s needs during my absence. He was staying home with grandma and he was sure to need at least two feeds. I had never needed nor considered pumping breastmilk before and it was hardly the time to start then. I quickly scouted around for formula recommendations, just in case, and went out and bought a box and a bottle. I sent a message to my direct boss to tell her about the procedure. I figured being in a foreign country for work reasons and with the institution having a duty of care, it was wise to let them know, just in case. 

Next day, I breastfed baby just before leaving for the hospital, to make sure he would only be given the minimum of formula possible. We got there about an hour before the scheduled procedure. The administrative procedures went quickly. We were then taken to a ward; I changed into a hospital robe and waited. The anesthetist came by to have a chat about my medical conditions and finally, I was asked on a wheelchair and taken down to the theatre. I think I went down with tears in my eyes. My husband was not allowed in the elevator, but he went down the stairs; I saw him again briefly when coming out of it. I remember lying down in the theatre; there were only three people there: anesthetist, gynae and a nurse. I got a prick and a wire again in my hand and I heard them chit chat for some seconds before going under. 

When I regained consciousness, I was drowsy and in pain; I had such a heavy body. I could only speak with difficulty. It was a completely different sensation from the first time around, when I had felt better than ever. My husband was with me; we were alone in a different hospital ward. I told him it hurt. He explained that the procedure had gone wrongly and I had just had abdominal surgery. I was shocked. I started crying with sobs, which only made the pain in my abdomen worse. He held my hand and hugged me. 

It turns out the “scoop had slid” (beautiful euphemism for a doctor making a mistake) and had perforated the uterus. They had gone in through the bellybutton to check whether anything else had been touched; confirming one loop of the small intestine had also been perforated, an abdominal surgery was performed to sew it.

I had been in the theatre much longer than expected. No idea what my husband and my mom thought or felt during that time. My husband is not much about sharing his feelings and instead focuses on what needs to be done; my mom was angry. I imagine my dad, at the other end of the world, also felt quite worried. I was angry, but I was probably more shocked and in disbelief that all this should have happened to me. I believe I was more depressed than anything else. 

The first night I went to sleep without breastfeeding or emptying my breasts. I was in such an emotional state that it felt best to rest and delay seeing baby and grandma. The following morning, more than 20 hours after the last feeding, my breasts were engorged, painful and leaking. Baby emptied them and stayed with me during the day. We built a pillow fort on top of my tummy when he breastfed, for protection. Early evenings, however, baby went back home with grandma; we agreed I needed my night sleep to rest and recover this time. I did not want this to affect my milk supply or develop mastitis on top of everything and I wanted baby to have the least formula possible. With the help of the nurses we tried it all: hand expressing; expressing with a manual pump and with an electric pump (both of which my husband went out and bought on the spot). Nurses brought us hot towels to place on the breasts. We managed to get some milk out with the electric pump; the first time we used it, we got 150ml out, the most I ever got by pumping. I emptied my breasts last thing before going to sleep and first thing in the morning (around 5 a.m, when the first nurse came around with tea :O). My husband took it home to baby immediately; he spent the first nights with me in hospital. The hospital had provided us with a family room, at no extra cost. 

Around lunchtime I finally saw the doctor. She was sorry for all I had to go through and she explained what had happened, without admitting any fault. It had just happened…But now finally all was in order and there were to be no consequences for my ability to have more children. I was on antibiotics and I was being fed through the tubes. I needed to stay in hospital four more days to confirm that my body was functioning properly, during which I slowly worked my way up from drinking sips of water to having a regular meal. 

A physiotherapist, a young, fragile looking but quite strong lady came twice to help me get up and out of bed, walk around and go to the toilet. She showed me how to get up on one side, pulling myself up with the arms on the bed’s handrails, so as not to use my abdominal muscles and feel pain. The first day, I was exhausted only after doing that; I sat up on the bed for a short while with my feet dangling in the air. She also showed me some series of static movements I had to repeat many times a day whilst lying down, to prevent blood clots in my legs. And I did it all, repeatedly; it felt like I was doing something for myself. The second day, with her support, I walked down the hall to the toilet; she went in with me and guided me through sitting down and getting up, always keeping the body in an upright position, no bowing. After that, the catheter was removed and I started doing walks up and down the corridor, longer and longer each day. Now I was in that funny situation of the person in the movies walking slowly, with the support of another person and pushing my drip with one hand. 

I needed to have daily anticoagulant injections in my tummy – the mere thought of this was physically painful. Seeing the nurse coming in with the small needle brought tears to my eyes. The first day, the nurse did it in my tummy. I could feel it during and after the shot. The second day, a different nurse came and seeing me so distressed, offered to do it in my thigh instead. It felt so light; I couldn’t feel anything. Therefore, when yet another nurse came on the third day, I asked her if she could do it in the thigh again; it wasn’t the same – it hurt. Doctor had mentioned three shots to me. On the morning of the fourth day, when the nurse arrived with the injection, I refused to have it done. No way I was getting pricked yet again. The doctor had said three shots only;  not to mention they had only started with the injections 36 hours after the intervention. Nurses, my husband and my mom’s pleas and attempts to reason with me led nowhere; so, they had to put a note down in my file and that was it. 

I hated it all. Plus, the stupid drip would get air bubbles in all the time and the nurses were just so careless at the time of taking the air out. It hurt; the thought of it all and all that was happening. At some point, the drip split the vein and they had to prick the other hand as well. Getting up and out of bed the first time was terribly hurtful. I couldn’t stop thinking – if this is how it feels after a C-section, why would anyone consciously choose one?! 

The moment I could eat soups and mushy things, my mom cooked for me some of my childhood dishes: chicken soup; semolina porridge with cinnamon; mashed potatoes with butter and milk; runny scrambled eggs. At least on that account I felt spoiled. My husband brought me Downton Abbey and The Big Bang Theory which kept me entertained when I was not wapping with friends. I am so grateful for all those people who cared for me during those days. The mommies from the hypnobirthing course were so sweet, they got me a voucher to a beauty parlour, to help me forget about it. Colleagues from work also came by; my husband had been in touch about the visiting schedule. 

For a while we considered suing the doctor; a South African friend did a quick research and it came out it was very unlikely anything would happen to the doctor. I did not really care about suing the hospital; I was angry and frustrated that two consecutive uterus evacuations were needed and had gone so wrongly.. 

By the time I got home, the pain had mostly subsided. I remember being given so many painkillers; I took maximum 4-5 pills over the next two days, only when I really needed pain relief. The “staples” were taken out two weeks or so after the surgery. It took me a while to get the courage to look at the scar and I did it very rarely for a time. Almost two years later, it is barely visible and only in the middle section. And anyway, it is below the bikini line. It slowly went from red to pink to blending in with the skin. I didn’t really take care of it, although I had been advised to use bio-oil on it. For many months, I had no sensitivity in the tissues around the scar, it even felt numb. It still doesn’t feel normal, but I can feel much more. 

Before the procedure, I had lost around 10 kilos compared to pre-birth me. When I left hospital, I was puffy again and four kilos heavier; which was curious, given I had not been eating much for five days, but probably made sense, with all the fluids I had been ingesting.. 

I was terribly emotional; felt like crying all the time, incapable of doing much but staying in bed or hanging around my bedroom. I had done everything to avoid a C-section and I had ended up with vaginal tears, two failed curettages and an abdominal surgery similar to a C-section. My mom kept the baby sleeping with her a few more nights and I avoided holding baby while walking or going up and down the stairs; he was six weeks by then and quite bigger than a newborn. 

I took the advice of our hypnobirthing coach and called a trauma release consultant, one or two weeks after the surgery. We thought, why not? An amazingly warm and gentle doula paid me a visit and we spent a couple of hours alone together. She listened to my story, allowing me to cry as much as I needed, when I needed, no holding back. She encouraged me to express my feelings, my anger in an imaginary dialogue with the doctor  – I did that in Romanian, among strong and shaking sobs. All the time, she was holding, patting and massaging me gently. Until at a certain moment I just stopped crying. After that, I felt much better. It became easier to talk about it and I tried to share my story on every occasion there was a friendly ear around. It took me a long time to be able to talk about it without breaking down into crying. Writing now about it is an exception; maybe because I am dwelling on all the details, on all I can remember. 

We had planned to spend my four months of maternity leave travelling around South Africa. We could just as easily take care of the baby anywhere and my husband could work from any place with a decent internet connection. After all that happened, I just wanted to put some distance. It took three months to do all the administrative work to have the baby’s passport and residence in order so that we could travel internationally. When we had everything in place, we went away to Romania for two whole months. When we returned, I had moved on. 

These complications made my first weeks with baby more difficult and uncertain than they would have normally been. They affected my emotional state. Before the 5 week appointment with the gynae, whilst in her waiting room, I was given a form to fill in – a form related to post-partum depression. All kinds of orange flags were raised. It became obvious to me whilst filling it in that the outcome would be pointing in such a direction and I felt sad about that. The doctor said I was definitely at risk and advised taking pills. Good thing my husband was with me and he resisted any drug prescription; wasn’t it premature? Have all physical issues solved and then reevaluate and take it from there. I was too down about anything; when she mentioned the risk and drugs, I believe I felt even more shocked that that was happening to me. Just days after I was released from the hospital, we took the baby for his 6 weeks check-up. It must have been obvious on my face, or maybe it was just a routine thing, but the paeds told me to not hesitate to ask for help if I felt depressed. 

My husband was a tremendous help, and the trauma release was useful in unlocking my anger. I probably could have used professional emotional support much earlier and possibly for a while longer afterwards, but I consider myself lucky with what I had.

The post My Birth Story: (More) Post-Birth Complications appeared first on Mommy Goose Chronicles.

Labour did not start as I had expected. Although I couldn’t tell what it is I was expecting, I was convinced I would recognise it when it started. I didn’t…. I gave birth on the first day of the 41st week, hours before our appointment for the sweeping of the membranes, something I was uncomfortable with, but our midwife had suggested as the first and less invasive way to accelerate labour… I remember conversations with friends via wapp the night before: no, no sign yet of the baby. I couldn’t even identify any Braxton-Hicks during late pregnancy, so it was all quiet. 

I woke up shortly after midnight to go to the loo. I had cramps and felt the need to empty my bowels. I thought I had an upset tummy, that I must have eaten something funky. In retrospect, it was similar to my pre-menstrual cramps, but I could only feel annoyed it interrupted my sleep. It went on like this twice per hour. Finally, my husband asked what was going on and suggested I tell our midwife. At that point, I was still only concerned about my sleep and thought it unnecessary to contact her in the middle of the night.  

I wrote to her at 3:02 am: “I’m having cramps that come and go (quite strong), strong pressure on pelvis and for the past two hours have continuously emptied my bowels, harder stool becoming softer and softer; slight sensation of nausea and cold shivers.. It’s quite uncomfortable and I’m having trouble relaxing and calming my breath during shivers; it also comes with some radiation of pain in my hips and lower back. And for the last two-three times, I noticed some vaginal excretion when wiping, brownish traces on the toilet paper, like early menstruation.” She said: “That’s good news; sounds like labour is on its way”. 

There was a sense of surprise and excitement. Didn’t know how this was going to unfold. She said getting rest was more important than anything else at that point, so I followed her advice. I got into the bathtub at home and started listening to my hypnobirthing tracks. My husband was running around the house; mom and baby’s luggage for the hospital had been ready for weeks, but my husband’s was not. He was to be in charge of feeding me healthy snacks and energising beverages, of having all the phones and tablets duly charged and to install the baby car seat. If all went well, we planned to come straight home afterwards. If we had to stay in the hospital, he was to stay with me, we had reserved a family room overnight. In between his running around, he was soothing me, timing my surges and communicating with the midwife. 

At 5:26, we had three series of contractions every 10 minutes. He told the midwife I was “looking good. The contractions last under 1 min and she is suffering; in between she is calm. The pain in the hip is continuous with spikes at contraction time”. That must have been the moment I got out of the bathtub; I needed to lie down. Our bathtub was rather on the smallish side. The only thing that comes back to me from those moments is the hip pain; it was intense. When surges came, however, I found it impossible to lie down, so I struggled to stand up and felt like going to the loo all over again. Somehow the hip pain felt stronger lying down. We gave ourselves 30 min to see whether I could manage it at home. In less than 10 minutes, my husband told the midwife we were getting ready to go to the hospital. We agreed to meet there at 6.30. Last message to the midwife just before we left home was about “little dark bleeding”. I have no recollection of that whatsoever, maybe I didn’t notice it, but my husband did. 

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the drive to the hospital. A 25-30 minutes drive with traffic, of which Pretoria had a lot at that hour on a Tuesday morning. First we had to get out of our residential jacaranda lined streets neighbourhood – with plenty of speed bumps. Uhhhh, how I felt those bumps, deep down inside me and down to my heels and toes. Didn’t matter how slow my husband was taking them… Tears were coming to my eyes every time. It took forever to get to the hospital; I had the impression all the streetlights had been on red and the traffic was not moving. I kept munching this thought in my head: “If the midwife tells me I am only 3 or 4 cm dilated….” and was getting worked up and emotional about it.  

We got to the hospital just before 7. Somehow I managed to walk down the ramp to the midwives unit. I had this funny sensation that I was holding something big and heavy between my legs that may just fall down if I took bigger steps. The labour room was lit up with candles and the bathtub was on and the big bed had clean sheets on. It felt welcoming and peaceful. There was no paperwork to be done, no conversations or explanations to be given. I laid down and the midwife did a quick check-up. I was fully dilated; I could go into the bathtub. What a relief! Had it not been the case, I might have been tempted to ask for some kind of pain management. I recall her kneeling down on one side of the bathtub, with gloves on and a couple of towels at hand, almost holding her arms out like waiting to catch the baby popping out. It felt reassuring; it wasn’t going to be long now. It was only the three of us in the room; there was a second midwife that until the very end took notes in a corner of the room. 

I kept on listening to my relaxation tracks. My husband sat down on the side of the bathtub, with his feet in the water. He held me, patted me and caressed my forehead and hair throughout. His presence was so comforting. It just felt easier expressing myself in my own language in those moments, most of the time anyway; he was doing the talking with the midwife over my head. 

I must have spent at least 1h30 min in the tub. That was the hardest part. It was not a constant pain; it came and it went in waves and there was enough time to catch a breath in between. And I was feeling it all in my hips and in my lower back. Somehow, it took me unprepared every time for my hypnobirthing “breathe baby out technique”. Consciously, at least, it didn’t feel like I was doing much in terms of helping my body bring baby out. I tried different positions in the bathtub and the midwife was letting me be, regularly checking the baby’s heart rate with a stick-like thing from a couple of centimeters distance. She also had a tiny sieve that she used to fish floating debris I was expelling with every contraction.  

At a certain point I remember her telling me my water had not broken and asking whether she could break them. I asked whether that would hurt (!!!! in hindsight, what a ridiculous thing :P). Seconds later I asked whether it was over. Yes, of course. 

I was not aware of the time; even so, I had expected it to be over more quickly. I was exhausted. Next thing I remember is the midwife telling me not to hold baby back, but let him come out; she told me I needed to start pushing then (instead of my gentle help it flow out approach). Apparently, they could see his head appearing and then withdrawing. My husband told me he was there, he could see him! I felt nervous and lost. I was not doing any such thing. 

At some point, in a very calm tone, the midwife told me the baby’s heart was getting tired; it was obvious the bathtub positions were not working and we needed to change. I was ok with getting out and asked for a birth stool; I found that it was the position in which I could best bear the hip pain. Ok. It must have been at that moment that she realised something was not right. 

I was not told this in the labour room, but my husband knew it. The baby was not progressing because he had the cord wrapped twice around his neck and one hand next to the ear. The midwife took one loop of the cord, but the second one was tight. The second midwife stepped in to help. In a matter of seconds I was told first that they would need to suck the baby out and immediately after that that was not an option anymore and that they would do an episiotomy. I laid down on the bed on one side and my husband held the upper feet up in the air. I could not bear being down on my back. I saw the midwife getting ready to open a kit of some sort for the incision and I thought “no way!” and pushed the hardest I had done until then. I felt a burning sensation for a moment. The baby came out and it felt good afterwards. 

It was 9:02 in the morning. About six hours after realising I was in labour, six intense hours that flew by. Eight hours and a half after the first signs of labour that I failed to recognise. 

My husband followed the baby across the room for the measurements. He was fine. First apgar score was 8; 10 after ten minutes. He was 3,27 kg and 51,5 cm. The midwife took the samples that we needed for the stem cells bank and the baby was put on my chest covered with a towel.  

He looked like a tiny grumpy old man; so very tiny, upset and all wrinkled. He was squeaking in a low tone, like a kitten. I was given a shot to accelerate the expulsion of the placenta – I was bleeding too much. After a very short while, baby was given to dad, who laid down next to me. He stayed on his dad’s bare chest, nuzzling and looking for the breast, poor baby, for more than an hour.  

I had torn in all kinds of different ways and the midwife needed to sew me. I laid on my back for what felt an eternity. It must have been 45 minutes at least. It felt uncomfortable; in my head it was all over and this was pure torment. The midwife kept saying she was almost done to reassure me; at one point I snapped at her that it was taking too long. It was a big tear, where the episiotomy should have been, and then many tiny zig-zag tears all over. At some point I was given suppositories and subsequently put on a drip. The uterus was not contracting; I was still bleeding too much and they were trying to make it stop.

When sewing was over, I wanted to go to the toilet. The midwife suggested to use a catheter and I insisted on going on my own feet to the toilet. It was a bad idea, but I could not be convinced. So I got up supported by her and my husband and directly plummeted unconscious on the floor  – in a puddle of blood, my husband later told me. When I got back to my senses, I was told the doctor was on her way to take me to the theatre; they had done all  things possible, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It felt like a defeat and scary. I’m certain my husband was also worried. But we were calm; the situation was out of our hands and we had to trust our medical team. Can’t remember whether I was sobbing, but I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. 

When the doctor arrived, she explained she needed to do a uterus evacuation; it turned out pieces of the placenta and membranes had stuck inside, causing the bleeding. There was no other alternative, but an intervention under general anaesthesia. As with any intervention, it involved risks and the most serious one was hysterectomy, but chances for that happening were minimal. It should be a quickie; in 30 min I would be out of the theatre, she said. 

I remember meeting and answering the anesthetist’s questions on the way to the theatre. A needle was put into my right hand and in a couple of seconds I was out. Next thing I remember was being transferred to ICU after the intervention. I felt heavenly; no sensation of pain, discomfort of any kind, anywhere in the body. My husband came over with the baby. It was so emotional seeing them together. I had all sorts of wires on me, so my husband was doing most of the holding, as baby was mostly asleep. His look was constantly going beyond me to the screens above me and he kept my mom informed of my blood pressure levels – lower than my generally lower ones. 

I stayed in the ICU two nights and a bit longer than two days. I got two rounds of blood transfusion and my iron levels were checked regularly. I was told I had lost around 2 l of blood in between the birth and intervention and I kept on bleeding, at least for the first day. I was monitored at all times. The night nurse took me for my first post-birth shower and stayed with me;  she probably knew what to expect. The moment she took the catheter out, a big puddle of blood rushed down on my legs onto the bathroom floor. I was shocked. She wasn’t impressed. I preferred to keep the catheter a little while longer; with the stitches burning a bit and a sensation of heaviness between my legs, I played it safe. I had huge pads between my legs and under me that nurses changed a couple of times a day with amazing speed and dexterity, just shuffling me around. 

My husband spent the day with me and the night in the family room we had reserved in the maternity ward. Baby was with me at all times. When I slept, the nurses were looking after him and only woke me up when he gave feeding cues. On the first day, the midwife, a paeds and another nurse from the baby clinic stopped by to check on me and the baby and start with the vaccinations. They also showed and helped me latch the baby to breast. The nurses in ICU kindly helped me latch baby every time.  

We spent the third night in the family ward, as I got extra iron through a drip, and the following day we went home. I felt weak and out of breath when going up the stairs of our house. When breastfeeding, I felt the cramps that accompany the contraction of the uterus and with them, a mild version of the back and hip pain during labour. 

We finally had all the time to be together, just the three of us. The midwife visited us at home for the first two weeks after birth. I still remember how she used a portable scale to weigh baby, much like the scale that is used at the market back home to weigh watermelons. Hilarious! Until my mom came over, more than a week later, my husband took care of us on his own. And he did it wonderfully. 

All things considered, I am happy with my birthing experience; the only thing I would change, if I could, is to allow the episiotomy to be performed, instead of getting torn all over. One doctor explained to me that it would have been a clean cut, easy to sew it would have avoided the other tiny tears. Which sounded reasonable enough for me. Plus, the driving force behind my resistance to it was the fear of pain (getting cut without any anaesthetic), ignoring that in that situation, I would have probably felt very little. I don’t regret not having opted for pain management; it was challenging and intense, but nothing that I could not bear. 

Should I have another child, I would look for a similar experience. Having my husband close to me throughout was the best thing. The calmness and gentleness of our midwife was just so amazing. Being in an environment that allowed the three of us to be together in the circumstances, that was not invasive and did not stress us about how we cared for the baby whilst in hospital, but instead enabling us to care for him, including breastfeeding related, helped us get a good start, my post-partum situation notwithstanding. 

It marked a first time for me in many respects: being put on a drip or going under general anaesthesia, going to theatre, having blood transfusion, spending time in ICU; having a catheter and being cared for as I was, as an adult. Still, in all likelihood, it was harder for my husband than for myself. I was unlucky; and I had further complications later on, but that is a separate story.

The post My natural birth story appeared first on Mommy Goose Chronicles.