I started this post a long time ago. To be honest, I wasn't really sure if I would ever publish it. I mainly just wrote it to help process some of the feelings and emotions I was dealing with as I transitioned into motherhood. So much of what is in it seems too personal to put out there for the entire world to read. But it also seems a shame to have hard-learned lesson that might benefit someone else and not ever share it, either. Now that Sam's first birthday has come and gone, I have been thinking about those early days of his life, and it seems like an appropriate time to post this so that maybe...just maybe...someone else might read it and avoid some of the mistakes that I made.
I did not transition into motherhood well at all. I will be the first person to stand up and admit that. I expected it to come easily. To be natural. Instinctive. Perhaps for some women it is, but for me it really wasn't. Nothing about Sam's birth or the days, weeks and months following were what I expected. Even down to the moment that he officially entered this world.
I had been pushing for what seemed like forever. I had received an epidural (which I remain convinced to this day saved me from a c-section), but I had asked the anesthesiologist to turn it down so I could feel the contractions coming and know when to push. There was no pain...only a sense that my belly was getting tighter. Every time a contraction would come, I would hunker down, grit my teeth and go one more round. This had been going on for nearly two hours, and I think I had just settled into a zone of not caring. This was how it was going to go for the rest of the night.
However, my doctor was growing concerned that Sam's shoulders were proving to be a problem, and he suggested trying a suction-assisted delivery. Shawn and I agreed, and after the next push, he laid a baby on my abdomen. It was nothing like you see in the movies--no, "Okay, Mom...give me just one more big push!" Just the quiet removal of one body from another, then
*plop* on my belly. I was so shocked to see him. I thought I would laugh, or smile. I thought I would have something beautiful to say to my son. But all I could do was stare at him in shock. Even Shawn was so shocked the nurse had to remind him to take pictures. I nervously caressed his thigh, said something lame like, "Hi, Baby," and then they took him from me to clean him up. I rested back on my pillow, thinking that the hard part was over. Little did I know that what had just preceeded was easy compared to what we were about to endure.
Sam didn't transition well, so he spent about 36 hours in the NICU getting oxygen while I got 12 hours of IV magnesium for postpartum pre-eclampsia (something that I didn't even know existed...I always thought the cure for pre-eclampsia was delivering the baby). On the day that Sam was transferred to our room, my blood pressure went out of control again and I got a blood patch for an epidural headache and another 12 hours of IV magnesium. The next night, Sam slept in the little baby tanning bed because he was jaundiced, and I tried to breastfeed with a stiff neck and a pounding head. The following morning, Shawn and I left Sam at the hospital so I could go to the doctor's office for an emergency visit (because I had been officially discharged). I was readmitted for more IV fluids. This time, the only place they could get a line in my over-used veins was in the crease of my arm, so for the following 23 hours I tried to breastfeed with a stiff neck, a pounding head, and an IV in my elbow crease...something that proved very difficult to do while holding a baby.
Five days after Sam was born, we were finally discharged, but just three days later we were back in the OB's office. This time, my systolic blood pressure was 190 (yeah...Shawn nearly passed out when they gave the reading) and we went back to the hospital for a second blood patch. While I was recovering, Sam had a blowout diaper, and Shawn changed him into his extra outfit that I had so carefully packed in his diaper bag. Only I had somehow managed to mix up the sizes and the outfit was 3-6 months, and it swallowed Sam whole. Given no other choice, Shawn put it on our baby, and I laid in bed blinking back tears. It was official: I was the worst mother ever.
Over the next few days Sam continued to have doctors' appointments because not only was he not back up to his birth weight yet, but he was still losing weight. His pediatrician instructed us to supplement his diet with formula, and I took it as a blow to my pride. I should be able to fulfill this most basic need--to feed my baby, but I was even screwing that up. I was exhausted. I felt like crap. I had no appetite. I was drowning.
Around Sam's fourth week of life, I woke up one morning feeling like a truck had hit me. I drug myself out of bed and fed Sam, then stretched out in the recliner with him praying for us to take a nap. We did, but when we woke up the second time, I was still exhausted. And I was freezing. It was May, and I was wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants and had a blanket over me, and I was shivering. After another nap that did nothing to improve my energy level, we checked my temperature...and found that I was running a fever. Just when things were starting to look up, I developed mastitis. I think that was the point that my breasts just decided we were done with the breastfeeding. But my head was not in agreement.
Over the next week or so, I consulted with three different lactation specialists. I refused to give up on the idea of breastfeeding. Every night Shawn would walk in to find me sobbing on the couch, and he would beg, "Please...just stop." On the advice of a lactation nurse, I began nursing Sam, then pumping for 20 minutes, then feeding him what I had pumped. All I did was feed the baby. I felt like I had no time for anything else. I was a slave to breastfeeding. Finally, during one of my follow-up appointments with my OB, I was describing the struggles we were having, and he looked at me and said, "You know you can stop, right? You've fought the good fight." I just stared at him. Then I finally, reluctantly, waved my white flag. I was a failure.
Looking back over those first few weeks with Sam, I can see so much stress that I placed on my shoulders. I was hellbent on breast-feeding. Because that's what
good moms do. They breastfeed. And it just wasn't working for us. Sam was miserable. He was never content after a breastfeeding session...not one single time. By extension I was miserable because I dreaded every feeding. I knew it was going to be 30 to 45 minutes of struggle followed by him crying inconsolably. It wasn't until much later that I realized he was crying because he was still hungry.
After I finally threw in the towel, I remember walking around feeling like I had this giant, scarlett "B" on my chest. I heaped coals of shame and disgrace on my head. I felt like all of those perfect mothers out there who
could breastfeed were staring at me and judging me. On a visit to my clinic while I was still on maternity leave, a coworker asked me how things were going, and I shamefully blurted out to him that I wasn't able to breastfeed. He looked at me with a strange mixture of discomfort (because we really weren't on that level of sharing) and pity (because he has 5 children and I'm sure he recognized the post-baby insanity that inevitibly sets in).
Note to self..."Post-Baby Insanity and Methods For Dealing With It" should be a chapter in my book titled The Stuff You Really Should Have Learned in High School.
I suffered through weeks of torment. Every couple of days, Shawn would casually ask if I thought I was suffering from postpartum depression, and I would lash out at him. How DARE he suggest that I was depressed? I wasn't
depressed! I just didn't want to go anywhere. Or have any visitors. Or take a shower. Or fix my hair. Or laugh at anything. Looking back, he probably should have just spiked my drinks with a little Zoloft, and everything would have been so much easier.
One day while out on an errand, I ran into a friend whose son is adopted. For some reason, during our conversation it occurred to me that she didn't breastfeed her son. And he was no less loved or wanted or healthy or well-adjusted than any other baby I could think of. Over the months that followed, I began to see the irrationality of my struggle. But even though I know it was ridiculous, sometimes when Sam gets a cold that sneaky little voice in my head whispers, "If you were breastfeeding, he wouldn't be sick. If you were a
better mom, he wouldn't have a cold right now."
In some ways I think God used this struggle to knock me off of my high horse. Had I breastfed, I probably would have been one of those snooty moms who looked down her nose at anyone who didn't. I also think He used it to teach me that when you have a baby, life doesn't always follow the agenda you carefully lay out. And I think He used that time to teach Shawn and me (mostly me) how to work as a parenting team...not the parenting dictatorship that probably would have developed had I not been incapacitated.
If we're ever blessed with another baby, I will absolutely try again. I hope it works out better for us the next time. I would like to think that I won't suffer from Post-Baby Insanity next time because I will be able to recognize it. Maybe we at least have a better idea of what we're getting ourselves into next time, and we'll both be a little better prepared. But I also know that life doesn't always go according to plan, and when it doesn't I have a tendency to dig my heels in and cry, "But my way is better!" And it isn't until much later that I can see the beauty in why it had to be that way. So maybe when that happens I'll pull this up and read it.
