The world doesn't need another pregnancy/childbirth/parenting story. I'm aware. Well world, I'm sorry, but it's not about you, it's about me. I need to talk about this! I need to talk it out of my system because it's sitting in my chest weighing me down and I refuse to live like that.
Being a mother is something I've always wanted. Parenting is not for everybody, but I knew and I still believe that I'm made for it. I had the incredible fortune of both my husband and my mom being there when Olivia was born to help us in those first few days. I love my child dearly, and I've been lucky to be able to stay home with her and see her grow, which is not an option for many mothers. All of these advantages, they made a huge difference in my overall experience, but in no way does this mean that this becoming a mother thing is easy. It is no walk in the park, even in the best of scenarios.
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| That's my mom. My scenario was pretty close to perfection. |
Regardless of how much you prepare, what books you read, how well childbirth goes, how many people are there to help you and support you afterwards, it's always a messy time in a woman's life when she becomes a mother. I had a pretty ideal pregnancy, free of nausea and vomiting, with reasonable mobility throughout the nine months, and Olivia was never in any immediate danger, until we got to week 41 and she was in no mood to be born yet.
On that Saturday morning we headed to the hospital with my bag and every hope that I could have a natural birth. The weather was pleasant enough, and I had a lovely country view from my room. A nurse came in to prep me for delivery. I took a pill which was supposed to help my body go into labor, but it didn't work. After all other options failed and Olivia's heart rate started dropping, the doctor had the nurse prepare me for an emergency C-section. I was not afraid, I just accepted what I needed to do, what was best for Olivia. On that cold, unforgiving table, when the first shot of anesthetics wasn't kicking in and my doctor, unaware of the situation, continued to prep me, that's when I got scared. I was shaking by the time I received a second dose, and then my torso and legs became pleasantly warm.
I couldn't see what was happening, but I could feel that something was going on. I had never seen how C-sections are done, and I'm glad I didn't. I saw one a couple of months after that day, and I could hardly wrap my head around how my body had managed to mend itself after that kind of damage. At that moment, with anesthetics now doing their job, I just lied there in a daze until after what seemed like just a few minutes, I heard Livy cry.
Tears flowed freely from my eyes. That beautiful and ethereal sound of her first cry, a sign that she was here, she was alive, breathing, her lungs were working, that was all I needed. I felt nauseous, and I vomited a little into a napkin that the anesthetist was holding for me. I had expected a trash can, but later remembered I hadn't eaten anything solid since the night before and I'd been given an enema that morning so there was really nothing left inside.
Once I knew she was alright and I was able to see her up close for a few seconds, I started to feel very sleepy. When the surgery was over, I was taken back to my room, where my husband and mom were waiting. We talked for a bit. Then I slept.
The first two or three days were anguish. I wanted to breastfeed, but so far hadn't had much luck. I would suddenly get chills, and there was no amount of blankets that would make them go away. Sobbing spells came over me, the kind of snotty emotional crying you can't control. The worst part though, was being in my body. A body that couldn't move, not even to care for my own baby. As an overweight woman, I'm no stranger to having issues with your body. But this was different. I had always trusted my body, my big, strong, sturdy limbs. But now, I could hardly walk to the bathroom alone. I needed help just to pick Livy up when she cried. When the bandages came off, I touched my skin: soft, loose and sagging. My whole being felt heavily weakened. I mourned my old body. In some ways, I still do.
After a week, I still couldn't successfully breastfeed. My nipples were sore and so dry that they had started to bleed, and Livy got sick from drinking blood. I pumped for a few days, and with each time I drew less and less milk. It got to the point where I was only getting an ounce from both sides. There was a lot of pain involved those first two weeks. I almost gave up on it, but I pushed myself to continue, against every cell in my body begging me to stop, only because I knew it was best for my child.
In time, my body regained most of its strength. My arms can hold and squeeze, my abs can stand to carry and play with my child without a problem, without any pain or worry. After months of recovery, I can be happy in my body. I can once again rely on myself.
The first challenge was to become a mom. Now that I've conquered it, my challenge is being the best mom I can be.
