‘You’re going to have this baby. You’re going to have this baby now’.

Pre-eclampsia.
Blood pressure at stroke levels.
A breech baby.

Nurses rushed. Frantic phone calls were made.

All plans thrown out the window, along with the playlist of kick arse songs for labour.

Panic set in.

—–

Labour is the only blind date where you know you will meet the love of your life
(source unknown)

We are bombarded with images of blissful mothers holding their newborn babies, their hearts over flowing with love. That first skin to skin contact. The soppy commercials tugging on our heart strings to buy nappies or baby oil, as the familiar lyrics float by…

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
(Roberta Flack – The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face)

But what if that’s not the way it ends up?

Giving birth to my daughter was the most terrifying experience of my life. The traumatic fortnight that followed, a very close second.

A pregnancy complicated by severe hypertension, full of medical appointments and hospital visits. Just trying to get through one more week, one more day, to give this baby the best start to life. Thirty-five weeks pregnant, I had spent the afternoon playing at the park with my brother and nephew. To be more accurate, they played while I tried to squeeze my elephant sized butt on the equipment, feet up as they had been during five weeks of enforced rest. It felt wonderful; a relaxing afternoon that lifted my spirits and blew the cobwebs from my mind.

Not long after arriving home, I knew something wasn’t right. The last thing we wanted was another visit to the hospital, only to be sent home with a prescription of rest, feeling like a worry-wart. I couldn’t describe it, but I knew this time was different.

So, off we trudged to the hospital, expecting to be checked out and then sent home again.

It felt like a minute later they announced, ‘You’re going to have this baby. You’re going to have this baby now’.

Within moments, my arms were stretched out either side of me. A big blue sheet in my face. An oxygen mask pushing against my glasses. I felt claustrophobic. My husband came beside me as the nurse took a photo. A plastic smile on my face, terror showing in my eyes.

….

They lay a little bundle on my chest, cocooned in a white blanket, a tiny face peering out. So tiny.

I just stared.

‘You can touch her. Its ok’, the midwife coaxed, caressing her fingers against the porcelain skin.

Still I stared.

I couldn’t think, couldn’t understand.

Somewhere I registered that this was meant to be the happiest moment of my life. Love at first sight. Isn’t that what all mums say? The way its meant to be? I better do something.

I tentatively reached out my finger and touched the cheek of the tiny face before me. I didn’t want to break it. Just the tiniest touch.

Then suddenly, as quickly as it had appeared on my chest, the bundle of blankets was taken away. Out of the room. My husband with it.

Wait…

Come back…

It dawned on me. That blanket held my baby, my tiny daughter, my flesh and blood

But I hadn’t seen her. I hadn’t really touched her. I hadn’t kissed her face. How will she even know me?

Where are you going?

I lay there, the medical team discussing the week’s events, oblivious to the fact that my tiny baby had disappeared. My thoughts were distracted by the sensation of my insides being vacuumed out.

What just happened?

As the discussions turned to predictions for The Bachelor finale, I wondered if I’d imagined it all.

I was wheeled to ICU for recovery. Poked and prodded.

Surrounded by nurses but all alone.

All I knew was that I was in pain. So much pain. So much confusion. My head span. But what was the pain for?

I spent two nights in ICU, dosed up on painkillers, barely a few hours sleep, sobbing phone calls to my husband in the middle of the night.

It was three days before I saw my daughter. I had started to doubt her existence. Doubt it had happened at all. A lovely nurse had printed photos of a tiny baby and propped them beside my bed. All I could see was the strange angle of her toes. Was there something wrong with her feet? I had never got to count her toes, never felt her hand wrap itself around my finger, never kissed her face. Was she ok? How would she know me?

She didn’t even have a name…

The next fortnight was a blurry nightmare. Again and again I walked the familiar path to the hospital nursery in the small hours of the night, unable to sleep from sadness, frustration and isolation.

The torture of sleep deprivation, guilt, anxiety, fear. MET calls to my room. Medical emergency. Blood pressure spiking. Tears. I couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. My husband screened my calls, restricted visitors.

How would I look after my daughter?

My health continued to cause dramas for weeks to come yet, little by little, I began to see the miracle of the bundle in the blanket. I saw the life that I had grown.

I began my life as Mum.

…

Through a fabulous program, designed to help new mothers who had experienced difficulties, I met two beautiful ladies, both of whom had lived through similar complications and birthing situations. I remember feeling terribly guilty for smiling as they shared their own story. But I had felt so relieved, so comforted. I couldn’t believe that someone finally understood what I had been through, could relate to the way I was feeling, had been there themself.

I was not alone.
This has happened to others.

It was not my fault…

It was not my fault.

…

My tiny baby is nearly a toddler. It hasn’t been an easy ride, but the loving bond between us continues to grow. As I type, her head rests on my chest. I feel the warmth of her cheek, the movement of her breath. Her whole body relaxes as she soaks in comfort and security. As if we are one.

The soppy nappy commercials playing TheFirst Time Ever I Saw Your Face sometimes bring a tear to my eye, sometimes get me angry at what I missed out on, what so many other mums missed. I am learning to be more present in the moment, to cherish the here and now. We may have missed the initial contact, the first special moments of a life together, but each day creates a new memory that fills the emptiness left by her birth. Every day our bond is strengthened. And when I hold her close, hear her giggles, look in to her eyes, it may not have happened on our first date, but I know that I am looking at the love of my life.

…

Why have I shared this story?

I want other mums to know that they are not alone. I want them to be comfortable seeking help. I want more education and more to be done in caring for parents who experience traumatic births. I want to reduce the impact and stigma of post traumatic stress and peri and post natal depression or anxiety. I want people to feel comfortable sharing their experiences, talking, helping each other. I want them to see a light at the end of the tunnel. A light of hope. The glorious glow of love.

…

A major frustration during pregnancy and after birth was not knowing where to go for help
As Dr Google can cause more harm than good, here is a list of useful places to find accurate and helpful information and support.

For immediate help, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14
They also have online crisis support that can be accessed via https://www.lifeline.org.au/

Be as open and honest as you can during your initial visit from a CAFHS nurse. There are different programs and support options for parents requiring assistance.
Remember that you can also make an appointment to see a CAFHS nurse to discuss any concern from feeding and sleep to how you are coping as a parent.

The Child and Youth Health website is great for health questions and concerns in both pregnancy and as a parent.
Visit cyh.com.au

AnglicareSA has been fabulous in supporting me through a range of their parenting support programs. I would absolutely recommend their Mindfulness Parenting course.
http://anglicaresa.com.au/children-families/parenting/

The National Perinatal Depression helpline run by Perinatal Anxiety and Depression Australia 1300 726 306
A range of fact sheets and links can be found on their website at http://www.panda.org.au/

Speak to a professional – your GP, a counsellor or a psychiatrist. Just talking can make all the difference in the world.