Overcoming Birth Trauma

When I walked into the hospital around 6:30 am on Sept. 26, 2023, I felt excited, nervous and confident. Four days later, when I was pushed out those same doors in a wheelchair, I was a shell of myself and I never thought I’d recover.

My pregnancy, for the most part, was uneventful and healthy. All that changed when I checked into triage at 41 weeks pregnant with mild contractions. I was diagnosed with preeclampsia, and within hours I was admitted, given an epidural and hooked up to pitocin and magnesium.

Despite my blood pressure tanking from the epidural and the nurse giving me a shot of ephedrine, I still felt like I had a grip on the situation. I was looking forward to the “golden hour” with my son and excited to get my labor progressing. However, what happened over the next 48 hours absolutely broke me.

Around 2:00 am on Sept. 27, I woke up and knew I had to push. My epidural had worn off, I was in a ton of pain and I was positive I would deliver within minutes. Instead, I pushed for over two hours. During that time, my epidural was re-dosed five times because it kept wearing off. My son was “sunny side up,” meaning his face was turned towards my pelvis instead of my back, and he wasn’t descending. The midwife eventually called the OB, who said my risk for hemorrhaging and seizures was escalating so we took the option for an emergency c-section.

I felt delirious by the time they transferred me to the operating table. As I lay there paralyzed with my arms strapped down, I suddenly felt a burning sensation in my pelvis. At that moment, one of my worst fears happened. I felt them cutting into me. I started screaming, “I can feel it, I can feel it!” I heard the OB say, “We’ve already started,” to which I said, “I don’t fucking care!”

My husband described the next moments as chaos: Me, screaming on the table, the anesthesiologist pushing every drug they had in my IV, the OB asking why I could feel it, and someone ushering him out of the OR because they were going to put me under as they called the head of anesthesiology.

From my perspective, I thought I was going to die on that table. I felt completely helpless. I began praying and accepting that I was never going to meet my son.When I came to again, I was screaming “help me” while pulling the arm straps. I was calling for my husband, who they let in a few minutes after my son was born. I was in tears as they touched my son’s cheek to mine. I wasn’t even registering what was happening around me.

I didn’t hold my son until hours later and I still don’t fully remember that moment I missed the “golden hour.” I missed his hospital bath, and I never got to breastfeed him. Everything I anticipated for our first hours together was taken away. Instead of participating, I was lying in bed, half-conscious, watching my husband do everything without me.

We found out later that I hemorrhaged during the surgery and my uterus wouldn’t contract. I was also given multiple doses of fentanyl and ketamine during the surgery. The OB later told me I metabolized the epidural too quickly, and it was likely placed wrong. She told me my surgery was the worst c-section she had seen in her 25 years.

The recovery was no different. For the first 24 hours, I was bedridden from the magnesium drip. In the following days, I experienced the most horrific pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And at the end of it all, they discharged me with hardly any instructions on how to care for myself except to watch for signs of infection. Spoiler alert: I got an infection two weeks later.

I cried myself to sleep every single night for three months. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt them cutting into me. I hated myself. I felt betrayed by my body for not being able to do what it was designed to do. I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror, and I felt completely incapable of taking care of my son. I felt robbed of our bonding time. I felt ashamed of myself and unworthy as a mother because truthfully, it took me weeks to bond with him. I was devastated that I didn’t feel an instant connection with him, and that made me feel like I didn’t deserve to be his mother. I didn’t recognize myself anymore, and I hated how powerless I felt. I hated how utterly alone I felt.

Two weeks after giving birth, the charge nurse from the hospital called me to apologize for what happened. Her exact words were, “Someone (meaning her staff) should’ve spoken up for you.” The red flags were there: my epidural wore off and I was re-dosed so many times. For weeks, I tried to understand why this was my story. How could the best day of my life, the day I became a mom, also be the worst day of my life? How does that even make sense? I called lawyers, I spoke to friends in the medical field, I didn’t understand, and I wanted answers. I wanted someone to be responsible for what was taken from my son and me. 

At seven weeks postpartum, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy, which led me to a therapist who helped me with the trauma. She stressed the importance of taking my power back because on that table, all my power was taken from me.

I’m now eight months postpartum, and I’m still healing physically and mentally, but God has shown me some things since that day. In particular, our birth story forced me to give up complete control to my husband. It forced me to rely on him, which I admittedly rarely did. From that, a deeper love and appreciation for my husband grew. I watched him become the absolute best father and caretaker in the world. I got a front-row seat to that.

I was also forced to accept the chaos and unexpected that comes with being a parent. My entire “control freak” personality changed. I was able to embrace the unknown and the “what ifs,” because what else could I do? I realized that being forced to give up all control, made me a better mom. God took all that chaos, and all that pain, and rebuilt me to the mom I’m supposed to be for my son.

I’m still healing. I’m still working it out in my head, but one thing I know now is that all those feelings of shame and self-hate were normal. And that’s something I wish I had known then; that I wasn’t alone in my feelings. I wish birth trauma was discussed more than it is, and my hope is that sharing my story will help the next mom who experiences it and feels alone in their grief. You are not alone.