A girl I work with has had a baby and today the obligatory pictures have been circulated by email, the baby all chubby and serene and mummy looking fresh faced and blissfully content.
Some women make it look perfectly easy don't they? I was determined to be one of those, to stride through pregnancy and not let it slow me down, then I would give birth heroically without the assistance of drugs and breastfeed my tiny infant within moments of them arriving in the world. I would be the epitome of the earth mother. It's the most natural thing on earth isn't it? And for me with my pagan leanings, well, obviously it would come naturally.
Er, wrong!
And so today I've found myself remembering my own pregnancy and birth experience, I never realised you could genuinely feel jealousy over someone else's birth experience, after all it's the final outcome that really counts isn't it? Of course it is, but whenever I read of beautiful home births, or natural deliveries, those magical first few moments finally meeting your child, well it just makes me sad.
I sometimes wish I could have a little counselling to help me come to terms with mine, but then I feel like such a wuss for thinking that way. Women have been doing this forever, you just have to get on with it don't you? Come on, pull yourself together hun! And I have a healthy baby so I know I just need to shut up and move on, there are people out there far worse off than me. I feel like I'm being totally ungrateful. I know I am.
But I feel the need to get it off my chest, just this once, let me get it all out as succinctly as I can and then it really is time to stop whinging and being the victim because there is far too much to celebrate now.
So here goes, my bitter tirade...
Whereas my work colleague spent the last few weeks of her pregnancy sat at the poolside in the South of France, then received attentions of private french health care during the birth, I spent the last few weeks of mine by my nannan's deathbed listening to her crying because she wouldn't get to meet my baby. That was in her moments of lucidity, when the morphine took hold she thought she was in labour and that she was losing the baby. Harrowing, that's the only way to describe it. And in the background to this both my job and my home were in serious jeopardy due to the financial crisis, and the strain this was putting on my marriage, well you can imagine... Not quite the vision of pregnancy I'd had prior to the event where I would be surrounded by an aura of calm from daily meditation, yoga and swimming!
I always believed that meeting my baby for the first time would be the most magical time of my life, and actually perhaps it was. But like the pregnancy, nothing went according to plan. Firstly by that time I'd already spent around 10 hours believing I was about to lose my son, listening to his heart rate dropping while the medics pushed for a natural birth, checking his oxygen levels on regular occasions until eventually the situation became dire enough that I was whipped into theatre for an emergency cesarean. All that time in my head I was preparing myself to say goodbye and not hello. His first cry really was amazing. That was magic. I certainly did have that moment. But I think after that I went into shock, I felt ill due to blood loss (a litre and a half), I felt scared of falling in love with him in case they found something wrong with him and I'd lose him still. I automatically went through all the right motions, skin on skin, patiently trying to master the art of breastfeeding in front of a revolving door of well meaning family and friends. Inside I was sort of blank. Scared of my baby, scared of how much he needed me, scared something bad was going to happen to him... overwhelming fear.
I remember the doctor who delivered him told me to accept a blood transfusion if I was offered one, because I was a mother now and had a baby to look after, meaning no one was going to look after me. How very true! Hospitals are so short staffed that once visiting hours are over you pretty much are on your own. That blood transfusion was offered as I was leaving three days later - after last minute blood tests showed my levels had dropped even further. I said no and walked out. I needed my husband's help with the baby, if I stayed another night that would be another night with no sleep, with no one to share the responsibility with, I knew I would recover better at home with the chance of just a little sleep. In hindsight that was a mistake, I felt like a marionette that had had its strings cut I was so lifeless those first few weeks.
Back to those photos, my colleague looked so amazingly well in those pictures I found myself pondering whether in France they deliver your baby, then do your hair and nails too. Me, I was left sitting in a pool of my own blood for at least 12 hours.
Some of the staff were amazing, some less so. I'd gone into hospital with every intention of breastfeeding my baby, bottle feeding was just not an option. I was practically militant on the breastfeeding issue. So how did I end up leaving hospital with a bag full of formula bottles? Well, combine anaemia with a hungry ten pound baby who is so distressed he can't latch on, add in the pressure of being told he must be fed every two hours because his size could be due to gestational diabetes and that could be dangerous, and later that he must be fed regularly because he had jaundice - but he still won't latch on properly, still milk hasn't come in... ultimately I didn't feel like I had a choice. And I'm no quitter either, I tried and tried until I bled, I spoke to the breastfeeding support workers who did the rounds and buzzed so often for help from the midwives they got sick of me. I knew the "nipple to nose" advice inside out, but that unfortunately was the only advice they seemed capable of giving. Beyond it being nice having someone to talk to, for our particular problem they didn't seem able to help.
But me and my hungry little fella fought back. Yes he left hospital a bottle fed baby, but once back at home we practiced and practiced until we got it right. The formula decreased, the breastfeeding increased... and increased, and increased... He would feed for hours and hours on end, with my husband back at work I barely ate, barely drank, obviously I barely slept (all of these things I now know exacerbated the problem) I didn't leave the house, I certainly never went to the baby massage classes I presumed I would go to. The breastfeeding support workers came along with their "nose to nipple" advice (yeh, we've got that down now thank you!), the health visitor said it was a growth spurt and would last maybe 48 hours (ignoring the fact it had already lasted weeks). No one seemed to have heard of a baby who liked to spend practically all of his waking hours feeding.
Anyway, we adjusted. By 3 months we'd done away totally with the formula and settled into a routine of one hour on, one hour off, then back on for the entire evening. I didn't deliberately set out to do the attachment parenting thing, but he was pretty much permanently attached anyway. And actually I was ok with this. I worked on my supply by ensuring I ate properly, drank loads of water, did relaxation exercises. We were winning! Then a block duct led to thrush, which due to misdiagnosis, misinformation and the wrong prescription led to mastitis and after a month of crying through each feed (which is a lot of feeding for my boy) it almost destroyed the breastfeeding, decimated my supply and put him back on the bottle. I set about trying to build it up again, but he would scream at me in hunger and frustration, claw at my chest and grunt as he had done before. And I just couldn't put him through all that again, just so I could pat myself on the back and say my child was breastfed, when even at best he needed to spend most of the day feeding just to get his fill. Barely anyone saw his face until he was four months old! And I was utterly miserable, my sanity was seriously fraying around the edges. Was breastfeeding really the best for him?
I decided to stop. But my god I was heartbroken, utterly devastated. I felt like I'd failed. My beliefs were seriously called into question too; I'd trusted fully in my body to know how to produce and deliver a baby, yet left to Mother Nature he would certainly be dead and I probably would be too. And now I'd failed to breastfeed. Maybe I wasn't supposed to become a mother?
Actually we didn't fully stop breastfeeding until he was around 7 months old. I kept on feeding him at night until he started sleeping through and then we stopped altogether. And with a combination of breast and bottle my little fella was contented at last. In fact he came on leaps and bounds. I feel sad we didn't fully breastfeed, but it was the right thing to do and no one can tell me otherwise. And I don't really know where this leaves my beliefs, but I have learned some valuable lessons in humility and not judging others along the way.
Phew, I'm shattered now. One thing is true though, it really is the end result that counts. We had a rocky start but we've come such a long way. And perhaps the fact I'm no longer so idealistic is a valuable life lesson to learn. Because writing all this, it does make me see how bitter I feel about the whole thing and I shouldn't because I have a wonderful little boy, my marriage is still intact and I even managed to hang onto my job and home. For now we're on an even keel, until the next challenge comes along!
My nannan would have adored him though. I miss her terribly.
