To me the birth part was not in much focus in my late trimester, however it came to play a big role after birth as emotionally I couldn't detach myself from the days in the hospital. It sunk me to the ground, and it was heavy to get up.
It wasn't only that it felt far from the story I had hoped to tell my son one day, but it felt like a dark story to even tell myself. Now I luckily found help and my wellbeing is improving but I just realised that the position I was in was unnecessarily caused, little means needed to secure me (and other mums there) and their mental state.
He entered the world via C-section in flurry bright lights, rubber gloves and loud noises. We were rushed into the hospital in the middle of the night because my water broke, and contractions started. He was 3 weeks early, He was ready, but I wasn't.
We had a planned c section because of his position. The operation with all the people involved was booked another day, another week. the pressure was building up, but we had no choice, he just wanted out and we needed to act quick.
Well, there, on the cold bed, in the operation theatre I realised my husband and I had been separated (this I later found out was because of Covid, but I wasn’t even able to say bye to him which was to me heartbreakingly difficult, but I pushed forward.)
I was all alone; in a country I wasn't that familiar with and a language I just about managed.
'Lean forward, stay still, lift, hold this, so much was thrown at me in such speed I felt I was part of a military mission rather than a memorable birth of my firstborn. My doula was not able to make it as it was so rushed but I kept telling myself it will all be over soon. Suddenly half my body was numb, a warm sensation washed over me. This was my first surgery in my life. I tried to stay calm and think of better places than this sterile awfully unpleasant room. My arms were strapped, and I was unable to move my body.
The faces of the doctors were so well masked it was hard to understand who was in the room and who was speaking to me. The tension was running high, the voices where sharp and articulated rather than warm and observing. I figured then it was because of the urgency of getting him out but later I have a feeling it was the chart board, the systematic management, the tunnel view, that led to this hostile environment and approach.
When the voices started to slow down, I knew he was on his way out and in a quick moment he was lifted up for me to see. 'He is very healthy and it’s a boy', the doctor said. This was it I thought this is the moment but before I had time to register, he was removed from my sight. He was removed from my body also. It was as if I had no control over the situation nor was I important to the calibration of matters. No one saw me, I was part lifeless and the rest was just an inconvenience now. I kept telling myself its best I keep quiet and still, they know better. In hindsight I hate myself for this. Because they didn't know things, and they didn’t know me, they didn’t know what was ok for me. And things were not ok. I had no one with me and no idea of where my newborn son was.
They stitched me together and moments later somebody brought him in only for me to enjoy a minute of him touching my cheek. Almost as if the baby wasn’t really mine. They delivered him so they took charge now. What about milk, what about skin to skin, is he ok?
I got to my room almost two hours later, there they were, my husband and our child. This was our first family moment. I just wanted to hold our baby and my husband, but it was too painful everything was hurting. Instead, I remained on the bed, useless again and then I zoned out, my body was exhausted. Five days in the hospital was more than my mental state could handle. Doctors coming and going, barely looking up from their charts, asking questions and some came to take blood test and Covid tests. Everything was painful, invasive and things were always at a speed and I felt I had to be cooperative. I couldn’t see anyone apart from my husband (a few hours a day) because of Covid. I missed everyone I knew. I choose not to see my baby much as I was feeling so isolated and in pain and I didn’t want him to see that. The only people I saw were the hospital staff with face masks and they kept changing each day.
I couldn't breastfeed, it was too painful. Each day was a different nurse with different techniques. Third day they introduced a pump. Still two months later I fear breastfeeding as it takes me back to those dark days and those disappointing eyes in the hospital. I remember one nurse coming back after weighing him and saying he hasn't gained anything, zero, and she does the 'o' with her fingers just to make sure I understood I’ve been totally useless.
I left the hospital feeling happy but so shattered. And utterly emptied as if my baby left me but also my strength and courage.
On my check-up visit a month later I broke down in the hospital as it all came back to me. Then I took the courage and called a therapist.
As soon as I look back at the birth, I find countless of dark moments which no one should live through. I was fragile, broken, in pain, abandoned, isolated, confused, exposed and without any guidance or support. Furthermore, I believe I'm very cautious about my body, so when I was in surgery, I think I was desperately looking for that 'I will not let anything bad to you happen' look. And that doesn't need to be costly, just for someone to break the hostility for a second.
All I needed was for a nurse to stop and sit down and ask how I was. For someone to grab my hand during the surgery. For the doctors not to remove my baby after birth. For a nurse to ask if anything felt wrong or if I was ok. For a doctor to ask if he could take my blood and tell me if the blood test would hurt, for the nurse that weighed him to tell me its ok, there are other options to feed him for now don’t worry, its normal.
So simple and SO fundamental.
It wasn't only that it felt far from the story I had hoped to tell my son one day, but it felt like a dark story to even tell myself. Now I luckily found help and my wellbeing is improving but I just realised that the position I was in was unnecessarily caused, little means needed to secure me (and other mums there) and their mental state.
He entered the world via C-section in flurry bright lights, rubber gloves and loud noises. We were rushed into the hospital in the middle of the night because my water broke, and contractions started. He was 3 weeks early, He was ready, but I wasn't.
We had a planned c section because of his position. The operation with all the people involved was booked another day, another week. the pressure was building up, but we had no choice, he just wanted out and we needed to act quick.
Well, there, on the cold bed, in the operation theatre I realised my husband and I had been separated (this I later found out was because of Covid, but I wasn’t even able to say bye to him which was to me heartbreakingly difficult, but I pushed forward.)
I was all alone; in a country I wasn't that familiar with and a language I just about managed.
'Lean forward, stay still, lift, hold this, so much was thrown at me in such speed I felt I was part of a military mission rather than a memorable birth of my firstborn. My doula was not able to make it as it was so rushed but I kept telling myself it will all be over soon. Suddenly half my body was numb, a warm sensation washed over me. This was my first surgery in my life. I tried to stay calm and think of better places than this sterile awfully unpleasant room. My arms were strapped, and I was unable to move my body.
The faces of the doctors were so well masked it was hard to understand who was in the room and who was speaking to me. The tension was running high, the voices where sharp and articulated rather than warm and observing. I figured then it was because of the urgency of getting him out but later I have a feeling it was the chart board, the systematic management, the tunnel view, that led to this hostile environment and approach.
When the voices started to slow down, I knew he was on his way out and in a quick moment he was lifted up for me to see. 'He is very healthy and it’s a boy', the doctor said. This was it I thought this is the moment but before I had time to register, he was removed from my sight. He was removed from my body also. It was as if I had no control over the situation nor was I important to the calibration of matters. No one saw me, I was part lifeless and the rest was just an inconvenience now. I kept telling myself its best I keep quiet and still, they know better. In hindsight I hate myself for this. Because they didn't know things, and they didn’t know me, they didn’t know what was ok for me. And things were not ok. I had no one with me and no idea of where my newborn son was.
They stitched me together and moments later somebody brought him in only for me to enjoy a minute of him touching my cheek. Almost as if the baby wasn’t really mine. They delivered him so they took charge now. What about milk, what about skin to skin, is he ok?
I got to my room almost two hours later, there they were, my husband and our child. This was our first family moment. I just wanted to hold our baby and my husband, but it was too painful everything was hurting. Instead, I remained on the bed, useless again and then I zoned out, my body was exhausted. Five days in the hospital was more than my mental state could handle. Doctors coming and going, barely looking up from their charts, asking questions and some came to take blood test and Covid tests. Everything was painful, invasive and things were always at a speed and I felt I had to be cooperative. I couldn’t see anyone apart from my husband (a few hours a day) because of Covid. I missed everyone I knew. I choose not to see my baby much as I was feeling so isolated and in pain and I didn’t want him to see that. The only people I saw were the hospital staff with face masks and they kept changing each day.
I couldn't breastfeed, it was too painful. Each day was a different nurse with different techniques. Third day they introduced a pump. Still two months later I fear breastfeeding as it takes me back to those dark days and those disappointing eyes in the hospital. I remember one nurse coming back after weighing him and saying he hasn't gained anything, zero, and she does the 'o' with her fingers just to make sure I understood I’ve been totally useless.
I left the hospital feeling happy but so shattered. And utterly emptied as if my baby left me but also my strength and courage.
On my check-up visit a month later I broke down in the hospital as it all came back to me. Then I took the courage and called a therapist.
As soon as I look back at the birth, I find countless of dark moments which no one should live through. I was fragile, broken, in pain, abandoned, isolated, confused, exposed and without any guidance or support. Furthermore, I believe I'm very cautious about my body, so when I was in surgery, I think I was desperately looking for that 'I will not let anything bad to you happen' look. And that doesn't need to be costly, just for someone to break the hostility for a second.
All I needed was for a nurse to stop and sit down and ask how I was. For someone to grab my hand during the surgery. For the doctors not to remove my baby after birth. For a nurse to ask if anything felt wrong or if I was ok. For a doctor to ask if he could take my blood and tell me if the blood test would hurt, for the nurse that weighed him to tell me its ok, there are other options to feed him for now don’t worry, its normal.
So simple and SO fundamental.
I am so grateful that Sophie offered to share her story. The final paragraph of her narrative tells the world what is so desperately needed in obstetric care. Compassion, cultural sensitivity, communication, and kindness. Is that so much to ask?
All names have been changed to protect privacy. Consent was obtained prior to posting this story.
All names have been changed to protect privacy. Consent was obtained prior to posting this story.
|
Contact Dr. Vogel here for a consultation or provider training information.
Site by The Empowerment Equation. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 2024. |
Connect with us! |