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"Birth was supposed to be amazing, exhilarating and wondrous - not for me."

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MumsnetGuestPosts · 14/08/2017 16:50

My son was ripped from my body in a blur of panic and white hot fear. He didn't cry, I'm told. His lip was cut in the hurry to bring him into the world; a common occurrence, I'm told. He was resuscitated, life forced into his lungs before his screams filled the room, I'm told. And while my baby boy was making his grand arrival into the world, I was sleeping. Finally rid of the pain, fear and terror. Finally resting, blissfully unaware that I was a mother once more. Finally quiet, and alone once more.

It wasn't the entrance into the world that I had envisaged for my second born. Birth was supposed to be joyous. Birth was supposed to be happy. Birth was supposed to be amazing, exhilarating and wondrous! Not for me. I was sleeping as he was born. I was sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake up.

The hours after my son was born spiral around in my mind like fragmented pieces of someone else's story. The baby they handed to me was wrapped in a scratchy blue blanket and his skin was scrubbed and pink. He had a name and he was waiting for his first feed. He was waiting for me, but he surely wasn't my baby. I felt nothing. Blank. Empty. Hollow. I felt nothing. And yet, he was my son. He really was. And I was to care for him, whether I liked it or not, and so I switched on to auto pilot and I made myself be his mother.

Those hours on the postnatal ward were mixed. My son's first night was filled with screams (his) and sobs (mine) and yet I saw nobody but a poor, very lovely, student midwife. She helped me to prop the cot up to stop my baby's strangled chokes but she couldn't stay with me and so I spent those hours in between her visits convinced that he was going to die after all. Waiting for the inevitable. On the second night, I wobbled down to the hall for a shower and the relief I felt at leaving him behind was immense.

The first shower after a c-section is always awkward at best, and horrific at worst. Strangely, the cannula in my hand was the focus of my intense frustration and anger, and as the hot water jets struck it like needles I allowed the sobs to take over my body. I don't think I've ever felt more alone than I did right then. I wanted to stay locked in that bathroom but I knew that the pain radiating from every pore of my body would eventually force me back onto the ward.

I don't remember speaking to many people. I had visitors, but they were there for the baby and not for me. I didn't want anyone to see me and I couldn't understand why they were trooping in with cards and presents and smiles and hugs. I couldn't understand why they were all celebrating.

The second night on the ward was spent in a haze of pain and tears. This baby wasn't the same as his sister; this one cried a lot and seemed to be in pain. A little ball of red hot anger. The midwives had little time for me, and I was told that every baby had a bad night - this was my turn.

And as the sun began to rise on day three, my two-day-old son and I were discharged from the hospital - much to my surprise. I was nowhere near ready to leave. I was utterly terrified at the thought of having to go home with this baby. I was petrified of being alone with him. I was shaking at the idea of being a real mum to him. Despite the noise, the heat and the bloody sheets, I wanted to stay in the hospital with life suspended for a little while longer. I didn't want to accept that this was it now. This was life. I wanted to escape for longer. Or, failing that, I wanted to leave without my baby.

I actually contemplated walking out of there alone. And I wasn't sure anyone would stop me.

In the end, we were sent home that evening. We stepped out of the hospital and into the cold of December, forced to return to our lives and jumble everything together for a new normal. I was discharged with no pain relief, after being told that there was nothing I could take if I wanted to breastfeed my baby. I didn't want to breastfeed my baby! I'd done it because they told me to, held him to my breast because they said he was hungry. I was going through all the motions but I felt nothing at all.

At home, I stood before the mirror in my bedroom and wept. Who was that woman? A tattoo of bruises snaking from her neck to her knees. Two angry scars slashed across her belly. Weak, broken, battered. I want to hold her and tell her that she's going to be ok, eventually. I want to rage and scream and cry for her. I want to go back and change it all.

But I cannot change anything now. Mistakes were made and I am starting to make peace with that. I am learning that the way I reacted to my son's birth and the early days of his life wasn't abnormal after all. I am accepting of the fact that I was not well. I was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, and I was in need of help. Help that I did not get. And I'm not alone.

Every year, up to 20,000 women go through a traumatic birth experience.* There is so much shame and guilt associated with birth trauma and too often women feel they are weak or abnormal for expressing their feelings. This has to stop! Health care providers need to be able to recognise when a woman is in need of support following her birth experience, and more needs to be done to give women the opportunity to speak out. I also believe that more needs to be done in the postnatal period.

The early days with your baby are so vitally important for bonding and establishing links between mother and child. After a traumatic birth it can be hard for women to feel a connection to their baby; it can be harder still to come to terms with being a mother when a baby is born under general anaesthetic. I know now that my reaction was not uncommon. What I needed back then was someone who understood. Someone who was able to spend some time listening to me, explaining what had happened and why. A birth reflections service is all well and good but some women are not able to ask for it. Health care providers need to recognise this and know when to offer additional support.

My son is almost eight years old. Six months ago I was given the official PTSD diagnosis. I've been through CBT therapy to try and find new ways to deal with the trauma of his birth and the early days of his life. Eight years is too long to wait. New mums need immediate support and help. New mums need compassion, kindness and respect. New mums need to know they are believed, they will be listened to and ultimately, they will be supported.

*Birth Trauma Association

Find out more about Birth Trauma Awareness Week and how Mumsnet is campaigning for Better Postnatal Care.

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ParadiseCity · 15/08/2017 11:07

Oh what an ordeal. I am glad you are out of the other side now. So much of what you say is very familiar - I know a bit of where you are coming from. Keep healing and good luck with the campaign.