Part 1 - Birth & Three Weeks Postpartum

Before I get to the very raw and real parts, I want to first start out by saying that my baby boy is the greatest joy in my life and I am so thankful for him every day. He has changed me. Changed who I am as a person. Given me a greater purpose. Made me a mom. My baby is the most incredible gift, and I would never, ever regret anything that led me to him.

That being said—and in no way will the remainder of this blog overshadow any of the previous statements—birth and postpartum are, without a doubt, the most difficult experiences I’ve ever faced. No matter what, he is the best thing in the world. Before he was born, everyone would ask me if I was ready. I would always reply that yes, I was ready… but I would always include the “As ready as I can be without knowing just how truly difficult it will be.” I knew it would be more tiring than I could imagine. I knew it would be more emotionally draining. I knew it would be physically taxing. I could have NEVER imagined how tough it would be. Postpartum is not talked about enough and women and their partners are not prepared adequately for what it truly entails. I know every person has a different experience, but truly, more needs to be done to prepare people. Let me start by telling my birth story followed by my first three weeks of postpartum life.

My little guy decided to stay in the breech position for the duration of the pregnancy. This resulted in a scheduled cesarean birth. I knew this would have its challenges compared to a vaginal birth. I knew I would have a different recovery. What I didn’t expect was one of the most challenging and transformative experiences of my life. My partner and I arrived to the hospital at 8:30am and went through all the checks and preparations until around 11:20am when I was wheeled back to the operating room. I then received the painful spinal tap from the anesthesia team. I was able to have my doula with me during this time, but not my partner. He then was brought back 20 minutes later even though I was initially told it would be 5 minutes. The wait stressed me out.

The surgery itself went smoothly. There were no emergencies, alarms, or difficulties. Baby was brought into the world at 11:54am. He was in a frank breech position, so his hips posed issues immediately after birth, but this was not a huge concern for his overall wellbeing. He let out a cry after around 60 seconds or so (seemed so much longer to me in the moment… just waiting). His cry made me sob with emotions of pure joy and shock. I never truly believed he was real until that moment. That moment when there was a baby in that operating room. MY baby. My sweet, sweet boy was wailing, and it was the greatest sound in the entire world. 

Despite our plan being to hold him right away, the pediatrician in the room did not bring him over for 14 minutes, which felt like an eternity. During that time, I started to really not feel well. I became nauseated and felt intense pressure on my stomach and gas pain in my shoulders. I just kept waiting. Baby was brought to us and everything in the world felt right. I had requested skin-to-skin on my chest as a top priority, but instead, they placed his cheek against mine. Still, it was magic.

They had to then take baby away again for vitals and medicine. I continued waiting for what seemed like a very long time. By 12:50pm, we were finally all taken back to the recovery room. While I was wheeled there, I began sobbing. I knew something was off. My emotions and hormones were crashing hard… this fast! The extreme shoulder pain and intense nausea took over me. I was only allowed to eat ice chips even though I knew I needed food (I was not allowed any food in preparation for the operation and had not eaten since the night before). Once I proved that I could wiggle my toes, I was allowed to sip water. This only made the nausea worse. I pleaded with the nurse for some crackers to which she did allow me after some time. This helped, but only minorly. I, however, have very little recollection of this time with my brand new baby as I was very out of it from the anesthesia drugs. I do remember that by 1:10pm, baby was rooting and made his way to the breast all on his own… only less than 20 minutes after meeting him skin-to-skin for the first time. It was a surreal feeling to know he needed me. I held him skin-to-skin on my chest until around 2:30pm. It was then his dad’s turn for some bonding and skin-to-skin contact.

By 3:30pm, it was time to move to the mother-baby unit where we would do the remainder of our stay. On the elevator ride upstairs one floor, I became very sick and began vomiting multiple times. The agony of this pain heaving my abdominal muscles and having a fresh incision was excrutiating. I struggled this entire evening with nausea and brain fog from something in the anesthesia. I was unable to move from the bed. I couldn’t help with or even watch my baby’s first diaper change. Baby would be handed to me and I could hold and feed him, but that was all I was capable of doing. The urinary catheter stayed in twice as long as usual because I was just in bad shape and there was no way I could get up to make my way to the bathroom. We had visitors I barely remember. I felt detached from reality. Things went from bad to worse. 

By 9:00pm, I was vomiting again. The nurse recommended I take an anti-nausea medication called Compazine. From this drug, I was sent into mental anguish for the entire night until 6:00am. I was tormented inside with paranoia, anxiety, and panic attacks. I couldn’t sleep, but I also couldn’t stay awake. My birth plan stated that baby would stay in the room with us 24 hours a day. I tried to nurse him at one point shortly into the night and couldn’t even hold him or stay awake. This hit me with a huge realization that I could not care for my brand new baby and this sent my anxiety to a skyhigh level. It shattered me. I had to make the decision to send him to the nursery for the night, which I very, very much did not want to do and it broke my heart. I had to consent to him receiving donor milk there as well, which devastated me, since my plan was to exclusively breastfeed him myself. By the next morning, I felt a bit better. In hindsight, I was not much better, but from the previous night comparatively, I was. The hormone crash was indescribable. I cried and cried. 

On day two, we had a different hurdle to cross. Baby had lost 10% of his birth weight. This is a threshold to cause alarm. We were told to begin “triple feeding”—nurse, pump, then syringe-feed—every two hours. Each cycle took 1.5 hours, leaving maybe 30 minutes to sleep, if that. This was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. I barely slept an hour that night, constantly checking on him, nervous. Thankfully, after 24 hours, he gained enough weight and we could stop the triple feeds, though we kept up nursing every two hours.

In the days following the surgery, I had burning sensations in my arms, legs, and shoulders. My hormones were all over the place. I’d look at my baby or hug my husband and just sob. The feelings were rooted in love, but so intense that I felt out of control. This anxiety coupled with extreme sleep deprivation was a torture to my mental and emotional wellbeing. We stayed in the hospital one extra day after being told we could discharge, totaling four days.

The first five days home, I was still completely out of it. I had to have baby brought to me to nurse. I knew that I had to be the one to feed him. I couldn’t have someone else do it. I was determined to exclusively breastfeed. Tears would flow and I would silently cry over him. Around the clock, I had to have handed to me all of my food, water, medicine, and ice packs. I was helpless. Yet, I had to take care of another helpless being. He needed me. I couldn’t give up.

I started talking to other women—other moms—and quickly realized that almost all of them had gone through similar emotional struggles after giving birth. “Baby blues,” postpartum anxiety, postpartum depression, hormone crashes—it was all so common. Many shared their advice, offered tips, and reassured me that things would get better. I needed that reassurance, because in those moments, it truly felt like there was no end in sight. Several of them told me they had started therapy soon after giving birth, and many shared that they went on antidepressants. Hearing that gave me hope, and I began researching and reaching out for help. I managed to schedule a therapy appointment—but it was three weeks away. That felt like no help at all in the moment. What a disservice to women seeking mental health support after childbirth. Why isn’t this talked about more? Why aren’t doctors preparing us for this? I had read the baby books, taken the childbirth classes, done the prerequisite research—yet I was still blindsided. I had no idea. I never thought I would have struggled like that. 

By three weeks after the surgery, I could finally say that I was more myself. My physical recovery had gotten to a good place and I could say that my mind felt more clear. I was still exhausted from nighttime feedings, but my hormones were leveling out, and that made all the difference. 

I’ve written notes to my future self—if I ever have another c-section, I’ll do it differently. Having this experience documented matters.

My baby is my world. When I look at him, I feel his love. He feels mine. He needs me. I can do this. I am strong. I do not want this blog to be indicative of anything other than my strong love and passion for my little boy. But I also need to be honest: this is hard. So hard. And women deserve to be allowed to say that out loud. We don’t need to make it look beautiful or easy—because it’s not. Is it worth it? Absolutely, one hundred percent. But that doesn’t change that it is hard. I knew I wanted to write this while in the thick of it… in the “trenches.” I think we’re designed to forget parts of it eventually—and if I do, that’s okay. I wanted to write it down, share it, and remember it. I wanted others to know. Because it’s important.