I've been struggling with this for several weeks. I haven't written about it because I'm still not sure what to say. It all started with this article. I saw it on my SOLACE support forum. I fell into the 4 1/2% of women who chose formula feeding as a result of their birth trauma / PTSD. I was okay with that decision at the time, and throughout my daughter's time on formula. Why I'm looking for answers now, I don't know.
I started haunting a breastfeeding / formula feeding debate board. I know my counselor would be crawling up my butt about this, but I think my brain is trying to process something. I don't know quite what yet, but it's definitely working on something. I felt compelled to respond to a post on there about formula feeding being selfish. I get so frustrated that no one admits that the decision to breastfeed can be just as selfish as choosing formula feeding. That article cites that the other half of women who experience PTSD / birth trauma choose to breastfeed to "make it up to their babies" or "prove that they're a real woman". Those aren't exactly selfless reasons to breastfeed. Why are formula feeders labeled as selfish, while breastfeeders are labeled as being better? Anyhow, it got a lot of people's backs up. I'm not typically a stir the pot kind of gal, but I seem to be compelled lately to behave in this atypical manner. No one seems to know how to respond to my belief that mental health issues are a valid reason for making the decision to formula feed. I seem to post, and the thread just dies.
Do women really believe that birth is this hunky dory, happy go-lucky, joyful experience all of the time? Why can't we face the reality of birth? Most of the time it is flowers, sunshine, and joy, but sometimes it's like finding yourself in the pit of hell. At least that's where I found myself. I wish I could say it was a happy time for us, but my husband and I both had issues to work through. We both struggled in those early weeks. My husband didn't hold our daughter until she was almost 8 weeks old. I had problems with nightmares, flashbacks, and being touched. Those weeks were horrible.
Anyhow, I'm still trying to figure out what I'm looking for. Maybe I'll find it, maybe not, but I have to exhaust my options.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Surrender, part 2
I don't know what's going on, but it seems like I'm getting bombarded with thoughts about surrender. Not two days after I posted my first post on this did I use it as an example for another mom, and since then I've used it another couple of times. Who knew that this concept would strike a chord with so many women?
Anyhow, I wanted to utilize another analogy for discussing the topic because it came to me on another forum.
I've had to work through my thoughts on this. I've learned to view my pregnancy and delivery as a castle under seige. Each time some complication was discovered, the enemy, I mean medical staff, advanced on my position. Each time, I lost a little bit more ground. By the time I arrived at the hospital, I had only a tiny square of land to fight on, and as the delivery grew to a close, I lost even that. You see I had to make peace with the concept of surrender. I surrendered to the medical professionals because it was the only way I could live. I surrendered to them because I was too compromised to continue fighting against the overwhelming forces.
What a way to think of the situation. My daughter's birth felt like I was under seige. Everyone taking away my choices leaving me with no or few options for protecting my people - daughter, husband, family, and friends- or myself. When surrounded by overwhelming forces, when your food stores run out, when your well runs dry, your choices are surrender or die. Is that a choice?
There's a certain amount of surrender that's inherent to pregnancy. Your body is not your own. Foods that you hated you suddenly crave. Foods that you craved suddenly make you ill. Your body changes astronomically from one day to the next. Your hormones take over, and you lose a small piece of yourself. It's not all bad. You become more than you were. You're ripening, filled, glowing, but you can't fight the changes.
At first, you believe the medical staff are your allies. You don't realize that they're lions in sheep's clothing until much later. They tell you that you have choices, that you're in control, that they work for you, but that first complication takes away a choice. The second complication takes away more choices. Pretty soon, you realize that it's all a lie. They've breached your castle gates, and the only choice you have left is surrender.
I still believe that there's power in surrendering. I still believe that choice holds the ultimate power. There are times to fight, and times to walk away. Birth was a time to walk away, and NOW is the time to fight.
Anyhow, I wanted to utilize another analogy for discussing the topic because it came to me on another forum.
I've had to work through my thoughts on this. I've learned to view my pregnancy and delivery as a castle under seige. Each time some complication was discovered, the enemy, I mean medical staff, advanced on my position. Each time, I lost a little bit more ground. By the time I arrived at the hospital, I had only a tiny square of land to fight on, and as the delivery grew to a close, I lost even that. You see I had to make peace with the concept of surrender. I surrendered to the medical professionals because it was the only way I could live. I surrendered to them because I was too compromised to continue fighting against the overwhelming forces.
What a way to think of the situation. My daughter's birth felt like I was under seige. Everyone taking away my choices leaving me with no or few options for protecting my people - daughter, husband, family, and friends- or myself. When surrounded by overwhelming forces, when your food stores run out, when your well runs dry, your choices are surrender or die. Is that a choice?
There's a certain amount of surrender that's inherent to pregnancy. Your body is not your own. Foods that you hated you suddenly crave. Foods that you craved suddenly make you ill. Your body changes astronomically from one day to the next. Your hormones take over, and you lose a small piece of yourself. It's not all bad. You become more than you were. You're ripening, filled, glowing, but you can't fight the changes.
At first, you believe the medical staff are your allies. You don't realize that they're lions in sheep's clothing until much later. They tell you that you have choices, that you're in control, that they work for you, but that first complication takes away a choice. The second complication takes away more choices. Pretty soon, you realize that it's all a lie. They've breached your castle gates, and the only choice you have left is surrender.
I still believe that there's power in surrendering. I still believe that choice holds the ultimate power. There are times to fight, and times to walk away. Birth was a time to walk away, and NOW is the time to fight.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Power of Surrender
One of the things I’ve worked on is seeing what I perceived as my failures during my daughter’s birth as surrendering to the medical professionals. Surrendering is choice. Surrendering is recognizing that you’re in a losing situation, and making the choice to cut your losses. It doesn’t require that you like it, enjoy it, or are at peace with it. It doesn’t give the people who forced you into the position as pass or a “get out of jail free” card. However, there’s great power in making the decision to surrender.
So, when did my surrender occur? It happened when the pain consumed me. It happened when I realized that I was incapable of making decisions for myself. The initial moment of surrender came just seconds before the doctor tried to remove the placenta. It came in the moment where I told the nurse I didn’t want to hold my baby. At that point in time, I knew something was wrong, really wrong. I knew that I needed professional medical treatment. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I didn’t know the words to describe the way I was feeling. I didn’t have time to voice my concerns, but I recognized that without further intervention things were going to hell. While I recognize that I was surrendering to the medical personnel at this time, it doesn’t absolve my doctor of his decision. It doesn’t give him a pass on not communicating to me what he was going to do and why he was doing it. He still had a responsibility to communicate my diagnosis, propose a treatment option, and give me the opportunity to consent. Yes, things went to hell, but that doesn’t mean that he was free to do whatever he wanted to my body.
I also surrendered a second time. I surrendered to my fate, and that occurred when they rolled me into the operating room. I remember that moment, the feeling of giving up, of being willing to die, knowing that I’d given life to my daughter. I hate thinking back on it. It’s painful, scary, and hopeless, but it was surrendering. Even before I’d accepted this concept, I’d written about it. I wrote about the pain after my daughter’s birth just after she turned one,
The pain is all consuming. You can't think. You can't breathe. You can't hear what they're saying. You can't process what's happening. It wraps around you smothering you in a cloud of darkness and fear because you know it's not supposed to be like THIS. You can't form the words to question what's happening. You're sucked down into the black void of semi-consciousness not caring what they're doing to you because all you can focus on is the pain. It's the only thing that exists. They're pricking you with needles, people come running in and out, and someone straps a mask over your face. You feel the doctor's hand shoved all the way inside you. How the heck did it get there? The pain sucks you away. You struggle to breathe and continue to fight. Try to breathe through it, but you can't ride the waves. It's consuming your body. Don't quit. Don't abandon the baby. Keep fighting. Some comments break through. You can hear the anger and fear in the doctor's voice, and it scares you even more. But you're sucked back down into the depths of hell wondering what's happening. You feel the bed being wheeled down the hall. You sense the bright lights of the operating room beaming down on your eyelids, but the pain pulls seductively at you. Just give up. Stop fighting. Surrender to your death. Abandon your baby. Just let go. And then the anesthesia sucks all your thoughts away.
In the fourth sentence from the end, I wrote, “Surrender to your death.” Even then, I was recognizing that I had a choice to make. Even senseless, strapped to the operating room table, in agonizing pain, I had the power to surrender. It was my choice to give them, the medical personnel, the power to save me. It was my choice to submit to their will, it was my choice to accept the treatment that would ultimately save my life. Even when I was at my weakest, I had the power. When I felt like the biggest failure, I surrendered. When I believed all was lost, I submitted.
There’s nothing more powerful than making that decision. I surrendered to live. I surrendered to support other new moms. I surrendered to fight for patient-centered maternity care. I surrendered to share my story with others, so that we can all learn from the mistakes of the past. I surrendered to care for my newborn daughter. I surrendered to raise her, God willing, into adulthood. It was always my choice.
So, when did my surrender occur? It happened when the pain consumed me. It happened when I realized that I was incapable of making decisions for myself. The initial moment of surrender came just seconds before the doctor tried to remove the placenta. It came in the moment where I told the nurse I didn’t want to hold my baby. At that point in time, I knew something was wrong, really wrong. I knew that I needed professional medical treatment. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I didn’t know the words to describe the way I was feeling. I didn’t have time to voice my concerns, but I recognized that without further intervention things were going to hell. While I recognize that I was surrendering to the medical personnel at this time, it doesn’t absolve my doctor of his decision. It doesn’t give him a pass on not communicating to me what he was going to do and why he was doing it. He still had a responsibility to communicate my diagnosis, propose a treatment option, and give me the opportunity to consent. Yes, things went to hell, but that doesn’t mean that he was free to do whatever he wanted to my body.
I also surrendered a second time. I surrendered to my fate, and that occurred when they rolled me into the operating room. I remember that moment, the feeling of giving up, of being willing to die, knowing that I’d given life to my daughter. I hate thinking back on it. It’s painful, scary, and hopeless, but it was surrendering. Even before I’d accepted this concept, I’d written about it. I wrote about the pain after my daughter’s birth just after she turned one,
The pain is all consuming. You can't think. You can't breathe. You can't hear what they're saying. You can't process what's happening. It wraps around you smothering you in a cloud of darkness and fear because you know it's not supposed to be like THIS. You can't form the words to question what's happening. You're sucked down into the black void of semi-consciousness not caring what they're doing to you because all you can focus on is the pain. It's the only thing that exists. They're pricking you with needles, people come running in and out, and someone straps a mask over your face. You feel the doctor's hand shoved all the way inside you. How the heck did it get there? The pain sucks you away. You struggle to breathe and continue to fight. Try to breathe through it, but you can't ride the waves. It's consuming your body. Don't quit. Don't abandon the baby. Keep fighting. Some comments break through. You can hear the anger and fear in the doctor's voice, and it scares you even more. But you're sucked back down into the depths of hell wondering what's happening. You feel the bed being wheeled down the hall. You sense the bright lights of the operating room beaming down on your eyelids, but the pain pulls seductively at you. Just give up. Stop fighting. Surrender to your death. Abandon your baby. Just let go. And then the anesthesia sucks all your thoughts away.
In the fourth sentence from the end, I wrote, “Surrender to your death.” Even then, I was recognizing that I had a choice to make. Even senseless, strapped to the operating room table, in agonizing pain, I had the power to surrender. It was my choice to give them, the medical personnel, the power to save me. It was my choice to submit to their will, it was my choice to accept the treatment that would ultimately save my life. Even when I was at my weakest, I had the power. When I felt like the biggest failure, I surrendered. When I believed all was lost, I submitted.
There’s nothing more powerful than making that decision. I surrendered to live. I surrendered to support other new moms. I surrendered to fight for patient-centered maternity care. I surrendered to share my story with others, so that we can all learn from the mistakes of the past. I surrendered to care for my newborn daughter. I surrendered to raise her, God willing, into adulthood. It was always my choice.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A New Start
2009 has finally arrived, and with it I'm hoping for a new start. I'm feeling pretty strong again. When things get overwhelming, when I'm sinking into the PTSD hell, I can never remember what I typically feel like. It's so easy to get bogged down in the sadness, the anger, the fear, and the despair. I'm used to feeling edgy, like a strong wind could tip me over, like I'm a step away from the mental hospital, but today I feel like a million bucks.
My daughter said, "I love you" for the very first time. She's reached such a fun age. I'm glad I took the time, money and energy to keep fighting for healing, so that I have the opportunity to enjoy her now. I'm finally strong enough to want a memento of what I've been through, so my husband bought me a Mother's ring for Christmas. I wouldn't have been able to put it on everyday during the last year, but now I am. I can finally see that there's more to being a mom than just giving birth, unfortunately, last year that was all I could see.
I'm hoping these feelings continue. I hope to keep living. I hope to keep being me.
My daughter said, "I love you" for the very first time. She's reached such a fun age. I'm glad I took the time, money and energy to keep fighting for healing, so that I have the opportunity to enjoy her now. I'm finally strong enough to want a memento of what I've been through, so my husband bought me a Mother's ring for Christmas. I wouldn't have been able to put it on everyday during the last year, but now I am. I can finally see that there's more to being a mom than just giving birth, unfortunately, last year that was all I could see.
I'm hoping these feelings continue. I hope to keep living. I hope to keep being me.
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