I requested a new copy of my medical records yesterday. Before I jump to any conclusions, plans, or assumptions I need to verify that the records have indeed been changed. Hopefully, I'll have a new copy this week.
I had a rough night last night. This situation was preying on my mind. I took a pill, and still couldn't sleep. I just feel like they're all out to get me, even though in the rational part of my brain I know that's not true.
How on earth did I find myself in such a freaking mess?
It shouldn't be this hard to give birth. It shouldn't still haunt you two 1/2 years later. I shouldn't be in this place where I am right now.
Showing posts with label beginnings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beginnings. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Friday, August 28, 2009
I had a dream
I had a PTSD dream last night. It was odd for several reasons:
1. I was a man.
2. I had conquered PTSD.
In the dream, I was a motivational speaker. I went around speaking to other people about what it’s like to live with PTSD, how to work with PTSD, how to be more than you were because of PTSD. It was amazing to see myself as healed, as more, as open as I was in the dream. I viewed PTSD as a mountain to be climbed, a wall to be scaled, a battle to be fought, or a war to be won. It was a part of me, and yet not THE defining part of me. It was simply a fact like having brown hair. In the dream, I considered myself stronger, wiser, and more powerful than I was before the trauma.
I hope I’m on my way to that being my reality.
1. I was a man.
2. I had conquered PTSD.
In the dream, I was a motivational speaker. I went around speaking to other people about what it’s like to live with PTSD, how to work with PTSD, how to be more than you were because of PTSD. It was amazing to see myself as healed, as more, as open as I was in the dream. I viewed PTSD as a mountain to be climbed, a wall to be scaled, a battle to be fought, or a war to be won. It was a part of me, and yet not THE defining part of me. It was simply a fact like having brown hair. In the dream, I considered myself stronger, wiser, and more powerful than I was before the trauma.
I hope I’m on my way to that being my reality.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
De-Briefing Tool (Part 1 Question 2)
What happened in the events leading up to the birth?
My pregnancy was never easy. It was unplanned. My husband didn't want to be a father. He sucked it up, and accepted it, but he was never supportive, excited, or happy about it. It was stressful knowing his feelings on the subject, but I just kept plodding along.
At 13 weeks, I had a scare. I had some spotting over the weekend. About the time I thought I should go get it checked out, it stopped. I went to the doctor right away on Monday morning. He did an ultrasound, figured that some blood got trapped behind the placenta, and put me back on the routine prenatal visit schedule.
At 19 weeks, I had my "big" ultrasound. They diagnosed me with partial placenta previa. Since it was still early, I knew there was a possibility that the placenta would move, but I started researching c-sections. I put off my childbirth classes until I could find out if it had moved. It seemed silly to spend all of that money only to end up with a c-section.
At 27 weeks, I went in for my partial placenta previa follow-up ultrasound and the one hour gestational diabetes screening. That night, the doctor called me at home. I had failed the one hour test, and had to schedule the three hour test. I failed that one too, so off to the dietitian I went. No candy, no cake, no ice cream, for Pete's sake I'm pregnant, but I can't eat anything but vegetables and meat. No more eating cereal for my bedtime snack. No more drinking OJ. Nothing. It sucked. The good news was that the placenta had moved, so I'm back to looking at a vaginal delivery. This is also the time when the doctor first mentioned that he "didn't think I'd make it to 40 weeks". What a crock, of course I was going to 40 weeks. I had been 3 weeks late, and I expected that peanut would be 2 weeks late as well.
Because of all of the GD issues, I started seeing the doctor weekly instead of bi-weekly. We finally got to week 33, and he told me that I could skip week 34's visit. Woohoo! I went to my family baby shower, and after I got home I noticed that I was really swollen. My legs were the size of watermelons. My husband hounded me to call the doctor, so Monday morning, I give him a call. I left a voicemail for the nurse, and not an hour later, she calls back. COME IN NOW! I'm thinking, it's just some swelling. Everybody swells up at the end of their pregnancy, what's the big freaking deal? But, as a dutiful, if resentful, patient, I trot my 34 week belly into the clinic. I walk in, and got on the scale. I gained weight. Finally, 34 weeks had gone by without me gaining any weight. I'm thinking I'm finally acting like a pregnant woman. I sit in the chair, they take my blood pressure, and it's high - too high. All of the sudden, he's telling me to go immediately to the hospital for an NST - what the heck is that? I drive up to the hospital parking lot, and call my husband in tears. I don't know what's wrong. I'm at the hospital. They're going to do some tests. I'm scared out of my mind. He tells me he's coming, and I head up to Labor and Delivery. I get to the desk. No one from the clinic has called, I'm trying to remember what the doctor said to have done. They get me into a room, hook me up to the monitors, and I just sit there alone, staring at the TV, crying, and hitting the joystick thing-a-ma-jig when peanut kicks. My husband calls, he's at the hospital, but can't find me. They didn't "admit" me as a patient, so the reception desk is useless. He finally makes it up to the floor, and into the room where I am. The doctor comes in, and says no more work, stay home, keep my feet up, no anything. Great - NOT. He says they'll induce, but they want me to make it to 37 weeks. He's kind of vague, and my husband hates him on sight. I'm frustrated because this wasn't part of my plan, but I'm a good girl, and head home.
My husband arranges for my in-laws to take the dogs for the remainder of my pregnancy. They're German short-hair pointers, so extremely energetic. There's no way for me to stay off my feet if they're at home.
I hang out at the house, watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. I'm bouncing off the walls with boredom. I feel like I have nothing to talk about. My husband keeps asking me for answers on when the baby is coming, but I don't know, and the doctor is vague. I only get out of the house twice a week. Once for the doctor appointment, and once for the NST.
A couple of weeks go by, and finally we get my induction date. My best friend comes to the house to help me with my "birth plan". What birth plan? This isn't the spontaneous experience that I wanted. I'm going to be hooked up to every monitor imaginable, there are no more choices to be made. I tell her that all I want is to walk out of the hospital as a healthy mom with a healthy baby. Whatever we have to do we'll do.
My pregnancy was never easy. It was unplanned. My husband didn't want to be a father. He sucked it up, and accepted it, but he was never supportive, excited, or happy about it. It was stressful knowing his feelings on the subject, but I just kept plodding along.
At 13 weeks, I had a scare. I had some spotting over the weekend. About the time I thought I should go get it checked out, it stopped. I went to the doctor right away on Monday morning. He did an ultrasound, figured that some blood got trapped behind the placenta, and put me back on the routine prenatal visit schedule.
At 19 weeks, I had my "big" ultrasound. They diagnosed me with partial placenta previa. Since it was still early, I knew there was a possibility that the placenta would move, but I started researching c-sections. I put off my childbirth classes until I could find out if it had moved. It seemed silly to spend all of that money only to end up with a c-section.
At 27 weeks, I went in for my partial placenta previa follow-up ultrasound and the one hour gestational diabetes screening. That night, the doctor called me at home. I had failed the one hour test, and had to schedule the three hour test. I failed that one too, so off to the dietitian I went. No candy, no cake, no ice cream, for Pete's sake I'm pregnant, but I can't eat anything but vegetables and meat. No more eating cereal for my bedtime snack. No more drinking OJ. Nothing. It sucked. The good news was that the placenta had moved, so I'm back to looking at a vaginal delivery. This is also the time when the doctor first mentioned that he "didn't think I'd make it to 40 weeks". What a crock, of course I was going to 40 weeks. I had been 3 weeks late, and I expected that peanut would be 2 weeks late as well.
Because of all of the GD issues, I started seeing the doctor weekly instead of bi-weekly. We finally got to week 33, and he told me that I could skip week 34's visit. Woohoo! I went to my family baby shower, and after I got home I noticed that I was really swollen. My legs were the size of watermelons. My husband hounded me to call the doctor, so Monday morning, I give him a call. I left a voicemail for the nurse, and not an hour later, she calls back. COME IN NOW! I'm thinking, it's just some swelling. Everybody swells up at the end of their pregnancy, what's the big freaking deal? But, as a dutiful, if resentful, patient, I trot my 34 week belly into the clinic. I walk in, and got on the scale. I gained weight. Finally, 34 weeks had gone by without me gaining any weight. I'm thinking I'm finally acting like a pregnant woman. I sit in the chair, they take my blood pressure, and it's high - too high. All of the sudden, he's telling me to go immediately to the hospital for an NST - what the heck is that? I drive up to the hospital parking lot, and call my husband in tears. I don't know what's wrong. I'm at the hospital. They're going to do some tests. I'm scared out of my mind. He tells me he's coming, and I head up to Labor and Delivery. I get to the desk. No one from the clinic has called, I'm trying to remember what the doctor said to have done. They get me into a room, hook me up to the monitors, and I just sit there alone, staring at the TV, crying, and hitting the joystick thing-a-ma-jig when peanut kicks. My husband calls, he's at the hospital, but can't find me. They didn't "admit" me as a patient, so the reception desk is useless. He finally makes it up to the floor, and into the room where I am. The doctor comes in, and says no more work, stay home, keep my feet up, no anything. Great - NOT. He says they'll induce, but they want me to make it to 37 weeks. He's kind of vague, and my husband hates him on sight. I'm frustrated because this wasn't part of my plan, but I'm a good girl, and head home.
My husband arranges for my in-laws to take the dogs for the remainder of my pregnancy. They're German short-hair pointers, so extremely energetic. There's no way for me to stay off my feet if they're at home.
I hang out at the house, watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. I'm bouncing off the walls with boredom. I feel like I have nothing to talk about. My husband keeps asking me for answers on when the baby is coming, but I don't know, and the doctor is vague. I only get out of the house twice a week. Once for the doctor appointment, and once for the NST.
A couple of weeks go by, and finally we get my induction date. My best friend comes to the house to help me with my "birth plan". What birth plan? This isn't the spontaneous experience that I wanted. I'm going to be hooked up to every monitor imaginable, there are no more choices to be made. I tell her that all I want is to walk out of the hospital as a healthy mom with a healthy baby. Whatever we have to do we'll do.
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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
PTSD after Childbirth?
I know a lot of people can't understand how a woman can develop PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, after giving birth. After all, it's supposed to be one of the best days of your life. It's a day that's supposed to be filled with joy, sunshine, and flowers. The angels in heaven are supposed to rejoice alongside the new family. Most of the time childbirth works that way. It's painful, but the women put it in the past. They might develop PPD, but that usually goes away.
I was so overwhelmed in the first 6 weeks of my daughter's life, that I didn't realize anything was going on emotionally. It was all I could do to get through those first few days and nights. Yes, I was tired, but all new moms are tired. Yes, I was struggling to physically recover, but all new moms struggle with that too. It wasn't until I saw my doctor again for my 6 week postpartum checkup that I realized things weren't quite right.
I got undressed, and laid down on the table for him to do the exam, and I found myself squirming to get away from the doctor. I didn't want him to touch me. I was terrified. I fought myself into submitting to the exam. I stared at my baby girl sitting in the carseat on the other side of the room praying for the exam to be over. He finally finished up, and I sat up on the table. I asked the one question that had been in the back of my mind for the last 6 weeks, "would a c-section have been safer for me?" It opened up the door for a pretty frank discussion about what had happened. I had never heard the terms uterine inversion, retained placenta, postpartum hemorrhage or D & C until then. Can you believe it took 6 weeks to get the clinical names of the complications I had experienced? I took that information home, and started googling the living daylights out of those terms. I read everything I could get my hands on - journal articles, medical school presentations, and any other reference I could find. I was obsessed. My husband would walk in the door, I'd hand him our daughter, and I'd race to the computer to start researching. I went back to work two weeks later, and at every break or over lunch I'd be googling those terms. I was an expert, but I still felt like I didn't really know what had happened. I finally broke down, and requested my medical records.
So 2 1/2 months after my daughter was born, I realized I had to do something about my mental health. My husband was frustrated with what he called my "OCD tendencies". He didn't like the person I was becoming, and I realized that my behaviour was impacting our daughter. I saw my family practice doctor thinking I had PPD, and I did score high enough on the screening test that it could have been the cause. However, when discussing it, he mentioned that it might be PTSD instead. But, it couldn't be PTSD, right? Soldiers in Iraq get PTSD. The I-35 bridge collapse victims developed PTSD. Childbirth is normal. It's a common part of life, so it couldn't be PTSD. I tried anti-anxiety pills, but they didn't help. After a few weeks of my husband pressuring me to do more than take pills, I finally asked for a referral to a mental health professional.
My husband went with me to the first counseling appointment. Imagine my surprise when the counselor begins introducing herself, and tells us that she's married to Dr. XXXX at XXXX clinic. The doctor who delivered our baby. I was so betrayed that my family practice doctor had referred me to someone that was closely related to my former OB. Since I was paying for the visit anyhow at this point, my husband and I gave her the abbreviated version of the story. She confirmed that it was PTSD, and told us that she could help me even though her relationship did bring up questions. After the visit, I made the choice that I would try to find someone else to help me since I knew I'd always have questions in the back of my mind.
It took several weeks to find someone else. I tried the counseling service through my employer, but that was a fiasco. I finally started googling counselors with EMDR experience. I found the new counselor 3 1/2 - 4 months after my daughter's birth. Once again, my husband went to the first visit with me. We told the story, going into a bit more detail this time, and once again I was diagnosed with PTSD.
I struggled with this diagnosis. I just couldn't figure out how it could be correct, so here's the criteria from the National Center for PTSD:
I was so overwhelmed in the first 6 weeks of my daughter's life, that I didn't realize anything was going on emotionally. It was all I could do to get through those first few days and nights. Yes, I was tired, but all new moms are tired. Yes, I was struggling to physically recover, but all new moms struggle with that too. It wasn't until I saw my doctor again for my 6 week postpartum checkup that I realized things weren't quite right.
I got undressed, and laid down on the table for him to do the exam, and I found myself squirming to get away from the doctor. I didn't want him to touch me. I was terrified. I fought myself into submitting to the exam. I stared at my baby girl sitting in the carseat on the other side of the room praying for the exam to be over. He finally finished up, and I sat up on the table. I asked the one question that had been in the back of my mind for the last 6 weeks, "would a c-section have been safer for me?" It opened up the door for a pretty frank discussion about what had happened. I had never heard the terms uterine inversion, retained placenta, postpartum hemorrhage or D & C until then. Can you believe it took 6 weeks to get the clinical names of the complications I had experienced? I took that information home, and started googling the living daylights out of those terms. I read everything I could get my hands on - journal articles, medical school presentations, and any other reference I could find. I was obsessed. My husband would walk in the door, I'd hand him our daughter, and I'd race to the computer to start researching. I went back to work two weeks later, and at every break or over lunch I'd be googling those terms. I was an expert, but I still felt like I didn't really know what had happened. I finally broke down, and requested my medical records.
So 2 1/2 months after my daughter was born, I realized I had to do something about my mental health. My husband was frustrated with what he called my "OCD tendencies". He didn't like the person I was becoming, and I realized that my behaviour was impacting our daughter. I saw my family practice doctor thinking I had PPD, and I did score high enough on the screening test that it could have been the cause. However, when discussing it, he mentioned that it might be PTSD instead. But, it couldn't be PTSD, right? Soldiers in Iraq get PTSD. The I-35 bridge collapse victims developed PTSD. Childbirth is normal. It's a common part of life, so it couldn't be PTSD. I tried anti-anxiety pills, but they didn't help. After a few weeks of my husband pressuring me to do more than take pills, I finally asked for a referral to a mental health professional.
My husband went with me to the first counseling appointment. Imagine my surprise when the counselor begins introducing herself, and tells us that she's married to Dr. XXXX at XXXX clinic. The doctor who delivered our baby. I was so betrayed that my family practice doctor had referred me to someone that was closely related to my former OB. Since I was paying for the visit anyhow at this point, my husband and I gave her the abbreviated version of the story. She confirmed that it was PTSD, and told us that she could help me even though her relationship did bring up questions. After the visit, I made the choice that I would try to find someone else to help me since I knew I'd always have questions in the back of my mind.
It took several weeks to find someone else. I tried the counseling service through my employer, but that was a fiasco. I finally started googling counselors with EMDR experience. I found the new counselor 3 1/2 - 4 months after my daughter's birth. Once again, my husband went to the first visit with me. We told the story, going into a bit more detail this time, and once again I was diagnosed with PTSD.
I struggled with this diagnosis. I just couldn't figure out how it could be correct, so here's the criteria from the National Center for PTSD:
Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can occur after you have been through a traumatic event. A traumatic event is something horrible and scary that you see or that happens to you. During this type of event, you think that your life or others' lives are in danger. You may feel afraid or feel that you have no control over what is happening.
So, how does this apply to me? I was absolutely terrified that night. I thought I was dying, and so did my husband. The doctor made decisions and performed procedures based on inaccurate information that caused me great pain. I wasn't notified of his intention to perform these procedures prior to his performing them, so I had no control, choice, or opportunity to understand what was happening. I was objectified to the point that my husband and I both felt that I was treated like a vessel, and not like a competent woman. With all of the physical complications, I retreated inside myself, and was for the most part unaware of anything else happening in the room. Some things made it through, but for the most part, I was locked in my mind scared, in massive amounts of pain, and consumed by everything that was going wrong. Those feelings continued throughout my stay at the hospital. Questions were given half-answers. The nurses continued to trivialize the experience when I desperately needed validation that the event hadn't been typical. I was weak, and incapable of voicing my true needs. I finally just gave up trying to get answers, and focused on getting discharged. I wanted away from all of the people who were supposed to be taking care of me. I wanted out of the place that had failed to keep me safe. I was traumatized.
I didn't want a PTSD diagnosis. I grew up in a house where my father had PTSD from the Vietnam War. I know that while the symptoms fade over time, this never really goes away. PPD would have been easier - take drugs for a year, and you're all better. This was a gut shot. It never goes away. The nightmares have tapered off, and the flashbacks are becoming less frequent. However, I always have to watch out for triggers. Things like people not listening to me can send me into a rage. A call from the hospital, or catching sight of my former OB at the clinic can send my blood pressure screaming high. I have to remind myself to stay in the present when I'm talking to mom's with new babies. I avoid telling the story of my daughter's birth because my feelings are still to raw. It's a lot better than it was. I'm not as obsessed, but this is the new me that I'm learning to live with.
Friday, September 5, 2008
What's with the title?
30 minutes
That's the length of time it took my blood pressure to fall from 180 - 190 / 110 - 120 to 50 / 30.
That's the length of time it took for my uterus to turn inside out after my daughter was born.
That's the length of time it took for the hemorrhaging to take it's toll on me.
That's the length of time I was allowed to expel the placenta before the doctor shoved his hand elbow deep in my hooha and tried to manually extract it without a working epidural.
That's the length of time it took for my doctor to forget that I was a capable, autonomous, intelligent, and educated woman who should have been allowed to remain an active participant in my own healthcare choices.
Why do they forget this? It's such a simply concept. We hire them to be our guide. We ask them for advice. We expect them to explain our choices, and guide us to the appropriate decision. They aren't our parent. They aren't our boss. They aren't our god. Ultimately the choice should be ours. Why do they forget that in the heat of battle? They are a consultant, and their words should be listened to, evaluated, and a decision rendered by us.
Choice is a difficult topic. We should be allowed to choose caregiver and location. We should be given enough information during our appointments to feel comfortable with the choice we have made. We should be given honest answers about their childbirth philosophy, instead of finding out when we arrive at our birth location. Childbirth doesn't render us mute or stupid. It doesn't negate our decisions. We are expected to make choices about our children's healthcare once they're born, why can't we be allowed this same right before they arrive? After all, we have to live with the decisions that are made.
I acquiesced to many interventions I didn't want. I gave in to the induction because I couldn't consistently control my blood pressure. When I gave into that intervention, I knew that I was giving in to the Pitocin and the amniotomy. I was giving in to the continuous fetal monitoring. I was giving in to an IV. I was giving in to being, for all intents and purposes, strapped to the bed. When I agreed to the epidural, I gave in to the catheter. I gave in to pushing on my back. None of these things traumatized me. I made a choice.
In some ways, I made great choices. It turns out that a hospital is the safest place for ME to birth. Having an OB was another good choice I made. I chose a doctor who truly believes in vaginal deliveries. As long as we kept my blood pressure under 200, he kept letting me labor.
I advocated for myself by fighting with the anesthesiologist for the epidural. I advocated for myself by telling the nurse that the epidural wasn't working even if she didn't listen to me. I tried advocating for myself throughout my stay by asking questions, although given my compromised state I wasn't very competent or successful during my stay.
Trauma came later. It came when I was dismissed, belittled, trivialized, scorned, and ignored. It came when questions were not asked. It came when questions were not answered. It came in a thousand little insults. Patients aren't stupid. They know it's not normal to have 7 IV's in your hands after having a baby. They know it's not normal to spend the first 36 hours in bed without getting up to shower, change a diaper, or give a baby a bath. They know it's not normal to not care where there baby is, or wonder about their care. They know it's not normal to be too weak to get out of the sitz bath on their own. They know it's not normal to still have 5 IV's in their hands on the day they're discharged.
We know when you're lying to us. We know when you're concealing things. We are smarter than you think, and one of these days you'll get your comeuppance.
That's the length of time it took my blood pressure to fall from 180 - 190 / 110 - 120 to 50 / 30.
That's the length of time it took for my uterus to turn inside out after my daughter was born.
That's the length of time it took for the hemorrhaging to take it's toll on me.
That's the length of time I was allowed to expel the placenta before the doctor shoved his hand elbow deep in my hooha and tried to manually extract it without a working epidural.
That's the length of time it took for my doctor to forget that I was a capable, autonomous, intelligent, and educated woman who should have been allowed to remain an active participant in my own healthcare choices.
Why do they forget this? It's such a simply concept. We hire them to be our guide. We ask them for advice. We expect them to explain our choices, and guide us to the appropriate decision. They aren't our parent. They aren't our boss. They aren't our god. Ultimately the choice should be ours. Why do they forget that in the heat of battle? They are a consultant, and their words should be listened to, evaluated, and a decision rendered by us.
Choice is a difficult topic. We should be allowed to choose caregiver and location. We should be given enough information during our appointments to feel comfortable with the choice we have made. We should be given honest answers about their childbirth philosophy, instead of finding out when we arrive at our birth location. Childbirth doesn't render us mute or stupid. It doesn't negate our decisions. We are expected to make choices about our children's healthcare once they're born, why can't we be allowed this same right before they arrive? After all, we have to live with the decisions that are made.
I acquiesced to many interventions I didn't want. I gave in to the induction because I couldn't consistently control my blood pressure. When I gave into that intervention, I knew that I was giving in to the Pitocin and the amniotomy. I was giving in to the continuous fetal monitoring. I was giving in to an IV. I was giving in to being, for all intents and purposes, strapped to the bed. When I agreed to the epidural, I gave in to the catheter. I gave in to pushing on my back. None of these things traumatized me. I made a choice.
In some ways, I made great choices. It turns out that a hospital is the safest place for ME to birth. Having an OB was another good choice I made. I chose a doctor who truly believes in vaginal deliveries. As long as we kept my blood pressure under 200, he kept letting me labor.
I advocated for myself by fighting with the anesthesiologist for the epidural. I advocated for myself by telling the nurse that the epidural wasn't working even if she didn't listen to me. I tried advocating for myself throughout my stay by asking questions, although given my compromised state I wasn't very competent or successful during my stay.
Trauma came later. It came when I was dismissed, belittled, trivialized, scorned, and ignored. It came when questions were not asked. It came when questions were not answered. It came in a thousand little insults. Patients aren't stupid. They know it's not normal to have 7 IV's in your hands after having a baby. They know it's not normal to spend the first 36 hours in bed without getting up to shower, change a diaper, or give a baby a bath. They know it's not normal to not care where there baby is, or wonder about their care. They know it's not normal to be too weak to get out of the sitz bath on their own. They know it's not normal to still have 5 IV's in their hands on the day they're discharged.
We know when you're lying to us. We know when you're concealing things. We are smarter than you think, and one of these days you'll get your comeuppance.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
An introduction
So, doesn't my title sound dramatic? It definitely matches the drama of my childbirth experience. My peanut was born 15 months, and 15 days ago. Unfortunately I'm still dealing with the PTSD that followed her arrival.
This blog is my space to work through my grief, fear, anger, rage, and questions. I'm hoping that I can find a way to climb out of the hell I've been living in, and make it to solid footing here on earth.
It's also a place to compile all of my writings about the birth trauma. Right now, I have posts scattered across the world-wide web, and this will bring them all under one roof.
This blog is my space to work through my grief, fear, anger, rage, and questions. I'm hoping that I can find a way to climb out of the hell I've been living in, and make it to solid footing here on earth.
It's also a place to compile all of my writings about the birth trauma. Right now, I have posts scattered across the world-wide web, and this will bring them all under one roof.
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