I'm participating in a PTSD research study looking at the concept of self / identity as it relates to PTSD. It made me start thinking about how my sense of identity has helped or hindered my ability to learn how to cope with this disease.
In some ways, I think I was pretty lucky to have PTSD strike me during my daughter's birth. There's a huge change in identity that comes from having that squalling child placed on your belly. You're not just responsible for you anymore, you're responsible for that little person as well. For a lot of people, just that change from individual to parent can change your concept of identity. You're never quite the same person that you were. For me, those changes were just more extreme due to the PTSD.
It's also made it easier to accept that I will never be the person I was before this happened. It was easier once I realized that just by giving birth I wasn't supposed to be the same person I was before. It's much easier to accept the more extreme changes once you accept the basic ones.
Showing posts with label childbirth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childbirth. Show all posts
Friday, February 5, 2010
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Here we go again, but I see improvement
I was triggered yesterday. I have to admit that I was struggling a bit before I set foot in the door. Once I left work, and started to drive out there, I found myself having some intrusive thoughts about running into my former OB. My concern with every new doctor is which section of the clinic they work out of, I'm terrified that I may bump into my former doctor on my way to an appointment with a new doctor. Anyhow, I saw the only doctor at my clinic that does the essure procedure. (Thank God, it was a woman.) We were discussing my candidacy for the procedure, and she went back through my hospital notes in great detail. That was a sure-fire way to make me feel like a freak of nature. Then suggested having another child by c-section - since no one would blame me for making that decision after my difficult first delivery. When I turned that suggestion down, she suggested I bring my ipod along to "relax' me during the actual procedure. She had no way of knowing that my husband and nurses used my ipod as a distraction for me in the first couple of hours out of surgery, so I wouldn't ask a lot of questions about what had happened. (I had a brief flashback in the appointment over this one.) And, followed all of that up with a quick exam to analyze my anatomy for the procedure.
By the time I left, I was really struggling. I was shaking, edgy, anxious, and having intrusive thoughts. I was planning to take the rest of the afternoon off, but I made the decision to go back to work instead. Within a half hour of getting back to work, the worst of the intrusive thoughts had gone away, and the shaking had subsided. I was still a bit edgy, and anxious, but those symptoms take me longer to deal with than the others.
Overall I was better in a couple of hours because I've learned to read my body and symptoms. I've learned how to deal with them - acknowledging them, and switching them up. And, finally I've learned to cut myself a little slack when it happens. I still find an occasional new trigger, but the disease itself is becoming manageable in a way I never believed that it could be managed.
By the way, I also managed to advocate for myself during this whole encounter. I was upfront with her about my PTSD diagnosis, and I made her aware of my need for a great deal of communication to cope with medical procedures. I also made her aware that my daughter's birth caused the PTSD, so she was really trying to be sensitive of my needs. She didn't quite make it, but she definitely tried.
By the time I left, I was really struggling. I was shaking, edgy, anxious, and having intrusive thoughts. I was planning to take the rest of the afternoon off, but I made the decision to go back to work instead. Within a half hour of getting back to work, the worst of the intrusive thoughts had gone away, and the shaking had subsided. I was still a bit edgy, and anxious, but those symptoms take me longer to deal with than the others.
Overall I was better in a couple of hours because I've learned to read my body and symptoms. I've learned how to deal with them - acknowledging them, and switching them up. And, finally I've learned to cut myself a little slack when it happens. I still find an occasional new trigger, but the disease itself is becoming manageable in a way I never believed that it could be managed.
By the way, I also managed to advocate for myself during this whole encounter. I was upfront with her about my PTSD diagnosis, and I made her aware of my need for a great deal of communication to cope with medical procedures. I also made her aware that my daughter's birth caused the PTSD, so she was really trying to be sensitive of my needs. She didn't quite make it, but she definitely tried.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Is birth women's war?
I’ve been thinking on this post for a while. I’ve started writing it, and put it away because I couldn’t find the words. However, after reading this blog post, I decided to pick it up and try again.
Is childbirth women’s war?
When I was pregnant, I asked my grandmother about my mom’s birth. At 85 years old, she could still vividly remember that day and her experience. My mom can still relate the stories of my and my sister’s births. My best friend can pull her memories of each of her children’s births at a moments notice. When you get together with a group of women at a baby shower or a wedding shower, it seems like birth stories come out of the closet.
I believe that we’re genetically programmed to remember the experience of giving birth. The combination of the hormones, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the joy, and the love imprint those memories deeply into our brains. It’s not that big a stretch to believe that those memories can sometimes be improperly stored causing PTSD.
All over the internet, on discussions of PTSD after childbirth, you’ll see an argument stating that this cannot be a mental health disorder because it’s a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. However, no one debates the validity of PTSD in soldiers returning from war. Men have been going to war for thousands of years. Why is their experience considered to be out of the norm, but a woman’s childbirth experience is dismissed or trivialized?
Men have found some interesting ways to cope with the fallout of the experiences long before the PTSD diagnosis was made during the Vietnam War. They formed and joined groups like the VFW or the American Legion. They go, and hang out with others who have had similar experiences. It’s a safe place to discuss the horrors of what they saw, the feelings they had, and they can process the events.
Yet, women don’t have these types of places to go. In today’s society, new moms are often isolated from society. We’re left to navigate this new terrain by ourselves. Our parents are working, so we frequently don’t have our moms or dads to rely on in those first few days. Our husbands go back to work typically a few days or a week after the baby is born. We struggle to establish breastfeeding, caring for the other family members, and try to get enough sleep to function. There are days when just getting a shower seems like an insurmountable task. Is it any wonder that those memories can get hung up under those conditions?
I’ve heard some people wonder if PTSD after childbirth is a rich nation’s problem, but I don’t think it is. I think no matter where women give birth, that they’re at risk of developing this condition. Women in third world countries know that childbirth isn’t safe. Their entire pregnancy is spent in an atmosphere of anxiety. Will I survive? Will my child survive? If something goes wrong can they get me to a doctor or a midwife? They live with those fears for months. Those months of anxiety set them up for developing this condition when their childbirth experiences go awry. Just because they don’t have the resources for diagnosis and treatment doesn’t mean that they don’t develop the condition.
Others have blamed the medicalization of childbirth on the development of PTSD. However, I know that medical procedures don’t cause PTSD. It took months of counseling to admit this, but my PTSD had nothing to do with the medical procedures that were performed. They were entirely the result of the way that I was treated while I was in the care of the doctors and nurses at my daughter’s birth. The PTSD was a result of a lack of communication, a lack of understanding, a lack of consent, and a hostile birth environment.
Yep, I did call it a hostile birth environment. This is something that doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, and support people can change. Medical professionals can choose to treat a birthing mom respectfully. They can choose to speak to her with honesty. They can accurately, and without coercion, discuss her options. They can choose to allow her to make a choice, so that she can own that decision. They can choose to make sure she understands the positive and negative consequences of her choice.
Is childbirth women’s war?
When I was pregnant, I asked my grandmother about my mom’s birth. At 85 years old, she could still vividly remember that day and her experience. My mom can still relate the stories of my and my sister’s births. My best friend can pull her memories of each of her children’s births at a moments notice. When you get together with a group of women at a baby shower or a wedding shower, it seems like birth stories come out of the closet.
I believe that we’re genetically programmed to remember the experience of giving birth. The combination of the hormones, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the joy, and the love imprint those memories deeply into our brains. It’s not that big a stretch to believe that those memories can sometimes be improperly stored causing PTSD.
All over the internet, on discussions of PTSD after childbirth, you’ll see an argument stating that this cannot be a mental health disorder because it’s a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. However, no one debates the validity of PTSD in soldiers returning from war. Men have been going to war for thousands of years. Why is their experience considered to be out of the norm, but a woman’s childbirth experience is dismissed or trivialized?
Men have found some interesting ways to cope with the fallout of the experiences long before the PTSD diagnosis was made during the Vietnam War. They formed and joined groups like the VFW or the American Legion. They go, and hang out with others who have had similar experiences. It’s a safe place to discuss the horrors of what they saw, the feelings they had, and they can process the events.
Yet, women don’t have these types of places to go. In today’s society, new moms are often isolated from society. We’re left to navigate this new terrain by ourselves. Our parents are working, so we frequently don’t have our moms or dads to rely on in those first few days. Our husbands go back to work typically a few days or a week after the baby is born. We struggle to establish breastfeeding, caring for the other family members, and try to get enough sleep to function. There are days when just getting a shower seems like an insurmountable task. Is it any wonder that those memories can get hung up under those conditions?
I’ve heard some people wonder if PTSD after childbirth is a rich nation’s problem, but I don’t think it is. I think no matter where women give birth, that they’re at risk of developing this condition. Women in third world countries know that childbirth isn’t safe. Their entire pregnancy is spent in an atmosphere of anxiety. Will I survive? Will my child survive? If something goes wrong can they get me to a doctor or a midwife? They live with those fears for months. Those months of anxiety set them up for developing this condition when their childbirth experiences go awry. Just because they don’t have the resources for diagnosis and treatment doesn’t mean that they don’t develop the condition.
Others have blamed the medicalization of childbirth on the development of PTSD. However, I know that medical procedures don’t cause PTSD. It took months of counseling to admit this, but my PTSD had nothing to do with the medical procedures that were performed. They were entirely the result of the way that I was treated while I was in the care of the doctors and nurses at my daughter’s birth. The PTSD was a result of a lack of communication, a lack of understanding, a lack of consent, and a hostile birth environment.
Yep, I did call it a hostile birth environment. This is something that doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, and support people can change. Medical professionals can choose to treat a birthing mom respectfully. They can choose to speak to her with honesty. They can accurately, and without coercion, discuss her options. They can choose to allow her to make a choice, so that she can own that decision. They can choose to make sure she understands the positive and negative consequences of her choice.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Birth Rape Rears its Ugly Head Again
After two years of living with the consequences of my OB’s actions I really should know better than to Google Birth Rape. It seems like every 9 – 12 months something stirs up the discussion fires on this topic. This time, Café Mom seems to be the instigator. There’s poll, a forum, and a journal / blog post on the topic. Now, at least one L & D nurse is weighing in on the subject as well.
There seems to be some misconceptions about what women are referring to when they define their birth experience as a birth rape.
1. Just because someone, a nurse, midwife, or doctor, breaks your water doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because birth is painful doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because you have a cervical check doesn’t make it a birth rape. Most of the time, healthcare providers ask permission to do these things. If you consent, it’s NOT rape.
I had my water broken, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had an IV, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had several cervical / vaginal exams, but I consented. Those procedures were not birth rape. I was asked to lie on my side during the majority of my labor, but I consented. That was not birth rape. I had continuous fetal monitoring and EFM, but I consented. Neither of those were birth rape. I had a vacuum assisted delivery, but I consented. That was not birth rape. As long as you consent to the procedure whether it’s verbal or written it’s not rape. Just like when I consent to having sex with my husband it’s not rape.
2. Women who call it birth rape deserved what they got. After all if the baby has to come out, so whatever is done in that process is acceptable. If you go to the hospital as long as someone with an ID badge does it to you it’s okay.
Where I live, we have a Patient’s Bill of Rights. Competent patients have the right to decline any and all medical procedures. Competent patients have the right to be told what their diagnosis is, what the treatment options are, what are the risks associated with those options, and allowed to make their OWN decision. Therefore, the doctor, midwife, or nurse is not always right. They don’t have the power to force a woman to submit to procedures that she doesn’t want. They don’t have the right to coerce a woman into submitting to any procedures, and they don’t have the right to abuse their patients.
3. Women are just whining because they didn’t get the experience that they wanted to have.
What? There are a lot of things about my daughter’s birth that didn’t go the way that I wanted. I didn’t want to be induced. I wanted to go into labor on my own. However, complications prevented this from being possible. Did that traumatize me? NO! Did that result in a need for counseling? NO! It was simply a disappointment. Do I label any of those procedures that I didn’t want, but consented to, as birth rape? ABSOLUTELY NOT!
4. If it’s a rape, why don’t you report it, and have the perpetrators prosecuted?
I did report the actions of my doctor. I reported them to the State Medical Board, the hospital where he practices, and I sent him letter. However, the State Medical Board has the same attitude that a lot of women on this forum have- he’s the doctor, so he’s right. My report was denied because I didn’t have enough evidence to prove it. Doesn’t that sound like a typical rape case? It’s my word against yours. It doesn’t make what happened to be less truthful or less traumatizing. As to why I didn’t sue him, well like a lot of rape victims, I didn’t want to re-live it. I didn’t want to sit in the same room with him. I didn’t want to bare my emotions, and mental issues in front of a jury that doesn’t believe that birth rape happens.
5. You don’t develop mental issues from a bad birthing experience.
Actually, I did develop mental health issues as a result of his decision. I spent 18 months in counseling for PTSD. PTSD doesn’t go away. You learn to live with it, you learn to cope with it, but it doesn’t go away. I’ll have these scars for the rest of my life. They’ll gradually fade with time, but they will never go away. I live with nightmares, flashbacks, dissociation, and anxiety. I have panic attacks when I go to the doctor. I have had flashbacks during sex – what a mood killer. I’ve denied my husband sex because I’ve been terrified of having another child. My marriage was nearly destroyed because of the severity of my symptoms.
6. So what do I call my birth rape?
For me, birth rape refers to a specific procedure at a specific time that was performed without my consent.
My daughter was born at 11:32 pm. Approximately 15 minutes later my doctor asked the nurse to tell him when ½ hour had passed after the baby’s delivery. At that point in time, he knew that the placenta wasn’t detaching properly. Did he discuss this with me? No. He just kept biding his time waiting to see if it would change. Shortly thereafter, I notified the doctor that his ½ hour was up. Did he tell me then, that there was a problem with the placenta? No. He attempted cord traction to get the placenta to release. The umbilical cord tore off the placenta leaving the placenta attached to my uterus. Did he notify me then that there was a problem with the placenta, and offer me the opportunity to choose between treatment options of having him try to manually remove it or have it surgically removed? No. He just shoved his hand inside me, and tried to pull it out himself. Why wouldn’t I have seen this as a rape? He wasn’t saving my child. She was already born. He wasn’t saving me since at this point he didn’t see this situation being emergent. I was competent, and capable of consenting. He chose not to allow me to consent.
The pain of this procedure was extraordinary. It’s beyond the realm of anything I had ever experienced. It sent me into a place where I was incapable of providing consent for any additional procedures. Even though I didn’t consent to the D & C, even though I didn’t consent to the re-installation of my uterus, even though he spent almost an hour with his hand elbow deep in my hoo-ha trying to shove my uterus back into place, I’ve never considered those procedures to be birth rape. The situation had become emergent, I was mentally incapable of providing informed consent, and I was at the mercy of his skill, knowledge, and competency.
You see, Birth Rape is about power and consent. It’s not about sex. It has nothing to do with sex. In some ways, birth rape is worse. You’re in a place and surrounded by people who are supposed to keep you safe, but you’re not. You can’t advocate for yourself if they don’t tell you first what they’re going to do. You can’t fight for your rights when they deny them. My doctor wasn’t evil. He wasn’t trying to harm me. He got caught up in the complications, and all he saw was a problem. He forgot that I was a person, and only saw the complications.
Birth rape is real. Birth rape is evil, and eventually it will become prosecutable. Right now it’s impossible to get anyone to believe you.
There seems to be some misconceptions about what women are referring to when they define their birth experience as a birth rape.
1. Just because someone, a nurse, midwife, or doctor, breaks your water doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because birth is painful doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because you have a cervical check doesn’t make it a birth rape. Most of the time, healthcare providers ask permission to do these things. If you consent, it’s NOT rape.
I had my water broken, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had an IV, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had several cervical / vaginal exams, but I consented. Those procedures were not birth rape. I was asked to lie on my side during the majority of my labor, but I consented. That was not birth rape. I had continuous fetal monitoring and EFM, but I consented. Neither of those were birth rape. I had a vacuum assisted delivery, but I consented. That was not birth rape. As long as you consent to the procedure whether it’s verbal or written it’s not rape. Just like when I consent to having sex with my husband it’s not rape.
2. Women who call it birth rape deserved what they got. After all if the baby has to come out, so whatever is done in that process is acceptable. If you go to the hospital as long as someone with an ID badge does it to you it’s okay.
Where I live, we have a Patient’s Bill of Rights. Competent patients have the right to decline any and all medical procedures. Competent patients have the right to be told what their diagnosis is, what the treatment options are, what are the risks associated with those options, and allowed to make their OWN decision. Therefore, the doctor, midwife, or nurse is not always right. They don’t have the power to force a woman to submit to procedures that she doesn’t want. They don’t have the right to coerce a woman into submitting to any procedures, and they don’t have the right to abuse their patients.
3. Women are just whining because they didn’t get the experience that they wanted to have.
What? There are a lot of things about my daughter’s birth that didn’t go the way that I wanted. I didn’t want to be induced. I wanted to go into labor on my own. However, complications prevented this from being possible. Did that traumatize me? NO! Did that result in a need for counseling? NO! It was simply a disappointment. Do I label any of those procedures that I didn’t want, but consented to, as birth rape? ABSOLUTELY NOT!
4. If it’s a rape, why don’t you report it, and have the perpetrators prosecuted?
I did report the actions of my doctor. I reported them to the State Medical Board, the hospital where he practices, and I sent him letter. However, the State Medical Board has the same attitude that a lot of women on this forum have- he’s the doctor, so he’s right. My report was denied because I didn’t have enough evidence to prove it. Doesn’t that sound like a typical rape case? It’s my word against yours. It doesn’t make what happened to be less truthful or less traumatizing. As to why I didn’t sue him, well like a lot of rape victims, I didn’t want to re-live it. I didn’t want to sit in the same room with him. I didn’t want to bare my emotions, and mental issues in front of a jury that doesn’t believe that birth rape happens.
5. You don’t develop mental issues from a bad birthing experience.
Actually, I did develop mental health issues as a result of his decision. I spent 18 months in counseling for PTSD. PTSD doesn’t go away. You learn to live with it, you learn to cope with it, but it doesn’t go away. I’ll have these scars for the rest of my life. They’ll gradually fade with time, but they will never go away. I live with nightmares, flashbacks, dissociation, and anxiety. I have panic attacks when I go to the doctor. I have had flashbacks during sex – what a mood killer. I’ve denied my husband sex because I’ve been terrified of having another child. My marriage was nearly destroyed because of the severity of my symptoms.
6. So what do I call my birth rape?
For me, birth rape refers to a specific procedure at a specific time that was performed without my consent.
My daughter was born at 11:32 pm. Approximately 15 minutes later my doctor asked the nurse to tell him when ½ hour had passed after the baby’s delivery. At that point in time, he knew that the placenta wasn’t detaching properly. Did he discuss this with me? No. He just kept biding his time waiting to see if it would change. Shortly thereafter, I notified the doctor that his ½ hour was up. Did he tell me then, that there was a problem with the placenta? No. He attempted cord traction to get the placenta to release. The umbilical cord tore off the placenta leaving the placenta attached to my uterus. Did he notify me then that there was a problem with the placenta, and offer me the opportunity to choose between treatment options of having him try to manually remove it or have it surgically removed? No. He just shoved his hand inside me, and tried to pull it out himself. Why wouldn’t I have seen this as a rape? He wasn’t saving my child. She was already born. He wasn’t saving me since at this point he didn’t see this situation being emergent. I was competent, and capable of consenting. He chose not to allow me to consent.
The pain of this procedure was extraordinary. It’s beyond the realm of anything I had ever experienced. It sent me into a place where I was incapable of providing consent for any additional procedures. Even though I didn’t consent to the D & C, even though I didn’t consent to the re-installation of my uterus, even though he spent almost an hour with his hand elbow deep in my hoo-ha trying to shove my uterus back into place, I’ve never considered those procedures to be birth rape. The situation had become emergent, I was mentally incapable of providing informed consent, and I was at the mercy of his skill, knowledge, and competency.
You see, Birth Rape is about power and consent. It’s not about sex. It has nothing to do with sex. In some ways, birth rape is worse. You’re in a place and surrounded by people who are supposed to keep you safe, but you’re not. You can’t advocate for yourself if they don’t tell you first what they’re going to do. You can’t fight for your rights when they deny them. My doctor wasn’t evil. He wasn’t trying to harm me. He got caught up in the complications, and all he saw was a problem. He forgot that I was a person, and only saw the complications.
Birth rape is real. Birth rape is evil, and eventually it will become prosecutable. Right now it’s impossible to get anyone to believe you.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Memory of Pain linked to Childbirth Experience
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,508961,00.html
I saw this article the other day. I found it interesting that women who have rotten birth experiences tend to remember their pain at the same or a worse intensity than women with positive birth experiences. It only takes me moments to remember the pain I experienced. It definitely hasn't diminished with time.
I saw this article the other day. I found it interesting that women who have rotten birth experiences tend to remember their pain at the same or a worse intensity than women with positive birth experiences. It only takes me moments to remember the pain I experienced. It definitely hasn't diminished with time.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
De-briefing tool (Part 1 Question 1)
I found a link to a blog that defines some questions for de-briefing from your child's birth. I thought that they were pretty good, so I thought I'd answer them on here.
Part 1: How was your birth?
1. What was your birth like for you?
Well, my pregnancy wasn't easy. I felt isolated before I ever got to the delivery room. When I took my childbirth education class, I was the only person who hadn't gained any weight. I was the only person who had gestational diabetes. I was the only one who had been forced to consider a c-section. I knew then that my pregnancy was far from normal. The last four weeks leading up to my delivery were frustrating. I hated being stuck at home. I hated not working. I hated having my dogs shipped off to the in-laws because they were too much work for me to take care of them. I hated being trapped. I hated not being able to eat. I hated being pregnant. I hated knowing that I wasn't going to have the birth I wanted. Don't get me wrong, I was resigned to the complications. I acknowledged, and still acknowledge, that they were real. I was willing to do whatever it took to have a healthy baby, but it doesn't make it any easier to handle the emotions of watching your dreams fade before your eyes.
For me labor wasn't that bad. Since I had resigned myself to the induction, the tubes, the wires, the monitors, etc. I didn't find it to be very traumatizing. It went the way I was expecting it to happen. I was trapped in bed, but I knew that. I had lots of tubes, but I knew that too. There were monitors everywhere, but after having NST's for the four prior weeks I knew about those too. Truthfully, I really didn't find it very painful. That may piss some people off, but to me it wasn't that bad. I was frustrated that information didn't seem to be flowing smoothly between the nurses at the hospital and the doctor at the clinic. I was also frustrated about justifying, arguing, whatever you want to call it with the anesthesiologist over the epidural. However, neither of those things contributed to my PTSD. I was irritated that the nurse didn't believe me when I told her the epidural wasn't working. It's not like I wanted her to do anything about it other than mention it to the doctor. I remember the contractions piling one on top of the other. It seemed like there was no break from them, but I just concentrated on the fluorescent light fixture, and breathed through them. I remember one of the nurses offering to dim the lights, and I was pretty emphatic about wanting them left on. Other than the bathroom, the only thing I could see while lying on my right side was the light fixture. I needed the focal point to center my breathing to ride over the pain of the contractions. I remember feeling like it was time to push. It seems weird that everyone believed me when I said that, but no one believed that the epidural wasn't working. I pushed, and pushed, and Mel asked me if I wanted help. I told her yes, and she told the nurse the next time she came in. It seemed to take forever for the doctor to show up with his handy dandy vacuum. I remember him asking if I was okay with that, and I answered yes. I remember tearing and the feeling of relief when my daughter slid out. I remember being exhausted and collapsing on the bed. There were several frustrations and some irritations, but overall it was about what I had expected. Not what I wanted, but what I resigned myself to when I realized that the complications had derailed my plans.
The real problems started after my daughter was born. I remember thinking, wow, I'm a mom. I knew it was going to happen, but there's something kind of odd about having them place a new baby in your arms. I was relieved, anxious to spend time with her, and introduce myself. However, I was completely repulsed by all of the goo and blood covering her body. At that point, I really wanted them to clean her up. I started feeling woozy. Just a little bit off. I was about to ask a question about the way I was feeling when the nurse asked if I wanted to hold the baby. I said no. I knew something wasn't quite right, and I was afraid to hold her at that time. Mel brought her over to me, and I reached out my hand. PAIN! It shot through my whole body. I've never experienced anything like it. Everything went black. The pain consumed me. It was in me, around me, smothering me. I couldn't scream. I was trapped by it. I clawed at the sheets. I tried dragging myself away from it, but I lost the battle. The pain was inescapable. I heard snippets of conversations. We're going to need to go to surgery... Where the hell are they... What's taking so long... It's about time you got here... The sides of the bed snap up. I'm moving fast down the hallway. The lights were beaming down on my eyelids, they're moving me to a hard surface, they're poking me, and then nothing.
Some one's talking to me. I can't focus. I just go back to sleep. I hear people talking again. She won't be able to breastfeed. I can't stop shaking. They're piling blankets on top of me. What happened?
Part 1: How was your birth?
1. What was your birth like for you?
Well, my pregnancy wasn't easy. I felt isolated before I ever got to the delivery room. When I took my childbirth education class, I was the only person who hadn't gained any weight. I was the only person who had gestational diabetes. I was the only one who had been forced to consider a c-section. I knew then that my pregnancy was far from normal. The last four weeks leading up to my delivery were frustrating. I hated being stuck at home. I hated not working. I hated having my dogs shipped off to the in-laws because they were too much work for me to take care of them. I hated being trapped. I hated not being able to eat. I hated being pregnant. I hated knowing that I wasn't going to have the birth I wanted. Don't get me wrong, I was resigned to the complications. I acknowledged, and still acknowledge, that they were real. I was willing to do whatever it took to have a healthy baby, but it doesn't make it any easier to handle the emotions of watching your dreams fade before your eyes.
For me labor wasn't that bad. Since I had resigned myself to the induction, the tubes, the wires, the monitors, etc. I didn't find it to be very traumatizing. It went the way I was expecting it to happen. I was trapped in bed, but I knew that. I had lots of tubes, but I knew that too. There were monitors everywhere, but after having NST's for the four prior weeks I knew about those too. Truthfully, I really didn't find it very painful. That may piss some people off, but to me it wasn't that bad. I was frustrated that information didn't seem to be flowing smoothly between the nurses at the hospital and the doctor at the clinic. I was also frustrated about justifying, arguing, whatever you want to call it with the anesthesiologist over the epidural. However, neither of those things contributed to my PTSD. I was irritated that the nurse didn't believe me when I told her the epidural wasn't working. It's not like I wanted her to do anything about it other than mention it to the doctor. I remember the contractions piling one on top of the other. It seemed like there was no break from them, but I just concentrated on the fluorescent light fixture, and breathed through them. I remember one of the nurses offering to dim the lights, and I was pretty emphatic about wanting them left on. Other than the bathroom, the only thing I could see while lying on my right side was the light fixture. I needed the focal point to center my breathing to ride over the pain of the contractions. I remember feeling like it was time to push. It seems weird that everyone believed me when I said that, but no one believed that the epidural wasn't working. I pushed, and pushed, and Mel asked me if I wanted help. I told her yes, and she told the nurse the next time she came in. It seemed to take forever for the doctor to show up with his handy dandy vacuum. I remember him asking if I was okay with that, and I answered yes. I remember tearing and the feeling of relief when my daughter slid out. I remember being exhausted and collapsing on the bed. There were several frustrations and some irritations, but overall it was about what I had expected. Not what I wanted, but what I resigned myself to when I realized that the complications had derailed my plans.
The real problems started after my daughter was born. I remember thinking, wow, I'm a mom. I knew it was going to happen, but there's something kind of odd about having them place a new baby in your arms. I was relieved, anxious to spend time with her, and introduce myself. However, I was completely repulsed by all of the goo and blood covering her body. At that point, I really wanted them to clean her up. I started feeling woozy. Just a little bit off. I was about to ask a question about the way I was feeling when the nurse asked if I wanted to hold the baby. I said no. I knew something wasn't quite right, and I was afraid to hold her at that time. Mel brought her over to me, and I reached out my hand. PAIN! It shot through my whole body. I've never experienced anything like it. Everything went black. The pain consumed me. It was in me, around me, smothering me. I couldn't scream. I was trapped by it. I clawed at the sheets. I tried dragging myself away from it, but I lost the battle. The pain was inescapable. I heard snippets of conversations. We're going to need to go to surgery... Where the hell are they... What's taking so long... It's about time you got here... The sides of the bed snap up. I'm moving fast down the hallway. The lights were beaming down on my eyelids, they're moving me to a hard surface, they're poking me, and then nothing.
Some one's talking to me. I can't focus. I just go back to sleep. I hear people talking again. She won't be able to breastfeed. I can't stop shaking. They're piling blankets on top of me. What happened?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
How do we change the culture of birth?
Sunday morning, I got up early with Peanut and the dogs. We all settled down in the living room, and I turned on the TV. There's not much to watch on Sunday mornings, so I chose a re-run of 90210. It just happened that this episode focused on the birth of Steve's daughter. I found myself struggling to watch it because it hit too close to home.
Supposedly, Steve's wife needed an emergency c-section. The doctors come tearing in, ignoring Steve's requests for more information, and hustle his wife out to the operating room. A bit later, the doctors come out to tell him he has a baby girl who's in the NICU, and demanding that he signs some consent forms or his wife is going to die. He tries to ask questions, the doctor brushes them aside, and demands he sign the paperwork. They don't discuss options, diagnosis, or risks. Just sign the blankety-blank thing. One of the next scenes is in the hospital room. His wife's coming around, and is asking questions, but Steve doesn't really know. He just keeps giving her this vague answer, you lost a lot of blood.
There's so much wrong about this episode, but there was no outcry when it was first aired. No one yelled and screamed about informed consent. No one freaked out over women not being told exactly what had happened. Yes, it's a TV show. They're allowed some dramatic license, but our culture is so accepting of this type of treatment being okay.
It's not okay. Women aren't incubators. We're autonomous human beings choosing to reproduce. We're entitled to true informed consent. We're entitled to respectful, non-coercive information about the complications. We're entitled to time to process, and choose a course of action. However, that's not going to happen as long as we, as a culture, continue to allow doctors to get away with this type of treatment. We'll classify it as emergent, and batter everyone down until they submit.
So, how do we change it? The attitude is so pervasive, that it's like putting out a forest fire with a garden hose. How do we open up the minds of pregnant women, their support people, and the nurses, midwives, and doctors who are caring for them?
Supposedly, Steve's wife needed an emergency c-section. The doctors come tearing in, ignoring Steve's requests for more information, and hustle his wife out to the operating room. A bit later, the doctors come out to tell him he has a baby girl who's in the NICU, and demanding that he signs some consent forms or his wife is going to die. He tries to ask questions, the doctor brushes them aside, and demands he sign the paperwork. They don't discuss options, diagnosis, or risks. Just sign the blankety-blank thing. One of the next scenes is in the hospital room. His wife's coming around, and is asking questions, but Steve doesn't really know. He just keeps giving her this vague answer, you lost a lot of blood.
There's so much wrong about this episode, but there was no outcry when it was first aired. No one yelled and screamed about informed consent. No one freaked out over women not being told exactly what had happened. Yes, it's a TV show. They're allowed some dramatic license, but our culture is so accepting of this type of treatment being okay.
It's not okay. Women aren't incubators. We're autonomous human beings choosing to reproduce. We're entitled to true informed consent. We're entitled to respectful, non-coercive information about the complications. We're entitled to time to process, and choose a course of action. However, that's not going to happen as long as we, as a culture, continue to allow doctors to get away with this type of treatment. We'll classify it as emergent, and batter everyone down until they submit.
So, how do we change it? The attitude is so pervasive, that it's like putting out a forest fire with a garden hose. How do we open up the minds of pregnant women, their support people, and the nurses, midwives, and doctors who are caring for them?
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.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Am I an advocate or a wimp?
So, I feel like I wimped out by choosing to not speak to the doctors tomorrow. I know that it's not so much a matter of wimping out, so much as it's a matter of choosing to focus on fixing myself. However, I tend to use negative phrases or comments to describe myself instead of positive ones, so it's easier for me to say I wimped out.
My counselor told me that I'm becoming an advocate because I chose to provide my doctor with my writings instead of just cancelling. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to be an activist. I just don't want anyone else to feel the way that I do right now. I don't want another woman to feel like she's powerless. I don't want another woman to feel like she's been coerced into procedures that she doesn't want. I don't want another woman to feel as isolated as I do. I don't want another woman to feel like she has no one to talk to, or no one who understands her. I don't want another woman to feel like the nurses are re-traumatizing her by their dismissive attitude. I don't want another woman to believe that she's worthless, like she's a vessel, like she's nothing. It's a horrible feeling to know that no one believes you count for anything.
I'm tempted to show up at the hospital tomorrow even though they're not expecting me. I'm tempted to see if I can make it through the discussion without breaking down. I don't know. I know that it would be incredibly hard for me to be strong enough in my beliefs that I don't feel like I'm being judged as worthless, ignorant, or unreasonable in my expectations.
In 37 years, I've learned that problems don't go away by themselves. Ignoring a problem won't make it go away. Not talking about a problem doesn't get it resolved. There's a problem in our maternity system. When 10% of women test positive for PTSD after their children's birth there's a systemic problem with the maternity care in the US.
I don't know how we fix it. If there's anyone that understands that complications can be real, that some women need more care or interventions than others, it's me. I know that homebirths aren't the answer to the problem. I know turning care over to midwives isn't the answer to the problem. I know that birth abuse can happen at home, in the hospital, or in a freestanding birth center. I know that midwives, doulas, and doctors can all be perpetrators. I guess that's why I cringe at being called an activist / advocate. Too many people see the solution as being so simple as making homebirths the norm, or midwives the norm.
Maybe it's a simple as making sure that doctors, nurses, midwives, and doulas are making the decision to provide patient centered care. Maybe if we had a more open dialogue between caregivers and their patients on their childbirth philosophies we'd have better outcomes. Maybe if caregivers were more open about how they really practice their craft patients would be able to find a caregiver that provides them with the type of care they desire. Instead we get blind-sided. The on-call caregiver delivers your baby instead of the person you've developed a relationship with. We get stuck with a nurse who's having a bad night, and doesn't want to be at work, so she takes it out on her patient.
It's so hard to make the right choices. No matter what we choose, someone says we're being too inflexible. We're taking risks by having the baby at home. We're taking risks by having the baby in a hospital. We're taking risks by breastfeeding, or we're taking risks by formula feeding. It's enough to make your head spin. Why don't we support each other instead of questioning each other? Why don't we bond together as a team instead of looking for the saboteur?
Advocate or wimp? I don't know. I know I won't let this drop.
My counselor told me that I'm becoming an advocate because I chose to provide my doctor with my writings instead of just cancelling. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to be an activist. I just don't want anyone else to feel the way that I do right now. I don't want another woman to feel like she's powerless. I don't want another woman to feel like she's been coerced into procedures that she doesn't want. I don't want another woman to feel as isolated as I do. I don't want another woman to feel like she has no one to talk to, or no one who understands her. I don't want another woman to feel like the nurses are re-traumatizing her by their dismissive attitude. I don't want another woman to believe that she's worthless, like she's a vessel, like she's nothing. It's a horrible feeling to know that no one believes you count for anything.
I'm tempted to show up at the hospital tomorrow even though they're not expecting me. I'm tempted to see if I can make it through the discussion without breaking down. I don't know. I know that it would be incredibly hard for me to be strong enough in my beliefs that I don't feel like I'm being judged as worthless, ignorant, or unreasonable in my expectations.
In 37 years, I've learned that problems don't go away by themselves. Ignoring a problem won't make it go away. Not talking about a problem doesn't get it resolved. There's a problem in our maternity system. When 10% of women test positive for PTSD after their children's birth there's a systemic problem with the maternity care in the US.
I don't know how we fix it. If there's anyone that understands that complications can be real, that some women need more care or interventions than others, it's me. I know that homebirths aren't the answer to the problem. I know turning care over to midwives isn't the answer to the problem. I know that birth abuse can happen at home, in the hospital, or in a freestanding birth center. I know that midwives, doulas, and doctors can all be perpetrators. I guess that's why I cringe at being called an activist / advocate. Too many people see the solution as being so simple as making homebirths the norm, or midwives the norm.
Maybe it's a simple as making sure that doctors, nurses, midwives, and doulas are making the decision to provide patient centered care. Maybe if we had a more open dialogue between caregivers and their patients on their childbirth philosophies we'd have better outcomes. Maybe if caregivers were more open about how they really practice their craft patients would be able to find a caregiver that provides them with the type of care they desire. Instead we get blind-sided. The on-call caregiver delivers your baby instead of the person you've developed a relationship with. We get stuck with a nurse who's having a bad night, and doesn't want to be at work, so she takes it out on her patient.
It's so hard to make the right choices. No matter what we choose, someone says we're being too inflexible. We're taking risks by having the baby at home. We're taking risks by having the baby in a hospital. We're taking risks by breastfeeding, or we're taking risks by formula feeding. It's enough to make your head spin. Why don't we support each other instead of questioning each other? Why don't we bond together as a team instead of looking for the saboteur?
Advocate or wimp? I don't know. I know I won't let this drop.
Monday, November 10, 2008
“It is often easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.” Grace Murray Hopper
That quote makes me crazy. It’s what happened the night my daughter was born. People, well doctors really, seem to think that they don’t need to ask for permission. They seem to think that once you’re in their place / hospital / care / etc. that they can take charge and do what ever they wish. Once you’re on their turf, the game is over, the power is stolen. A birthing woman is less than nothing. She’s an incubator. Her wishes can be ignored or over-ruled if she’s even given the opportunity to participate in her own care.
I need to add a comment about this quote to my birth plan. It’s fundamental to why I was so traumatized. There was so much rationalization on the doctor’s hand that night. “She had an epidural, she’ll never feel it”, “I’m the doctor, and I know what’s best”, or my favorite, “it’s just a medical procedure” to having a hand shoved elbow deep in your uterus with no communication. It sure didn’t feel like a medical procedure to me. I didn’t grant permission. I didn’t say, “yes. Go ahead”. I didn’t say, “I understand the placenta is stuck, and you need to try to get it out”. I wasn’t given the option to say yes or no. Permission? What’s that? Those consent forms cover it, right? Yep, just like a marriage certificate guarantees that my husband can have sex anytime he wants. I wonder what my doctor will think about the addition?
Here’s my revised birth plan:
This isn’t the typical birth plan. I know that things can go wrong very quickly. I don’t care about IVs, pitocin, dim lights, or vaginal exams. I expect that I’ll be trapped in the bed by a multitude of cords coming out of nearly every orifice. I expect that things will go wrong, all hell will break loose, locusts will descend upon the earth, and the plague will rage throughout the land.
However, I would like this experience to be better than my last birth.
Communication
Please talk to me constantly, especially when I can’t see what you are doing.
Please follow this protocol when explaining interventions to me because I may not ask the appropriate questions.
I need to add a comment about this quote to my birth plan. It’s fundamental to why I was so traumatized. There was so much rationalization on the doctor’s hand that night. “She had an epidural, she’ll never feel it”, “I’m the doctor, and I know what’s best”, or my favorite, “it’s just a medical procedure” to having a hand shoved elbow deep in your uterus with no communication. It sure didn’t feel like a medical procedure to me. I didn’t grant permission. I didn’t say, “yes. Go ahead”. I didn’t say, “I understand the placenta is stuck, and you need to try to get it out”. I wasn’t given the option to say yes or no. Permission? What’s that? Those consent forms cover it, right? Yep, just like a marriage certificate guarantees that my husband can have sex anytime he wants. I wonder what my doctor will think about the addition?
Here’s my revised birth plan:
This isn’t the typical birth plan. I know that things can go wrong very quickly. I don’t care about IVs, pitocin, dim lights, or vaginal exams. I expect that I’ll be trapped in the bed by a multitude of cords coming out of nearly every orifice. I expect that things will go wrong, all hell will break loose, locusts will descend upon the earth, and the plague will rage throughout the land.
However, I would like this experience to be better than my last birth.
Communication
Please talk to me constantly, especially when I can’t see what you are doing.
Please follow this protocol when explaining interventions to me because I may not ask the appropriate questions.
- Get my attention! Call me by name, grab my hand, look into my eyes, and talk to my face - not my cervix or anyone else in the room.
- Why do you want to intervene?
- What intervention do you want to implement?
- Are there any long-lasting side effects or consequences of this intervention?
While, “it is often easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission”, it is not the right choice to make when it comes to breaching my reproductive organs. Ask before placing anything inside / through my cervix, hands, electrodes, amniohooks, etc.
If there is any disagreement between caregivers over what treatment option is appropriate, please work it out between yourselves. I don’t wish to take sides, or argue with either of you. If there is a legitimate choice for me to make, please present me with both options in a non-confrontational manner, and allow me a few moments to reflect upon my options prior to making a decision.
If I tell you that something isn’t right or isn’t working, please believe me instead of dismissing my comment as a fallacy because I’m not acting the way YOU believe I should be acting to make that comment a truth.
Please tell me the name of every medication that you are giving me whether it is given orally or through an IV at the time you administer it, and write it down for me before I am discharged.
Please write down any complications you diagnose prior to my discharge, so that I can research them after I get home if I have any questions about them.
Procedures
My uterus has a history of flipping inside out, so please don’t pull on the umbilical cord.
I only consent to manually removing the placenta if I’m fully anesthetized. Please verify this with me prior to proceeding with the procedure.
If I’m hemorrhaging, have another accreta, and my uterus has inverted again, then don’t take extreme measures to save my uterus. I won’t be using it again.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Birth Rape?
Birth Rape
Isn’t that an ugly term? The first time I heard it, I thought a bunch of radical feminists were making a big deal out of nothing. How can those two words possibly be spoken together? Birth is about innocence. Is there anyone more innocent than a newborn baby? Rape is so ugly, so violent, so brutal. It offended me at the core of my being. However, I think there may be something to it.
Some people believe that birth rape can only occur if a woman has been previously assaulted. They believe that the birth itself isn’t a rape, but that the woman is experiencing a flashback to a prior criminal act. This flashback is so real, that they transfer their feelings about the original assault to the act of giving birth.
This experience impacted me the night my daughter was born:
I’d met this guy six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed while we were talking. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Doesn’t this sound like a date rape experience? I trusted this person. I invited them into my personal space. I didn’t give permission for this to happen. I tried to get away. I was violated. I must have had a flashback to this prior crime during my birth if I think birth rape is a valid term.
Now, let me change six words:
I’d met this doctor six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed while we were talking after my daughter’s birth. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Does that change you opinion of my experience? Do you believe this behavior is suddenly acceptable? Why is it that behavior that is unacceptable every where else in society suddenly becomes acceptable in a delivery room? Before my daughter was born, I’d never been the victim of a violent crime. I’d always been treated respectfully by the men in my life. No one had ever touched me in an inappropriate manner. This wasn’t a flashback. It’s my reality.
Birth is an incredibly intimate act. It requires you opening parts of yourself that you keep hidden from the world in order for it to happen. It’s deserving of the same respect that women expect when giving themselves to their lover. It’s something to be treasured. If consent is so essential to a healthy sexual experience, consent is also necessary to healthy birthing experience.
It took several months before I admitted that my daughter’s birth had resulted in my birth rape. I didn’t want to admit it had happened. I tried hiding from it. I tried ignoring it. I didn’t report it. I blamed myself for it. But I’ve learned that this doesn’t help, so now I’m talking about it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll discuss this when I meet with the doctors at the hospital, but I’m thinking about it. I know they don’t want to admit that this happens. I know they want to bury their heads in the sand, but someone has to speak out. There was a time when people didn’t believe that one spouse could rape the other, but now we recognize this as a truth. In this time we live in, people believe that a woman in labor cannot be raped, but a time will come when we will believe in this truth also.
Isn’t that an ugly term? The first time I heard it, I thought a bunch of radical feminists were making a big deal out of nothing. How can those two words possibly be spoken together? Birth is about innocence. Is there anyone more innocent than a newborn baby? Rape is so ugly, so violent, so brutal. It offended me at the core of my being. However, I think there may be something to it.
Some people believe that birth rape can only occur if a woman has been previously assaulted. They believe that the birth itself isn’t a rape, but that the woman is experiencing a flashback to a prior criminal act. This flashback is so real, that they transfer their feelings about the original assault to the act of giving birth.
This experience impacted me the night my daughter was born:
I’d met this guy six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed while we were talking. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Doesn’t this sound like a date rape experience? I trusted this person. I invited them into my personal space. I didn’t give permission for this to happen. I tried to get away. I was violated. I must have had a flashback to this prior crime during my birth if I think birth rape is a valid term.
Now, let me change six words:
I’d met this doctor six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed while we were talking after my daughter’s birth. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Does that change you opinion of my experience? Do you believe this behavior is suddenly acceptable? Why is it that behavior that is unacceptable every where else in society suddenly becomes acceptable in a delivery room? Before my daughter was born, I’d never been the victim of a violent crime. I’d always been treated respectfully by the men in my life. No one had ever touched me in an inappropriate manner. This wasn’t a flashback. It’s my reality.
Birth is an incredibly intimate act. It requires you opening parts of yourself that you keep hidden from the world in order for it to happen. It’s deserving of the same respect that women expect when giving themselves to their lover. It’s something to be treasured. If consent is so essential to a healthy sexual experience, consent is also necessary to healthy birthing experience.
It took several months before I admitted that my daughter’s birth had resulted in my birth rape. I didn’t want to admit it had happened. I tried hiding from it. I tried ignoring it. I didn’t report it. I blamed myself for it. But I’ve learned that this doesn’t help, so now I’m talking about it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll discuss this when I meet with the doctors at the hospital, but I’m thinking about it. I know they don’t want to admit that this happens. I know they want to bury their heads in the sand, but someone has to speak out. There was a time when people didn’t believe that one spouse could rape the other, but now we recognize this as a truth. In this time we live in, people believe that a woman in labor cannot be raped, but a time will come when we will believe in this truth also.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Power of Words
I picked up the mail yesterday, and found a flyer from the hospital foundation. On the exterior of the envelope, along the bottom, left-hand side was their new motto: Transforming Lives. It made me start thinking about all of the comments that have really struck me to the core in the last 17 months. Most of the time, the comments were meant to be reassuring or innocuous, but they weren’t either of those things to me.
The first one was, “do you want to hold your baby?”, and my subsequent response, “No”. Doesn’t that seem like an innocuous question and response? The only problem was that question was asked just as I was realizing that things were going really wrong. I didn’t know what, but I was starting to feel dizzy, spacey, and a little woozy. Holding my daughter would have been a huge mistake, but I couldn’t get past my feelings of failure that I didn’t “want” to hold my baby. It would have been easier to say no to “Are you ready to hold your baby?” There’s a huge difference in the connotation of ready and want. One implies ability while the other implies desire. I desired holding my child, but I recognized that physically that wouldn’t have been smart.
When I went back to work, one of my co-workers asked me when I was going to have another child, “after all, popping out another one is no big deal”. Wow, what I experienced was “no big deal”! Everyone sure thought it was a pretty big deal that night. People were in and out of the room, trying to find the anesthesiologist, and shoving needles in my hands. So, just for the record:
hemorrhaging 60% of the blood in your body, no big deal
attempting to delivery your uterus, no big deal
needing the placenta to be surgically removed, no big deal
doctors debating if you should go to the ICU, no big deal
blood pressure crashing from 200 / 120 to 50 / 30, no big deal
needing 8 IV’s to pump all of the drugs into you, no big deal
believing that you’re dying as they roll you into the operating room, not a big deal
It’s amazing the things people assume about birth. They have no clue what your experience was, and yet they make the assumption that it was just like their sister’s or wife’s or friend’s experience. Even my parents and in-laws were guilty of this. They were too caught up in the moment to see beyond the baby.
The first time I interviewed a new OB, he told me, “The worst OB in the world can give you a better birth experience than you had the last time.” I know it was meant to be reassuring. I was supposed to be comforted by that statement, but to me it was a condemnation of my skills in finding and choosing my previous doctor. After all, if the “worst OB in the world” is more competent than my previous OB was, what does that say about my choice? It was patronizing, and I never went back to him. The last thing I needed was someone else patting me on the head like a child.
What about, “you didn’t advocate for yourself” and “you didn’t educate yourself”. I love these ones, because it puts all of the blame on mom for the poor outcome. No one else has any responsibility because she “didn’t advocate or educate” herself. So, moms are supposed to read the doctor’s minds. We’re supposed to be more educated than the caregivers we hire. We’re supposed to argue, refuse, or question every time a medication is adjusted, a tool is picked up, or a twinge is felt. We’re supposed to have eyes in the back of our heads, and no matter what our physical and emotional condition we’re supposed to be able to force medical personnel to answer questions truthfully. We’re supposed to know if a homebirth is a better option than a hospital birth or a water birth. We’re supposed to know if we should take Hypnobirthing, Bradley, Lamaze, or the hospital childbirth education class. We’re supposed to know which books are the proper ones to read. Wow! Did you know that pregnant women have superhuman, omniscient, god-like powers? What a crock! Advocacy requires open and honest communication between caregivers and patients. Without that free-flowing information a patient cannot be an effective advocate for themselves. As for education, there’s no way for any one person to know absolutely everything about birth. Most of the time it works just fine, but sometimes interventions are necessary. We all make the best decisions at the time with the information we have at hand. All these statements do is blame the mom for her experience, and sometimes mom’s not the one who should be blamed.
“Transforming lives”, the hospital certainly transformed my life. They didn’t just make me a new mom; they traumatized me in the process. I became a victim of medical assault. I was trivialized, de-humanized, and objectified. They dismissed my attempts to advocate for myself. They ran roughshod over me and my husband. We didn’t leave as a happy family of three. We left broken. I had a husband who hated his child because she “caused” mom to be so sick. I left unable to give my daughter a bath without triggering a flashback. I was weak from blood loss, and emotionally destroyed by the experience. Then they re-traumatized me by asking me to fund their initiative to create a hotel-like atmosphere in the birthing center so they can “transform lives” when what they really need is to make sure they’re properly staffed for an emergency. Private rooms, rugs on the floors, pretty drapes at the windows, and sofa beds for dad to sleep on aren’t going to help the mom who needs immediate surgical care, and there’s no anesthesiologist on the premises.
Finally, my two favorites that always seem to come together. “You should be grateful that you have a healthy child”, and “all that matters is a healthy child”. Why do people believe that being grateful it all turned out okay doesn’t mean that you can’t be angry about how it was achieved. The two feelings aren’t mutually exclusive, and the co-existence of those two emotions is part of what makes recovering difficult. I’m grateful that the OB I chose was competent. I’m grateful that he held everything together until the CNA and the anesthesiologist got back to the hospital. I’m grateful that he was capable of resolving the issues without resorting to a hysterectomy. However, that doesn’t mean I’m not angry that he failed to communicate what was going wrong to me while I was capable of understanding it. It doesn’t mean I’m not angry that I was treated like a vessel, and not like a human being. It doesn’t mean I’m not angry that he didn’t ask if the epidural was working before he tried to pry the placenta out of me. There’s this dichotomy of emotions that I struggle with everyday. As for the “all that matters is a healthy baby” statement, does mom not count? Does dad not count? A healthy baby needs a healthy home. They need parents who care for them. When a parent can’t stand the thought of holding their own child, they’re broken. The home is broken, the family is broken, and the baby will eventually grow to be broken too.
Words have amazing power. Choosing the right ones can be difficult. For moms with PTSD or other post-partum mood disorders, the wrong words can wreak havoc on their recovery. They cut us to the bone, instead of building us up. I know it’s not intentional, but words can cause damage too.
The first one was, “do you want to hold your baby?”, and my subsequent response, “No”. Doesn’t that seem like an innocuous question and response? The only problem was that question was asked just as I was realizing that things were going really wrong. I didn’t know what, but I was starting to feel dizzy, spacey, and a little woozy. Holding my daughter would have been a huge mistake, but I couldn’t get past my feelings of failure that I didn’t “want” to hold my baby. It would have been easier to say no to “Are you ready to hold your baby?” There’s a huge difference in the connotation of ready and want. One implies ability while the other implies desire. I desired holding my child, but I recognized that physically that wouldn’t have been smart.
When I went back to work, one of my co-workers asked me when I was going to have another child, “after all, popping out another one is no big deal”. Wow, what I experienced was “no big deal”! Everyone sure thought it was a pretty big deal that night. People were in and out of the room, trying to find the anesthesiologist, and shoving needles in my hands. So, just for the record:
hemorrhaging 60% of the blood in your body, no big deal
attempting to delivery your uterus, no big deal
needing the placenta to be surgically removed, no big deal
doctors debating if you should go to the ICU, no big deal
blood pressure crashing from 200 / 120 to 50 / 30, no big deal
needing 8 IV’s to pump all of the drugs into you, no big deal
believing that you’re dying as they roll you into the operating room, not a big deal
It’s amazing the things people assume about birth. They have no clue what your experience was, and yet they make the assumption that it was just like their sister’s or wife’s or friend’s experience. Even my parents and in-laws were guilty of this. They were too caught up in the moment to see beyond the baby.
The first time I interviewed a new OB, he told me, “The worst OB in the world can give you a better birth experience than you had the last time.” I know it was meant to be reassuring. I was supposed to be comforted by that statement, but to me it was a condemnation of my skills in finding and choosing my previous doctor. After all, if the “worst OB in the world” is more competent than my previous OB was, what does that say about my choice? It was patronizing, and I never went back to him. The last thing I needed was someone else patting me on the head like a child.
What about, “you didn’t advocate for yourself” and “you didn’t educate yourself”. I love these ones, because it puts all of the blame on mom for the poor outcome. No one else has any responsibility because she “didn’t advocate or educate” herself. So, moms are supposed to read the doctor’s minds. We’re supposed to be more educated than the caregivers we hire. We’re supposed to argue, refuse, or question every time a medication is adjusted, a tool is picked up, or a twinge is felt. We’re supposed to have eyes in the back of our heads, and no matter what our physical and emotional condition we’re supposed to be able to force medical personnel to answer questions truthfully. We’re supposed to know if a homebirth is a better option than a hospital birth or a water birth. We’re supposed to know if we should take Hypnobirthing, Bradley, Lamaze, or the hospital childbirth education class. We’re supposed to know which books are the proper ones to read. Wow! Did you know that pregnant women have superhuman, omniscient, god-like powers? What a crock! Advocacy requires open and honest communication between caregivers and patients. Without that free-flowing information a patient cannot be an effective advocate for themselves. As for education, there’s no way for any one person to know absolutely everything about birth. Most of the time it works just fine, but sometimes interventions are necessary. We all make the best decisions at the time with the information we have at hand. All these statements do is blame the mom for her experience, and sometimes mom’s not the one who should be blamed.
“Transforming lives”, the hospital certainly transformed my life. They didn’t just make me a new mom; they traumatized me in the process. I became a victim of medical assault. I was trivialized, de-humanized, and objectified. They dismissed my attempts to advocate for myself. They ran roughshod over me and my husband. We didn’t leave as a happy family of three. We left broken. I had a husband who hated his child because she “caused” mom to be so sick. I left unable to give my daughter a bath without triggering a flashback. I was weak from blood loss, and emotionally destroyed by the experience. Then they re-traumatized me by asking me to fund their initiative to create a hotel-like atmosphere in the birthing center so they can “transform lives” when what they really need is to make sure they’re properly staffed for an emergency. Private rooms, rugs on the floors, pretty drapes at the windows, and sofa beds for dad to sleep on aren’t going to help the mom who needs immediate surgical care, and there’s no anesthesiologist on the premises.
Finally, my two favorites that always seem to come together. “You should be grateful that you have a healthy child”, and “all that matters is a healthy child”. Why do people believe that being grateful it all turned out okay doesn’t mean that you can’t be angry about how it was achieved. The two feelings aren’t mutually exclusive, and the co-existence of those two emotions is part of what makes recovering difficult. I’m grateful that the OB I chose was competent. I’m grateful that he held everything together until the CNA and the anesthesiologist got back to the hospital. I’m grateful that he was capable of resolving the issues without resorting to a hysterectomy. However, that doesn’t mean I’m not angry that he failed to communicate what was going wrong to me while I was capable of understanding it. It doesn’t mean I’m not angry that I was treated like a vessel, and not like a human being. It doesn’t mean I’m not angry that he didn’t ask if the epidural was working before he tried to pry the placenta out of me. There’s this dichotomy of emotions that I struggle with everyday. As for the “all that matters is a healthy baby” statement, does mom not count? Does dad not count? A healthy baby needs a healthy home. They need parents who care for them. When a parent can’t stand the thought of holding their own child, they’re broken. The home is broken, the family is broken, and the baby will eventually grow to be broken too.
Words have amazing power. Choosing the right ones can be difficult. For moms with PTSD or other post-partum mood disorders, the wrong words can wreak havoc on their recovery. They cut us to the bone, instead of building us up. I know it’s not intentional, but words can cause damage too.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Choices
Should patients be “allowed” to make their own choices about their care? Should they be entitled to make the final decision? There are some situations that are truly emergent. In those situations, does the patient lose their right to choose?
Obviously, each situation is unique. There are times when different doctors have different opinions about how to treat a patient. Isn’t that why we “get a second opinion”? We’re trying to decide what course of treatment to follow. Do we have surgery, take medicine, or ignore it and do nothing? In my case, the doctor tried three different treatments before he successfully corrected the problem. Shouldn’t it have been my choice which one to try? He tried applying cord traction, he tried to manually remove the placenta, and he finally performed a D & C before he got it out. Was this a reasonable course of treatment? He did start with the least invasive procedure, but if there was time to try three different treatments there was time to talk to me about it before he started performing them. He didn’t believe it was emergent when he started on the cord traction. He didn’t believe it was emergent when he tried prying it out. He didn’t label it as emergent until he needed surgical assistance, and even then it was HIS choice, not mine. Maybe if we’d discussed it right away it wouldn’t have been so chaotic. If he’d talked about it right away maybe we could have requested help BEFORE it became emergent. Maybe I would have processed the whole thing as a medical procedure instead of a rape, a violation, an abuse. Maybe if he’d discussed it, he would have known the anesthesia wasn’t working and recommended a different course of action. Would I have chosen going straight to surgery? I don’t know. I probably would have followed the course he thought was best, but at least I would have had the opportunity to ask questions, provide necessary information about pain relief, and OWN my decision. I would have understood, who, what, why, when and where. I wouldn’t have been locked in darkness, despair and fear.
We deserve to make our own choices. When we choose, we can accept our responsibility for what happened. We “own” the choice. It’s hard to own someone else’s choice. It’s hard to take responsibility for someone else’s actions. I wish I owned the choices that night, but I was nothing, a uterus, a vessel, a doll.
I didn’t deserve to be objectified. I didn’t deserve to be ignored. I didn’t deserve to be treated like a liar and an over-reactor. I didn’t deserve to be deceived.
I did deserve the opportunity to participate in making my own healthcare decisions. I did deserve them listening to me. I did deserve owning my decision. I am and was an autonomous, capable, intelligent woman who was more than able to make difficult decisions regarding my care. I didn’t need a protector, a god, or a physician dictating my choices. It should have been my choice. I paid him to guide me. I wanted his advice. I didn’t give him the right to take away my choice, my power, or my autonomy.
Obviously, each situation is unique. There are times when different doctors have different opinions about how to treat a patient. Isn’t that why we “get a second opinion”? We’re trying to decide what course of treatment to follow. Do we have surgery, take medicine, or ignore it and do nothing? In my case, the doctor tried three different treatments before he successfully corrected the problem. Shouldn’t it have been my choice which one to try? He tried applying cord traction, he tried to manually remove the placenta, and he finally performed a D & C before he got it out. Was this a reasonable course of treatment? He did start with the least invasive procedure, but if there was time to try three different treatments there was time to talk to me about it before he started performing them. He didn’t believe it was emergent when he started on the cord traction. He didn’t believe it was emergent when he tried prying it out. He didn’t label it as emergent until he needed surgical assistance, and even then it was HIS choice, not mine. Maybe if we’d discussed it right away it wouldn’t have been so chaotic. If he’d talked about it right away maybe we could have requested help BEFORE it became emergent. Maybe I would have processed the whole thing as a medical procedure instead of a rape, a violation, an abuse. Maybe if he’d discussed it, he would have known the anesthesia wasn’t working and recommended a different course of action. Would I have chosen going straight to surgery? I don’t know. I probably would have followed the course he thought was best, but at least I would have had the opportunity to ask questions, provide necessary information about pain relief, and OWN my decision. I would have understood, who, what, why, when and where. I wouldn’t have been locked in darkness, despair and fear.
We deserve to make our own choices. When we choose, we can accept our responsibility for what happened. We “own” the choice. It’s hard to own someone else’s choice. It’s hard to take responsibility for someone else’s actions. I wish I owned the choices that night, but I was nothing, a uterus, a vessel, a doll.
I didn’t deserve to be objectified. I didn’t deserve to be ignored. I didn’t deserve to be treated like a liar and an over-reactor. I didn’t deserve to be deceived.
I did deserve the opportunity to participate in making my own healthcare decisions. I did deserve them listening to me. I did deserve owning my decision. I am and was an autonomous, capable, intelligent woman who was more than able to make difficult decisions regarding my care. I didn’t need a protector, a god, or a physician dictating my choices. It should have been my choice. I paid him to guide me. I wanted his advice. I didn’t give him the right to take away my choice, my power, or my autonomy.
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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