Struggling

I'm really struggling right now. I'm finding it difficult to control my edginess and irritability. It's creeping into my interactions with my daughter and with the dogs. Usually, I can find my zen when I get home, but the last couple of nights the dogs have ended up in timeout, and the peanut has been kicked off of my lap for squirming.

I'm not sure how to deal with all of my feelings right now. I don't know how to stop the edginess from manifesting itself in my life. My husband knows something is wrong. I disappeared to the computer last night after the peanut went to bed. He knows I'm disconnecting, and so do I. I probably need to think about counseling again, but I kind of want to wait until I receive the records.

Just when I think I have this thing under control, something makes me feel like the PTSD has smacked me in the face with a baseball bat.

What do I do now?

I orginally got a copy of my medical records from my daughter's birth just a few months after she was born. At that time, I read them, discussed them with my family practice doctor, and decided to enter counseling to learn to cope with my experience. I put the records away, and completely forgot about where they were.

Last summer, things were really getting to me again, and since I couldn't remember where my records were in addition to them being somewhat incomplete, I requested a new more complete copy of them. By the time I received them, I was back in counseling, and I'd relaxed enough that I didn't really feel the need to read them.

When I was sick over Thanksgiving, I found the new set of records. I paged through them, re-read the narratives, and threw them out. I noticed that they specifically mentioned me "consenting" to procedures. However, I didn't remember that being in the original set of documents. However, the other day, I noticed the original set of the records was buried at the bottom of a drawer in my daughter's changing table. I made a note of their location in the back of my mind, and went about my business.

Yesterday morning, I woke up a little bit before the alarm went off. As I was laying in bed, it suddenly hit me. They'd changed the original records. It bothered me a bit, but I had work to do, so I put the thought aside.

This morning, I grabbed my original copy of the records, and re-read the notes on my daughter's delivery. In the original narrative, there's no mention of the doctor obtaining consent for the D & C, manual removal of the placenta, or fixing the uterine inversion. However, I'm positive that the current records have been altered to include "consent" issues.

What do I do? I don't know if I should request another copy of the records. I'm not sure if I should file a complaint with the hospital, state medical department, or find an attorney. I had registered a complaint with the state medical department a couple of years ago, and I'm sure my records were altered to avoid punishment at that time.

I don't know. I'm perplexed, frustrated, and angry right now. I feel like I've been re-violated because they're unwilling to face up to their own actions.

I'm doing it AGAIN!

Three years ago, give or take a couple of days, I reached the halfway point in my pregnancy. At that time, I went in for the "big" ultrasound. That test kicked off the complications I would experience through the remainder of my pregnancy.

Since then, as soon as Christmas is over, I start obsessing about my daughter's birthday party. What should the theme be? Where should it be held? Who should we invite? What kind of cake? What kind of gift? The baloons, tableware, and gift bags are scrutinzed and accepted or rejected.

It didn't click the other day when I searched for Dora the Explorer party invitations for over an hour. It didn't click when I started investigating venues. However, today my sister-in-law posted on facebook about her baby's "big" ultrasound. The light bulb went off, and I realized I'm trying to once again take back control over my pregnancy. Since my pregnancy is over, the next best thing is the birthday party.

I'm going to try to control it a little bit better this year than last year. I'm going to try not to get too caught up in the details.

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.

I caught the last 20 minutes of Trauma last night. One character told the other that he needed to go get help. The other character responded, "what if once I let it all out I can't get it all put back in?"

That's the way I feel now about my PTSD. In the early days, I talked about my trauma. It gushed out of me on a daily basis. It was like I had to find a place for it to go that wasn't inside me, so I talked, and talked, and talked some more. I had friends tell me to let it go, and still I talked. I had people tell me it didn't matter what had happened to me, and still I talked. I thought that by talking, I could get it all out.

Now, I know that there's more to it than that. Talking about it was like opening the vent on a pressure cooker. It allowed me to open the appliance safely. However, now I worry that I might let something out that I don't want to have to put back inside me.

PTSD became the filter that my thoughts were processed through. PTSD became the glasses that I saw the world through. PTSD became my dirty little secret. It became my binky.

So, now I have to find away to allow myself to break enough that I can re-assemble myself into the person I want to be. I guess I'm ready to take that fall.

Facing Forward instead of Looking Back

My daughter was in her rear-facing carseat for a long time. Most kids turn around at a year, but she was so small that she didn't hit the minimum weight requirement for an additional 7 months after that milestone. We looked forward to the day that she'd be facing forward, that she could see out the car window, and that we could hand her things from the front seat. The day she turned around was a celebratory day! She was finally a big girl.

PTSD is the same way. You have to find ways to look forward instead of backward. We have to fight to live in the present, and not the past. It's hard to accomplish this, and once in a while we all fall off the wagon, but you have to get up and try again.

The month of September was hard, very, very, very, very hard. I was finding myself starting to slide back down that slippery slope of looking backwards. So, I've started trying to re-focus myself on the present and the future. I've made plans to take my daughter to the pumpkin patch this weekend. I'm trying to make plans for Halloween. I'm looking at November, and trying to see what I can line up, and I've made plans for a weekend getaway just before Christmas.

The past is gone. I cannot re-live it. I cannot change it. I must find a way to move forward into my future.

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.

A Trip to the ER

So, last week I ended up in the emergency room of the hospital where Jennavive was born. I've been having problems with dizziness, and I'd seen the doctor the week before. She thought it was just vertigo - be patient, and it should go away on its own. However, I started having a lot of tingling, numbness, nerve pain in my face on my way to counseling Thursday night. I called my husband, asked him to pick up peanut, and went home. When I got home, I looked in the mirror, and my face was completely lopsided. My husband got home 1/2 hour later, and I asked him to take me to urgent care. As we started to head out of town to the clinic urgent care, I changed my mind, and asked him to head to the ER.

We stood behind a couple of other families waiting our turn to get checked in when the triage nurse came out of her room to start prioritizing patients. She spoke to the family in front of us, told them to stay in line, and came back to talk to me. I explained about my face drooping. She grabbed my arm, told my husband to check me in, and dragged me into the emergency room. I sat down on the bed, and she started strapping monitors to my chest, a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and taking a quick history. Two minutes later, the doctor was at my bedside asking questions and listening to my story. He told me that they were going to do an MRI. Another nurse came in, and started setting me up for an IV. (Doesn't anyone ask permission anymore?) I balked. I told her that I'd had a rotten birth experience, and I really didn't want the IV. I got lucky, the lab tech walked into the room to do a blood draw, so she told me that as long as the tech got a sample that they'd skip the IV.

I’ve been having problems since then. I was diagnosed with Bell’s Palsy. It’s not a big deal. It goes away on it’s own over time. It’s not pleasant, but not dangerous either.
But, it’s causing me nightmares, the feeling of being objectified, the feeling of being controlled, the feeling of being dismissed or ignored all coming raging back to me. I’m struggling to cope. My In-Laws have very graciously moved into our home for this week since I’m not allowed to drive. They’re making meals, performing projects around the house, mowing, and cleaning. It’s great that they’re willing to do this. I appreciate all of their efforts, and yet I feel like screaming – “GET OUT, I can do it MYSELF”. Except I cannot do it myself, and I know it. I know it’s the PTSD talking. It’s the dichotomy that I live with. My rational brain knows that everyone is looking out for me, everyone just wants to help me get better, but the irrational side feels like a little kid fighting off a temper tantrum. I want to fling myself on the floor, kick my legs, and scream at the top of my lungs.

Hopefully, acknowledging it will let it fade.

The good news is, I did advocate for myself in the ER after I got over the initial shock. I did get them to explain things to me. I did avoid an unnecessary IV. I did manage to keep myself in the present, and fight off the flashbacks. Even though my blood pressure skyrocketed to my PIH days of pregnancy, I kept my calm. I did ask a ton of questions the next day at the clinic appointment. I can hear my counselor telling me that I did a good job. My husband feels like I did a good job. The rational part of my brain knows that I handled this better than Jennavive's birth. I just wish the fall out was a little bit easier to handle.

Rage - the Drug of Choice for PTSD

Personally, I kind of like the way that righteous, justified anger makes me feel. When I'm angry I feel powerful, not weak. When I'm angry I feel invincible, not helpless. When the anger is justified, those feelings seem even stronger because I'm "standing up for the little guy" or "showing the man".

I allow myself to fully experience it. I relish it. I wallow in it. I'm almost seduced by it. I don't let myself let go of it, because I like the powerful way it makes me feel. Justified, righteous, and powerful - it's like a drug to my brain. It feeds the PTSD. I burn with the emotions.

The problem is, when I'm angry there's no room for happiness. There's no room for remembering or appreciating my daughter's joyful laugh. I lose so much if I let it take over. I don't appreciate a bouquet of fresh flowers, a beautiful garden, or a sunny blue sky. I hate what I lose when it has me by the throat, so I'm trying to teach myself to let it go.

My boss told me once that I needed to forgive the doctor to heal. Sometimes I wonder if he's right. The anger shouldn't be a security blanket that I hold close. I should hold my family close.

Weeds On My Mind

My husband has been working on a major landscaping project for the last few weeks. Actually, he’s finishing up a major landscaping project from when we first moved into our home 5 years ago. For some reason, despite the use of landscape fabric and rock, the weeds have overtaken the landscaping around the front of our house. The weeds have even taken root in the tiny area between the pavers of the front sidewalk. Every year, it’s a pain in the butt to go out and weed the area. We’ve lost plants / shrubs to the ever increasing weed population. The sidewalk has started to spread wider as the weeds have pushed the pavers apart. This year, we’ve had enough. We’re pulling up all of the rocks, the landscape fabric, and the pavers, and starting all over with new fabric, mulch, and rebuilding the sidewalk.

So, how does this relate to my PTSD?

The weeds are the thoughts from the past that keep intruding into my present. They’ve been choking the life out of me for the last two years. It seems like every six months, I go through and yank them all out, but pretty soon they’ve taken over again. I have one passing thought, I don’t acknowledge it, I don’t challenge its validity, and I just let it hang out. The next thing I know, there’s another one, and another one, and another one. They grow huge, the roots dig down deep into the fertile soil of my brain, and they begin to take over.

I have to find away to turn my hyper-vigilance inside myself. I need to use it to root out the weeds / thoughts when they’re tiny instead of letting them grow big and strong. I need to finish my landscaping project, and free myself from the weeds in my mind. I want to be able to spend that time having fun, focusing on my family, being ME instead of dealing with the garbage of the past.

It’s not easy. I know it will take a lot of work, but I’m done with this… just like I’m done with fighting the weeds in my yard.

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?

Anniversary Effect

Anniversaries – I thought that my daughter’s birthday would be the hardest anniversary for me to deal with, but I’ve noticed that I’m not struggling as much with that specific day as I am in the 3 – 4 months leading up to it.

I was talking to my husband the other weekend, and I made a comment about my co-worker saying that I was making a big deal out of her birthday. (I’ve been planning her party for a while now. I want the invitations to be just so. I want the food / menu to be planned out in advance, and I want it to fit the theme of her party. I’ve started buying the favors for the kids. I’ve researched the local parks, to try and pick a location.) My husband said that I’m getting a bit obsessive, and I did the same thing last year. However, he did say that I’m better than I was last year, so that’s good – right? To me, I’m not planning a monster party. I am planning to make all of the food ourselves. I’m planning to invite the same people who were there last year – grandparents, aunts & uncles, cousins, and close family friends who were there the night that peanut was born. To me, this isn’t a hire a clown, or face painter, or pony, over the top kind of party. I’m not inviting her entire class from daycare – 14 2 year olds running around – YIKES! I want to have it at a local park, but that’s because I want the kids to be able to play on the playground instead of having games. Since peanut is only going to be two, I think games are kind of pointless.

Anyhow, that conversation has been bothering me a little. It’s been hanging out in the back of my mind like a tickle in your throat that won’t go away. I realized that I started planning the party at the same time of the year that I started experiencing complications during my pregnancy. This obsession, compulsion, planning kick is completely the result of the anniversary of things starting to go to hell, and I’m trying to CONTROL what’s going to happen in the upcoming months since I was completely out of control during those months of my pregnancy.

Isn’t that kind of weird? Oh well, it’s “better than last year”, so I guess I’ll have to ride it out again. Her birthday doesn’t seem to be as horrible as the months leading up to it. I guess by that time, I’m emotionally exhausted from everything else. The good thing about that is that I can actually somewhat enjoy her party. I’m also not stressing about her party falling on Mother’s Day this year, so that’s a huge bonus. I guess I’m starting to be able to separate my experiences as a mom from my experience with her birth.

Besieged? You don't know the meaning of Besieged.

I read a blog post the other day by a doctor talking about medical (doctor) writers. She happens to really like a specific author, and the quote that she included in her blog was about a doctor feeling besieged.

Besieged is kind of a triggering word for me. I felt besieged at the hospital. Therefore, it’s not a word I’m comfortable hearing in this context. I read through the entire post, and looked the word up in the dictionary. The specific meaning of the word in this context referred to being overwhelmed. I can understand a doctor feeling overwhelmed at times. There are times I feel overwhelmed at work. Everyone from the burger slinging cook at Mickey D’s to the President of the United States will feel overwhelmed from time to time. However, there’s a huge difference between feeling overwhelmed and feeling like your castle walls are being breeched.

I don’t think people really understand what being besieged feels like any more. When the army surrounds your castle, when the gates hang crookedly from the hinges, when the larders are empty, when the well has gone dry, when the foundation is cracked, when the attackers have you strapped to the rack, and your family, friends, and army are being slaughtered then you know the true meaning of being besieged.

This is the way I felt in the hospital. I was surrounded by medical personnel who were supposed to keep me safe, and instead I was nearly destroyed. My personal gates were violently breeched with no warning by the doctor. My soul was emptied, and my emotions had run dry. I felt like I was strapped to the rack with all of the tubes, monitors, and paraphernalia I was attached to, and being tortured by the pain between my thighs. My marriage was in tatters, and my brand new family was hanging together by a thread. I faced endless nights of nightmares. I faced flashbacks during the day. At that point in time you have to make the choice to pick up the pieces, or wallow in the pain, fear, anger, failure, shame, and rage.

I made the choice to reach my hand out for help. I had to rebuild the foundation of my being one stone at a time. I had to learn how to live again, how to love again, and how to have fun again. I had to learn to harness my anger and control my rage. I’ve had to face the reality of my fears, and build a tomorrow I believed was gone. I’ve learned to cope with the anxiety, and I’ve grown stronger.

I’ve been besieged. I’ve been betrayed. I’ve been violated. My new castle walls may not be pretty, they’re pitted and pocked by the previous battles, but they’re much stronger than they were.

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.

Giving up my Power?

I was reading a Birth Trauma forum the other day, and the question posed to their site was, “When did you give up your power?” There were some interesting answers. Some women said they gave it up in their childhood. Some said the medical establishment slowly eroded it. Some women blamed their spouses for not agreeing with or supporting their vision of their birth.

Personally, I’m struggling with the question. I think there’s a bit of shame associated with it. It blames the woman by assuming that “she gave up her power”, like it’s always in our ability to have a great birth experience. That no one else or nothing else can violate us if “we just don’t give up our power”. I don’t see choosing to see an OB or choosing to see a midwife is “giving up our power”. I don’t see choosing a hospital or choosing a homebirth is “giving up our power”. You don’t automatically lose your power by making a choice.

I don’t think that’s the way they mean the question. I think they’re assuming that the women responding had typical, uncomplicated pregnancies. They’re assuming that there are no complications that can or should be taken into consideration when making the decision.

However, complications, while sometimes over-diagnosed, can be real. There are times, not all the time, when having your child in the hospital is the safest place for mom to be. There are times when having a birth attendant is the safest situation to be in for both mom and baby.

I have to say the question’s been bugging me. You see, I don’t think I gave up my power by choosing an OB. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to listen to him when complications arose. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to have my baby in a hospital. I didn’t give up my power by choosing an epidural. Let’s face it, I argued myself into an epidural despite the anesthesiologist’s objections to providing it. The doctor stole my power when he chose to perform a procedure without my consent. I didn’t give it up, it was STOLEN.

There’s a huge difference between those two concepts. I have to admit that I didn’t fight to get it back during the remainder of my stay, but that was my choice. I chose to focus on healing. I chose to focus on getting out of that hospital as soon as I could. I chose to focus on me. I didn’t want anything to get in my way, but there again; I guess that is taking back my power. It was my choice; therefore, the power was mine. I didn’t fight for answers; I chose to save my energy to fight for healing.

Maybe having a choice is having the power. Except for the procedures after my daughter was born, I made the choices. They might not popular in the home birthing community, but they were my choices.

Getting Better

Since cancelling my meeting last week, I've started feeling a bit lighter. I'm finding myself being less annoyed with everyone. I'm less edgy. I'm still not sleeping well, but the actual sleep I'm getting is better.

I'm still struggling with anger. I'm angry with myself. I'm angry with the old doctor. I'm angry with the nurse. I'm angry with my new doctor for dredging this up.

My counselor suggested that I sometimes feel like I'm crazy. She might be right. Maybe that's why I'm fighting this so hard instead of submitting to it. Someone once told me that there's great power in submission, but I struggle with that concept. I guess to me, fighting is ingrained. I don't like to give up. I don't like to quit. I'm used to making things happen, but I can't make the PTSD go away.

I keep going over the letter I wrote in my head. It's like a loop that keeps replaying. I know that it's not the most graphic representation / version of my daughter's birth, but it's a pretty strong description. There's no hiding the pain, fear, or anger from the reader. I'm not sure if I'm okay about the new doctor letting other people read it. I know that hiding from this doesn't help. I know that I NEED to talk about it. I'm not quite sure I'm ready to face the censure, judgement, and scrutiny. Up until now, I've really only discussed it in "safe" places. I don't open myself up to the judgement often, and if I pick up a negative vibe from someone I don't bring it up again. I'm still trying to find a way to discuss it while protecting myself.

Maybe I need to re-write the story.

I just want to feel like the "old" me again. I don't like the new Traumatized Mom.

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.

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:

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.

Blindsided, continued

Well, I decided what to do. I tracked down an e-mail address for the hospital foundation. I wrote a brief, polite e-mail to them asking to be removed from their call list. Letting them know that I could no longer support their organization after the poor quality of care I had received as a patient 17 months ago. I've spent thousands of dollars in counseling costs, time off work, and gas costs to learn how to cope with the PTSD. Funding my tormentors is simply not going to happen.

They've responded to the e-mail, so hopefully this issue is now resolved.

Blindsided

Why is it that just when I think I'm getting better something blindsides me again?

Several years ago, my co-worker's wife died. My co-worker asked that donations be made in his wife's name to the hospital where I ended up delivering my daughter. I chose to make a donation, so I ended up on the fundraiser mailing list.

Last night, I received a phone call from the hospital foundation. The volunteer was expounding on the great things the hospital provides to the area, but all I could think about was the damage they had caused me. I clammed up, and let her ramble through her spiel. Obviously, I didn't respond in the typical manner because she suddenly stopped mid-sentence and asked if another time would be better. To give myself time to think about what to say, I told her that she could call back another day.

There's no way that I can donate money to this organization. They're more concerned with their expansion plans than providing good care to their patients. They're more concerned with the aesthetics of the birth center than the safety of the women birthing there. I've spend thousands of dollars on counseling. I've taken tons of time off work without pay to go to the counseling sessions. I nearly lost my marriage because they didn't care enough to make sure their patients were treated well.

Obviously this volunteer doesn't need me to go off on her about the poor care I received, but how do I get the point across that their "care" is lacking? I know I can "just say no", but I'd like to give them an explanation why without really delving into the details.

Does anyone have any suggestions?

A letter to my doctor

I wanted to take a few minutes to let you know why I decided to file a complaint against you this winter, and explain to you the lasting consequences of your actions the night of May 11, 2007.

I trusted and chose you to be a part of my transformation from a woman to a mom. I know for you it was just another delivery. It was just another series of complications to overcome, but for me it was a life changing event. For 32 minutes, I experienced the joy that comes with that transformation, and then you forced me into another transformation, a rape survivor. I know that wasn’t your intent. You were trying to avoid worrying me with another complication when you believed that you could easily and painlessly eliminate it. However, a yellow plastic gown, latex gloves, and a medical school diploma hanging in your office don’t make you God. It was my body that you violated. You humiliated and shamed me in front of my husband, daughter, best friend, and the nursing staff. I was vulnerable and trusting, and you betrayed me. Instead of treating me like an adult capable of making decisions, you treated me like an unfeeling object. Epidural or not, labor or not, my vagina is private. It’s up to me to decide who and what invades it. You abused your power, and denied me the opportunity to consent. You denied me the ability to process the event as a medical procedure. There was no warning, no understanding. The pain was indescribable. I know you tried to explain what was happening afterwards, but the pain was an incredible barrier to my understanding. The blood loss was too great, the change in blood pressure too rapid for me to process what was happening. I became legally incompetent so rapidly, that I can’t even figure out who signed the consent form for the D & C.

My primary care physician told me once that he really enjoyed delivering babies. It’s one of the few times that someone goes home with something after being in the hospital. I went home with a lot of things. I went home with a newborn. I went home with nightmares. I went home with flashbacks. I went home isolated because births like mine are not to be discussed. You don’t discuss birth rape over a cup of coffee at Caribou with an infant beside you.

Do you want to hear my version of Jennavive’s birth? I’m sure my version differs from yours?

“One more push to get the shoulders out.” I hear the doctor say. Despite not having any breath left, I try once again to push. I feel myself tear as the baby slides out, and they lay this gooey baby on my stomach. I’m in shock, she looks like an alien. There was nasty gooey mucus covering her whole body along with streaks of blood. I wish I could say I loved her at the point, but I was appalled by how she looked. I was relieved when the nurse took her away to be measured, weighed, tested, and cleaned up. At 11:45 pm, the doctor asked the nurse to tell him when 15 minutes had passed. I thought it was kind of odd at the time, but I was really starting to feel a sense of accomplishment and joy. I was watching the nurse cleaning her up while my friend took pictures. I was starting to feel a little odd, but I remember telling the doctor that “his 15 minutes was up”. The nurse asked me if I wanted to hold the baby, but I said no because I was feeling really woozy. My friend brings her over for me to touch. I reach my hand out to her. PAIN!!!! My hands are fisting in the sheets, and I’m fighting not to scream. My breathing is ragged, and I don’t know why the doctor’s hand is in my hoo-ha. I try to get away, I’m scrabbling with my hands trying to drag my body up the bed, but with the numbness in my legs I can’t escape. My vision is blurry, and I start seeing spots when I hear the doctor tell the nurse to get the surgical team. I’m struggling to stay conscious to focus on my daughter, but everything fades to black. Why do I need surgery? I don’t know what’s happening. The baby’s already here. I can’t leave her. I hear the angry voice of the doctor, “what took so long, where are they?” The nurse answers, “They left for the night. It will take an hour to get back to the hospital.” Why is he so angry? I don’t understand what’s happening. The pain is so intense it takes my breath away. They strap the oxygen mask over my face, and I feel the pricking of needles. Are they doing a hysterectomy? I still can’t see. Where’s my baby? I can’t abandon her. I hear fear in the doctor’s voice. “Where the hell are they”, he yells at the nurse. I’m so scared now. Am I dying? I can’t abandon my baby. My husband will never forgive her if something happens to me. I have to stay here to raise her. Do whatever it takes, but keep me here to raise her. Alarms are going off. What’s happening? I hear a new voice, and I feel the bed moving. They’re rolling me down the hallway to the operating room. I sense the bright lights, and feel myself being transferred to the operating table. The voices are frantic. I feel more needles pricking me, and everything fades to black…

This is what you left me with. Each year on her birthday, this is the story that I will remember. Do you remember your children’s births? Do you remember the joy you felt? I don’t. It was so fleeting. I remember the pain, anger and fear. I’m glad that you’re skilled enough to have kept me alive. I’m glad that I’m here every day to enjoy my daughter, but I can’t forgive you for the pain you caused.

I wrote the complaint to the state medical board because you crossed a line that should never be crossed. It’s my small attempt to remind the medical establishment that patients have rights. I wanted to remind you of the Hippocratic Oath. Isn’t there a line in there about “doing no harm”? You caused harm that night. It’s my small way of facing my attacker, and while you’ll probably get off scot-free at least I tried to change it for the women who will tread this path after me.

I wrote this several months ago, but I'm finding myself struggling again. My co-worker's induction is scheduled for next week, and I'm worried about how things will go for her. I just don't want to see her end up in the same place I am.

Reading this today made me realize just how much anger I still harbor towards the doctor. I guess the PTSD comes in waves. I feel strong for a while, but then something sucks me back down. I know part of the problem is a story on my SOLACE forum that really struck a nerve. A mom went through a post-birth experience similar to mine, and has never felt validated in her feelings. Reading her story, and feeling her pain, anger and fear radiating through it just smacked into me.

Sometimes criminal activities take place in the bright lights of a hospital. It's not intended to be that way. I know there's no intent, but the action itself is criminal. If a patient is fighting to get away from you, they're in pain. If they're screaming at you to STOP, stop. If you're more worried about what their family members are seeing there's something wrong with your morals. Patients are humans. We're autonomous. We have feelings. We're not objects. Treat us with the respect that you expect us to treat you with. Listen to us. Answer our questions. Allow us to trust you. Don't betray us in the heat of battle.