Calming myself down

Last night was a better night - at least until my husband woke me up in the middle of the night because he was ill.

I called my best friend, and she reminded me of who I am, of what I believe, and what I know deep in my heart that I have to do, even though I don't want to do it. It brought me a measure of peace that I haven't had since I realized what had happened.

The sleeping part of last night was rough simply because everyone in my house decided to wake up in the middle of the night. I had a really hard time quieting my brain to go back to sleep, but I did manage it around 3:30 am.

I've wanted to do some artwork to try releasing my emotions, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it. I guess I have a hard time with things that are not concrete. I'm always looking for a grade, and art is so subjective that I haven't been able to let myself just create. I may try that again this weekend. It's just that I look at the blank page and freeze.

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.

Where I'm starting

I requested a new copy of my medical records yesterday. Before I jump to any conclusions, plans, or assumptions I need to verify that the records have indeed been changed. Hopefully, I'll have a new copy this week.

I had a rough night last night. This situation was preying on my mind. I took a pill, and still couldn't sleep. I just feel like they're all out to get me, even though in the rational part of my brain I know that's not true.

How on earth did I find myself in such a freaking mess?

It shouldn't be this hard to give birth. It shouldn't still haunt you two 1/2 years later. I shouldn't be in this place where I am right now.

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!!!!

Since my last post, I've managed to not do any birthday party planning. It's amazing how far I've come on this PTSD journey. I can now right about what my problem / trigger is, and I can work out a plan to cope with it. I never thought things could get this good.

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.

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.

Giving Birth Online

Dear Radio Station Host-

I know that it's "news" that someone in our community chose to broadcast their child's birth live on the internet. I can understand choosing to play the end of this event on the radio once to encourage conversation. However, I do not understand choosing to replay it over, and over, and over again. Just because you found the experience of giving birth to be the best moment of your life doesn't mean that every other mother or father feels the same way about their children's birth.

The sound of a newborn's cry can be amazing, but it can also be terrifying when it doesn't happen. Just stab the knife into every mom or dad whose baby was rushed to the NICU by replaying those sounds over and over again. What about the mom who gives birth to a stillborn child. That's a knife in the heart to those moms as well because they didn't and will never hear the sound of that baby crying in those moments. What about moms who have complications after the baby is born. The sounds of a baby's cry can shove them back into the delivery room where people are flooding the room trying to save mom's life.

I know society chooses to portray giving birth as joyful, fulfilling, amazing and miraculous, but that isn't every woman's experience. I work as a moderator on a forum for moms who are struggling with birth trauma. They've had experiences that leave them with mental health issues like PPD, PTSD, and other postpartum mood disorders. Everyday with their new child is a challenge. Listening to your broadcast replaying those moments can cause a mom with PTSD to have nightmares, flashbacks, and other anxiety issues. I know because I suffered from them yesterday and last night.

Women who don't have the great birth experience often feel isolated. They're not allowed to talk about their child's birth because society doesn't accept these experiences as valid. When a woman tried to talk about it, she gets shut down. She's told not to share her experiences with other women who are pregnant. Trust me, talking about hemorrhaging at a baby shower will get a woman verbally shot down in less than 30 seconds. The last thing they need are more reminders that "they did something wrong" or "they failed".

Please consider that not everyone experiences things the same way before you decide to replay a soundtrack of a very emotional experience over the air.

Concerned Listener

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.

33 weeks of memories

I had an email from my sister-in-law yesterday. She’s pregnant for the third time. In my head I know this is a good thing. They want this baby. They’ll do their best for this baby. However, it’s making me anxious, edgy, and upset. I chickened out of calling her yesterday. I sent a brief Congratulations e-mail. I didn’t put it together until this morning, but her baby is due on the same day Peanut was due.

That’s what has me freaked out. They have the same due date. Each week I’ll be thinking about my disintegrating pregnancy and birth. There’s no reason to suspect that her pregnancy will go the same way that mine did. It’s incredibly rare for that to happen, but for the next 33 weeks I’ll have that reminder of ickiness.

I have to find away to break my association between those dates. It’s not my pregnancy. It’s not my birth. It’s not me. But it hurts. I’d love to have another child, but I know that neither my husband nor I can face another pregnancy. We’ve decided to have the big V performed this year. I know this is the best decision we can make. But I’m still sad that I will only have one child, one pregnancy, one birth.

Thirty three weeks of memories…

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.

Snapping Turtles in Truck Beds

One of my most vivid memories from the year I started first grade, is of a huge snapping turtle in the bed of a pickup truck. One of the men on the indian reservation had captured this turtle, and he'd brought it over to the church to show it off to all of the other families. He found this big stick, actually a good sized tree branch, and was poking it at this turtle. I remember watching the turtle snapping at the branch, he was angry, scared, and trapped. The turtle just kept spinning around in the bed looking for new threats.

The year I turned six was a crazy year. I lived in 4 houses and 3 states, one of those houses was on an Indian reservation. I attended three different schools, and I was physically attacked by my little sister nearly every day. My family went from being solidly middle class to living in subsidized housing because my father decided to get out of the military and go back to college. There was so much instability and upheaval in my life.

Using EMDR yesterday, I was 5 again. The fear, the anger, the hatred, the pain, and the feeling of being dismissed that I’d bottled up so many years ago, erupted from their hiding place as a result of my daughter’s birth.

I felt like that snapping turtle – everyone poking at me, no place to go, no place to hide. I was trapped, angry, fearful, hurting, and confused by all of the changes in my life. At 5 you have no control over your parent’s choices. You live where they tell you to live. You wear what they tell you to wear. You act the way you’re told to act.

I don’t want to be that scared 5 year old anymore.

I am a 38 year old woman. I am a wife and a mom. I own my own home. I have a career. I have friends. I am only trapped by my mind. I no longer live in an abusive home. I no longer have to worry about a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back.

I am not a turtle fighting to get free.

Acknowledging Irrational Thoughts

Wow!

I feel so much better. Putting a face on why I'm feeling the way I do, acknowledging my feelings instead of stuffing them makes them so much easier to deal with on a daily basis. It's completely irrational to be afraid of a billboard, a piece of mail, or a tv ad. I know that in my head. It's why I was stuffing everything down. It's too irrational to deserve being voiced. It's much easier to be angry. To blame everything except what's happening in my own head.

Denying irrational thoughts doesn't eradicate them. It reinforces them. Getting rid of them means accepting that the thought is real, and debunking it. I know this, but sometimes I get caught up in the feelings and stop listening to myself. I just feel.

Change requires constant monitoring of my thoughts. I requires that I debunk untrue thoughts and that I reinforce accurate thoughts. That's the only way to get past this.

I was never in danger driving to work, well no more danger than anyone else on the road is in on a given day. I was never in danger while watching TV or getting the mail. I must remember to reinforce those accurate thoughts to make it harder for the irrational ones to get through.

Clogged, Stuck, Trapped

So, my PTSD has been flaring up over the last several months. I know that my first trigger was the ER episode. I thought I had handled it well. I thought because I could watch the episode later that I was better. What a crock, it was just my brain faking me out again.

Then, the billboard was put up on the road I take to work. Every morning, I see that sign on the road. A few weeks later, a new billboard was put up on the road I take home from work. Great, now they've got me coming and going. Then they started their direct mail campaign. It's looking me in the eye from my mailbox when I get home. Then they started the TV ads. This week, it made the front page of the local paper. I feel bombarded and trapped. I can’t get away from the reminders.

"It's a suite experience!"

All I can think is its dangerous.

Watch out.

Don't go there.

It's NOT SAFE!

Run!

Trapped!

Hide!

Fear!

Escape!

Pain!

I'm anxious, edgy, and fidgety. I’m not sleeping well at night. I had still been keeping the nightmares at bay, but last night they came back with a vengeance.

I realized things weren’t quite right back in May. I told my husband that I NEEDED to go away on vacation. I thought a change of scenery, a change of routine would help, and it did for a while. But, like always, it was a temporary fix. A few weeks ago, he told me, “you just don’t seem like yourself”. The warning lights started flashing bright green and red. I’M BACK!

I don’t want you back. I want ME back. I thought I had conquered you. Why won’t you leave?

I’ve lived with PTSD my entire life. My father is a Vietnam Vet. I was born only two years after he completed his second tour of duty. I didn’t know what it was called, but my memories are loaded with memories of my father’s struggles with PTSD. I watched him have flashbacks. I watched him fly into a rage over something that should have been trivial. I lived with his skewed perceptions of the world, of safety, of his belief structure.

And, now I struggle to make sure I don’t create the same environment for my daughter. I’m in counseling for her and my husband. I sought help to break the cycle of this illness. I will not allow my home to be a place of fear and anger.

My counselor thinks that this is old stuff. I have to find a way to get past the state of fear that I lived in as a child that the trauma of my daughter’s birth dredged up from the depths of my mind. I must find a way to find safety within myself because the outside world will never be 100% safe.

I must not fail.

Why can’t I just get away from all of this?

My 20 year high school class reunion is coming up in August. My husband and I have decided to attend, so I’ve spent the last couple of weekends, blame Stacey and Clinton from TLC’s What Not to Wear (my husband does), looking for a dress to wear to the event.

It’s been difficult to find a dress. To start, I’m a larger than average girl. Not a lot larger, but large enough that I can’t fit into the dresses in the regular misses department at the stores. Therefore, my selection is pretty limited. Added to that, I was a wall-flower in high school, and I don’t want the dress that I buy to reflect that part of my past. I’m not that shy, scared girl anymore. I’m a wife and a mother. I own my own home. I have a career that I’m good at and enjoy. I’m a PTSD survivor. I want a dress that has people seeing the confident woman that I am now. I want them to see that I’m not shy and retiring, but willing to put myself forward the way I am now acknowledging my own faults.

I had bombed out at 12 different stores two weekends ago. I tried on approximately 80 dresses, but nothing hit all of the right notes. I’ve spent the last week grumbling about it to my co-workers. It was so frustrating to have one little thing wrong with so many dresses.

So, last weekend I dragged my husband to the local Macy’s store. We went through the entire store, and grabbed every single dress they had in my size (between 30 and 40 dresses total). I tried on sleeveless dresses, short sleeved dresses, and long sleeved dresses. I tried on casual sundresses, work type dresses, cocktail dresses, and even mistakenly tried on a prom dress. (We were just grabbing, not really looking at the dresses.) I tried on dresses that I would typically never consider. I’m pretty modest, so I don’t wear sequins, tight, or sleeveless clothes. However, given my insatiable desire to find the “right” dress, I ignored all of my own rules. So, I started trying all of these dresses on in the dressing room. I showed my husband each and every one of them. One of them had my husband’s jaw hitting the floor. It was like va-va-voom – totally sexy, slinky, sex-kitten dress, and I looked GOOD! Actually, I looked gorgeous. I’ve never seen myself like that. I’m not ugly, but I’ve never thought of myself as pretty. Anyhow, it just happens that this dress was on clearance for $40, so I decided to go ahead and buy it.

Monday morning rolls around, and I’m talking to a couple of co-workers about finding this great dress. I told them that my husband’s going to get a sitter, so we can go out for my birthday next month, and he’s even thinking about springing for a hotel room. In my mind it was a pretty innocuous, non-triggering conversation to be having, when Chantel says, “woohoo, baby number two making night”.

AARGH! I’m talking about a dress, not making baby number two. I’m not going to intentionally have any more children. My husband and I have decided that neither one of us in comfortable with the risk. My pregnancy and delivery were complicated. In fact they were more complicated than my hospital had ever seen. It’s not like they were just a little bit more complicated than usual, we’re talking almost off the charts complicated. The odds of having that many complications in a single delivery are higher than the odds of winning the lottery. For me, the risks of dying are very real. When your medical records record a conversation about placing mom in the ICU, she’s not making up stories, or exaggerating about nearly dying when giving birth. It’s rare, but moms do sometimes die. There’s no point in giving birth to another child when my odds of not being there to raise that child are so high.

Anyhow, I’m just frustrated. I know Chantel doesn’t know my birth story. I know she didn’t mean anything bad by saying this. She’s working under the typical assumption that most people have their children two to three years apart. It’s just that the casual way she said it kind of tripped me up a bit.

I’m so much better than I was. This experience has started fading into the background. It’s still there. I know I still filter every new experience through it, but it’s not like it was before. I guess I’m just a little naïve in thinking that as my daughter gets older things will stop triggering me. I keep thinking that it’s in the past, and yet I’m having a conversation about a sexy dress, and birth pops up. When are people going to stop talking about it? How old do I have to get before it stops being a common topic of conversation. It’s not that I can’t talk about my daughter’s birth. I do talk about it, but I don’t see the need to go into details with every Tom, Dick, or Harry that walks into my life.

ER - The Final Episode

I bet you're thinking you stumbled across the wrong blog. I don't usually write about frivolous things like the latest TV show. However, it's pertinent in this case to my healing.

I remember watching the first episode of ER. I was hooked. I loved the interplay of Dr. Greene, Dr. Ross, Dr. Benton, and Dr. Carter. So many things in my life have changed since that day, but that has been one of the constants - Thursday night at 9 pm. I haven't watched consistently in a long time, but I decided to watch last night's episode.

It started off okay. They got to the twin labor and delivery, and I was okay. (I can finally watch re-enactments of the happy deliveries without freaking out.) I watched them deliver the second baby, and I was still okay. The first gush of blood came out of mom, and I started to get a little tense, but I was okay. The second gush came, and I'm starting to think maybe I should switch to something else, and then... gush number 3, uterine inversion, mom starts losing consciousness, call for blood, start IV's... I jump off the sofa, grab my daughter, and run for the stairs. I rush to get her put to bed, and run back downstairs to change channels before the commercial is over. I'm shaking, edgy, panicking, and trying desperately to calm myself. I was up half the night crying.

Right after Peanut was born, I kept asking my husband and best friend questions about my birth. I have no visual memories after the attempted manual removal of the placenta. I have some memories of sounds, but no pictures. My nightmares were terrifying to me because I didn't have the pictures, so I kept looking for them to give them to me. I'd ask, What did they do? What did it look like? Anything to get a description of what had gone on. I've accepted this lack of visual information. I've gotten used to the missing time frame. Having that visual experience last night totally has me freaked out.

I'm achy, hollow, anxious, edgy, and exhausted. I want to hide in a small dark place, and forget what I saw. I want to forget the fear, the anger, the panic. It was like they wrote MY story into the script. The baby was in the warmer, Dad standing to one side watching, and it all falls apart.

I haven't been this bad in a long time.

I HATE feeling like this. I HATE being this new person. What did I do to deserve this?

I wrote this on Friday morning. I'm glad to say that by noon, I was feeling better. Still edgy, but not jumping out of my own skin edgy. By the time I got home, the stranglehold was gone. I could think about other things, talk about other things, be myself.

I sometimes forget how far I've come. It came in such small, baby steps that you miss where things began to change. Despite my being triggered, I'm grateful to realize that this experience doesn't control me the way it did in the past. Within 36 hours most of the intrusive thoughts were gone. I didn't have another nightmare, and the flashback was only in the immediate time frame of being triggered.

My husband wants to delete the recording from the DVR, but I won't let him. I know I have to watch the entire thing. I won't watch it today, and probably not tomorrow, but in the future I need to see it. In order for me to be free, I have to face it.

This was my story. It may have a few tweaks, but it's the story I live with everyday.

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?

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.

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.