Angry at The Lurking Beast

I had my fourth appointment with the every amazing Sarah today. Unlike last week where I came home and had intense and constant flashbacks for 48 hours, today I’m just a huge ball of fury. Mind you, what’s not helping is that it’s ‘that time of the month’. Those tampon commercials lie. I’ve never felt like riding a horse on the beach, I’m more inclined to want to take a bucket of chocolate ice cream to bed and to watch Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman, wearing my flanny pyjamas.

Anyway, we are not talking about periods. Or ‘Shark Week’, as my gorgeous friend calls it. Or sadly, we’re not even discussing how Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman are wonderful complimentary therapies to chocolate ice cream and flanny pyjamas. We’re talking about how damn angry I am and how my constant state of anger is actually holding me back from healing.

When Sarah suggested that to me today, it was like a light flicked and I was all “YES! I am really really fucking angry!” In fact, it would be correct to suggest that I’m so angry, that I want to march on down to the hospital and punch that anaesthetist square in the mouth. I won’t though. I’m not an animal.

So we talked about why I’m angry. I’m angry because the day my daughter was born, my life changed forever and not all for the better. I’m angry because my relationships have been affected negatively. I’m angry because I felt I had to quit my job. I’m angry because now I’m so stressed and anxious I can’t physically nurse patients. I’m angry because I had to see my surgery. I’m angry because I wasn’t cared for properly afterward.

What I’m most angry about, is because I’m constantly scared. I’m so fearful of having another baby, that I may not have any more children.

I actually liked being pregnant. Sure, the morning all day sickness, the migraines, the fluid retention, the varicose veins, the stretch marks, the cankles, the foot wedged in my diaphragm for ten weeks, yadda yadda yadda… All of that pales insignificance when it comes to actually being pregnant. The wonderful swishes of the growing baby. The gentle kicks and shuffles. The beautiful feeling, knowing that inside you is a little person made completely and totally out of love. It really is wonderful.

So why would I want to deny myself that opportunity again?

Maybe because of the way Version 2.0 would make their entrance into the world. Could I be sure that I wouldn’t need another cesarean? My obstetrician assures me that if Missy hadn’t have been stuck, I could have birthed her vaginally. She was only 3.6kg (or 8lbs 1oz for our imperial friends). Had she not been born at 41+4 weeks, she’d have certainly been smaller. How will I know though that my next care provider would be supportive of VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean). What if they are a blanket “no” when it comes to the day? How will I know that the next baby will be in the correct position? I’m pretty positive that having had no VB previously, no hospital would ‘allow’ me to attempt labour on a breech baby, for example. Or another baby posterior and unable to engage, like Missy.

I have so much to be angry for. Look at what’s holding me back as a result of that day. Sarah says that I need to let go of the anger in order to accept what happened and move on. Which I agree, I’m not interested in legal proceedings. I don’t want to keep living my life like this. I don’t want to keep impacting on my husband and my daughter the way I am. I want to be happy. Really happy. I want to stop being so angry.

I’m nearly there with posting my birth story. Maybe in a few weeks time. It’s written. I just don’t know if I’m ready to share it with the world yet.

I wish I had a button to switch off the anger.

Until next time xx


From the Outside Looking In

I am a changed woman. What I saw and what I felt has inexplicably changed me. I feel like I’m in a million pieces some days. Some days I’m so livid with white hot anger that I couldn’t possibly entertain the notion of keeping it together. Sarah says that I will get better. She says perseverance will pay off. I want to believe her. My memory though, I can’t unsee. Can people tell? When I walk around, can those who see me know that I have had this happen? Have I got a tattoo on my forehead that says “birth trauma”?

When I was a little girl, I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents, my mother’s mum and dad. When I was about ten years old, after being at a family picnic all day, I returned home with them to stay the night. Upon our arrival home we discovered the house had been robbed. It was terrifying. I lived with the anxiety of this for years to come afterward. Adapting into my life a ‘perimeter’ check on the house before entering. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like when my current home was broken into then. I’m still not able to totally relax when I’m not home. It’s always in the back of my mind that maybe today is that day that I return home to find someone has violated my sanctity.

I guess what I’m saying is that I have grown so used to living my life in fear, that anxiety has become a normal part of my being. How can I really expect to recover when I can’t forget the memory of what I saw? I can’t change the past.

This “violating of sanctity” is exactly what happened to me the day my daughter was born. I signed a consent form, I knew the risks of the spinal not working properly, I as a nurse, most certainly knew what I was up for in a cesarean section. What I cannot entertain is what I saw and why I was subjected to it. Why the theatre staff moved the screen away. Why when I screamed they went quiet and did nothing. I should have been put under a general. Where was my advocate? Where was my care provider? Why did they allow it to happen? As a nurse I’m always making sure my patient is given the best care available. Why was I not afforded the same?

That day put my life on hold. That day should have been the most wonderful of mine and my husbands lives. However in a way, time has stood still since. The trauma of it all has really just been such a cross to bear and my poor brain has decided that enough is enough.

I want to feel as though the eyes of the world are no longer on me. I don’t want to be that poor woman who went through that terrible thing.

Until next time dear friends xx

Version 2.0

Version 2.0 because this is the second blog I’ve started today.

I’m 29 years old, married, mother of one beautiful daughter and I’ve just been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and post natal depression (PND).

I’ve had a few hours to mull over my diagnosis. It’s been a long time coming, I’ve known for months, but to hear the words come out of my doctor’s mouth were certainly a shock.

I’ve decided to blog about it, more to help me get my feelings out there. I’ve certainly learned in recent months that bottling up the pain has been most detrimental to me. So if you happen to find yourself reading my blog, then “hello”. I hope one day you are not on the receiving end of PTSD or PND, but maybe my story will help you or someone you know.