Trigger warning: contains mention of birth trauma
Facebook memories. A wonderful, yet sometimes dangerous thing. Not all memories are happy, and not everyone wants to remember. When you have experienced birth trauma they can be a painful reminder of what life was like before.
A couple of weeks back, Facebook thought I might like to “remember” a post I made on the What a Pain Facebook page. A post I made celebrating a horrific pregnancy drawing to a close (see the full post here). Finally reaching that precious, magical, blessed number of 37 weeks, and knowing the end was in sight. A post that was written alongside this photograph.
“Nothing could possibly survive this.”
We had survived it all. Hyperemesis (you can read more about my experience of that here), numerous hospitalisations for that and a bout of suspected flu at 35 weeks, reduced movements, slowed growth, uncontrolled Rheumatoid Arthritis and everything else that reared its ugly head during those long 37 weeks and 5 days. The fear that “nothing could possibly survive this” finally over. The reason it had all been worth it so close to being in my arms. Even if labour was tough, at least it had an end point I told myself. After pushing through pain for eight months, just a few more days and it would all be over.
And then it happened. Something I had never planned for, not prepared for and never even considered a possibility. My birth went catastrophically wrong.
I was left with Postnatal PTSD and the words birth trauma became part of our lives forever. One year later I am still recovering from what we went through, both mentally and physically. The notion that “at least it had an end point” seems laughable now because at the time I meant a few days, not a few years.
“I wish I could warn myself of what was coming”
When you become a mother, you go through a version of ‘me before you’. There’s the ‘you’ before motherhood and the ‘you’ after. For me there is that, plus the ‘me’ before birth trauma and the ‘me’ now. When I looked at that Facebook memory, of me at 37 weeks pregnant, there is so much I wish I could tell the woman in that photo.
Do I wish I could go back? Do I wish I had made different choices? Honestly, no. I can never undo what happened so it is pointless wishing for a different story. I made the best decisions for us at the time, with the information, and knowledge, I had. I do wish I could go back and warn myself of what was coming though.
I wish I could give myself a heads up that the relief of pregnancy nearly being over would be short lived so not to relax just yet. I wish I could tell myself that things were going to get really dark, really bad and I was going to hit rock bottom hard but that I wouldn’t stay there. I wish I could tell myself that despite what was coming, we would be okay. That even in the moments it got so dark I couldn’t see it ever getting better, that light would return. Even though I’d feel irreparably broken following my birth trauma, I’d put myself back together one piece at a time with a little help and a lot of love.
“It is possible to be sad, happy, thankful and still a little broken all at the same time.”
If I could go back, I would tell that version of ‘me’ that one day the dark cloud of PTSD would lift and the difference would be so noticeable people would question what had changed. I would tell myself that it’s okay to not be okay after nearly dying. That almost losing a child will break you in ways you couldn’t possibly have imagined and it’s okay that survival isn’t enough.
It’s okay that it took a whole year for survival to become something I can truly celebrate and marvel at. In the run up to J’s first birthday I was excited one minute, and sobbing over the memories of his birth the next. It is possible to be excited, sad, happy, thankful and still a little broken all at the same time. It’s okay that sometimes I’m still not sure how I feel at all.
Looking back at that photo I was so oblivious. I wish I’d been aware of the potential for complications. Perhaps then, when it all went so badly wrong, I’d have been a little less traumatised and a little more prepared. But I can’t go back and I can’t undo. What I can do is tell you how things are now, 381 days after birth trauma became much more than two words on a page.
“It’s been messy, hard and lonely.”
We survived. More than that, we have thrived. It hasn’t been some wonderful, inspiring story of overcoming though. It’s been messy, hard and lonely. Blood, sweat and tears, literally. It’s been hospital visits, counselling appointments and crying on the bathroom floor. Wiping my eyes and picking up the pieces of myself with a weary smile, ready to face another hour, or day, or week. It’s been getting up every day and battling my own mind. Fighting the flashbacks, practicing the management techniques until they worked and facing triggers again and again until their grip lessened.
It’s been tears, so many tears. Swallowed tears, hidden tears, quickly wiped away tears and free flowing tears. It’s been nodding and smiling despite screaming inside. Dusting myself off after each setback, knowing that it was possible to get better. It’s been shining a light into my own darkness, working so hard to go back through what happened in order to heal.
“I never knew how much you can physically feel trauma.”
Trauma manifests in so many ways. PTSD isn’t just this thing in your head. It physically manifests in the body. The sensations it causes when triggered can be so powerful. A birth announcement could leave me feeling like I’d been doused in icy water. A TV programme with a birth scene could make me feel physically sick. Other triggers would leave me feeling like I couldn’t breath, like there was a 30 stone weight sitting on my chest crushing the life out of me. I never knew how much you can physically feel trauma. I do now.
These days the icy water still comes, but less often. The sickness is more of a mild nausea. The weight on my chest is sometimes two stone, often ten stone but a lot less than 30. I’m doing so much better and I’m more okay than I’ve been in a long time. In the last couple of weeks two people have commented that something has changed (even questioned was it my hair or something). It is astounding that beginning to heal from trauma can be so outwardly visible. It made me smile when someone said I seemed lighter – had I lost weight? I guess trauma weighs heavier than I thought because I do feel lighter these past few weeks.
“Beautiful in the way that Kintsugi is beautiful”.
There is still a way to go, but the good days far outweigh the bad. I’ve found a sense of peace I wasn’t sure was possible. A peace that is beyond my understanding, but it’s pretty wonderful. I am not the woman in that photograph anymore, because trauma changes people, but I am okay with the new version of me. Somehow what we went through has softened me, made me gentler and kinder to myself. That is perhaps the most valuable skill one can learn in life; how to be kind to yourself. A skill I know I can teach James now. A skill I wouldn’t have learned without his birth.
There is no fixing what we lost, there is no erasing those memories or that horror. I cannot undo our story or start it again, but I can make my peace with it. One day I might write our full story, but right now this is enough. Our story isn’t perfect and it isn’t conventionally beautiful, but it is beautiful in the way that Kintsugi is beautiful.
Kintsugi refers to the Japanese art of mending broken pottery, not with hidden adhesive, but lacquer dusted with gold. It treats breakage and repair as part of somethings history, rather than something to disguise. That is me, forever changed by the cracks and breaks of trauma, but mending myself with gold. Wearing the scars that are a part of our history, our family’s story, and refusing to hide them away.
If you have experienced birth trauma or are struggling with your mental health in the postpartum period there is help and support available. Below is a list of websites and organisations I found very helpful.
https://www.birthtraumaassociation.org.uk/
https://www.birthrights.org.uk/
