A friend recently asked for advice on coping with a less-than-perfect birth experience. I responded, in part, with the following. I’m sharing what I had to say in case you are wondering something similar about your own experience – just in case these words between friends will help you feel less alone.
I can’t think about when my babies were born. Not without feeling terribly, at least. I can’t see the stains on my carpet from when my membranes ruptured. I can’t pick up the pajama I was wearing that morning. They were washed by my mom but are still stained. I saw them the day I got home, and I tossed them in a corner of my closet. They’ve remained there. I can’t touch them. I couldn’t touch the brown paper bag carrying the clothes I wore to the hospital. Rob finally moved them from our bathroom. For a while, I couldn’t be in our bathroom without visualizing the blood on the floors, the doorway, the sink, the light switch.
I close my eyes and relive the fear, the horror, the feeling of complete failure and guilt. I have no happy memories of their birth. I can’t connect their birth with their happy outcome. I think that’s my problem. If I could connect the two and follow the line from Point A – the morning they were born – to Point B – the day they came home healthy and happy – I think I’d be able to think about their birth with a smile.
It was, after all, the day I met my future.
But I’m not there yet. I’m not sure I will be. The outcome hasn’t yet healed the memory of that morning. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.
I’m not holding my breath.
I don’t have a happy birth memory, but I do have a countless number of happy memories since that day. That’s what I focus on. That’s what I close my eyes and recall.
I don’t plan to ever give birth again. I won’t have a happy birth story to think back on. For me, birth is something terrifying – a living nightmare. That’s just how it’s going to be, end of story. It’s the hand I was dealt, and I have to live with it.
So I don’t think about it. Or, I try not to. And when I do, I force myself to switch gears and think about the three little people who are alive and thriving, unaware of the nightmare I endured to get them here.
I talked with Rob about this last night, and he pointed out that I would have gladly given a limb to ensure my babies’ safety. Essentially, I gave up that happy birth story so they could live. Things could have ended differently. My body could have not gone into labor, letting me know Eleanor (whose membranes had ruptured) needed to come out.
That is a nightmare I refuse to fathom. I’ll take a shitty birth experience over that any day.
So how do I cope? I don’t. I have given up on that. It sucked, but it is what it is. A happy birth experience would have been nice, it isn’t essential to our lives.
((((((()))))
Thanks for that! you inspire me
*hug*
Everyone’s birth experience is completely different and the way you feel about yours is completely understandable. I’m an only child for a reason–my mom had a nightmarish delivery of me, one in which we both almost died because I was three weeks overdue, too large to deliver, and stuck sideways, unable to come out without an emergency c-section performed after 26 hours of labor. I grew up my whole life hearing the story of my birth and my mother always described it in the same way, as one of the worst experiences of her life. Unexpectedly, I had a very different experience from my mom’s with giving birth and for that, I’m grateful, but I feel for her and for you. Ultimately though, what’s important is that you are okay and you have three gorgeous babies. Giving birth’s just one day in a life, you know?
Jenny, I’ve only been following your blog for a few weeks, but I love what you have to share.
I feel the same way about my birth experience. My son was born 5 weeks early when I had a full placental abruption. My birth memories are of blood, sirens, and doctors yelling. And I don’t ‘deal’ with it, or ‘cope’ with it, or ‘get over it.’ When I remember it, I just look at my baby boy and say a quick “Thank you, thank you, thank you” prayer, and then try to forget about it. It’s the only way to go.
Thanks for sharing this!
What a beautiful way of saying it. I had an unpleasant birth experience with my daughter, I could not think about it without crying for months. I wish someone had told me that then. It took a little while but I accepted that things did not go the way I wanted and that the important thing was my baby was happy and healthy.
oh, Jenny.
One of the best pieces of advice I got in therapy was that I don’t have to pretend that it was perfect. I have the absolute right to look back on my first year of motherhood & say, “That was absolute, utter shit.” & it makes me no less of a mother. You get to say “Birth was a fucking nightmare” without judgment from me. If you still want to cry 30 years from now, I’ll be there to listen.
For the second time today, you leave me speechless with your bravery and openness.
Your family is beautiful, however they came to be.
I love the raw honesty in this post, but wish away your pain. You’ve got me wondering if I should make a similar post about MY birth experience, and how I couldn’t go into the bathroom where I spent most of my labor.. I also can’t wear the clothes I stained, nor the clothes I went to the hospital in. Birth, to me, reminds me that my body failed. That I couldn’t keep my boys safe, and because of my failure, we lost Parker and Hunter has significant delays.
*hugs* You’re not alone.
I LOVE that point from your husband. I too long for that “normal” birth experience that I missed out on with my preemie, but he’s right- I’d have given anything to have Charlie survive, and what I “gave” was a happy birth story.
Two years later I still am reliving “where I was that day” 2 years ago- I was on bedrest at this point before his June 4 birth. I imagine that reliving won’t ever go away. But I’ll gladly take it along with watching my very happy 22 month old run around every day.
You’re doing a great job!!!
A pelansigly rational answer. Good to hear from you.
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I’m sorry you have to live that nightmare with physical reminders. But I’m happy you’re able to focus on the positives and your three miracles.
Oh, mama. I didn’t have the same type of birth experience you did (from the way it sounds) but, I hated mine, too. I grieved for almost a year after my daughter was born over it because, I had a beautiful birth plan in mind … and the rest of the world had other plans.
I try very hard to dwell on the fact that “it doesn’t matter how she entered the world as long as she’s healthy” … what a lot of people told me. But, it doesn’t always make me feel better.
*hugs*
It’s interesting. I was just talking to my therapist this morning about my terrifying birth story. I do have a perfect, beautiful baby boy, but I always saw myself with 3 or 4 children. So, how do I get past that trauma and try again? Or do I?
I’m so happy for you that you have 3 healthy, thriving babies. And it’s true, as long as they’re safe, it really doesn’t matter how they got here. The rest will sort itself out with time.