Guilt

I had a lovely panic attack at school last week. I was not expecting that one. We were just talking about newborns and how the first couple hours are critical for bonding. I've always known that I hate the fact that I missed out on those first precious moments. I just didn't realize just how much I did. So I talked to my counselor about it for a while. I have major guilt about not being there for her. Not being able to hold her or feed her for hours. Guilt that she had to have a bottle at first. Guilt about a lot of things. But that guilt is not warrented. It is right sided thinking. My left, logical side knows that I did the best I could in that situation. It was not a normal situation and its not like I chose to not be with her those precious hours. It does not make me a bad mom that I missed Zoey and Ava for the first time. I looked death in the eyes and was able to stay here for my family. That makes me a darn good mom. Our bonding is right on track now. She knows Im mom, and thats what counts.

fate....

I had a conversation with a friend that basically said if my whole uterus thing had to happen to someone, it couldn't happen at a better time to a better person than me right before nursing school. I had to think about it for a moment, and its true. This experience is only going to help me become a great nurse. It will guide me in my actions. Not only that, but it can be theraputic for me and give it reason. Instead of why me, its why not me. I can't really articulate how this really impacted me. But for once I'm not looking back with sorrow.

On a slightly different note, I had been contemplating if I can mentally be capable to be a labor and delivery nurse and consequently a nurse in general. But this week solidified it. We tested on labor and I totally loved it. I could see myself in the situations the questions were about. People asked how I knew so much. I love it. Pregnancy is what I am supposed to be around.

Today is a good day.

I have been going to therapy a few times now. Today was the first time I realized it might actually be doing something. I am studying for my labor and birth test and not haunted by my memories. I'm not anxious. I'm not uneasy. I'm just normal. .... So I might be on the right track.

alone

I think the hardest part of all this is feeling alone--so utterly, and terribly alone. My complication was not only really rare, but hardly talked about and acknowledged. I even had a nurse take care of me say she didn't even know that could happen. And its true. I learned about pregnancy, labor, and postpartum these last couple of weeks and it wasn't even a glimmer in the notes.

Its like I feel like no one really sees the horror I lived through....and continue to live. E.V.E.R.Y. day. I feel like if it was something a little more known people would see me as the person I am not after it happened. I know that doesn't make sense. But its how I feel. Its like if someone was in a fire, people at least have some sort of knowledge of how bad that would suck. I know they won't know the extent of it all. But they at least have some sort of base to go off of. I tell people "my uterus came out inside out" they just look at me and either don't make much more of a comment than "wow" or look at me like I am a freak of nature. Very few people have acknowledged it for what it was: a scary earth shattering experience.

I don't want to sound like I want people's sympathy or whatever. And honestly giving people the blunt answer of what happened is easier for me to get through than giving them the run down. But I just hate feeling like I am on a different planet than everyone.

Also what makes me feel all alone is the fact that delivery of the placenta is such a nonchalant thing. They teach you you have your baby and a few minutes later you will deliver the placenta and not even know it. Its just a blink in the terms of pregnancy. But, to me, the third stage of labor defines my pregnancy. It defines me. And saying this out loud, or typing it rather, makes me feel like I am being over dramatic. And I hate that. But how can I not be?

Everyone has heard of postpartum depression. Its on TV in movies. People understand it. They may not totally understand how people can get so depressed and hypnotic that they do bad things to their children, but at least they understand that it exists. They know the concept--someone has a baby and due to hormonal and life changes develop it. It is still somewhat hushed in society. But not nearly as much as other mental illness issues.

And then there is PTSD after childbirth. ummmm....hello? What? Isn't PTSD only for soldiers or people who have been in something horrific like September 11th? Pretty much everyone has a hard labor and delivery, just suck it up. That's how I feel. I should be able to just get past it instead of dwell on it constantly.

The diagnosis

I knew that how I have been feeling since Ava's birth wasn't "normal." But I was somehow managing to get through it. Then this week in nursing school we are learning about "labor and delivery." I didn't know how much I internally was dreading this. That morning I was so tempted to just stay home and sleep. If it wasn't for someone waking up early to take care of Ava I probably would have. I got through the pregnancy part ok. I though I could do it. We took our break and was going to start labor when we got back. I sat at my table waiting for class to start trying my hardest not to just burst out crying. I can do this. I can do this. My teacher was well aware of my situation and said if I need to step out I can and she would understand. I can do this. We got to the third stage of labor, where the placenta is supposed to come out. I just kept my eyes down and wiggled my foot back and forth trying to not think much about anything. And then it was done. I did it. Only problem is there was a movie after. I could watch the labor part. Most of the women in the movie had an epidural, so it was different from mine. It was ok. I can do this. And then it went right to the mom holding a baby. There was only a momentary mention of the placenta. And that's when I broke. I didn't even realize what I was doing, but I was out the door and outside walking in the parking lot. I just kept walking. And crying. and crying.

That's when I realized I can't do this.  I finally made my way back and the class was gone for the day. My teacher saw me and asked if I was ok and I just bawled. She gave me a hug and I just cried harder. Someone understood my anguish. Someone told me that I could talk to her whenever I need. I felt kind of silly giving the head of the nursing department a huge ol hug crying my eyes out. But it was needed.

I left the school with two things in mind. 1) I was put in this school for a reason. I am going through this for a reason. It sucks. A lot. But sometime in the far far future I will be able to use this and help someone the way my teacher helped me. 2) I need professional help. So I called my OB office and asked for a referral for a therapist.

I called him and he was able to get me in two days later. I felt kind of strange because his office is at the doctors office. So I was sitting in the same waiting room I had waited in all year. Only then I was filled with excitement that I got to see my baby. This time I was full of trepidation.

I started talking to him and in no time at all he told me I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. So I'm not crazy. And it totally makes sense and not really too shocking to be honest.
So here is my story of trying to live my life as normally as possible with this disorder.