Rewind

I started writing somewhere private a long time ago, I still write there.  It's where I originally posted by birth story.  I'm using this post to copy a handful of the posts that followed her birth story, because a blog without truth is just blurbs. 

I say a handful because some are just too personal. Too dark. 

December 21st 2019:

I sometimes go over my labours in my head. To relive and reconnect with them. To be in the moment again. To feel the exhilaration and Euphoria.

I keep going over my last one. But I feel nothing. Just blanks. And sadness. Trying to make sense.

An unplanned homebirth should have been exciting and vivid.

I can’t connect with it. I can’t feel it. I can barely remember it.

I felt alone.

I didn’t feel looked after.

I just cry.

And I don’t know why.

Nothing happened.

She’s fine. I’m fine

By that, it was a successful birth, right? That’s all that matters.

It’s supposed to be memorable. My last ever birth experience.

I can barely remember it.

I can’t feel anything.

I wish I could do it again.

There’s not any pictures. Hardly any notes. I don’t know what happened, when things happened, how things happened or who did what.

Its so fucking stupid but I feel like something is missing. That something was stolen. Like I’ve been cheated out of something.

Im all about the details.

December 24th 2019:

Ask me about my first four labours and I can bore you intensely with birth stories.

Ask me about the fifth and all I can really tell you is I had a baby. On my bedroom floor. Then we went to hospital.

And it was only 11 days ago.

I don't have any details.

Just the feeling of constantly being separated from her. By people. By places. By material.

How can I cry so hard over something I barely remember?

December 26th 2019:

I scoured through my postnatal notes desperate for clues, answers and details but they weren’t there. The notes only start from after I arrived at hospital. But the paramedics must have written up a report, right? Somewhere?

I tried talking to him about it. I knew I shouldn’t. I only dipped my toe into the topic before recoiling. He doesn’t remember anything, why would he? And typically… “Why does it matter?” …” Stop beating yourself up over something you have no control over”… “You’re fine, she’s healthy and fine so what does it matter?” …” Sure, if something went wrong, if something had happened then yes, find out everything … Be eaten up by it. But it didn’t” … ” You need to forget about it and move on”

And he’s right. Nothing happened. We’re both fine.

So why does it matter so much? What does it matter how I feel? When everything worked out fine.

Why can’t I let it go?

Why do I feel like this? Why does it matter?

There was no emergency. No physical trauma. Everything was fine.

You hear stories of babies born not breathing, emergency touch and go caesarians, massive haemorrhages, babies being literally dragged out of their mum, painful manual retrieval of placenta, fetal heartbeats dropping, babies born in cars. All traumatic

So why can’t I get over it? Why can’t I remember anything? Why don’t I know who did what? Why am I so fucking sad and confused ? Why can’t I smile about it? Where was the excitement and exhilaration?

I still remember my third birth, the one where my bp was crazy, he was face up, he needed taking away shortly after birth and airways clearing. Yet I'm fine with that. So why aren’t I okay with this one? Why cant I get over it? What exactly am I getting over?

December 27th 2019:

I didn't know when they'd come

I didn't know if they'd come

I didn't know if they would move me

I didn't know how dilated I was

I didn't know if her Hb was ok

I didn't know if my waters were bulging

I didn't know if anyone guided her out

I didn't"t know if anyone caught her

I didn't know why she didn't cry at first

I didn't know her apgar scores

I didn't know if the cord had stopped pulsing

I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know who was doing what. It didn't feel like anyone was doing anything at all.

I didn't feel looked after.

I didn't feel like I mattered.

January 7th 2020

I know many would jest “well looks like you got that home birth you wanted anyway!”

But I didn’t. It wasn’t the one I wanted. The one I wanted wasn’t possible, that’s why I chose the birthing centre at the hospital.

It was about choice. It was about an idiom of control.

If I’d had the home birth I wanted the kids would have been safely at my mum’s. There’d have been a midwife of two there. Maybe even music and a prepped area to birth in. I’d have known what was happening. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to go to hospital afterwards. The main things I wanted was to be semi relaxed and be able to get in my own bed and use my own bathroom afterwards.

If I’d gone, as planned, to the hospital? It would have been my choice. I’d have an idea of what would happen.

Instead? It was panic and fear and not knowing what the fuck was going on. I don’t even think the paramedics introduced themselves. I didn’t know if we were going or staying. I didn’t know who was who. I didn’t know who would be doing what. I didn’t know if baby was ok. I didn’t know how far along in labour I was. I didn’t know where I’d give birth. The children were downstairs. Nobody made me feel safe. Nobody fucking spoke to me really. So many people in my bedroom and I felt fucking alone.

And the kicker? I still had to go to fucking hospital anyway. I still had to stay in hospital.

There's more but I think I'll stop here.  Reading through things I'd written at the time, wasn't my best idea. 

& I’m still mad that it took him so fucking long to get there with the kids the next day. That it wasn’t a priority.