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View as: GRID LIST

THINGS I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY

1
As my son turns three months old this week, I find myself looking at him in wonder.  How much he’s grown.  How he babbles with excitement to anyone who will listen.  How he coos when I read to him.  How his eyes smile with love when he looks at me.  But as I return his loving gaze, I realize how far we’ve both come, and yet, there are still things I don’t know how to say out loud.

Like how his labor and delivery still haunts me.  I have tried for the past few months to write about my experience in the hospital, and every time I do the

SelfishMother.com
2
tears stack up too quickly in my eyes, blurring my vision and what I need to say.  So I quickly blink them away, shake my head, and try to think of other things.  Happier things.

It is fair to say that the first six weeks after my baby was born were more than difficult.  That I didn’t know how to adjust because everything felt so new and impossible–like ocean waves that wouldn’t stop crashing into me.  Trying to drown me in the intensity of the newness.  I guess you could call that postpartum depression.  I guess you could, but how do you

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3
know?  How do you know the difference between exhaustion and depression?  How do you know the difference between depression and the feeling that you can’t seem to adjust to motherhood.  How do you know anything when you’ve never done this before?

Maybe it’s just that I couldn’t stop replaying what happened in my head, causing me to withdraw and go silent.  Deep in horrifying thought.  Silent tears streaming down my face, causing me to hold on to the stories that would free me if I only knew how to let them go.

Like how I felt like I

SelfishMother.com
4
was quitting and giving up on a goal to deliver without pain meds when I finally gave in and asked for an epidural after eight hours of hard and painful labor.  My baby was in a posterior position, or ‘sunny side up’, banging into my pelvis and spine–Stuck, not able to move any further.  The pain literally took my breath away.  I stopped breathing during contractions, causing my body to not progress any further than 7cm for four hours.  I needed help, and that help came in the form of a needle.

I don’t know how to say what it was like to

SelfishMother.com
5
watch my doctor and nurse rush in saying something was wrong, that he wasn’t handling the contractions well, when they had just been in minutes before and everything was fine.  He was trying to pivot in my pelvis and his head and neck were getting caught in each contraction that I could no longer feel.  His heart rate to dropped to 64.

They tried to move my lifeless and numb body to see if changing positions would help his heart rate.  It did not.

Other nurses started rushing in.  One introduced herself to me as she put an oxygen mask over

SelfishMother.com
6
my face.  My doctor started to tell me that if his heart rate didn’t come up she would have to do a C-section, and even though I screamed, “Nooo!” in my head, outwardly I nodded and said, “Okay.”

But the oxygen didn’t work, either.  Even though I was trying my best to keep calm. Trying to breath evenly.  Telling myself over and over again that everything is as it should be.

My doctor told me she was having the OR prepped and that there was a chance I would need a hysterectomy, too–would I be okay with that?  I nodded yes as I

SelfishMother.com
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watched two nurses swarm my husband, handing him scrubs.

I don’t know how to say how terrified he looked as they spoke to him.  A look of terror that I have never before seen in his eyes.  It never occurred to me until recently that he was scared he would lose both of us.  His brand new family gone before he could even take us home.  It didn’t occur to me at the time to think of myself as in danger.  Sure, cut me open.  Scoop out the parts of me that make me a woman, but just save our baby.  Just save him.

I don’t know how to say what

SelfishMother.com
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it was like to watch the ceiling rush past me as they ran me down the hall and yelled at my parents to get out of the way.  My mom already weeping, her chin shaking as she said, “We love you, Brianna.”  Or that my dad was stunned with fear and was almost unable to look at me as he said, “We love you, BriBri.”

I don’t know how to say that the bright lights of the OR blinded me when I couldn’t see where my husband was, until he was suddenly right next to me. Holding my hand.  Scared.  And me, trying to be strong for him, telling him,

SelfishMother.com
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“I’m okay.  We’re okay.”  And I almost believed it, too.  I almost believed it until the nurse asked me to state my full name and date of birth.  My voice cracked as I tried to say who I was.  My words exploding into violent sobs, shaking my pregnant belly.

I don’t know how to say how lonely it felt right after he was born and I was kept behind a curtain.  I wanted to see my baby.  Hold my baby.  It felt like everyone else got to before I did.  And during this time, my husband was watching him get weighed and tested, he glanced back

SelfishMother.com
10
at me only to see me being sewn up.  My insides staring right back at him.  Bringing a whole new meaning to seeing someone at their worst.

These are the memories I live with and they are horrifying.  And yet, they shouldn’t matter at all.  They shouldn’t matter because I got to bring a baby home.  Our baby.  Our beautiful, beautiful baby.

It can be so easy to make yourself a victim when you get something you didn’t want or didn’t expect, but it’s harder to step outside of your ego and see the beauty in the miracles surrounding

SelfishMother.com
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you.  Sometimes it just takes longer to heal.  To become yourself again.  It’s all possible, of course.  It just takes time.

So this is me trying to do that.  Trying to allow myself that time to heal.  Releasing my stories to the world so they don’t live inside my head, bringing pain to life.  This is me processing.  Learning.  Coming out of the darkness, and into myself again.

 

Tweet the author @BriNewhartBlog

Read more posts by Brianna here

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- 16 Oct 14

As my son turns three months old this week, I find myself looking at him in wonder.  How much he’s grown.  How he babbles with excitement to anyone who will listen.  How he coos when I read to him.  How his eyes smile with love when he looks at me.  But as I return his loving gaze, I realize how far we’ve both come, and yet, there are still things I don’t know how to say out loud.

Like how his labor and delivery still haunts me.  I have tried for the past few months to write about my experience in the hospital, and every time I do the tears stack up too quickly in my eyes, blurring my vision and what I need to say.  So I quickly blink them away, shake my head, and try to think of other things.  Happier things.

It is fair to say that the first six weeks after my baby was born were more than difficult.  That I didn’t know how to adjust because everything felt so new and impossible–like ocean waves that wouldn’t stop crashing into me.  Trying to drown me in the intensity of the newness.  I guess you could call that postpartum depression.  I guess you could, but how do you know?  How do you know the difference between exhaustion and depression?  How do you know the difference between depression and the feeling that you can’t seem to adjust to motherhood.  How do you know anything when you’ve never done this before?

Maybe it’s just that I couldn’t stop replaying what happened in my head, causing me to withdraw and go silent.  Deep in horrifying thought.  Silent tears streaming down my face, causing me to hold on to the stories that would free me if I only knew how to let them go.

Like how I felt like I was quitting and giving up on a goal to deliver without pain meds when I finally gave in and asked for an epidural after eight hours of hard and painful labor.  My baby was in a posterior position, or ‘sunny side up’, banging into my pelvis and spine–Stuck, not able to move any further.  The pain literally took my breath away.  I stopped breathing during contractions, causing my body to not progress any further than 7cm for four hours.  I needed help, and that help came in the form of a needle.

I don’t know how to say what it was like to watch my doctor and nurse rush in saying something was wrong, that he wasn’t handling the contractions well, when they had just been in minutes before and everything was fine.  He was trying to pivot in my pelvis and his head and neck were getting caught in each contraction that I could no longer feel.  His heart rate to dropped to 64.

They tried to move my lifeless and numb body to see if changing positions would help his heart rate.  It did not.

Other nurses started rushing in.  One introduced herself to me as she put an oxygen mask over my face.  My doctor started to tell me that if his heart rate didn’t come up she would have to do a C-section, and even though I screamed, “Nooo!” in my head, outwardly I nodded and said, “Okay.”

But the oxygen didn’t work, either.  Even though I was trying my best to keep calm. Trying to breath evenly.  Telling myself over and over again that everything is as it should be.

My doctor told me she was having the OR prepped and that there was a chance I would need a hysterectomy, too–would I be okay with that?  I nodded yes as I watched two nurses swarm my husband, handing him scrubs.

I don’t know how to say how terrified he looked as they spoke to him.  A look of terror that I have never before seen in his eyes.  It never occurred to me until recently that he was scared he would lose both of us.  His brand new family gone before he could even take us home.  It didn’t occur to me at the time to think of myself as in danger.  Sure, cut me open.  Scoop out the parts of me that make me a woman, but just save our baby.  Just save him.

I don’t know how to say what it was like to watch the ceiling rush past me as they ran me down the hall and yelled at my parents to get out of the way.  My mom already weeping, her chin shaking as she said, “We love you, Brianna.”  Or that my dad was stunned with fear and was almost unable to look at me as he said, “We love you, BriBri.”

I don’t know how to say that the bright lights of the OR blinded me when I couldn’t see where my husband was, until he was suddenly right next to me. Holding my hand.  Scared.  And me, trying to be strong for him, telling him, “I’m okay.  We’re okay.”  And I almost believed it, too.  I almost believed it until the nurse asked me to state my full name and date of birth.  My voice cracked as I tried to say who I was.  My words exploding into violent sobs, shaking my pregnant belly.

I don’t know how to say how lonely it felt right after he was born and I was kept behind a curtain.  I wanted to see my baby.  Hold my baby.  It felt like everyone else got to before I did.  And during this time, my husband was watching him get weighed and tested, he glanced back at me only to see me being sewn up.  My insides staring right back at him.  Bringing a whole new meaning to seeing someone at their worst.

These are the memories I live with and they are horrifying.  And yet, they shouldn’t matter at all.  They shouldn’t matter because I got to bring a baby home.  Our baby.  Our beautiful, beautiful baby.

It can be so easy to make yourself a victim when you get something you didn’t want or didn’t expect, but it’s harder to step outside of your ego and see the beauty in the miracles surrounding you.  Sometimes it just takes longer to heal.  To become yourself again.  It’s all possible, of course.  It just takes time.

So this is me trying to do that.  Trying to allow myself that time to heal.  Releasing my stories to the world so they don’t live inside my head, bringing pain to life.  This is me processing.  Learning.  Coming out of the darkness, and into myself again.

 

Tweet the author @BriNewhartBlog

Read more posts by Brianna here

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I’m a first time mom who is just trying to find my way through this thing called Motherhood, while still nurturing my marriage, friendships, and career. Because when they say you can’t have it all, it only makes you try that much harder… You can find me on Twitter @BriNewhartBlog

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