Postpartum

We were home, and I was exhausted. My milk supply was not coming in. I was feeding every hour on the hour. I didn’t want to leave the house. My son was not pooping. He was spitting up almost everything that I gave him. He would only sleep if he were held. And I couldn’t sleep out of fear that something would happen. My anxiety had me on such an edge that I was averaging 2.5 hours of sleep each day (according to my watch). I cried over everything. Everything. And this went on for about two weeks before I had a breakdown.

Now, I knew after the first few days that I had the baby blues and postpartum anxiety. But I didn’t realize how bad it was until one night, I sat crying about not producing enough milk while my son cried out in frustration - yanking on my nipple. He hadn’t pooped yet, and he would strain so much. I was concerned that something was wrong. I hadn’t showered in several days, I wasn’t getting any sleep, my nipples were cracked, and it was so painful every time my son would latch. My husband insisted that I pump, but barely anything was coming out. And I just lost it in front of everyone. That’s when my husband, mom, and stepmother-in-law came up with a plan to take shifts. My husband told me to go to bed, and they would wake me up when I needed to pump so they could feed him. That night, I got some much-needed rest. And while I felt better the next day, I knew our routine was unsustainable.

 

Eventually, I went to see my doctor. While they prescribed some medication, I decided to try a few other things first to see if they would help. So, we went outside. I forced myself to make more trips into town. I asked for help so I could do a few things around the house and shower at least every three days. I started breathing through my anxiety - long, deep breaths. By week 3, the baby blues had passed, and by week 8, my anxiety had significantly decreased. Also, at the recommendation of several family members, I started researching safe co-sleeping. This isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay. I had co-slept with Emery, but I was completely oblivious to safe co-sleeping practices back then. This time, I was much older and exhausted. And I was dealing with severe anxiety, so I was scared to even think about cosleeping. However, after reading up on safe co-sleeping and bedsharing, I felt comfortable enough to give it a go. And let me just say that once we began co-sleeping, I started getting more sleep. We both did. I went from getting 4 hours a night to 6 hours in the form of two 3-hour stretches. Again, this isn’t for everyone.

Things have gotten better. I can function on the sleep I’m getting now. The minor health issues that little man has are things that he’ll outgrow. And we’re slowly adapting to our new family dynamic. While I had been totally prepared for the physical part of postpartum, the emotional and mental parts had completely taken me by surprise. I was ready for the bleeding and wobbling around. I was prepared for the fluctuation in hormone levels and the breastfeeding pain. But I was not prepared for the depression, anxiety, and tears. I was not prepared for the emotional breakdown that came with sleep deprivation. I honestly felt like I was losing my mind. And I was not prepared for the feeling of loneliness that seemed all-consuming. This postpartum was a completely different experience from when I had my daughter. Now that we’re three months in, I look back at that time with sadness. My anxiety really robbed me of being able to enjoy those first two weeks of “newborn bliss”. And I feel like I robbed my son of having a calm and peaceful introduction to the world. Instead, he got the mom, who was filled with anxiety, exhaustion, and panic.

Wordless Wednesday

 

Coming Home

Shortly after my son arrived, things were all fuzzy. I was tired. The doctor was stitching me up. My son was on my chest, looking shocked and sucking on his fingers. People all around were talking. Once that was all taken care of, it got quiet in the room, and we were able to have a “golden hour” as a family of four. I couldn’t believe that our little boy was finally here.

While I was so happy that he got here safely, it didn’t feel the same as the last time I had given birth. I knew I loved this little baby, but it differed greatly from my daughter. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling, but it grew over the next 24 hours. It was like a slow bloom at first - as I stared at him. Then, tracing his nose and holding his little fingers, it felt surreal that he was actually in my arms. He would open his eyes and look at me with this intensity, too. He was perfect and very calm.

While at the hospital, I felt safe. If I had questions, the nurses would answer them. If we needed help, a nurse would come in. If you’ve ever given birth, you know that you get little to no sleep at a hospital. Surprisingly, I found comfort in that. There was always someone there if needed. And even though this was not my first time having a child - it had been 14 years since I had gone through this - everything was so different.

We were released the following afternoon, and while we were all excited to be going home, this is when my anxiety started to creep in. I worried about the car seat. I kept checking his breathing. When we got home, I thought I would feel more comfortable, but it was the complete opposite. Gone were the nurses. No one at home knew CPR. There wasn’t another person checking on my son to make sure he was okay in the middle of the night. Adding to that anxiety, he did not want to sleep while swaddled or in a bassinet. All he wanted was contact naps. And that’s when things started going downhill for me.