In two days time, my baby boy will be three years old.
Three whole years with him in our lives.
He has brought with him immeasurable joy, even though my brain has been a bit of a muddle since the trauma of his birth.
This vulnerable, raw, incredible time of my life - my labour, is where the decline all began.
It highlights to me the flaws in our medical system and the occasional lack of empathy that can be present in a birthing suite (trust me, I know the opposite is also true and there are SO many amazing nurses and midwives out there).
Around this time each year since Isaac was born, I start to have involuntary flashbacks.
It's always the last half an hour of labour that comes to mind first. I knew in every fibre of my being that something wasn't right. I had asked for an epidural hours before, the midwife basically brushing off the request and telling me things were only going to get less, not more painful. Flash forward and the room is full of nurses, my Obstetrician and an Anaesthetist preparing to enter a needle in my spine in between surges of contractions coming only seconds apart. I hadn't asked for that epidural - it became necessary when my OB thought I would need an emergency caesarean due to Isaac trying to come out face-first (posterior). To this day, I don't know how I managed to push him out - I remember everyone in the room being shocked as well and my OB saying I should be so proud of myself. I was too tired and scared and shocked to feel anything, actually.
I remember not sleeping that first night in hospital after giving birth. I stared at Isaac all night in between feeding attempts, so beyond terrified of everything that had happened and everything that was to come.
I remember when he choked on amniotic fluid the second night and having the biggest panic attack of my life. The clinical, emotionless way it was discussed with me as my blood pressure rocketed and I sobbed.
I remember the next day, "day three" and I cried and cried and put up the "please no visitors" sign on the hospital room door. I felt like a complete failure.
I remember our first night at home, Isaac screaming basically all night, and seeing Reid struggling and snapping a couple of times. I remember begging him to stay awake with me while I breastfed a million times through those few weeks because I would panic if I felt alone. I remember struggling to get Isaac to latch, and how Reid could physically position him in just the right way, and I would cry because how could I learn to do it without him??
I remember when he went back to work and the days felt so long, I couldn't breathe. He would get home and I would curl up on our bed while he held Isaac and I would fall asleep until Isaac needed feeding again (usually 15-20 minutes later...#clusterfeeding).
I remember my back and shoulders aching incessantly as I bent over this tiny baby while he was attached to me constantly, trying to make sure I didn't fall asleep and smother him with my engorged (and already generously sized...) boobs.
I remember crying non stop. For days. I remember I didn't want to eat. For weeks.
I remember feeling like I would never be good enough to call myself Isaac's mother, that he deserved so much better.
I remember feeling so desperately alone, but not wanting anyone around me except Reid, my mum and my sister. When they weren't there - I sobbed.
I remember trying to keep my house perfect. I remember instead of sleeping in the mornings, I would still get up at 6am to have a shower because how could I possibly face the day otherwise?
I remember thinking I wanted to die.
I think it will be some time before Isaac's birthday doesn't bring up those painful memories, but I know that ultimately, the day is about him and the endless love I have for all that he is. The journey we have been on for three years has been absolutely nothing like I expected, but it has taught me that I am strong and resilient and am not too stubborn to ask for help when I need it.
Isaac is thriving. He is a happy, hilarious toddler. He is an introvert around most people but at home he is so active and imaginative, he runs and runs, constantly jumping and climbing and drawing us into his world. Being outside is what truly lights him up. He loves the beach and the bush but is also perfectly happy to spend hours in the backyard. He loves me so much, the waves of gratitude that wash over me when he runs into my arms are something I could never forget. He is cuddly and playful, he reminds me so much of Reid with the odd glimpse of me here and there.
He is amazing. My struggle has never been about him, it has been my brain and my hormones and it is still taking time for me to accept that. I thought it would all be over by now. Maybe it will never be over, but the pain of what I've been through only makes me fight even harder to get well and improve myself every single day for Isaac. He is my reason, my light, my life, my littlest love - and I could not be more grateful that he is mine xo.
Three whole years with him in our lives.
He has brought with him immeasurable joy, even though my brain has been a bit of a muddle since the trauma of his birth.
This vulnerable, raw, incredible time of my life - my labour, is where the decline all began.
It highlights to me the flaws in our medical system and the occasional lack of empathy that can be present in a birthing suite (trust me, I know the opposite is also true and there are SO many amazing nurses and midwives out there).
Around this time each year since Isaac was born, I start to have involuntary flashbacks.
It's always the last half an hour of labour that comes to mind first. I knew in every fibre of my being that something wasn't right. I had asked for an epidural hours before, the midwife basically brushing off the request and telling me things were only going to get less, not more painful. Flash forward and the room is full of nurses, my Obstetrician and an Anaesthetist preparing to enter a needle in my spine in between surges of contractions coming only seconds apart. I hadn't asked for that epidural - it became necessary when my OB thought I would need an emergency caesarean due to Isaac trying to come out face-first (posterior). To this day, I don't know how I managed to push him out - I remember everyone in the room being shocked as well and my OB saying I should be so proud of myself. I was too tired and scared and shocked to feel anything, actually.
I remember not sleeping that first night in hospital after giving birth. I stared at Isaac all night in between feeding attempts, so beyond terrified of everything that had happened and everything that was to come.
I remember when he choked on amniotic fluid the second night and having the biggest panic attack of my life. The clinical, emotionless way it was discussed with me as my blood pressure rocketed and I sobbed.
I remember the next day, "day three" and I cried and cried and put up the "please no visitors" sign on the hospital room door. I felt like a complete failure.
I remember our first night at home, Isaac screaming basically all night, and seeing Reid struggling and snapping a couple of times. I remember begging him to stay awake with me while I breastfed a million times through those few weeks because I would panic if I felt alone. I remember struggling to get Isaac to latch, and how Reid could physically position him in just the right way, and I would cry because how could I learn to do it without him??
I remember when he went back to work and the days felt so long, I couldn't breathe. He would get home and I would curl up on our bed while he held Isaac and I would fall asleep until Isaac needed feeding again (usually 15-20 minutes later...#clusterfeeding).
I remember my back and shoulders aching incessantly as I bent over this tiny baby while he was attached to me constantly, trying to make sure I didn't fall asleep and smother him with my engorged (and already generously sized...) boobs.
I remember crying non stop. For days. I remember I didn't want to eat. For weeks.
I remember feeling like I would never be good enough to call myself Isaac's mother, that he deserved so much better.
I remember feeling so desperately alone, but not wanting anyone around me except Reid, my mum and my sister. When they weren't there - I sobbed.
I remember trying to keep my house perfect. I remember instead of sleeping in the mornings, I would still get up at 6am to have a shower because how could I possibly face the day otherwise?
I remember thinking I wanted to die.
I think it will be some time before Isaac's birthday doesn't bring up those painful memories, but I know that ultimately, the day is about him and the endless love I have for all that he is. The journey we have been on for three years has been absolutely nothing like I expected, but it has taught me that I am strong and resilient and am not too stubborn to ask for help when I need it.
Isaac is thriving. He is a happy, hilarious toddler. He is an introvert around most people but at home he is so active and imaginative, he runs and runs, constantly jumping and climbing and drawing us into his world. Being outside is what truly lights him up. He loves the beach and the bush but is also perfectly happy to spend hours in the backyard. He loves me so much, the waves of gratitude that wash over me when he runs into my arms are something I could never forget. He is cuddly and playful, he reminds me so much of Reid with the odd glimpse of me here and there.
He is amazing. My struggle has never been about him, it has been my brain and my hormones and it is still taking time for me to accept that. I thought it would all be over by now. Maybe it will never be over, but the pain of what I've been through only makes me fight even harder to get well and improve myself every single day for Isaac. He is my reason, my light, my life, my littlest love - and I could not be more grateful that he is mine xo.
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