An Open Letter to Marie Kondo

Dear Marie,

Thank you so much for making the wonderful programme Tidying Up come on my telly via the magic of Netflix. All the mums in the playground are talking about it and it seems like such a wonderful way for us all to get our collective shit together (before sorting through it and discarding it, right?) However, I’ve had a go and I got a bit stuck so I have a few questions. I’m hoping you could answer to enable me to complete my Tidying Up journey.

Firstly, is joy the only emotion we’re going for here? Did you hold all the other emotions close to your heart first before settling on joy? Did you go through serenity, fulfilment, gratitude, hope and inspiration before discarding each one and deciding joy was the one for us all?

What are we supposed to do about the stuff that doesn’t belong to us but rather inconveniently only brings other people joy? My friend was a bit upset when her husband watched an episode of Tidying Up then got rid of all the stuff that brought her joy to make room for his own. Thankfully he decided to keep her, after giving her a good feel to check for joy.

I am certain that my kids toys do not bring me joy Marie (apart from the fingerlings parent and baby monkey because awww). I would happily scoop them all up in a black bag and leave them out for the bin men, rather than try and unstick one more splodge of slime from a school uniform cardigan, or trip over one more twirly flashy spinny thing on wheels at 1am. But I think my kids might be a bit put out.

I went through my daughter’s changing table full of medical supplies and continence products, and I tried really hard but I couldn’t find a single spark of joy there. What, in your opinion, is the best way to store suppositories in a way that sparks joy Marie? Perhaps a decorative basket? Does it matter that my daughter calls the suppositories bottom sausages and tries to give them to her toys? Do you have any tips for getting shit stains out of rattan Marie?

I know you say we should share the joy of tidying up with our children. I tried to teach them to fold, I really did, but the little one preferred taking all the folded clothes out of the drawer and putting them back in the washing machine. The big one showed more interest, but at the start of the lesson told me she already knew how to do it before screwing her t shirt up in to a ball and hurling it in to the wardrobe.

If we’re being honest honest Marie (or should I call you Miss Marie like all the well behaved and obedient children on your to show?) my kids don’t always bring me joy. Just this evening my daughter cried because we were playing hide and seek and I found her. She later exacted her revenge by quietly putting a soggy pink wafer biscuit in the pocket of my favourite hoodie. What can I do about them Miss Marie? I know I’m not supposed to get rid of them. Should I fold them in to tiny squares and put them in a drawer?

What about my rape alarm Marie? I suppose that falls under the ‘joyless but necessary’ category you describe in your books. I’m supposed to store like items together aren’t I? Do I put it with the other electricals or with the baggy jumpers?

What category do psychiatric discharge papers come under Marie? Paper, health or sentimental? Should I save them to look back on fondly? Or do I follow your advice for other sentimental objects and display them prominently so I can enjoy them daily? I came across them yesterday when sorting my papers and they pulled my trachea down to my navel. Do they spark joy? Let’s see. “Mrs F (apparently you are not allowed to be a Dr when you are mental) exhibits emotional disturbance, experiences and behaviour congruent with a postpartum psychosis triggered by obstetric trauma”. I checked for joy Marie, I didn’t find any. Perhaps I did it wrong because I found myself unable to throw them away.

Am I doing it wrong Marie? Am I supposed to discard all of the messy and joyless parts of me too? All of the unclean and untidy and inconvenient histories that lay buried in a drawer between the mortgage certificate and the warrantee for the dishwasher?

Would you come to the pub with me and my friends Marie? We get drunk and swear and talk about our fannies, which I suppose on second thoughts is a bit messy for you isn’t it? Talking of fannies, mine is certainly not very tidy in recent years what with all the scalpels and forceps and stitches and all, but it does still bring me joy. This is a quandary as I can neither get rid of my vagina nor tidy it up. Any advice Marie?

I did my best and now I have loads of bin bags to ditch. Except everyone has been watching you on the telly and now the charity shop has a sign on the door saying ‘no more kids clothes or toys please’ and the shoe bank slot has got wedged with plastic bags again. What shall I do with them now? I don’t want to send them to landfill. Global warming doesn’t spark joy for me Marie.

What if I finish my tidying marathon, and achieve a kind of bland, blank house where everything is hidden in a drawer and everything is perfectly, neatly folded? Either out of sight or standing up on its own? Will I have done it right? Is that what joy looks like Marie?

Or what if I end up alone in an empty house? What if I hold myself tight and check for joy and I can’t find it? I thought about chucking myself away once Marie and I don’t honestly think I’d do it again.

I’m hoping you can find the time to respond to some of my questions. Let me know about that drink.

Joyfully Yours

Dr Firebird

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Teachable Moments

[trigger warning – birth trauma]

So much has been happening since my little FireChick was hatched last October that the original purpose of the blog has gotten lost. It’s been such a whirlwind dealing with her illness day to day that beyond a few tweets, I’ve not really talked much about her birth, working through the trauma of the first and my mental health afterwards.

I can honestly say that I think of her birth fondly, with that warm glow that I expect many are lucky enough to experience first time around. So much so I think the full story deserves its own post, at a later date.

I’d like to share a moment from the birth though, where unfortunately I did re-experience some trauma and flashbacks. It was a solitary moment in an otherwise good birth, which I share because I think sadly it could have been avoided, in much the same way that wonderful planning and support did avoid any more significant trauma throughout the rest of the birth.

Labour was pretty well established, and I felt like I was in my stride using gas and air and hanging off a knotted scarf for pain relief. Due to my risk of postpartum haemorrhage I’d agreed to be cannulated – in case I was in need of emergency medicines or a transfusion. I remember nothing of the junior doctor who came to cannulate me – barely even their gender. They were not particularly rude, condescending or cold, nor remarkably warm, understanding or patient. A routine doctor for a simple routine procedure. Yet unlike every other staff member I worked with during this labour, I don’t believe they were informed of my trauma history.

I was asked to sit still on the edge of the bed while the cannula was placed. Anyone who’s given birth or witnessed it knows that this is no mean feat. But I managed it, cannula in despite my position making things more painful. The only thing left was to tape it down. Except I felt a contraction coming. I needed to change position. I managed to communicate this but was told no, I had to stay sat where I was on the edge of the bed. I pleaded that they could just wait and do it once the contraction was past but again, no, it had to be now, this way. The midwife told me to use the gas and air for the pain.

I huffed long and deep, too much, and that horrifyingly familiar, greyed-out, floating feeling crept over me. A feeling I hadn’t had for three and a half years, a creeping horror that I was in fact still in my first labour and about to die. I let out a throat ripping scream as I felt my vision and my sensibilities fading. Yet through that fog, I felt my husband’s gentle hand on mine. I heard him explaining to the bewildered doctor that I was having a flashback, an explanation he repeated to me, quietly and calmly. He reminded me where and when I was and showed me a photo of our older daughter. “She’s grown up, look, you’re not there anymore”. Shaking, I came back in to the room. I trudged the soles of my feet against the floor. I took in my surroundings, naming boring objects I could see as I’d learnt in EMDR trauma therapy. I let out a few heaving, shaking sobs and got on with the business of birthing my second baby.

Now why was that necessary? I wasn’t in danger. I didn’t need urgent medication, fluids or blood. Perhaps the cannula may have needed to be placed again, but so what? A little patience, a little more explanation to the doctor and I don’t believe that moment needed to happen at all. It was a small moment in the middle of a very positive birth, it didn’t ruin the experience but I do believe it was avoidable. The clear trigger had been the high amount of pain, awkward position and being told I couldn’t move. All three could have been avoided with better positioning and better understanding.

I hope that doctor went away with more than a sense of bewilderment that night, perhaps with curiosity about birth trauma and how to prevent it. Perhaps they just moved on to the next patient without a second thought. If you’re a health professional, it’s these little teachable moments that can make all the difference in preventing trauma and re-traumatisation, don’t let them slip by.

For more information and support on birth trauma, contact The Birth Trauma Association @BirthTrauma or join the Twitter hashtag #birthtraumachat on Monday evenings UK time

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Confessions of a benefits scrounger

With the UK General election coming up I’m seeing the old arguments pop up about benefit scroungers and people who don’t give a s*** about paying in to the system for something they don’t believe they’ll ever get out.

I’ve always believed the opposite – that those who can afford it should contribute to look after the most vulnerable in society. And as some regular followers may know, I recently joined the ranks of the ‘benefit scroungers’

My youngest daughter was born with a disability and now we claim Disability Living Allowance for her. It enables me and my husband to share her care and pay our mortgage, my husband can work less so we share the load (and the jobs that require two people!). My other daughter suffers less because she has more parental time than she would if I was looking after her higher needs sister by myself. 

For the people that think benefit claimants sit on their arses smoking and watching jeremy kyle all day, here’s what I spend my time doing:

  • Drawing up medicines
  • Making up specialist formula
  • Washing and sterilising syringes
  • Changing ostomy bags
  • Emptying ostomy bags
  • Emptying and cleaning personal care equipment
  • Arranging appointments
  • Planning for hospital stays
  • Monitoring temperature
  • Monitoring output
  • Monitoring wet nappies
  • Calculating fluid balance
  • Uh oh! Ostomy bag leak, finding something quick to entertain my eldest so I can change the bag again
  • Cleaning up and sterilising after everything got covered in poop
  • Washing clothes
  • Cleaning more syringes
  • Emptying the ostomy bag again
  • Dropping in prescriptions
  • Washing more clothes (sigh, more poop everyhwere)
  • Cleaning the super sticky special formula out my sink drains
  • Collecting specialist prescriptions from the hospital pharmacy because my local one won’t do it
  • Filling in dwp forms
  • Sending dwp evidence
  • Arguing with trolls on social media who think we’re all scroungers who sit on our arses
  • Reading the back of food packets for ingredients that will put my girl in hospital 
  • Ordering new medical supplies
  • Emptying extra bins full of used medical supplies
  • More washing
  • Oh yeah…. looking after my other child!

The list could be longer. It doesn’t include all the normal mum stuff everyone does like feeding and playing or the school run.  I didn’t choose this life but it’s the one I have. I’ve been a high earner who never thought I’d need to claim benefits but now I’m so grateful the system is there so my family can stay afloat.

A lot of nurseries aren’t set up to look after kids like mine. You know what it would cost to pay a nurse to do what I do? About £300 a day, presuming they only do basic care (they can’t arrange appointments or prescriptions for me) and I came home to take over after work. How much do we get in benefits? Just over £300 a month. As far as I’m concerned that’s win-win.

It prevents me from experiencing the severe mental health problems I’ve experienced before by reducing my stress (shall we calculate how much that super specialist care costed??) It prevents my husband from burning out at work, it protects my older daughter’s mental health. How can this be anything but a sound investment?

I hope next time you come across someone who believes us benefit scroungers sit on our arses all day, that you’ll think of us and show them this article!
Image copyright: British Broadcasting Corporation 

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Bring Back 2016

Remember when Andrew Lansley was health Secretary,  and after months of fuck ups and ignoring staff and the public he finally got the sack, and we thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse than him,  then we got Jeremy Hunt? That’s what 2017 is like for my family.

We are only 5 days in and already it’s as much a motherfucker as 2016, if not worse. In the last 3 days I’ve had my hopes of ever breastfeeding again dashed, my husband got hit by a lorry whilst he was driving the girls to town, and now the littlest one is back in hospital with a virus, just when she was about to reach ‘longer out than in’.

I feel like at the moment I barely get the chance to celebrate the little good things before a ton of shit falls on my head again. Yesterday firechick exceeded her birth weight first the first time, at 10 weeks old. We’d barely popped the cork on the champers before she started one continuous, day long poonami that’s seen her lose it all again. So here I am in children’s A&E at 2am and I can’t even bring my buggy because the wheels won’t fit in to the damn small car after a SODDING LORRY DROVE IN TO THE BIG ONE. 

PS, I haven’t expressed for 7 hours so my boobs are about to explode. Happy Fucking New Year.

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Three days

A lot can happen in three days

That’s  three days of not putting on weight. Not sleeping in your own bed. Not sleeping with your husband

Three days of not putting your little girl to bed

Another three days of missed swimming lessons, playgroups and play dates. three more days of not seeing your friends

Three more days of not introducing your gorgeous new baby to the world and the beautiful sights outside a hospital ward 

Three days of your husband not getting proper sleep

Three days of encroaching on grandparents hospitality. another weekend of them not seeing their daughter because there’s no room. 

Just Three More Days might not be much to you. but it’s an eternity for my family.

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Crunch Time

I’m writing this the evening before my induction, at 40 weeks plus 10 days pregnant. Things haven’t quite worked out the way I’d hoped. 

Despite weeks of intense Brixton Hicks contractions and false starts, there is still no sign of baby. I can’t help but feel a little let down by all the reassurances I’ve had from health professionals, about second labours generally coming earlier and easier. I’m trying not to let it affect my trust in them as I prepare to hand over my vulnerability to them in the coming days. I know that nothing is certain and that we don’t get to pick and choose or control these things. 

I’m allowing myself some space to feel disappointed though, that feels important. I don’t do empty positive thinking – I think it’s at best ineffective and at worst invalidating, I prefer to honour my difficult feelings no matter how painful that might be. It really does feel important to acknowledge, this is not how I wanted things to be, not again. It makes me cringe slightly when the ‘It’ll all be fine’ brigade try to cheerlead me along. Because it might not. It’s already not. I’d rather you just sat beside me, gave me a hug, and maybe just said, I’m sorry it’s not how you want it to be.

So how did I get here? My whole birth plan has been about avoiding certain things – amongst those, induction and augmented Labour. However, the closer I’ve gotten to the point where the only real option left is an elective section, the less appealing that has seemed. I’ve spoken to friends, family and Twitter family about their various experiences with both sections and inductions and it just made me realise, no one method is guaranteed to make things easier. I’ve done a little more reading around both, and actually realised there was a lot I didn’t know. Like the fact that last time I had what’s known as an augmented labour, and that there are induction methods you try before you get near a syntocinon drip. Before I knew it I was sat in front of my obstetrician uttering words I never thought I’d hear myself say. I’m willing to try induction again. (I just read that back. Am I nuts??! Don’t answer that).

I tell myself that it IS different this time – there’s the option of mobile epidural so I don’t feel like a prisoner chained to a hospital bed. Ditto for intermittent monitoring or telemetry if more observation is needed. And one big mighty reassurance that at any time, short of being about to push, i can back out and opt for a section. 

It’s been a headfuck trying to manage all my various risks – pre-eclampsia, birth trauma, postpartum haemorrhage, then all the stuff that comes after – postpartum psychosis and postnatal depression- some choices just seem impossible because the options are good for mediating one risk but bad for another, or vice versa. 

When it comes down to it, I’d rather avoid major surgery if I can, and hopefully have a more straightforward recovery, so I am willing to give induction a go. I just have to keep my eye on my goals and the things I want to avoid – I do not want a vaginal birth at all costs. The forceps I had last time, although I don’t have any traumatic memories about their use, left me so bruised and sore that I’m not sure my recovery was any quicker or less painful than a section. I certainly still can’t get my head around the idea of being able to walk the same day as giving birth, let alone go home. I also need to keep my eye on how long it all takes – the main focus postpartum to minimise risk of psychosis is going to be  rest, and I don’t want to start off from a position of major sleep deprivation again. As for pain, well I think I’ll just have to roll with the punches on that one.

So here we are. Lunchtime tomorrow I’ll get one of the prostaglandin pessaries, with 24 hours to see what happens, followed by a 6hr one if there’s no movement. At my (two, unsuccessful) sweeps I was examined to be ‘favourable’ (a glowing review, if ever I heard one, haha!) with some dilation and effacement already. The first one did *ahem* dislodge a few things too so hopefully this will start something off. That’s better than the sweep in my first pregnancy, where the midwife couldn’t even reach my cervix let alone do anything with it. And after 24 hrs of labour I was still only 1-2cm. After the pessary  I’ll be able to go home so in theory I won’t get caught in the snare of the hospital and their cascade of ‘might as well’ interventions.

I’ve been trying to mentally prepare myself this evening – I’ve done some pregnancy yoga, and even some visualisation relaxation that helps with birth trauma. I have to say, it really helped me feel more positive about the whole thing and more excited to meet baby, rather than being weighed down by all the negatives. Husband is working late tonight, which is a shame as I could really do with an early night and I usually wait for him to come home before bed. 

There’s nothing left to do but wait – bag is packed, appointment is made, babysitters informed. Deep breath, here goes, see you on the other side.

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To my friends about to have their first babies

A few friends of mine are due with their first babies VERY soon (or in the case of one, have just popped one out). This raises all sorts of conflicted feelings for me. I want to share with them the dark collective secret of motherhood, the one that was kept from me until after I gave birth, that those first few weeks, for most, are hell. One compassionate friend had tried to warn me, but I dismissed her comments as ‘negativity because of her own experiences’. Boy was I wrong. 

I want to tell them all the things I wish I’d known, but I don’t want to scare them. Or worse, I don’t want to be wrong. My worst fear fear is that I warn them of the shitstorm that’s to come; the horror of birth, the Sisyphean task that is breastfeeding, wondering when you’re bouncing the baby at 4am whether you’ve ruined your life.  My fear is that I tell them all of that, and not to worry because it’s normal, and then it never happens to them. Their birth is a breeze, breastfeeding is easy, they love every minute of being a new mum. Because that means it’s just me. I’m just someone who can’t hack motherhood. And the implications of that for someone who’s pregnant again…yikes. 

So, here’s all the things I wish I could say. 

Dear friends,

Wow, so you’re about to pop! That’s really exciting, but I remember how terrifying it is too. You’re not sure if your body can do it, does it really hurt that much? What if it all goes wrong? Well, you know what, it might. And that is NOT your fault. You’ve probably been to some lovely fluffy birthing classes, where they’ve talked to you about birthing postitions, and a positive mental attitude, and pelvic floor exercises, and a load of things that might make a little difference, if you’re lucky enough to have a straightforward birth in the first place. But if your body, like mine, has decided it just isn’t going to do things the easy way, then none of that will mean shit. And I hope you can feel liberated rather than scared by that, that you can let go of the responsibility for how your birth turns out, because it turns out a heck of a lot of it is just biology. You’re a marathon runner? Great, I think it’s wonderful that you take care of your body and make sure you’re fit and healthy. But don’t be disappointed if your body decides that doesn’t matter, and turns your baby round, or holds on to it for dear life, or decides to drop your heart rate dangerously low. It’s. Not. Your. Fault. 

I also hope you are able to let go of what you think you know about babies already. It’s great that you’re a devoted aunt. Fantastic that you’ve got a degree in education and early years development. All those years experience in childcare, wow! You know what all that is good for? Beating yourself up with when you STILL don’t know what the hell you’re doing. And you won’t, for a long time. Remember how hands on you were when your sister had a baby? That’s all great experience, but at some point you got to shut the door, go home and sleep. Don’t worry if you freak when you realise there is no going back from this. Your sister did too, she just waited til you weren’t there, and buried it under an Instagram photo of the baby in the cute onesie you bought. None of us has a frickin CLUE in those first weeks. 

You think you know how you’re going to handle it all now. You’ve done your reading, your research, made your choices, made your plans. But believe me, if you can even follow through on half of them half the time you’ll be doing well. You can’t plan for something you have absolutely no experience of. It’s a different world on the other side. You will change your mind, you will compromise, you will be so tired sometimes you will just think f*** it and do whatever’s easiest. It’s OK. 

Terrified the baby will stop breathing if you look away and go to sleep? Yep, we’ve all been there. Motherhood is like having a film peeled back from your eyes where you can suddenly see danger EVERYWHERE. At some point you will probably become completely overwhelmed by the terrifying sole responsibility that is  keeping your tiny human alive. You might even react by handing it to someone else and going AWOL for a few hours just so you can breathe. Yep, still normal, don’t sweat it. 

And never, EVER, for a second, think you can’t tell anyone how you’re really feeling. It’s only when you do that you realise, this is just how it is. And it will get better. When you need to tell someone, I’ll be waiting. Good luck, kid x 

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Birth Planning after Trauma (Part 2: The actual plan!)

So now you know what happened the first time I met my fairy godmother (you don’t? Read here). An apt description of my obstetric consultant I think, given her ‘your wish is my command!’ approach to my birth plan!

I was pretty anxious going to meet with her this time, not just because of potentially having to talk about the last birth again. I had this irrational fear that she would somehow have changed her mind about what she said last time, despite basically having written me a get out of jail free card for whatever birth I wanted. I was also worried I might not actually get to see her, but would just see one of her juniors as so often happens in clinics like this…

…which is exactly what happened. He was kind, and friendly, and sympathetic. And he told me everything looked fine and they would see me again near delivery, after approximately 5 minutes. Huh?? I timidly asked to see the consultant, and my friend made it clear that I’d been expecting to discuss a birth plan and that’s what should be happening right now (love her). He went to fetch her, and Fairy Godmother strides in beaming, welcoming me back and asking how I am. I instantly relaxed and thought ok, this is more like what I was expecting. 

We discussed a regime for treating and monitoring a few of my medical risks, then got down to the nitty gritty of birth planning. I’d imagined that’s ‘whatever you want’ just meant  a choice between a vaginal or c section delivery. Nope, she meant it literally! For the second time, I could have kissed this woman. 

I articulated what some of the worst bits had been last time (funnily enough, the forceps didn’t bother me as I finally had adequate pain relief by then). The main low points were the excruciating pain of the hormone drip and being on continuous  foetal monitoring. So we have agreed that if I/baby really need monitoring, it can be mobile or intermittent. I can use the pool and all the usual birth suite stuff, and no one is allowed near me with syntocinon! I asked her to reapeat that last bit… Nope, I WILL NOT be induced. If any of this becomes risky to me or baby, or if it just isn’t going according to plan, we can switch to an elective section. This is such a weight off my mind I can’t even describe it!

I’m meeting with a specialist midwife in a few weeks to go through all the what ifs and make a detailed plan with their seal of approval on it (maybe someone will read it this time!).  I hope I’m not repeating mistakes of the past by trying to think through different eventualities; I know I can’t control everything. But it does feel very reassuring to know that certain things won’t happen, and that there are a whole lotta people on my side. Wish me luck!

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A Post about Postpartum Anxiety

You’re pregnant? Wow! Congratulations!

Book in and see a midwife immediately. You’ve been taking folic acid for a few months already, right? Rest if you’re tired. But stay active. Take vitamins. Only the right kind though. Eat whatever you can keep down. But eat healthily. Drink plenty of water. Don’t drink caffeine. Don’t drink alcohol. How much did you used to drink? Have you had ANY alcohol this pregnancy? You don’t do drugs do you? You don’t smoke do you? You haven’t EVER smoked have you?

Eat fish. Not too much fish. But plenty of fish. And the right kind of fish. And not too much. Make sure your meat is well cooked. Your eggs are well cooked. Don’t eat that cheese. And possibly not that salmon. Maybe not those prawns. Definitely not those oysters. Probably not that salami, who knows, best not. 

Stay away from chemicals, do you use plastic? Teflon? Machined clothes? Possibly don’t. We’re not sure, but best not. Don’t wash with soap. Don’t use perfume. Don’t let yourself go, keep your partner interested! Have sex. But be careful. 

Keep up with the house work while you can. Don’t overdo it. Stay active. Don’t do anything too strenuous. Sleep whilst you still can. Exercise. Not too much though. You’ll know how much is enough. 

Has the baby moved yet? Is it still moving? How much? How often? When? Have you bonded yet? Talk to it. Read to it. Play it music. Don’t be a pushy parent already. Isn’t this a magical time? Are you getting enough selenium?

How big is it? Too small? Too big? Lie there. Turn this way. Pee in this. Don’t worry. 

You’ll want to breastfeed or your baby will be stupid, fat, slow and sickly.  Formula is poison. You’re still not smoking right? 

Practice breathing. Practice positions. Make a plan. Dont expect to follow the plan. Don’t raise your expectations. Do hypnobirthing. Let go of control. Learn about pain relief. Don’t use pain relief. Learn about complications. Don’t scare yourself. Be prepared. Don’t over prepare.  Have you packed your hospital bag yet? You won’t need al that stuff. You forgot something. 

Is it here yet? Felt anything yet? Are you in labour? No, real labour. How often? How intense? How long? Stay at home. Come in. Go home. Come back. You should have been here sooner. Your body knows what to do. Your body isn’t doing it right. Have this needle. Have this drug. It’s necessary. Stand up. Stay active. Lie down. Don’t try to get up. It’s your choice.  You’re in control. Do this or your baby may die. That trace doesn’t look good. I don’t like that heartbeat. What would you like to do? Listen to me. Stop crying. Make a decision. Make sure it’s the right one. Can you feel your legs? Your chest? Your tongue? Push. Don’t push. Stop screaming. Push. More. Harder. Your body knows what to do. 

Your baby is here!

Don’t get up. Rest. Why aren’t you breastfeeding yet?  Do it now or you won’t bond. We’re taking the baby. Where’s your baby? Why aren’t you up yet? Your baby is hungry. Why haven’t you showered? Have you changed her? Keep baby clean. Not with wipes. Don’t overdo it. Have you bonded yet? It’s the most natural thing in the world. Your baby is hungry again. Don’t carry your baby out there. Don’t wrap her like that. Don’t put her down like that. I’ll carry her out for you. Is the seat in properly? Is it a new one? How long has she been in it? Don’t wake a sleeping baby. 

Support the head. Put her feet to foot or she’ll die. Put her on her back or she’ll die. Don’t let her overheat or she’ll die. Don’t put her in a draft. Keep her warm. Extra layers. Not too many. But more than you. Is she too hot? Better check. Don’t disturb her. Let her sleep. She should have fed again by now. Wake her up. How many wet nappies? How many today? Has she pooed yet? How much? What colour? How long is she feeding for? Are you sure she’s swallowing? That’s too much. That’s not enough. Just keep going. It’s natural. You’ll both learn. 

Why are you so anxious?

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Birth Planning after Trauma (Part 1: The Debrief)

So, here’s what happened when I went to see an obstetric consultant to plan this next birth, following the horrible time I had last time. 

Twitter followers may remember FireBloke being in the dog house for quite a while after he forgot to book leave far enough in advance to come with me to the appointment. That certainly wasn’t a good start. At my booking appointment I’d had that weird, distant, spaced out feeling I used to get before dissociating/flash backs, something I haven’t experienced  since the tougher stages of therapy (well over a year ago). It made me really anxious about meeting the obstetrician in case I went in to full blown freak out, and the thought of doing this without my other half was just too much to bear. 

Thankfully I have a lovely friend who offered to come with me. She knows the story, down to the gory details, so I had no problem with her being there. She’s had her own perinatal struggles too so I knew she’d be supportive. But before we come to what happened in the appointment, let me explain what happened last time I met this consultant. 

I met this obstetrician for the first and only time 6 weeks after FireGirl was born. As hard as it is to believe, I had already been in and out of the mother and baby unit by then, and was on my way to recovering from postpartum psychosis. I was still incredibly anxious and traumatised, but  I at least knew a few things I didn’t know before (like the fact that I wasn’t dead, and what day of the week it was). I saw her for a ‘debrief’: a meeting where they explain to you what happened with your birth and you get the chance to ask questions. They are often run by midwives, but this consultant has a specialist interest in birth trauma. She wasn’t actually present at my delivery, but she’d spoken to the people involved. If you feel you have suffered a traumatic birth, I would really encourage you to try and push for a debrief. 

She started by explaining to me what had happened, and what they suspected had gone wrong. They think that the prolonged labour tired my uterus out, which may be why it had such problems contracting afterwards (hence the postpartum haemorrhage). They think I lost more blood than initial estimates, and didn’t give me a big enough transfusion, hence why I was so wiped out. They also suspected very late onset pre-eclampsia, a risk for next time. Then came my turn to ask questions. ‘Ask me anything you like. Anything, no matter how stupid you think it is’ she said. I took a deep breath. ‘Did I nearly die?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. ‘No.’ She answered me calmly, without missing a beat, like she’d been expecting it. I was taken aback. What?? I felt like I had nearly bled to death, in my memory it played out like a medical drama where the transfusion doesn’t arrive in time and everyone is panicking. She explained further – ‘we were pretty worried about you, but everything was under control. And now here you are, with your lovely baby!’. 

Wow. It was like something slotted in to place in my brain. Like waking up in the present after a nightmare. I had been so locked in that memory, in that room, flat on my back and exhausted, feeling on the brink of death and thinking at least it might be a relief. I had been so stuck there, I couldn’t see the next part of the story; the part in which I survived. I still had a really long way to go in terms of recovery, but after that day is when I really started healing. The therapy that came later worked on this principle ; retell the story and update it with the stuff you now know to be true. 

She ended the appointment by giving me an open appointment for whenever I felt like coming back. She said she didn’t mind whether I wanted to hear the exact same information again, or ask new questions, or maybe even some day talk about planning another birth. She also said she gave me carte Blanche to have whatever kind of birth I wanted if I ever did feel ready to do it again, and she would go on to write that down in a letter for me to wave under anybody’s nose who disagreed. It was a huge relief and played a large part in me feeling able to come back, almost 3 years later, to see her again. 

I just can’t express how much this experience meant to me. It contributed massively to my recovery; to repairing my trust in maternity services, and to empowering me to face the beast and do it all again. I can honestly never thank this woman enough. 

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