This is the second part of my postpartum story. If you missed the first part of the story you can head back to Part 1 now and then come back to read Part 2.
I found out I was pregnant for the second time at very low point in my mental health journey. I had JUST made the decision to support my mental health with an antidepressant along with therapy and had probably been taking it for less than a month when I started having some telltale symptoms - late period, nausea after eating, nausea with coffee (cue the waterworks) and extreme fatigue during my workouts. When I took the pregnancy test I was angry. And I know a lot of people struggle with fertility and they'd be overjoyed with a positive test, but I was not at a point where I could be happy about this turn of events right away. I was JUST beginning to come out of this dark hole of depression that I had entered during my husband's hospitalization and I felt like I was being robbed of the opportunity to focus on myself.
"I am terrified to have another baby."
Just weeks earlier I had sat in a psychologist's office ugly crying and specifically said "I am terrified to have another baby." I knew that I wanted to have another baby, I wanted my son to have a sibling and I felt that that child would complete our family. But I knew that I also didn't want to go into the depths of postpartum depression any further and the likelihood of that happing after a second birth with my track record was high.
Also, I didn’t really enjoy pregnancy.
That’s right. I said it.
I was nauseous almost daily. I was tired. I was uncomfortable. I felt out of control of my body. My body image spiralled downwards as I watched the scale surpass the weight of my first pregnancy before I even entered my third trimester. I could barely drink coffee (and if you know me, coffee is life). My mental health began to suffer again and the feelings of perinatal depression creeped in.
And let's toss in a toddler into the mix this time through and it added a whole different dimension to this pregnancy experience. With a first pregnancy, when I was tired (like the sheer exhaustion I had the first trimester) I had more flexibility to rest, more opportunities to put my swollen feet up and I didn't need to keep up to the pace of an small human that has endless amounts of energy.
About 3 weeks before my due date I stared having really steady contractions. Hours and hours and hours of full length contractions 60-90sec apart. I had to stop working about 3 days earlier than I had planned (which left a lot of things hanging and unfinished) when they started back up one morning when I woke up. I started doing all the things - I called my supervisor to let him know I thought I was in labour, applied for my maternity leave benefits, made sure my hospital back was fully stocked...
And then they stopped about 5 hours later. This pattern was familiar to me - I had 3 days of prodromal labour (aka pre-labour) with my first baby. So I thought this was the beginning of that, but I didn't think that it would continue on and off for 3 weeks. Everyone says that the second birth is SO MUCH shorter and SO MUCH easier than the first because your "body knows what to do" - they sit on a throne of LIES!
The following evening things started back up again to the point that I felt that I wanted to go to the hospital to get checked. Contractions had been going for over 6 hours and were getting to the point of pain that I was familiar with from my first labour. I think I spent about 4 hours in maternity triage that night at 2cm dilated and eventually my contractions began to stall so we headed home.
"I was frustrated and felt like I was a burden because I had to rely on my family to make so many concessions for me, only to again be left empty handed with no baby in my arms after enduring
so much discomfort."
Each day that I experienced a long bout of contractions that ended up stalling broke me down a little bit more. One of the days I asked my husband to work from home (this was pre-global pandemic) and had my mom come over to watch my toddler so I could focus through the ever strengthening contractions by myself and not feel the need to have to parent at the same time. When they stopped again I was gutted. I was frustrated and felt like I was a burden because I had to rely on my family to make so many concessions for me, only to again be left empty handed with no baby in my arms after enduring so much discomfort.
Each day that I endured the start and stall of contractions crushed me. It was another day of discomfort. Another day of exhaustion. Another day of trying to make impromptu plans to keep myself distracted. Another day of people asking me if I've had the baby yet. Another day that drained me physically, mentally and emotionally.
At this point I was not yet overdue like I was with my first baby while going through prodromal labour, but I felt like I was slowly falling apart. My patience was short, my energy was low and my mood was sinking. All the fears that I had going into this pregnancy about sinking back into postpartum depression were becoming very real and very likely that this postpartum journey would again begin trying to dig myself out of a hole.
I made a plan with my OB that gave me some sense of relief. That sense of some light at the end of this dark tunnel. The plan was that if this baby hadn't arrived by my next appointment at 40+2 weeks that we would schedule an induction. Induction scared me. But beginning my postpartum journey with postpartum depression scared me even more.
On the afternoon before my due date another bout of contractions started up while I was siting in a movie theatre in a reclining seat with my husband. It was our second trip to the theatre in 2 days because I just needed the distraction and to get out of my house. When the movie finished, the contractions were getting closer together (within 3min apart) and intensifying so we called my mom to come to our house, picked up our son from daycare and came home to pick up the hospital bag. We arrived at maternity triage at the hospital around 11pm and were put in a room. I was still only 2cm dilated so their protocol was to wait 2 hours and then check me again to see if there was any progression. Two hours came and went and when the nurse came to check me, there was ZERO progress. I started crying. I couldn't endure this any longer. They had the OB on rotation come in and she asked me what I wanted to do. I asked for the induction. She checked the schedule and said we could come back at 5pm and we booked it. I chose to have a dose of morphine so that I could rest/sleep at home and my husband and I did our best to relax before heading back to the hospital that evening.
After being admitted to the delivery room, my OB came in and jump started the process by breaking my waters. Contractions had already started, but this really pushed things along. Once the pain really kicked in, I had an epidural. The choice to have an epidural was to protect my mental health - I was so exhausted at this point that I was unable to tolerate the pain and had no desire to suffer any longer. My husband and I watched a movie, I ate a meal, I rested and I was able to relax a bit. The feelings of failure that I had with my first epidural were non-existent. I was solid in my choice this time around and knew that this was the best choice for me.
When the time came to start pushing I chose a side-lying birth position. I had a discussion with my pelvic floor physiotherapist about birthing positions with an epidural that would decrease the risk of tearing seeing as I wouldn't be able to use a squatting position. The benefit of the side-lying position (vs the traditional seated position) is that it opens up the pelvis by moving the coccyx out of the way. This allowed me to have a much quicker delivery and I had NO TEARING!
Now let's preface that by saying my first son was 8lbs 13oz so I had already delivered a sizeable baby that caused two 1st degree tears. My second son (yes we had another boy!) was 8lbs10oz so I feel like I was at more of an advantage to limit tearing based on the size of my first.
If I can pull something positive from experience, I felt SO much more prepared going into my second journey of breastfeeding. I knew that there would be a likeliness that I'd have to supplement with formula. That I'd have to take supplements and focus on eating some location promoting foods daily. That I'd probably have to use my breast pump for some extra sessions to encourage more milk production. And this time I was ok with it. Prior to his birth, I had been collecting collostrum through hand expression and had frozen it into syringes. I ended up using most of these in the first few days until my milk began to come in. I managed to get though the first 4 weeks with minimal supplementation and I was really proud of that. It was a big deal for me to be able to provide nourishment for my baby AND to be OK with supplementing with formula the few times that I needed a break.
"When my son was 27 days old I made a trip that I'm sure every parent dreads taking -
to the Children's Hospital."
When my son was 27 days old I made a trip that I'm sure every parent dreads taking - to the Children's Hospital. My newborn had come down with a cough and had thrown up 4 times in 24 hours - he was struggling to feed and wasn't keeping anything down. I took him to a walk-in clinic after he threw up the first time in combination for the cough he had and was basically told that it was a virus and we'd just have to wait it out. I had an appointment scheduled for him the following day with our family doctor so I called the clinic and asked what they thought I should do. We were advised to go to Children's immediately because he was getting so dehydrated so I called my mom and she picked us up and we headed to across the city to the emergency at Children's. We were taken to an emergency room quite quickly without having to sit in the waiting room because his O2 saturation was low. He was monitored closely and when he coughed his levels would drop to the point that all of the monitors started beeping so he was put on oxygen. This meant that he had to be admitted for monitoring for 24 hours. The only thing I had brought with me was my diaper bag and now I was going to be spending a night in the hospital, possibly in a tiny emergency room because there weren't any beds for him.
Eventually we were admitted to a room and my mom went home after waiting with me for 8 hours in emergency and would come back the next day with a few changes of clothes and toiletries. When the lab results came back they showed that he had 2 different viruses - an influenza strain and a rhinovirus strain - and the diagnosis was bronchiolitis. This was a few months pre-pandemic and it was not COVID. I was also sick with what I could only assume was the same rhinovirus and an ear infection - which thanks to a friend I was able to get to a walk-in clinic for antibiotics.
We spent 5 days in the hospital waiting for his oxygen levels to stabilize. Having a sick baby is heartbreaking. They can't tell you how they feel or what they need. They can't tell you if the hurt goes away or when they feel better. The only thing you can do for them is be there to comfort them, nourish them and snuggle them.
On top of this whole situation, we had flights booked to go visit my husband's family on Boxing Day, which was only 6 days away from the day we were discharged. We were medically advised not to travel with him due to the risk of exposure to more viruses on the plane and the fact that the cabin pressurization causes decreased O2 saturation even in healthy people.
So on top of spending 5 days by myself with him in the hospital, I had to make the decision to stay behind with him and send my husband and our oldest son to visit family 4 provinces away. We cancelled my flight, booked a follow up appointment with our family physician and crossed our fingers that he'd be healthy enough to travel by New Year's Day so that we could spend the last week of our vacation together and that my husband's family could meet their newest grandchild for the first time.
Throughout this process I was keeping a close eye on my mental health. Through my work with therapy and group coaching during my pregnancy I had learned that I have extremely high, extremely unrealistic expectations of situations or events and that when those events or situations don't meet my ridiculous expectations, it triggers my depressive symptoms. Also I'm a (recovering) perfectionist. So yeah, that combination of personality traits can lead to a lot of disappointment. However, during this whole hospitalization and re-booking my flights I was OK. Not perfect. Not in control. Just able to take it day by day and focus on the next immediate thing that I needed to do to care for my son and myself. Again, I was proud of myself for lowering my expectations and my ability to go with the flow of the situation rather than trying to force an outcome.
And this was a BIG step in the right direction.
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