Postpartum.

I have read a lot of birth stories.  One thing about them:  They all end before the interesting stuff is over.  Including much that a first-timer would find useful to know. 

Recovery from childbirth advances (and occasionally retreats) on so many fronts at once.   That first hour is breathtakingly filled with sensations that can be as intense as childbirth itself, and some of them are far more distressing. 

For example:  the attendants turn and handle the baby in the moments after birth, and this slackens and unslackens the umbilical cord ever so gently, and each time the sensations of the cord in my flesh have filled me with a horrifying physical fear that the cord will be accidentally yanked -- that my uterus will invert like a sock. 

And there's that sense of emptiness, that all pressure has left from the abdomen.  And the bruised and swollen flesh (it never looks as bad as it feels, thank goodness).  And that first time standing up, the way the floor has dropped out of your lung compartment, with no bulging uterus pushing up on the diaphragm -- the ragged thin breaths and the weakness of the voice -- that breathlessness is the sensation that sticks with me most.  And the uterus shrinks, and there is the last satisfying expulsion of the placenta, and cramping and bleeding and shrinking some more.   You are not really sure you'll be able to pee again, ever, until you do.  That's a milestone. 

The baby is recovering too:  the eyes uncross, the skin splotches mysteriously with harmless newborn rash and mysteriously clears, the cord-stump withers away. 

That first day and week we are still learning how to work together.   I am weakened and sore, and awkwardlky, slowly lift the little wriggling body,  Turning over in bed, knees together to support my bruised bottom, panting with effort because of my deflated torso, I try to support myself with one arm and scoop the squalling little person up with one hand under one clenchy armpit, the fingertips under the base of the skull.  The first attempt only rolls the baby over, infuriating him.  I roll him back and try again and manage to pin himagainst my belly  in a one-armed, splay fingered bear hug.  The cries are muffled and he turns his head back and forth, open-mouthed against my flesh, searching.  But now I have him firmly held, at least, and I can use my other arm to shove myself upright, and once upright to manage the diapers and grab a swig from my jar of water by the bed and then to deposit the baby on my other side and slowly lie down next to him and get him latched on.

It gets easier as my abdominal strength returns, as I remember how I used to do it, as the baby learns what to expect from me and I from him.  He has learned that before I pick him up to hold him in position for him to pee, the first thing I do is remove his blankets; now he kicks his blankets off before he starts to fuss.  He has learned to pee when he is held in a certain position with hands firmly under his buttocks (Mark, whose arms are longer than mine, has gotten wet a few times when he casually transferred the baby into a one-armed football hold).  I have learned that when he comes off the breast and cries at it but won't latch back on, he needs to burp.   I have learned to recognize a way he breathes through his nose that means he's about to poop. 

The cycle begins again:  I feel better, I get up; I sit in a chair too long, I talk too long with a visiting friend; I bleed, I hurt, I feel worse, I go back to bed and vow not to overdo it again next time.  I am thankful for paternity leave.  My husband is making pancakes and pizzas and quesadillas.  I am trying not to make too many suggestions.

Everything tastes so wonderful right after having given birth.  Hot buttered toast is the best stuff in the whole world.  Scrambled eggs are heavenly, sturdy, strengthening.  A bowl of hearty soup, brimming with vegetables and beans and shreds of meat in flavorful broth, is amazing.   I can feel the food nourishing me. I eat a bite of collard greens and imagine I can feel the iron soaking into my blood.  Steaming, bitter black coffee jolts me into remembering my old self, the self that has coffee every morning while making breakfast for my family and checking my e-mail, and gives me a little ray of hope that it won't be too long before I can feel like me again:  not the old me but a new me, Mother of Four, me with Leo on my hip. 

Comments

[rachel]

Wow. thank you. this is helpful, and beautiful, and brings several different lumps to my throat.

[Rebekka]

From someone who has never given birth (and may never do so) this is fascinating - and touching!

[Kelly]

This and the other one you wrote are some really great writing! I did find it funny, that I wouldn't say I had the same experiences. I don't remember having any feeling relating to the cord, for example.

That moment when the afterbirth is out and I hobble to the bed and lay down. That feeling of being not pregnant. As not pregnant as you can ever get. It's the greatest feeling in the world.

But both entries bring it all back, and make me think that four is a really great number. Four. Not doing all that again.

[Kathy]

I'm with Rebekka...this is fascinating and I hope, someday, helpfully informative!

[Natalee]

I LOVED THIS POST. I am a 34yo mother of 7. It has been 4 years since my last and we are hoping for another. Reading your post brought it all back for me. In spite of all the difficulties, though, what I associate with all those things you described so well is that extreme and utter happiness I feel at that time to be both loving my newest child and to NOT BE PREGNANT ANYMORE!!!! I wish you all the best, and adore your blog!

[bearing]

Kelly, every time I have given birth, I am absolutely sure I'm never doing that again. It lasts varying amounts of time, in my experience...

I must admit I am still in the middle of it. Spend the whole pregnancy knowing you have to give birth and go through postpartum; spend postpartum thinking, "At least I don't have to look forward to doing this again, anytime soon, maybe never."

I assume it will go away at some point. Perhaps even before menopause. But I refuse to feel guilty about it until the lochia stops.

[bearing]

(and I have read that over and over... "As not pregnant as you can ever get." That is fantastic. I love it.)

[Kelly]

Vincent just had his first birthday, so we have plenty of time. ;)

[Barbara C.]

Plus, Kelly has the "incredible non-sleeping baby", so you can forgive her if she still feels like four is more than enough for her to handle. ;-)

You make a good point, Erin, about how most birth stories stop before the recovery period.

[Kelly]

Ha ha, Barbara, so funny of you to mention that. Currently, he is taking two 20 minutes naps a day. He's sleeping decent at night, so I'm trying not to complain too much.