The Harsh Side of Postpartum Recovery

I thought pregnancy was hell. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.

As a first time mother, who had conceived a "honeymoon baby", I knew pregnancy was going to be challenging. I had heard horror stories about mothers needing to be put on bed rest because of medical issues, swollen feet the size of hippo's, women losing weight during pregnancy because they couldn't keep any food down, and other luxurious pregnancy ailments, too numerous to count.

But I had also seen my own mother carry and deliver 5 babies, and her toughness and resilience and overall cheerful demeanor throughout her pregnancies had painted my own view of motherhood with a kind of infallible hopefulness and optimism that my own pregnancy would be a walk in the park.

Boy, was I wrong.

At about 6 weeks into the pregnancy, I started having extreme nausea. I began vomiting at my office, which, after having been newly hired there as a Director of Development, was not ideal for me to be appearing hungover and sick. I vomited and retched straight through 20 weeks of pregnancy, which was way past the typical morning sickness window I had heard of. Also, since my nausea seemed to only be assuaged by carb-heavy foods, I loaded up on Panera bagels, Pop-Tarts, and frozen pizza during the first trimester- when most women don't gain much weight at all- and packed on a whopping 30 pounds in the first twenty weeks.

After the nightmarish first twenty weeks, I had a brief respite for ten weeks, where, besides being big and uncomfortable and having some back pain, I was happy and jolly in my pregnant body and accepting of the discomforts before me.

Then, around 30 weeks, my ribs started to hurt with a splitting pain that made me sure I had broken them somehow. My baby had lodged her butt into my lower right rib cage, and it was the worst pain I had ever felt in my life. Thankfully, the last few weeks of pregnancy, she dropped down and moved away from my ribs, giving me some much needed breathing room before her arrival.

God blessed me with a smooth and relatively pain-less birth. Yes, it hurt. But I have had stomach flu's that were worse. The natural birth I had so desired was the crowning glory after 40 weeks of discomfort and pain.

In four pushes, those forty weeks were done, and I had a wiggling, slimy, vernix-covered, blue eyed beauty staring at me.

Holding my sweet little girl, I told her all the morning sickness and discomfort was worth it. BECAUSE IT WAS. As a Christian, I liked to look at the crucifixion scene of Our Lord as an example of what I went through. Painful, uncomfortable, not glamorous, bloody even- but so worth it. All good things in life are like that, aren't they? From a Christian perspective of salvation- to the very basic process of getting in shape and sculpting your body- all worthy endeavors are painful. "No pain, no gain". Those words are true in all things. All worthwhile things in life are painful, but beautiful once achieved.

But then, the real surprise came.

Postpartum recovery.

I had always heard of postpartum depression, and I was prepared for that monster to rear its head since I have had a history of depression. But what I was not prepared for, was the physical and mental toll the birth itself had taken on me.

My easy labor was a textbook delivery, no complications, no traumatic events, and I was even texting friends an hour before my baby was born, documenting my labor on social media and posting in between contractions. The night of her birth, my husband and I were in a endorphin induced daze of euphoria. We all got into bed and cuddled naked, our newborn daughter laying on our chests and breathing us in.

It was heaven.

The next day, reality hit me. Hard.

I could barely get out of my bed. I felt weak, like a truck had hit me. My midwife said because I had lost so much blood, that was a normal bodily response. I remember trying to walk to the kitchen to get a snack, and hunching over like an elderly person barely able to walk. Here I was, a woman in the prime of my youth, who just yesterday was a goddess of fertility, strong and womanly and bearing a child, pushing her into this world with strength and grace. And today, here I was, barely able to move.

My first post baby bowel movement was the most humbling moment of it all. I could barely wipe myself. My husband had to literally help me wipe feces off myself, as I fumbled with my adult diaper, crying and thanking him at the same time. He lovingly looked at me and laughed, telling me someday when he was an old man, he would hope I would wipe his butt too.

It was in that moment, raw and vulnerable, of having my butt wiped by my spouse, that I felt the power of our wedding vows coursing through me, coming to fruition.

The third day post delivery, my mother came over to make us dinner. I broke down and tearfully told her I couldn't believe how scary it all had been. The delivery itself was a simple one, but even though it had been free of complications, it was a traumatic thing to experience, and I was just now processing it, three days later. Waves of emotions swept over me, and the fear and shock that I had somehow not felt immediately after my baby was born came pouring out of me in hot tears. My mom said I was experiencing baby blues, and it was normal for me to be feeling like this.

She gave me cotton balls soaked in lavender to sniff to help calm me down. I put them near my pillow.

My husband bought Sleeping Beauty on Blu Ray, the old Disney version, and we watched it together and cuddled. The gentleness of Disney, the world of imagination and fantasy, soothed my nerves momentarily.

Key word: Momentarily.

The next few weeks, I went on an all out Google searching rampage. By the first week, I had convinced myself that I had a blood clot and was experiencing heart failure. The second week, I was convinced I had a breast infection and when I started taking antibiotics for said breast infection, I was convinced that I had contracted antibiotic resistant diarrhea. When I realized I might have antibiotic resistant diarrhea, I began spraying the apartment down with Lysol and Clorox. That sent me into a tail spin over whether the fumes were harmful to my newborn daughter.

We took our baby to church two weeks after she was born. Every cough and sneeze of our fellow parishioners was amplified a thousand times in my ears. I took the baby out of her carrier and clutched her to my chest, crying in the pew while my husband looked at me quizzically. "This was a mistake." I whispered urgently. "We shouldn't have come. "

There were so many sick people. What if she got sick? What if she died?

"What if" was the phrase of choice those first four weeks. My poor husband was at his whit's end by the end of that first month. But little did he know, it was the most hellish month of my life, too.

I realized that I had not been struggling with postpartum depression, but rather the less commonly talked about postpartum anxiety. It is equally debilitating, and equally important to address.

According to Postpartum Living, an online resource, about 10% of new mothers experience postpartum anxiety. The symptoms of postpartum anxiety include things such as excessive worrying about your baby's health, to the point of letting it control your life.

The online resources I found were incredibly helpful, most particularly a Facebook page I found for mothers struggling with postpartum depression and anxiety. Misery loves company, right? There was strength in seeing other new mom's stories in this virtual world of warmth and empathy. It was there that I experienced the most comforting two words ever said, "Me too."

My mother frequently stopped by to take care of me when my husband went back to work. She folded laundry, made me milkshakes, helped change the baby's diapers so I could take a shower, and gave me hugs. I started to go on walks with my baby and let the sunshine's healing power wash over me. I visited with friends and invited people over. I started to feel more and more like myself.

I also believe in the power of medicine. I started taking an antidepressant, and it helped calm a lot of the excessive fear that had been crippling me for a month. While the medicine was in no way a cure-all, it helped take the edge off and improved my day to day functioning.

Now, as a mother of a happy and healthy three month old, I am sharing my experience to help other new parents know they are not alone. Pregnancy and birth are beautiful, powerful, raw, gritty experiences. They hurt. But these life changing events are gorgeous in their pain.

As I stare into my daughter's beautiful eyes and hear he coo at me contently, I experience a hormonal high better than any anxiety I have felt. The bond we have is unbreakable, powerful and intense. The emotions I felt after her birth are nothing compared to the inexorable joy I feel every day as her mother.

I encourage any momma's out there who are struggling, to reach out. To find resources online, because they are there. To be comforted and know, you are NOT ALONE. And to spouses of women going through this- be patient. Love the mother of your child. Be strong for her.

This too shall pass.