My Doula Application

I had always wanted to be a mum. As a young child, I would play with my dolls, pretending to feed them and care for them, and I knew that I would do this in real life one day. Our first much-wanted pregnancy ended at 7 weeks. We knew it was normal, we knew the chances of miscarriage were potentially 1 in 4, we knew it was nothing we had done wrong. In spite of all we ‘knew’ the grief we felt was unprecedented. The silence of early miscarriage only serves to amplify the sense of isolation and failure. We tried again and within 3 months were fortunate enough to be pregnant again.

The pregnancy itself was normal, my anxiety was not. I had intrusive thoughts of bleeding/miscarrying. Later on, I had intrusive thoughts about giving birth to a dead baby. I felt the pain of all those who had lost before me. I readied myself, in order to feel prepared; I imagined what I would do and how I would cope. I tortured myself basically.

It is no surprise to me now, knowing what I know, that my labour and birth became such a traumatic experience. A ‘normal’ vaginal birth, after contracting for 29 hours, malposition of baby slowing down progress, some less than encouraging language from those present, exhaustion, a shot of meptid that sent me over the edge. I went to very dark places in my mind. I accepted death, both for myself and my baby. I wanted to die because the pain- physical and mental was impossible to bear.

When my baby arrived, because I begged for it to be over and I pushed as though my life depended on it, even though I couldn’t hear my body in light of how loud it was screaming at me, he came to my breast, and I cried “it’s a baby” because after all, I hadn’t expected this to be the outcome. I cried and sobbed because my life felt like it was over. I had moments before wished for death, I didn’t want this baby in front of me, I wanted to be dead. The pain became muted but it was still pain. I was tortured, broken, mind, body and soul, nothing remained except for pain.

 

The post-natal period was of course more of the same. There was no light for me. No relief. I dreamt about the experience, I couldn’t stop the cinema reel replaying in my mind. I couldn’t make sense of what had happened. I couldn’t believe I was alive. I couldn’t believe that my baby would be staying. I had prepared for his death, and so I expected it to come. I grieved for him, every day. I grieved for me, what was lost that felt impossible to retrieve. I grieved for my entrance into motherhood, the profound joy I was supposed to feel. I described to my partner that I felt like a newborn baby. Stripped of all control, confused and alone, I curled up in the foetal position and cried.

 

I’m not sure how much of my experience was good. I enjoyed the gas and air. For a few hours, I laboured with my tens machine and bounced on the birth ball, without terror. I laughed and joked in between contractions and looked forward to meeting my baby.

 

My feeding journey was very much affected by this brutal entrance into motherhood. I could not fail at feeding my baby because my feelings of failure were overwhelming. I responded to my baby within a fraction of a second, his cry would become a signal of my inability to care for him, and so he didn’t cry, I couldn’t allow it. I stayed awake to make sure he didn’t die and never needed to cry for me. He fed at least 2 hourly. I was not prepared for the trials of breastfeeding. I didn’t know what was normal, and so I thought I must be doing something wrong, why wouldn’t my baby sleep on his own? Why did he wake so regularly? Of course, now I know what normal infant behaviour is, I just wish someone had supported me when I needed it. I breastfed exclusively until 4 months, by which point my mental health and physical exhaustion led us to introduce formula for the night feeds (which were still every 2 hours). I slept 7 hours every night for a week, I cried every day because I knew it wasn’t enough, I was in such a sleep deficit that it felt like I would never catch up. I hadn’t had a goal per se; I had only thought that I had to breastfeed for as long as I could. I still felt like a failure at 4 months for introducing formula. Maybe that is why our breastfeeding relationship continues to this day (5 years later).

 

I knew that I couldn’t let this birth be my only experience. I worked hard on my mental health. I researched endlessly; I needed proof that birth didn’t have to be this way, that it was possible for me to have a different experience, that I deserved a different experience.

My pregnancy felt meant to be this time, but then the doubt crept in and by 20 weeks I was paralysed with panic from all the ‘what ifs?’ I was signed off work after a prolonged panic attack at my 20 week scan, and I was unable to return. A diagnosis of gestational diabetes further along in pregnancy added further layers of doubt about what my body was able to do. Thankfully, I had already discovered Hypnobirthing and was seeing my teacher regularly as well as having fortnightly visits from the mental health midwife, so I felt well supported on the countdown to what was to be my healing birth.

At 37 weeks, I was faced with a decision, my baby’s growth had slowed (according to the growth scans), and the consultant felt induction was appropriate. My decision had already been made the week before when we sat with our hypnobirthing teacher and wrote our gentle caesarean birth plan.

And so at 38 weeks exactly, after a 2 night stay in the hospital for steroids to be administered; my baby boy came screaming into the world just 9 minutes after entering theatre. It was a stark contrast to my tortuous 29 hour ‘normal’ birth. My world lit up as joy (and oxytocin) flooded my system, my birth belonged to me. They had listened to my wishes and they had helped me give birth without fear or trauma. I held my baby skin to skin for hours that first day. Undisturbed, they monitored his blood sugars and temperature and I assured them he was fine. Slowly but surely the power of mother’s touch and colostrum brought him where he needed to be without anyone taking him away or dressing him.

My first son had been weighed incorrectly (we found out on day 5 when he seemed to have lost an impossible amount of weight). This time, there was no rush, we weighed him slowly and gently, in full view of the weighing scales, we tied his hand made cord tie around his cord carefully, we dressed him in our own time.

That day remains so precious, the best day of my life, and my recovery from major abdominal surgery was a walk in the park compared to my broken and bruised body and mind the first time around.

 

My confidence as a parent soared; the weeks and months that followed were enjoyable, I healed with every passing day.

 

My breastfeeding relationship was different this time. A 12% birthweight drop, but I wasn’t worried, my milk came in on day 4, I knew what I was doing and declined a specialist referral. My tandem journey began on day 3, one that continues to this day. And Mylo never had a drop of formula- it just wasn’t necessary. I bedshared and breastslept from the beginning, I was rested more than the previous 2 years had ever let me be. And Mylo has always been a better sleeper and a shorter feeder (he still is).

 

I know from experience now, and teach my clients the same, that HOW your baby is born doesn’t matter- but how you FEEL about it does. How you feed your baby doesn’t matter- but how you feel about it does. (The benefits of both vaginal birth and breastfeeding are not unimportant, but informed choice is always the aim, what I’m saying is that the physical and the mental, emotional and spiritual aftermath of these choices is equal in weighting.)

Education and support make all the difference. I know looking back that better antenatal care and education would have changed my birth and breastfeeding experiences. I can’t change that now, but I can and do teach others so that they can feel prepared and empowered, and their parenting journey can start better than mine did.

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Love from

Sheryl @simplynatal xx