TRIGGER WARNING: Medical stuff, blood. All in all, a bit of a bummer story.
Gather around while I tell the uncomfortable tale of my birth story, which I chose to write out to help myself process this somewhat unhinged experience. Written with enough fun little pictures to keep the darkness away.
Let’s start at the beginning. My wife and I started the fertility process. We knew it would take some time and multiple attempts. We were very happy with that positive test result, and so began the pregnancy journey.
Around 2 months pregnant, I was laid off from my job as a veterinary assistant. If you are wondering the reasons, my boss said that I don’t make enough eye contact and I don’t say good morning to her. She was also upset that I wanted my reactive dog muzzled for the safety of everyone.
If that sounds f*cked up and personal, you’re right. She didn’t like me as a person, especially when I tried to implement a more free fear approach to the clinic, and stood up against her poor treatment of my coworker. In the end her decision ensured that I would not have maternity benefits, and would need to seek out employment a few months after giving birth.
I try not to hate people, that just spends unnecessary energy. She’s a pathetic woman and I hope she stops treating people like shit. In the end it was a blessing in disguise to leave a clinic that operates like it’s still 1970 (in terms of mentality and medicine).
Fast forward a bit, my morning sickness is staying with me, and it will stay for the entire pregnancy. My blood pressure is borderline high. No one will hire a visibly pregnant woman, as I desperately try to get another job to save my benefits. My wife is my rock at this point.
It’s been months since I had a normal poop.
Around 6 months pregnant, my wife and I are preparing our fur baby (Kazooee the nervous boxer/great dane rescue) for a TPLO surgery. We get the earth shattering news that he has aggressive bone cancer that has spread to his lungs. With amputation, he would be given around 2-3 months. We chose humane euthanasia for a number of reasons, and lost a bit of our hearts that day. I will forever miss my fur baby.
Now we arrive at 8-9 months pregnant. Blood pressure high. Sickness: I’m down with it.
The ultrasounds are estimating that the baby is around 97th percentile in size. People reassure us that it is often wrong and often a few pounds smaller than the estimate. SPOILER ALERT: She was actually born in the 99th percentile.
Because of the borderline high blood pressure and the bigger baby, we are put on the induction list at 39 weeks. We wait four days for the call to come in to the hospital.
The baby isn’t a fan of contractions, and her head hasn’t come down far enough. I’m monitored for around 14 hours. We are faced with a choice, break my water (which creates the risk of the cord slipping out, leading to an emergency c-section), or go right for the c-section. With the doctor’s advice, it is unplanned c-section time.
I had some great nurses while preparing for the c-section, that’s a positive I should mention, and having my wife by my side always helps.
I’m going to be gross and brutally honest here regarding the c-section. There is no pain of course, but the pressure and movement you feel paints a very clear picture of what is happening. It basically feels like someone is rummaging around inside of you, and they are. You asked them to grab something from your purse, but in twisted horror story fashion, you are the purse. It was unsettling.
The doctors then exclaimed, “holy shit,” as they freed the 10 lb 6 oz baby from me.
Then I vomited bile all over my hair and the side of my face. Props to my wife for holding our baby and trying to hold out a bag for me to puke into.
Here we are in the recovery room. The nurse asks, “can I give you this pain medication?” I say, “yes for sure.” She follows up by saying, “-in your butt.”
Alright then.
They test our baby for blood sugar, which ends up being low. This is apparently very common for underweight and overweight babies. She has hypoglycemia and is almost immediately whisked away for the hospital’s NICU. I cry, then we go back to our hospital room.
My wife helps me in and out of my diaper. I start pumping to get a supply going. We visit our baby in the NICU. A few days later we are told she needs to be transferred to our city’s children’s hospital which can provide more advanced care. The transport team gives us the information while our baby hangs out in that giant transportation stretcher.
I cry.
A week postpartum and I wake up around midnight needing to use the washroom. Something is leaking out of me, and for a brief moment I wonder if I peed the bed. I stand up to go to the bathroom and it’s gushing out of me now. Only when I turn on the bathroom light do I discover that I am soaked in my own blood.
I take off my pants and sit on the toilet, and it’s not stopping. My wife is on the phone with the ambulance who said they would arrive in less than 30 minutes, but to call back if anything changes. I put my PJ pants to soak in the bathroom sink, because these PJ pants have the face of our recently deceased fur baby, Kazooee.
A few minutes pass, and I’m tired. Really tired. My wife calls back and I’m advised to lie down on the ground while we wait. I was lying on the ground, halfway on the bathroom tile, halfway on the hallway hardwood. I’m staring at the doorframe, afraid I might bleed to death. I’m thinking I just want to take a nap at this point, but I tell myself to stay awake for my wife and daughter. I’ve never bled out before but I assume that I should be stubborn and stay awake, so I do.
The paramedics get there fast. It’s all an female team of calm badass heroes. They made me laugh, I can’t tell you why. They immediately hook me up to IV fluids, and eventually get me down the stairs. I do leave a trail of blood as I go.
In the end there were massive blood clots and at least a litre of blood gone, which isn’t counting whatever I continued to lose along the way to the hospital. My precious blood, man. I have no pants or socks on as I’m loaded into the ambulance, which is bright as all hell and apparently hot, kept at 28 degrees. I can’t feel any warmth at this point, so it’s all the same to me.
When I get to the hospital I get more fluids, a blood transfusion, and iron. I go for an ultrasound and wait to see if surgery is needed. It’s not needed and I’m given medication for my uterus to contract. The type of hemorrhage I had typically happens up to 24 hours after giving birth, usually in the hospital. It’s very rare to have this happen after 24 hours, about 1-2%. To have it happen at home added to the traumatic experience. At this point I cannot sleep in the dark, or else I start thinking about that night and panic, afraid I will wake up in my own blood again. The worst part was that it could’ve happened again. “It shouldn’t,” the doctors would say, “but it could.”
During my stay at the hospital post-hemorrhage, I was in the same birthing unit where we had the baby. Only this time, without baby, I felt like I was an inconvenience to the nursing staff. When I was first transferred to bed, the porter asked if I could walk. The nurse replied that since it was a week after c-section, I should be able to walk. I listened to this, afraid that if I stood up I would pass out or bleed to death. To that nurse I say, f*ck you. To the two nurses who helped me to the bathroom for the first time after the ordeal, thank you.
In a lot of different ways it seemed I was treated like a queen when I was pregnant, treated like an unwelcomed guest when I wasn’t. Women’s health is flawed that way. I was also discharged with no instructions regarding what to expect in terms of bleeding, and found out that once you’re discharged, they basically tell you to go f*ck yourself.
Fast forward to December 19th. Our baby has been in the hospital for three weeks. I was afraid of things like changing diapers, changing outfits, bathing. My wife and I conquered this while she had IV lines and monitoring wires. We figured out blood sugar tests and newborn medication. We started this parenting journey on hard mode, so at least in that sense, we are doing amazing.
Our baby is finally discharged and sent home with a medicine regiment. Much to the dismay of a few people, we opt for a quiet Christmas at home, since at this point our baby girl will be home less than a week with us. People are still wondering where we are.
Fast forward again to today. Baby is doing well. I discovered something very interesting about the human condition. You can tell a lot about a person based on how they treat you when you have nothing to offer them (and how they treat animals to be honest). A lot of people aren’t interested in me or my wife, they just want baby. Then there’s the absolutely amazing people in our lives who love us for us, who don’t have an ulterior motive for their kindness. The ones who took the time to visit us before the baby. The ones who care for us without expecting anything in return. A huge thank you to those who respected our boundaries and gave us much needed time.
50% ranting and 50% advice here. We all want to hold a cute baby, be mindful of how the mother is dealing with postpartum and listen to her. Don’t change the parents’ minds, there should be zero negotiation in regards to the parents’ level of comfort when dealing with visitors for their newborn. No one is trying to keep you from the baby. Calm your tits.
Even though it was a tough journey, yes women’s healthcare is flawed, and yes I could have died, our little family is great. I’m so grateful for my wife and our friends and family.
Cat M. Lalonde 