I never labeled my experience as “trauma.” The word seemed reserved for more catastrophic events, and I didn’t want to appear overly dramatic. But here I am, over ten years later, still grappling with the emotional and psychological fallout from my son’s birth—an event I now recognize as one of the most significant traumas of my life.
After enduring battles with cancer and infertility, my partner and I were elated to be expecting our first child in June 2008. My pregnancy was largely uneventful, but it was also incredibly uncomfortable, and by the time I went into labor, I was more than ready for it to be over.
I labored for hours, pushing with all my might before finally delivering our son, who weighed in at 8 pounds, 13 ounces, with the help of a vacuum after an episiotomy failed to prevent a severe tear. The reality of my birthing experience was far from what I had hoped.
As my son entered the world, he was limp and blue, the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and exposed to meconium. He was quickly taken away by the nurses, and it felt like an eternity before I heard his first weak cries from across the room. I was utterly exhausted, and the situation was about to worsen.
As the doctor began stitching up the episiotomy and tear, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. I had never given birth before, but I knew something was wrong. I could hear what sounded like liquid pouring onto the floor. With every movement the doctor made, I sensed a growing problem.
My husband, who had gone to be with our newborn, witnessed the alarming amount of blood pooling beneath me. He understood the gravity of the situation. After twenty minutes had passed without delivering the placenta, I felt the doctor reaching inside me and heard more fluid spilling out.
Panic filled the room as the urgency in the doctor’s voice pierced through my haze. “We need an OR room now!” “Prepare two units of blood!” “Call for the specialist!” I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes, but I called out to my husband, who could barely respond with a weak, “I love you” as I was wheeled away.
He was left sitting just feet away from a pool of my blood, while the nurse continued to care for our son.
As I was rushed to surgery, the doctor explained that I was hemorrhaging severely—it was life-threatening, and I might require a hysterectomy. “Do what you need to do,” I managed to say, my mind racing with fear.
About six hours later, I woke up in the ICU, still intubated and surrounded by machines. The first thing I asked my mom was, “Did I need a hysterectomy?” Tears filled her eyes as she confirmed my fears.
At one point, my family was told that without surgery, I had only a 10% chance of survival. An emergency hysterectomy was performed after I received eight units of blood and various other transfusions.
When I woke up again, my body was swollen from the fluids, and I was painfully aware of my new reality. My son was now 12 hours old, and I had yet to hold him. When my husband finally showed me a picture of our baby, I felt a deep longing to be with him. It took hours before I was finally cleared to move to a regular room, but I was unprepared for the challenges ahead.
I was not healing as expected, and my episiotomy wound became infected due to the swelling. I struggled to move around the house and had trouble with daily tasks. Despite my desire to bond with my baby, I felt overwhelmed and inadequate.
Breastfeeding was another battle. My son was placed on formula immediately, and despite my efforts to pump, I didn’t manage to produce enough milk. It was just another source of frustration.
My husband returned to work after just a few days, leaving me to navigate postpartum life with the help of family and friends, which felt uncomfortable. I had numerous appointments, both for my baby and for my own recovery, including overdue cancer screenings that I had postponed during my pregnancy.
Coming to terms with my hysterectomy was another layer of grief. I felt lost and disheartened, mourning the family I had envisioned with our remaining embryos. I made a note in my journal about my emotional state, but I never sought help despite the doctor suggesting I do so.
Now, looking back, I realize that I never fully recovered. The mental and emotional scars from that day run deeper than the physical marks on my body.
I’m currently in therapy, working through these issues, and I’ve learned an important lesson: It’s okay to acknowledge your trauma. If you find yourself in a similar situation, please seek help—don’t wait years to address what you’re feeling.
For those interested in the journey of artificial insemination and fertility, check out this resource on fertility boosters for men and consider the at-home intracervical insemination syringe kit for those exploring family planning options. Also, if you’re curious about the IVF process, this article is an excellent resource for understanding what to expect.
In summary, acknowledging trauma can be the first step toward healing. Don’t shy away from seeking the support you need, whether physical, emotional, or mental.
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