Interrupting the plot

I’ve tried to write Ramona’s birth story so many times.

I have notes on my phone, on paper, in my Google Drive. I even have drafts of it saved in the backend of this site.

But when the time comes to sit and make it clear, to finish it, I can’t do it. I’m physically unable to press ‘Publish’ or to be satisfied that I’ve captured everything properly.

I remember so much so clearly: the way she turned her head towards me when she heard me speak for the first time; the look of terror on Jack’s face as they wheeled me out of surgery, Ramona cradled awkwardly in his stiff arms. I remember feeding her for the first time while nurses sat gossiping in the corner of the room. I remember worrying if my gross, swollen face was scary for her so close up. I remember feeling that this was the beginning of a whole new phase of my life; that the word ‘MOTHER’ was being carved into the stone foundations of my core as I lay there with her on my chest. I remember all of that and so much more.

But I’m not sure how I ended up in a situation that resulted in pre-eclampsia, organ failure and sepsis after such a healthy pregnancy. I don’t really understand why I felt so scared and isolated in a building filled with people supposedly dedicated to keeping me and Ramona safe and comforted.

Why was it all so hard?

I’m a forgiving person. I blame a lot of the failures on Covid. The rules kept changing, we were in a lockdown, the likes of which my generation had never seen before. Everybody was terrified and confused and conflicted. I’ve no doubt that every time they tended to a patient, they were thinking of their loved ones and the risk they may be putting them in by caring for strangers.

But I don’t think that can be an excuse. They were there to care for people in a vulnerable state; to support and strengthen new life; to provide comfort for those at the end of their lives.

Fear is not an excuse for what I experienced while in their care.

So I went to the hospital website, just now, to request a birth debrief. As I clicked on the email button, I started shaking and burst into tears. Just now, just a few minutes ago. Every time I try to send the request, I cry. A trauma response that I hadn’t realised was so close to the surface.

I want to know everything but I’m so scared that they won’t give me answers that help me in any way. That I’m just opening myself up to more pain and frustration and confusion.

And part of me isn’t convinced that it’s worth that strain. Ramona is here and she’s perfect* so what can they say of any real impact?

But the fact that I’m having such an extreme emotional response means that I need to do the work to untie all of the knots and bring the trauma to the light.

My biggest fear has always been, long before Ramona, that my own mental health issues could damage my child or my relationships. I owe it to my little family to process these things properly and deal with whatever outcomes may follow. If by some miracle we have another child, I need to be free from this invisible menace simmering inside of me.

If you let it, trauma will break the flow of your narrative, interrupt the plot of your life. I’m not going to let this hang over the memory of one of the most important moments in my life.

Wish me luck.

*as perfect as a 2 year old can be…