The Stories We Tell - Amelia's Fourth Trimester Journey
This is, ‘The Stories We Tell’, a weekly series of true accounts in all things motherhood. These 100% vulnerable, raw and ferociously honest tales are taken from the monthly LA based storytelling event, Mothers Unleashed. This week, we’re sending you Amelia’s story about the strange time that is the fourth trimester - those first three postpartum months. Amelia is the co-founder of Mothers Unleashed.
We are lucky to be in a hospital when my daughter's heart rate suddenly and severely drops from the umbilical cord twisted around her ankle. After an emergency c-section, the effects of the general anesthesia make me feel like I am under water and the pain medication makes me nauseous. The intubation tube they had to put down my throat causes phlegm, which makes me want to cough, but coughing puts me at risk for tearing my stitches so I can only "hu-uhhh." The first night is terrible. Lana starts cluster-feeding immediately, a term I learn of only once she begins eating for three hours straight. But, none of that matters. The worst part is over! I have my baby! It'll be hard, sure, but everything is going to start getting better!
In the morning, a pediatrician arrives. She sticks a finger in Lana's mouth.
"Strong latch!" she exclaims. My raw nipples could have told her that.
"She's responding well to sounds and visuals." That's good to know, I think.
She flips Lana on her stomach. Lana melts into the bassinet, face-down, in the fetal position. The doctor pokes Lana's buttcheeks – odd. Then the doctor takes out her cellphone and snaps a photo of Lana's backside – odder. She flips Lana back over, wraps her like a burrito, and hands her to me.
She then says something. She uses non-sensical words: "sacral dimple, gluteal fold, skin discoloration." The only language that makes sense is when I hear her say, "Possible spina bifida. I've sent a picture over to pediatric neurosurgery and we will have an answer by tonight." And then she leaves.
Terror rises in my throat. My husband looks helpless. I send my father, a doctor, about a dozen pictures of Lana's butt. He responds, "Cute tushie."
But then he calls, which tells me he's concerned. He says that he's not up to date on pediatrics, necessarily, but unless they've changed the markers of spina bifida, in some cases the birthmark could be a sign, but typically it's more of a tuft of hair… I tune out.
That night, my shoulder seizes up from the tension of surgery, endless hours of clusterfeeding, lack of sleep, and overall stress, making it hard to take a deep breath in. Eric rubs my shoulder at 3am while I nurse Lana.
The next day, a different pediatrician comes in. This one, a male, goes head first into a languid, consoling voice: "Yes, I would have sent a picture to the neurosurgeon, as well. I agree there could be something there."
But still, he gives us no answers. My husband has never really heard of spina bifida, and I only know of it as the birth defect where the head is misshapen and the spinal cord is visually erupting like a bulb from the back, the child is paralyzed from the waist down, and the brain doesn't function normally. I look at my tiny baby and wonder what nefarious mysteries hide under her perfect skin. I know that the only way to prevent spina bifida is for the mother to start taking prenatal vitamins with folic acid 6 weeks before conception. I blame myself.
Once the doctor leaves, I burst into gigantic, breath-halting, sobs. I am instantly jealous of all the other moms in the labor and delivery wing, with their healthy, perfect babies. I took the utmost care for ten months while she was inside me. She almost died during delivery. And now, she's still not safe?
At one point, Eric runs home to take care of the dog and get us lunch. In a rare moment alone with our doula, I tell her that I never pictured myself pregnant or as a mother. And now it feels like that's because I knew she wasn’t going to last. I have trouble calling her Lana and keep referring to her as "the baby." "It's like the baby is going to be taken from me. The baby doesn't feel real." I realize the gravity of what I am saying when the doula responds, "You're struggling with some very big emotions right now."
Day three in the hospital ends without us getting any word from the pediatric neurosurgeon. Eric, Lana, and I go home. People coo over the baby as I carry her into our apartment, but I feel like hiding her from the world.
My parents arrive the next day, and I am still on edge. Eric gets sick to his stomach when he sees my dad steal moments to check the markings on Lana's backside. My mom whispers to me at one point, "Daddy doesn’t see anything. She's healthy!" But it only feels like annoying false hope.
Days later, I'm struggling to give Lana her Vitamin D drops. The drops are supposed to go on my nipple and then I'm supposed to QUICKLY slip my nipple into Lana's mouth. Meanwhile, the reality of getting the drops on the nipple with one hand while the hungry baby squirms in the ready position is next to impossible. But finally, I get the drops on the nipple, I get Lana on, and I settle in. It's quiet. And then I look down… and see that her little ear is glistening. "Don't freak out," I tell myself. I ask my dad as casually as I can about greasy ears in babies. He's reading a journal article on pediatric spina bifida when he quickly answers, "Unless it's coming from inside the canal, don't worry about it!"
I look down. Her ear is so tiny. Who can see anything in there? I need a flashlight... I force myself to stop staring at her ear canal, but I'm 90% positive that, yeah, the canal is greasy. From across the room I hear Eric go, "What's going on…?"
I break into sobs. Lana starts crying, too, probably because her food source is quaking. Eric rushes over, unsure how to comfort me. I mumble-slobber something about "It's coming from inside her ear!" My mom runs over, "What?! It's not like her brain is leaking!" Eric yells at her, "Don't say that, Carla!" In fact, brain leakage is exactly what I think it is. My dad sits there, mute, feeling guilty for setting me off.
While my mom scream-shushes me and the baby shrieks over my sobs, Eric sees the vitamins on the coffee table. He puts a drop on his finger. It's greasy as hell.
"Do you think it could be… the drops?"
And then I laugh. But I'm still crying.
At the end of the week, Eric, Lana and I see a third pediatrician for her first well-baby check-up. I bring my parents with so that my dad can ask any doctorly questions. She tells us that there is a chance that Lana's spinal cord is balled at the end, and so when the bones in her spine grow, the spinal cord can get pulled until it snaps, leading to paralysis. She believes that two small creases and a dimple at the top of her butt, not the birthmark, are actually a good indicator of what's happening beneath the surface. But the neurosurgeons say that they can't perform an ultrasound until she is 3 months old. If we wait too long, like 5 months, it might be too late, but if we do it before 3 months, her bones won't be calcified enough. Until the three-month marker, our job is to keep making sure she is able to push against surfaces with her legs… and mostly try to forget about it.
Right.
The weeks do slowly pass and little Lana Bean becomes a baby. Though my husband is positive Lana is healthy, I am still checking to make sure that she isn't slowly being paralyzed… or worse. I imagine her spine snapping, her brain ceasing all functioning. In the passing, sleepless days, I have nightmarish flashes of my baby’s body rebelling against her. I fear that she could die, that the doctors don’t know, that her condition is worse than they could have imagined. Illogical, irrational, but because I know the thoughts are nonsense, I shove them down inside me and don’t dare speak about them. I carry them with me at all times.
At three months, we finally get the spinal ultrasound. Conclusion: her spine is normal. The neurosurgeon informs us that, in actuality, there was no need to wait. We could have gotten the ultrasound done on day one.
On the drive home from the hospital, I feel an enormous weight rise from my shoulders, one that I didn't even know I was bearing. I am giddy with laughter and tears, while my husband is all, "I knew she was gonna be fine."
But I didn’t know that. I learned to breastfeed, dutifully pushed her in the stroller, tirelessly changed her diapers, and fought with her tiny limbs to get her dressed, all while a small voice in the back of my head told me that this all could be temporary. She came into this world without me knowing it and there was a possibility she could be taken out of it.
Of course, these thoughts aren’t abnormal. The first three months are filled with fear for new parents, and especially for new moms. For me, because the birth was traumatic and then I was afraid she wouldn't be long for this world, I had trouble bonding with her. But, I now understand in a way I didn't before how tenuous life is. I understand what it is to be a mother. What we all hold inside us. And I empathize with those who have lost children, and those who are unable to have babies. And, though it sounds strange, I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.
