The first words the midwife said when my elder daughter arrived were ‘Oh my God, she’s ENORMOUS!’ And didn’t I just know it. 15 days overdue, 9.5lb, induction, vacuum and a sizeable episiotomy which took over six weeks to heal.
My second daughter followed two years later – not quite as big, but a hefty specimen in her own right at 8.3lb. In the end she emerged so quickly that my back gave out completely after birth, followed by a punchy pelvic organ prolapse that I was still contending with a year later.
With a newborn baby and all the regular challenges of those early days (and nights) to contend with - plus a spirited toddler, plus Covid, plus mastitis - I knew I needed help.
Initially, I called my GP’s office but wasn’t even allowed to speak to the doctor - the receptionist told me ‘just push the prolapse back in’. I finally managed to see a pelvic floor specialist who told me ‘be patient’.
A variety of medical experts told me ‘don’t lift’ and ‘do rest’ – but how could I follow this advice with two small children in the picture? I finally managed to get a referral to the hospital where I had various unsatisfactory and ill-fitting pessaries fitted; I was told that the only viable alternative would be surgery followed by six weeks of bed-rest. Again, completely unrealistic! So I was referred back to the GP, who told me it’s not her area of expertise…
The physical fall-out of birth (pun intended) has brought in its wake a whole host of associated emotional and psychological challenges. When your vital organs are sliding out, it’s not only uncomfortable and sometimes painful, it’s also incredibly demoralising. You don’t feel good. Or strong. The most basic and unavoidable daily tasks (lifting a toddler onto a bike, carrying shopping, climbing the stairs) become a huge ordeal. You don’t feel confident. Or attractive. Or relaxed enough to have - or enjoy – sex as you could previously. You can’t exercise to improve your mood. So you feel sad. And angry. And desperate to find a solution.
Faced with a distinct lack of medical support, I became desperate enough to seek – and pay for - solutions myself. I’ve had acupuncture, pelvic floor physio, classic physiotherapy; I’ve seen a chiropractor, an osteopath and a specialist ‘post-trauma sex coach’. I’ve bought myself a pelvic floor trainer and enrolled in postpartum pilates.
All of it, I hope, helps a ‘bit’. But it’s exhausting. And expensive. And lonely, because it’s not something I feel I can talk about openly.
Most people, understandably, don’t really know what a pelvic prolapse is. And most people, understandably, don’t really want to hear about the intricate details of my vagina. So I feel pressured into maintaining the pretence, on the surface, that I have it all together.
There is a gap. Not just in the postpartum care that quickly vanishes after that six week mark, when no-one quite knows what to do with you (do you belong to the midwife or your doctor? Do you need specialist care or are you just being ‘hormonal’? Do you have a healthy baby? Yes? Well crack on then, love.) But there is also a gap in the way the medical system looks after women’s chronic health issues in general.
The only way I can describe the care I’ve received is that it’s a ‘there there dear’ approach.
‘There there, you can live with it’, ‘There there, just be patient’, ‘There there, you can always just give your husband a hand-job’ (genuine advice from a doctor, which sort of misses the point…)
Who defines and designs these systems where women feel sidelined and ashamed for flagging the issues they face with their bodies? When will the care that mothers receive go beyond focussing just on the baby’s health and factor in the enormous array of physical and emotional impacts that we face in the early years—not weeks—after giving birth? Yes, some women ‘bounce back’, but for others it’s a near-death experience that leaves them stranded in the territory of post-traumatic stress disorder.
I know that many, many other women have gone through similar experiences to mine. Being able to share our stories is an essential step in the healing process. I’m a firm believer that a lot of the struggles of motherhood can be, if not solved, at least alleviated through the simple process of feeling heard and understood. And that means not feeling ashamed to speak in the first place.
I know how lucky I am to have had two big, healthy babies. I feel my good luck every day; the joy my daughters bring far outweighs any discomfort or pain I’ve experienced. And through hard and mindful and challenging work, the relationship with my body is subtly shifting from a place of frustration and impatience to one of admiration, pride and tenderness.
But alongside these truths, there’s also the truth that the experience of giving birth and its aftermath can, for some women, lead to years or lifetimes of suffering in silence. And as uncomfortable as it is, and as many closed doors as you are met with, I hope you know that it is your right to speak up and feel heard.
And that it is your right to feel well.
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