Author: rt@hotmail.com.au

We will know when we are done,

I’ll breastfeed you when you are one,

Even when you’re two or three,

Even when shamed by society.

We will have our boo boos at home,

In our bed and all alone,

At the shops or at the park,

In the light and in the dark.

We will have boo boos around our friends and family,

Even if they tisk or disagree,

In the sun we will breastfeed freely,

Or under the shade of a magnificent big tree.

My milk is growing you healthy and strong,

In my arms is where you belong,

Where its easy for you to see me.

You will only be small for such a short time,

Breastfeeding you is not a crime.

When you ask by pulling at my top,

When people gawk and mouth back “Stop”,

All you want is your milky drink,

We don’t care what others think.

You fought so hard to be here with me,

My beautiful miracle darling baby,

So when you pull at my bra strap,

I will happily place you in my lap,

For our magic milk on tap,

Strangers stare but they should clap,

For it takes a lot to breastfeed a baby,

And I do it from love, not because I’m crazy.

I refuse to use a wrap,

To hide away or take the judgmental crap,

Your milky drink helps you to nap!

And in my arms is where you will stay,

I will never push you away,

As long as you want your boo boos they are yours,

And frankly I think we deserve an applause,

Feeding a preemie is really tough,

And its up to you to declare when you have had enough,

12 weeks you lay in an incubator whilst I pumped for you,

I did it for love, its all I could do,

And that day when you were strong enough to latch,

no other feeling could ever match,

How love swelled in our hearts,

We both had a fight right from the start.

Even when onlookers contort their faces,

We know our milky cuddles has been one of our saving graces,

They will never understand,

But I have chosen to breastfeed you on demand.

So in the shops or at the park,

In the light or in the dark,

On the move or at home in bed,

You tell me when you want to be fed.

It’s not up to anyone, but you and me,

so you can still have your boo boos when you are three.

 

Starting the new year here is a buzz of activity, conversation and change in the air. Now that our eldest is finally settled into her class for the year (school organization can be time consuming) I have been eagerly awaiting to hear the news from the school yard when I collect our Miss 6 in the afternoons. Now if you remember (Social Stigma Sux) my Miss 6 tends to live happily in her own bubble. Sure she interacts with the real word, but for the most part she seems to be off on some wonderful magical adventure where fairies roam and lollipops grow like flowers in the garden and all is good and rainbows abound. So I wasn’t surprised when we pulled into our driveway and having not received a response the entire car trip I turned around to face Miss 6 looking mighty puzzled and a bit concerned.

“What’s wrong baby”, I gently chide, knowing there’s only about a 35% chance I will get an answer remotely related to my question. But to my surprise she actually heard me.

“Do you hear that?” she asks in a dulcet tone, quietly so as not to alarm the elves I suppose.

“Hear what? The sounds from outside?” I prod for more information well aware that I might not get any more information on this mystery noise as Miss 6 is known to change the topic without warning and I could just as easily end up getting a lecture on the difference between cold, hot and warm water as was the case a few mornings ago when I asked who she thought she might play with at school that day. She explained to me the differences at length, a whole 9 minutes and 48 seconds of information, mostly repetitive, on hot, cold and warm water.

“No, the sound is in my ears”, and so the mystery deepened. For a brief moment part of me wanted to take her to the doctors, she must have an ear infection, or a hearing problem as this would surely explain her aloofness when it came to conversations with me. Then part of me wanted to shake her shoulders as I tell her it’s the aliens calling as the frustration of not being able to crack into her world pains me as I desperately try to build a deeper connection with my girl.

“Is it always there, the sound?” trying to rule out anything actually medical I ask for more information.

“No, only in the car” she says simply. The she added “It sounds  ‘neeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrr'”. And then all of me wanted to embrace my sweet mystical girl with cuddles and love as we celebrate her unique quirkiness. You see this isn’t an unusual conversation for us by any means. The fact I got any information out of her is a win. Even if part of me still wants to chide her by saying its the aliens making contact.

This morning I woke her, my sweet sleeping child. As I gently tussled her hair and told her it was time to wake up she murmured “But I won’t grow wings”. I insisted she had to get up, it’s a school morning and she dreamily replied again “I want to grow wings”. As she slowly flopped out of bed, her beautiful blond waves covering most of her angelic face she told me about how if she slept she would grow wings “like a fairy”. Ah yes, my child’s ultimate dream is to be a fairy, and a teacher, and a face-painter! But mostly a fairy. I gently console her and explain if she actually went to sleep when I put her in bed instead of getting out of bed and mucking about for the next one and a half hours she might one day grow her fairy wings (then I quickly consider how I can make this happen, a new pair of fairy wings on the end of her bed the day she actually goes to sleep on her bed time?).

You see, i don’t want to change my daughter. I love her just the way she is. Even when I ask her questions about what she wants to eat or did she write at school that day ad I am met with the same response of “I want to be a fairy” as she smiles off into her own secret get away magical place, I don’t want her to change. The world is full of cruelty, sadness and tragedy. Kids are only kids for such a short time. For now my daughter is safe in her bubble, safe from the evils of the real world. She still has the magic of childhood running through her veins. So whilst I plan how to make lollipop land happen when the beads in her wish bracelet finally fall out, I love my girl for all that she is.

 

It can be difficult in an intimate relationship when sex is taken away. For husband and I we had to navigate how to be intimate without being “intimate” during my last pregnancy and recovery period (see previous posts The Top and  Inside My Womb). With all the raging hormones during pregnancy at first it was difficult to keep our hands to ourselves (it is like this most of the time, partly the reason we have 4 kids!), but when my pregnancy complications forced me onto bed rest, and eventual hospitalization, any thoughts of hanky panky were thrown out the window.

At 19 weeks we were devastated to hear that this would not only be our last pregnancy, that potentially we might not get a baby at the end of it, and that my life was also compromised. On top of that we were told that during delivery I would lose my uterus thus becoming “uterless”. After weeping loudly, chest heaving in agony at realizing my fate, our visits with our OB conjured up some topics previous pregnancies hadn’t required. We were left wondering “Will I be able to orgasm without a cervix or uterus? Will it feel the same? If my husband calls into my vagina will my vagina echo as I will be essentially ’empty’ inside? Will husband recognize my vagina, or will it feel like a stranger to him?”

I clearly remember the day my husband and I sat opposite our OB, a gentle, kind and patient man, and asked some very personal questions. Before long husband and OB were in the throws of a conversation about orgasms. At this point in the pregnancy, before we knew the extent of my complications, sex was definitely off the table, but our OB was happy to discuss other ways to climax. I honestly don’t think I have heard the word orgasm thrown about so freely before, and repeated so frequently; all I could hear ringing in my ears was ‘orgasm, orgasm, orgasm!’. And so as you do, we went home and tried these other techniques that don’t involve sex to reach climax. We weren’t stranger to these, but in our relationship they served more as foreplay rather than the main event. But even these options were cast aside when I experienced orgasms that induced full uterine spasms resulting in painful cramping and vomiting. Yes husband is good at what he does, I’ll give him that.

However, when the reality I would certainly lose my uterus hit, I had my own questions, “Will I still be a woman? Will I feel the same, will I feel feminine? Will my husband still be attracted to me? Will my being barren be a turn off?” After losing my woman bits and pieces (see 31 and Done and What Pregnancy Taught Me) the doctor in hospital almost proudly told my husband that I had a “remodeled vagina”. I looked sideways at husband to try and gauge his reaction. Was he impressed with his new ‘toy’? Would he like to take it for a spin once things had settled and I had finally recovered? Would he only be interested in sex because it had been months since he had had any? Yet he held my hand, firmly and with support. He innately knew I was unsure about my “new” body, torn apart and sewn back together, weaker in many ways, yet stronger in others.

I had a lot of work to do, to comprehend the differences my body now held. Firstly the scar was unavoidable. It runs almost the entire length of my abdomen from top to bottom. I have an inbuilt Halloween costume, much like a fleshy zipper. The day it got caught in my actual jacket zipper, ouch! I might have launched several expletives that day. But slowly my body healed, I weaned off the heavy pain meds and gained strength in my legs as I began walking again. I pushed myself to recover for my family, my husband by my side. I knew he would never rush me for sex, he is a patient man who puts my needs above his own. It was up to me to say when I was ready, the way it should be.

After several weeks we attended my final check up with my OB. He did a physical examination. I flinched in pain and he told husband “She’s not ready, that was only 1 finger”. In a way I was happy my OB took it upon himself to speak for me on this matter, but I also knew I wanted to get to a place where my husband and I could enjoy eachothers bodies once more. I jeered husband later that his dick was simply too big so he would have to wait till I was better healed. But the day came when I did feel ready. Our baby would soon be released from hospital after a long NICU stay, and I knew once she was finally home with us, she would be the only one I would want to hold close to me. So we had a small window to try things out.

We set aside some time for us, to explore eachother, to caress eachother, to be with eachother. I was self conscious about my body, unable to bring myself to touch my scar, shuddering at the trauma of what my body went through. Husband was gentle and we took things really slowly. As I had our first time after our first baby was born, my eyes filled with tears, for I knew I was no longer the same woman I had been prior to giving birth. We were worried it would never feel the same, that I would no longer be able to enjoy this part of our relationship. I can’t even explain the emotion we both felt when I did climax, and climax hard, and several times in a row! We nearly did a High 5 as waves of relief flooded our bodies. Afterwards I questioned husband about how it was for him. He was honest and open and truthful. He told me it felt even better now, he never had to worry I would get pregnant again, risking my life to give life (we had our 4 kids and after seeing pregnancy nearly kill me he was more than keen for us to never fall pregnant again), and he said I still felt the same to him.

A year on from  my cesarean-hysterectomy, and our sex life feels normal, it feels great. Husband is still amazing in bed, and whilst I still harbor doubts about my sex appeal to him as I grapple with thoughts of feeling like a blow-up doll, empty of woman bits, and I wear a singlet to hide my scar, husband helps me learn to love my new lines. He gently traces my scar and we joke about how it directs him where to go, and he kisses my neck and whispers in my ear how strong I am and how he is proud of me for what I have given us. I have provided our unity with children, and sacrificed a piece of my identity to do so. I have been brave, I have been strong.

So ladies who have a c-hyst or a regular hyst, don’t deter. If I’m to be brutally honest, the only differences I have noted is that there is no monthly off-season if you catch my drift, so yay not only can I wear white all year round, every night is potential game on. Husband’s cum comes out faster as the route is now shorter, and fanny farts seem to occur more frequently. And whilst this part adds to my likening my new body to that of a blow up doll, I prefer to look for the positives, you can blame any fluffs on your new vag! A uterus doesn’t define us as women, and being “uterless” doesn’t mean you need to be sexless. But most importantly, there almost certainly is a Big O after the big H, an abundance to be had and enjoyed.

Our littlest baby turns one in a few weeks! The year has gone by so fast, even though when living it, sometimes the past year seemed to move by all too slowly. Our daughter’s first birthday marks the day we both made it to the survivor side as serious pregnancy complications very nearly claimed both of us (see previous post inside my womb and the top). So whilst this is a joyous milestone, it is also another reminder of the nightmare we lived through, where every moment of the pregnancy was filled with terror that we might lose her, our miracle baby, and that we might  lose me also.

Pregnancy and PTSD should never go together, but in some cases they mix well. The last 11 months have been spent focusing on survival, watching our 26 weeker fight for life and grow big enough and strong enough to finally come home three months after her birth date. I have had little time to consider my own emotions as I have worked hard to reconnect with my three older children as a long stay in hospital and six months of bed rest took a huge toll on our family. During our NICU run, every minute was allotted a task. I had everything timed so tightly to ensure I could pump milk, do school run, pump milk, go into NICU for kangaroo care, pump milk, do school run, pump milk, make dinner, pump milk, read night time stories, pump milk, call NICU to check on our little fighter, pump milk, sleep for a few hours, pump milk, seep a bit more, pump milk and head into NICU, pump milk and do the school run and so it went on, monotonous, constantly something to be done, constantly racing to finish in time for the next task.

When our preemie finally came home, still tiny, still perfect, still everything we had hoped and prayed for, still effortlessly beautiful, I enjoyed the privilege of simply picking her up and holding her. No need to check with the nurses, no need to remove monitors, or do some fancy hand work to cradle her amongst the tubes and wires that flowed from her tiny body. I was in love and we were both finally home. So out the window went the SCN routine where our baby would sleep then wake, feed then sleep again. She got comfortable in my arms and that is where she stayed.

Co sleeping at first was a scary concept for me, she was still so small, dwarfed even more so by our large bed. But realising I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I could hear her breathing, feel her sweet breath on me as she gently exhales, we began to co sleep. Even now when our daughter has outgrown her bassinet that still sits in our room, even now when she falls asleep in her cot most nights, I still tiptoe into her room and gently cradle her as I carry her back to our large bed where we sleep comfortably the rest of the night through. She still feeds like a newborn most nights, any coo or gurgle gets replied with a the offer of a breast and cuddle. And if I am to analyze why I choose to continue co sleeping, apart from the obvious that its a blessing to share such a connection with my baby, perhaps it is also that it is a comfort to me.

Each night my head fills with the horror story that was her pregnancy and birth. Each night I see red, I feel the fear I felt whilst desperately trying to maintain her pregnancy to viability. I feel the real sense of urgency there was when at 26 weeks  I went into pre term labor, became septic and abrupted. I see my scar, long and deep. I see my baby, blue, motionless, not breathing. I see the crimson waves swirling around me. I hold on tight, I pray we both win the fight. And then I wake up. And then I see my sweet baby, her pink lips, her soft skin, her golden curls. I feel her warm breath and then I breathe. Each morning I wake from a nightmare. Each morning I wake to a dream come true. And I suppose in many ways this co sleeping is also of comfort to her. She did spend three months in a plastic box, surrounded by flashing lights and the mixed sounds of beeping machines and the aquatic bubbles of the CPAP breathing for her. So whilst she was always surrounded by movement, people around her, she was also alone at a time she should have been closest to me. My baby should have been listening to my heart beat and my muffled voice. She should have been snugly wrapped up in my womb, warm and safe. She should never have had to fight.

Percreta cuts deep. It leaves a trail of physical pain, irrevocable changes to a woman’s body, and often a dramatic and dangerous entry to the world for the baby. My body and mind have forever been altered through this experience.  I am not bitter but some days I am sad. Some days I ask why. Why us, why did this happen to us? And some days I am glad for the experience in that I have the greatest gift from it, thatbeing life, my child’s life and my life. It is almost like a renewing of my soul. I was forced to trust, my faith stretched beyond limit. I will grapple with the loss of my fertility for a long time, I know there will be many moments where this loss will cut deeply. I wasn’t ready to lose my uterus, and I am still struggling to understand what this means in terms of my womanhood. It is a stripping away of part of my identity. A closing of a door on any future pregnancies. The scar is a constant reminder of the trauma my body went through, but it is also a reminder of my strength. My daughter is a constant reminder of the beauty that came from such hurt. She is a miracle, she is our miracle. She is our reminder that miracles do happen, that in struggling you find your strength. That in hope you find your faith. That in pain you find true love from those around you. Co -sleeping is our comfort, our solace from the storm we fought through. In a few weeks our miracle turns one. We have a lot to celebrate.