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.