SIX WEEKS

It’s a milestone in the postpartum journey that’s often only acknowledged in mainstream society when referencing sex. After everything the man in your life has had to endure these past ten months, now they have to wait six weeks for sex? Oh if only women ruled the world. It’s just one more topic about women’s bodies and the process of bearing children that’s had the narrative completely flipped to disguise what’s really going on. News flash, we’ve been bleeding. The only other way it seems to be brought up (often by women) is that it’s this unfortunate, awful, icky time that we have to endure. It’s if we’re saying “okay we’ll admit it happened but don’t worry, we’ll keep it in a negative context”.  It feels like an overcompensation to protect the parts of society that still can’t handle the truth. As if I was supposed to witness my body create and birth life itself and then suddenly feel ashamed about my bloody pad? Well sorry to disappoint you… I don’t.

My honest feelings about the experience are amazingly fond. Both times after giving birth I’ve felt an overwhelming pride in my body that’s hard to describe. My soft, saggy stomach feels like it’s resting for a well deserved break. My flushed, exhausted face coming off of the adrenaline of what I just did. I feel stripped of all the insecurities I typically hide behind because in those moments there is nothing about my body that is insecure; it’s strong and capable. I get an almost claustrophobic feeling about anything unnatural (nail polish, makeup), I want nothing to do with any of it. In part, it’s because I don’t want chemicals and products rubbing off on my brand new baby, but it also feels like a strong desire to let my body just be in its natural state. Let it breathe. Without help from any of those superficial things, it performed magic. I feel a sense of responsibility to want to embrace it for what it is and give it the time it needs to let it heal itself. Oh, did I mention it also heals itself? 

This is not to put pressure on anyone else’s experience, or shame their perception of that time in their life. I’m also not trying to paint it in a rose coloured light. It’s not easy. It’s like climbing Everest (metaphorically speaking). It’s challenging, and exhausting, and uncomfortable, and occasionally even a little scary. But it’s also beautiful, and rewarding; it’s the home stretch of what you’ll likely consider to be the greatest accomplishment of your life. It’s entirely unique to yourself; you’ll be able to find a common ground with other mothers but as a whole the experience will ultimately be your own. And it’s different with each pregnancy. A lot of conversations between Chris and I leading up to baby involved us reminding ourselves that just because things went so great the first time, it didn’t mean that they would again. Once again I found myself asking him to be my extra set of ears and eyes; to validate my emotions and watch for potential signs of postpartum depression. Ladies, have this conversation with your partner. You’ll likely be surprised how little they understand it all, and how grateful they’ll be that you explained it to them.

So, in an effort to give some commonality and comfort to another mother reading this, here’s my Everest in a nutshell… I gave birth to Andie in two contractions and despite her being a bigger baby, I didn’t tear. I mostly attribute that to the fact that I was 4cm dilated for over a week leading up to her arrival. My body gave itself plenty of time to stretch and accommodate her. A few minutes after she was born and for a reason I can’t medically explain (if an OBGYN is reading this, maybe they can), I experienced a sudden loss of blood. Quite literally, it splattered all over the floor. You can actually hear it in my birthing video. Likely it had to do with my placenta being so large, resulting in a bigger wound left where it had detached from my uterus. I had a lot of swelling that prevented me from being able to pee on my own, so a little while later a catheter was re-inserted to help empty my bladder. Fun. Throughout my time in the mother/baby care unit, I continued experiencing gushes of blood whenever my nurses would examine my stomach. I drank every liquid available to me and about a half an hour out from needing a third catheter, I finally peed. But the bleeding and subsequent blood clots lingered. TMI Warning: one was literally the size of a fist. It slowed enough for me to be released but I was cautioned to take things easy. That’s much easier said than done when your going home with a new baby and a toddler… and a stubborn disposition. So for a good 5 of the past 6 weeks, I continued to have what my doctor called “actively bleeding” (I.e. gushes of fresh red blood and the occasional clot). I had to monitor myself closely and I kept in regular contact with my doctors. Chris was so present, and did everything to help out/keep me in line/intervene when I would continually try to “just do it myself”. It took a while but eventually things slowed down. Navigating this was at times a little scary, and it took an emotional toll on me. I’m still on the hormone rollercoaster, but the early days of that, combined with trying to establish a good nursing routine, the adjustment of seemingly everything in our lives, plus the bleeding… did make things a bit more challenging this time around. It took a conscious effort not to get disappointed in my body or it’s healing process.

Despite it all, in the end I find myself repeating the same sentiment; I’m in awe of my body. I gained 22lbs with Lou, and 27lbs with Andie. Lou’s placenta was 1.2lbs and Andie’s was a whopping 2lbs. Both times I carried excess amounts of fluid. I’ve been pregnant for a total of 80 weeks and a day. I birthed an 8lb 12oz baby and a 10lb 13oz baby, and never needed a single stitch. I hurt, I bled, I leaked, I cried, and I healed. I’m in awe of body. Stretch marks, extra pounds, gray hairs… you name it, I love it. I love it for giving me my babies. But also, I love how after decades of picking it apart, dressing it up, disguising it, and sometimes even flat out hiding it… it’s forgiven me and let me get to a place where I genuinely respect every part of it. 

I don’t believe in the six week mark as being some sort of finish line. My body is forever changed by this experience, and anything afterwards will always be considered postpartum in my eyes. It’s not a journey that ends, it’s a new way of life. I’m content to give my body and my mind all the time they need to heal, while continually embracing how they will evolve throughout motherhood.

You don’t have to heal in six weeks. You don’t have to love the experience and you don’t have to feel bad for not loving your body afterwards… but it definitely deserves your respect.