Reflecting on month one

My sister Becca just had a baby a few weeks ago, and I've been pressing myself to remember what that felt like.  To be a new mom.  Especially a new mom without my own mother to turn to.  It was hard, no doubt about it.  Yet, also the most amazing feeling in the world.  This little being was MY daughter.  I was responsible for her, to feed her, love her, keep her safe, and like any new mom, I had to learn.  Quickly.  I can still remember the feeling of Evie being placed into my arms a few minutes after she was born.  She didn't cry, she just rested her head on my chest.  I get emotional just thinking about that moment.  I wish I'd recorded it.  Not the whole birth, just that moment when they first gave her to me.  I want to relive it over and over and over.  Our daughter was here!

Shortly after Evie was born, I got quite sick with something called HELLP (hypertension, elevated liver, low platelets).  It was a type of pre-eclampsia, and it came on strong.  In addition to those symptoms, my kidneys also started to shut down.  I went from being in this blissful state to a swarm of doctors and nurses coming in to poke and prod and ask what felt like an endless list of questions.  They hooked me up to an IV drip of magnesium sulfate which sent my body went into a semi-coma state.  I can remember so well how hard that first night was.  Will & I had been awake for over 36 hours.  Although I had been able to deliver Evie naturally, and the labor had gone fairly well, my body was still recovering from the intensity of the experience.  My emotions were on overdrive.  I had this amazing daughter, and had Will and Rae to share her with, but I couldn't help but feel angry my own mother or father couldn't be there for us.  I knew what great grandparents both of them would have been.  And, now I was sick.  And Evie was hungry.  Her latch wasn't great, and I couldn't help her because the magnesium prevented me from being able to move very much.  I had these annoying compressors clamping on my legs to prevent blood clots, a heart rate monitor pinching my finger, an IV in my wrist, a catheter, a blood pressure sleeve, and a screaming baby in my arms.  Will was asleep, and I didn't dare wake him.  He needed rest just as much as I.  Rae had gone home, also to get some sleep since she'd driven straight through from Louisville the night before in order to be there for the labor.  And my nurse, though well intentioned, kept telling me Evie wasn't getting enough food and that I should let her go to the nursery for a bottle, and let myself get some rest.  I couldn't let Evie out of my sight though; it just didn't feel right.  So, I held her and tried calming her as best I could.  We each got about an hour of sleep that night, but I couldn't imagine it any other way.

The next day was hell.  I was required to be on all the monitors and medicine for another 36 hours.  It's one thing to be stuck in bed when it's dark out and the world is still.  It's quite another to have to lay in the same exact spot while the world moves around you.  The mag sulfate was in the process of giving me a migraine, the room was spinning, and Evie still needed me.  And I needed my mom.  Will and Rae did their best to care for me, and I'm forever grateful for all they did.  But, there is nothing like the comfort of your own mother.  That knowledge was what gave me the strength to continue to comfort Evie after 48 hours of no sleep and all of the complications of HELLP.  I knew she needed me more than I needed my mom.  That feeling led me to break down when the hospital pediatrician told us Evie had dropped too much weight too quickly, and that we needed to supplement with formula immediately.  Confined to the bed, unable to move, I had to watch Will give her formulated milk out of a cup.  The one thing I felt I could provide my daughter had just been taken from me.  It was hard not to cry watching how eagerly she lapped up the formula.  I felt like I had failed.  Fortunately, the pediatrician was cognizant of my desire to breastfeed despite the complications.  So, we worked out a plan for Evie to nurse from me, then take formula from a cup (not a bottle, to avoid nipple confusion), and then nurse from me again. The plan worked and my milk came in the following morning.  

We stayed in the hospital for 4 days.  When it was finally time to go home, I was under strict orders to move no more than the steps between my bed and the couch for at least two weeks.  Being on bed rest when you have a newborn is laughable.  Will was fantastic through it all.  Taking charge in every way, and allowing Rae, his parents, and my sister to help.

Evie in the wrap, fortunately I'm wearing a shirt in this photo...

As I reflect back now, nearly eleven months later, it doesn't seem so dire.  At the time though, I can remember many desperate nights where Will and I were at our wits end.  Bouncing on an exercise ball seemed to calm Evie in her fussiest hours, so many a night I sat bouncing her, simultaneously nursing, for literally hours on end.  This lasted two months.  It was the only way to get Evie to fall asleep.  I tell this to my sister now and she laughs, saying it sounds more intense than army ranger training.  It was hardest when Will traveled, and I can recall one night when I strapped Evie onto my chest in a wrap and darted out of the house because I knew the motion and being held to me would calm her.  It was only when I was half way down Broadway that I realized I wasn't wearing a shirt under the wrap.  I was so sleep deprived and desperate for peace I overlooked that simple garment.  Good thing we live in a progressive neighborhood!

But, in those moments when Evie was peaceful, laying in my arms, on Will's chest, or on our bed, I was so incredibly grateful for this gift.  Our amazing and beautiful daughter, who I loved more than I could ever imagine loving anyone.

And even when she wasn't calm, when her screams pierced my eardrums, the reason it was so painful was because I loved her so much and wanted to help.  That, I imagine, is the hardest part about being a parent.  Knowing that at times you can do nothing to ease your child's pain, and hoping that your love will be enough.