It’s been two weeks since you looked at me…

Theroux is 2 weeks old today…and in that same time I think I have lived a whole other life. Though I started to feel mom vibes during pregnancy, there is no mistaking this shift we have taken as parents in the thick of things. I have had trouble putting much of our experience into words thus far, and I know much of that is feeling like I’m still navigating our traumatic birth experiences. So many of you have reached out, which has meant so much…and I have had trouble responding because, well, trauma, I guess. And probably some shame about the trauma and how it’s impacted me. It’s wild that I have a degree in mental health and yet I have hesitated sharing that this has been one of the hardest emotional experiences of my life. And so I’m putting some words to that voice now to shine light on my sadness and to acknowledge more broadly how common and unspoken birth trauma and postpartum mental health issues are for so many families.

I’ll start by saying that I am so incredibly grateful for our now healthy baby and that Theroux and I both made it out of that hospital alive. I do have moments of pure amazement and tears of joy holding him, feeling so lucky that we dodged a different nightmare outcome. And it’s also true that alongside that gratitude are waves of grief and sadness that wash over me several times a day without warning or reason. I am mourning the loss of the kind of birth experience I’d hoped for – one that centered on the beautiful experience of womanhood into motherhood that my body was supposedly created for…not the series of interventions and medicalized procedure that it became. I am haunted by the memory of him being taken from me at birth. I watched through a clear curtain as they lifted him out of my belly – saw a head full of dark hair while his first cries were matched with my own (shortlived) tears of relief. I begged to touch him before the NICU team took him, but nobody would listen,  or they deemed my request unimportant in the circumstances. Instead, they wheeled his incubator to 6 feet away from my head while I lay on an operating table half paralyzed, reaching out for him and crying. I am grieving not having our golden hour – where Theroux would be placed on my chest for our first moment as a family of three, for our first chance to meet and breastfeed. Someone else got to hold him for the first time, someone else fed him and clothed him and comforted him and gave him medicine before he ever met me and without consulting us. Cameron and I never got our celebratory birth moment, no joyous wheelchair ride from Labor and Delivery to the Mother/Baby unit with smiles and congratulations from all around. Instead, I spent 30 minutes in recovery crying about being separated from my son, strapping a breast pump on to try and get ahead of the next problem when my hemorrhage started. I spent the morning fighting to stay awake on the operating table while Cameron sat with Theo awaiting updates in what I can only imagine was his worst nightmare. I transitioned to the ICU while Cameron packed up our things in L&D and spent the next 2 days bouncing between the ICU and NICU and tending to us both…working to reunite our family and get us safely home. He has been remarkable beyond words, showing up as a husband and father extraordinaire beyond even what I imagined (and somehow blogging along the way to relay updates when I had no capacity for communication yet).

And now that we are home, so much is better and yet things are still difficult. Again, there was no “ride home” baby outfit or “Welcome Home, Theroux” vibe - just relief to escape the poking and prodding in the hospital and walk through my front door again where I hugged my parents and cried. We would not have advocated for leaving the hospital so early were my parents not here to help – they cooked, did dishes & laundry, took care of our dogs, cried with me, loved on their grandson, and helped us put together a Christmas day that was unlike any we imagined, but still filled with warmth and love without pretending the hard stuff wasn’t there too. I am still healing from my surgery, but my current heartache is around my breastfeeding journey. Apparently, a massive blood loss impacts one’s pituitary gland, which is also responsible for releasing prolactin, the hormone that stimulates milk production. So while most women’s milk comes in between days 3-5 after birth, I have spent the better part of the last 14 days waiting for this miracle (which again, my body was supposed to be made to do this simple act of feeding my baby). I’ve spoken with four different lactation consultants, made appointments for assessing Theo’s likely low grade tongue tie (not until next week), and stuck to a triple feeding schedule (nurse, pump, bottle supplement) every three hours with such hopeful intensity and diligence that I started to miss out on the simple pleasures of Theroux’s first weeks. I have so feared losing this sacred experience of breastfeeding that is so important to me that it was robbing me of being present with my perfect little boy (not to mention my husband, parents, and dogs). I would cry thinking about this failure of motherhood before I even get started on our journey, playing out this anticipatory grief of yet another part of our birth story gone horrible, uncontrollably wrong.

This has been my dark reality these last days. I have lots of processing left to do, and thankfully I have the resources and support of my individual therapist and a perinatal women’s support group that I’ve attended for much of my pregnancy, not to mention a partner who has a seemingly endless capacity for my big emotions and tears. But I am coming up for air more often, get swallowed by the grief less often, and stop and delight in my son when he is in my arms instead of letting moments be stolen unaware. I am starting to answer the phone when it rings, and even occasionally respond to a text (though please know I read them all and so appreciate the outreach). And Theo and I are not giving up on breastfeeding yet, though working to find a more sustainable rhythm that hopefully supports my body delivering milk when it is finally done healing itself.

Thank you all for your love and support thus far. Somehow it is a new year and the Steele-Yeary clan has a whole new adventure ahead as a family of 5 (including our 4-legged kids). It will undoubtedly be wonderful and exciting and our experience as parents will deepen as we get to know and love Theroux even more than we thought possible. And yet…please don’t rush me through the pain, sadness, and grief I must navigate before I am ready. Always Look on the Bright Side of Life is a catchy tune, but not a healthy prescription for dealing with trauma. There are both rays of sunshine and dark clouds in my very insulated world right now, but the ratio is getting lighter with every day and every connection point with family and friends. We three are sending love and wishes for all of you navigating dark clouds of your own in 2022. Frohes Neues Jahr aus Deutschland!

Theo’s first dog walk (and my first time outside since coming home).

The unfiltered middle of the night reality…