Life. And recovering from a c-section with a newborn, a four year old and ADHD.

I’ll try and keep this concise but when I’m sleep deprived it takes me longer than normal to get to the point so forgive me in advance. 

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At the time of writing this I’m eight weeks in. It’s been beautiful and very intense but easier than I expected because I’ve done it before which was when I freaked out at every turn. 

Five days in I had a check up at the hospital wearing a sling that I shouldn’t have have been. There was a massive faff over whether the baby’s jaundice levels were too high and he’d need light therapy. Two extreme results from two different tests later revealed his jaundice would flush itself out over time. After two hours floating around the depressing Whipps Cross hospital (where I was transferred to after giving birth at Homerton) on a bank holiday Monday I tried to go home but the security guard wouldn’t let me because he thought I’d stolen the baby. I didn’t sign in when I arrived which apparently meant he wasn’t mine. I don’t know how signing in would prove I didn’t steal my child but the security guard (a different one to when I arrived) attempted to find out whether or not I had entered the building with my baby, failed and let me go anyway. Apparently a woman had stolen a baby once so he was paranoid. I went home and slept with my non-stolen baby for three hours because of the stress/pain/exhaustion. The security guard didn’t do his job properly but I got a vaguely amusing anecdote to share from it. I had to take the baby back a week later for another jaundice test and he screamed so much from the dragging of blood out of his tiny heel I am still distraught after the nurse wouldn’t let me feed him to comfort him. 

Back to the hospital yet again at the instruction of one of our independent midwives because my incision opened up after I tripped over some furniture and I had a gaping hole the size of a 50p piece in my abdomen. I screamed in pain. Our midwife came over and babysat our eldest while my husband took me and the baby to hospital in the middle of the night. After eventually being seen, I was told if it starts to stink to go back because that means it’s infected but otherwise crack as it will heal itself. I cracked on. Cracking on was supposed to look like resting but with a boisterous four year old about to start school, a newborn and a false sense that I could function because I was taking my pain killers properly, I did what I always do and not listen the experts. Two weeks later and after a few strict worlds from my husband to sit down and enjoy the bubble, the incision finally closed for good. 

My brain does not give me a break. I am writing this at 3.45am while the baby sleeps on me because the minute I wake up, that’s it. I can only fall asleep with stimulation because my thoughts never stop and if I wake up, it’s game over. It’s exhausting. According to my brain if I’m not in pain I can do stuff because the idea of resting is an alien concept even though over the years I’ve been forced to do it. This time round I could see people and ignore the fact I’d just had my third abdominal surgery and I wanted to have a completely different experience to when my daughter was born. A time when people could only peer through the window at her and leave food on the doorstep. No touching. Two metres. Mask. Scrub your hands till they’re red raw. Isolate. This time anyone who wanted to come over was welcome. I was wrecked but it was healing and beautiful being with the people I love the most in the early days. And we all benefited from it. 

The one thing that did keep me seated was the sleep deprivation which hit me like a bus. Again. And while my husband was entertaining our boisterous eldest, doing all the cooking and cleaning, I napped and I napped hard, that is when I wasn’t saying yes. Naps are great at the best of times but if I wasn’t resting because of the pain I was resting because I was so tired. Because this beautiful tiny creature was feeding round the clock. 

This time round has been different in every way. The birth was magical. Or as magical as major surgery can be. But I felt safe, supported and well looked after. After the shit show that was the postnatal ward during lockdown, I knew with another planned c-section it couldn’t be as bad as the first so I felt well prepared. I was adamant I wanted my own space so asked for a private room and after being irritated by another expectant mum using her phone on speakerphone at 7.30am while we were waiting for our turn, I was determined to have some peace. Knowing how my brain gets so overloaded quickly I knew wanted silence after the baby was born and my request was granted. 

After having the catheter removed and getting back on my feet I was moved to a room and luxuriated in that tranquil hospital room for the next 24 hours. It was bliss. And a steal at £100. I looked out at a tree. It was quiet. And every single midwife that came to check on me was an angel. Swaddling the baby and putting him to sleep while I rested (for him to wake moments later preferring my chest), offering up all the good drugs without question, being attentive and caring and completely healing the traumatised part of me that was terrified to go through that experience again. Because I was so relaxed, my milk came in while I was still in hospital. The baby was happy. I was happy. The food was much better than before and I was sad to go home. 

But I went home the next day and it’s been beautiful. We are all besotted by this boy. The boy that I thought we’d never meet. After two years of anguish I am doing what ‘they’ naively say you should do and enjoying every second, because I’m so grateful to be here. This kid is delicious. Chilled, content, has the same dimple and me and tolerates his heavy handed big sister giving him love that is only just starting to be reciprocated. I’m in a place I never expected to be and it’s healing all the parts of me that I’d suppressed.  

Two weeks after he was born his sister started school and took to it like a duck to water after me worrying she’d struggle to adjust like she had with nursery. I hadn’t given her enough credit for the fact she was ready and that nursery had done a great job of preparing her for the change. I now spend my weekdays doing things like the school run and making polite chit chat with parents that I actually don’t hate and almost every single weekend so far has been filled with play dates and birthday parties and let me tell you I am loving it. No one is more surprised than me. 

Life is still lifing. A week ago I got a call to say my dad had died. I didn’t have a relationship with him, it’s very complicated and he lived in another country so I have been grieving the loss of the relationship I didn’t get to have, as well as dealing with the grief of three half sisters I’ve never met. It’s been a very intense and emotional week. But I look at this baby and reflect on the cycle of life through stifled tears. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

In two weeks I have our daughter’s first parents evening at school and today I celebrated my 20 year anniversary by making some chocolate chip cookies to welcome her home after she had four days away with her dad. Other than the 24 hours apart when her brother was born it’s the first time we’ve ever been apart and when I picked her up at the station she leapt into my arms and we both sobbed. 

After a very intense few years with illness, surgeries, therapy, loss, births, stress and trauma, I feel like I’m at the start of the next stage of my life. And I’m excited to see what it will bring. Because I never thought I’d ever get to a place where I feel this content. And I’m just about brave enough to allow myself to enjoy it.