Our son has the most beautiful blue eyes. Most of the time – sometimes they’re dark gray, but more often than not, he stares at me with baby blues.
Those baby blues are the only solution to my issue of the same name. Everyone goes through it, I hear, and with my past of (undiagnosed) depression, I’ve worried my fair share about PPD. I don’t currently suffer from anything more serious than the common everyday baby blues.
And thinking about it semi-rationally, I guess I have a right to a small pity party. In the past three weeks, since our son arrived on the scene, I have spent more than two-thirds of that time in the hospital for postpartum complications, namely two complete episiotomy breakdowns, one post-delivery, and one after the surgery to repair the first breakdown. Apparently my lady bits don’t appreciate sutures, so I have been left to heal the “medieval way,” as my OB put it. I have spent more quality time with a hospital bed and IV techs than my infant son, and probably have only gotten as much time as I have with him because I’m breastfeeding exclusively. I’m afraid to go to the bathroom most of the time because I worry I could split what’s left of my sphincter and bleed out before I get to the hospital (yes, I think about this). I’m usually in pain by 1700, and wait to take a pain pill until close to 2300 because I want to make sure I can get some sleep before the kid wakes me up for his mid-morning feeding. I’m tired of being tired; of being in pain; of trying to do my job and everyone else’s too; of packing a wound that shouldn’t be there four to six times a day with wet-to-dry dressings, and wishing I could be back in the hospital only so someone else could take care of me. (And maybe deliver some morphine on demand.) I’m sick of knowing I will never have another “natural” birth – which, honestly, despite the aftermath of complications, was probably the most rewarding experience of my life. I would like to drive again, to be independent again.
Lucky for me, I’m not on required bed rest, which only serves to exacerbate my condition. I’m not required to show up for daily visits to the OB to check my wound for infection (anymore). Tucker, our GSD, has me in sight at all times, so she’s not causing all kinds of chaos of the anxiety-fueled intestinal variety. Our son is on a pretty regular schedule, which is a blessing as I’m only getting up once a night to feed him. The hardest part of my last hospital stay was agreeing to start pumping breastmilk at 2 weeks and sending him home with my in-laws every night to keep him on a schedule – he stayed with us 24/7 during the first visit for repair surgery, and it was not good for any of us. I can get around all right, though the recovery makes things a little uncomfortable, and my three weeks of mostly bed rest (unintentional but mostly unavoidable) has made me weaker than I felt during the pregnancy. And, best of all, every time I look at my son, I’m reminded of why I’m going through this in the first place.