Postpartum Grief

A few nights ago, my six-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son cuddled close to me on the couch. Our conversation drifted from topic to topic, until randomly, my daughter began asking questions about themselves as babies. Before I knew it, we were deep in my Google photos history, replaying moments from when they were itty bitty infants.

One of my favorite videos is the one where my son met my daughter. Cuddling with the two of them on the couch, I offered - “Oliver, do you want to see the first time you met Violet?”

In the video, toddler Oliver is on my lap. My husband Mark carefully brings Violet to us; she is wrapped in a hat and tightly swaddled. She looks like a loaf of bread with a face. Oliver is sweetly happy, and he offers her a quick peck on the forehead. I talk to Oliver about Violet - “she has a nose…and eyes…” and then I explain- “she gets to come home with us!” I speak sweetly and calmly to Oliver, and it feels like one of those moments that I’d remember forever.

The truth is - I don’t remember this moment at all. My memory of that day is this: my abdomen being so very raw and painful that I felt guarded toward my two-year-old toddler, who I had missed so much the day before while I was in labor. But this day, a day after delivering his baby sister via c-section, I felt overwhelmed by his presence. I remember having quickly brushed my hair and tied it into a bun before my family came to visit. I remember throwing on a nursing gown to shed the hospital garb that made me look too much like a patient. I remember looking in the bathroom mirror and asking Mark - “do I look yellow?”, triggered by the fact that after my last birth, my yellow skin was a result of my failing liver. I remember the midwife recommending a blood transfusion and me resisting, because I just wanted to be well this time around. I remember getting the blood transfusion that night, and drifting in and out of sleep while Mark and I tried to watch a movie (Jumanji?). I remember screaming out in pain when Violet would latch on to feed, and I remember a lactation consultant taking too long to come help us.

I watch the video of Oliver meeting Violet and I’m so thankful that I have the recording. But I mostly feel pangs in my heart - how could I miss this? Was I even really there? I’m amazed at myself for talking to Oliver so calmly when the pain from my cesarean incision was demanding so much of my attention.

Other videos from my children’s newborn-hood give me the same sadness - I know I was there, and I know that I was doing my absolute best to be present - but my memory fails to bring back these moments on its own. I am only relying on the electronic documentation to play it back to me; my brain can not do it.

I often find myself wanting to have another baby, but if I reflect on it honestly, I think what I’m wanting is to go back.