I am a 34-year-old ‘career’ mother of two. My daughter was born in 2013 at 44 weeks. I went into labour but after ‘failure to progress’ I was admitted to the local maternity ward and induced. After 9 hours it was suggested that we have a caesarean. I didn't see any other way. The surgical team were amazing, kind and compassionate. Within half an hour, we were introduced to our daughter. As I looked up at my husband, the elation in his eyes as tears streamed down his face, I felt nothing. I was numb, both physically and mentally. I felt no connection with the baby. As I lay in theatre, I just remember feeling tired. I don't remember crying or any particular happy feelings—except that it was now all over.
After being on the ward for a while, I was put in a room on my own, where I spent many hours staring at the baby they had given me, wondering whose it was. She didn't look like me, and I certainly didn't feel like I'd given birth. She could have been anyone's—passed to us from a box under the operating table.
I was given a bed-bath, and I watched while the women doing it had a chat. At no point did they explain the procedure. It seemed to be presumed that because I'd had a baby, I was OK with being manhandled and not always treated with respect. I was never debriefed, just told how lovely my baby was and that someone would be in every 2 hours to check on me.
I was home the next day and my husband had to work. He was at home when he could be and my parents came round every day. I spent the first week in bed. I would spend hours and hours crying. I felt guilty that I didn't have the amazing connection with my daughter that everyone said I would. My husband was immediately so loving with her, and did everything he could when he was home; but after a few weeks of feeling like this, I knew it wasn't the ‘baby blues’. At no point did I feel the need to tell the midwife that I was struggling—I just thought it was how everyone felt.
My overriding problem was that I couldn't have a baby the way that women are ‘supposed’ to have them. For whatever reason, my body had failed me, and I had to put my baby at greater risk just to get her out. Yes, she was fine—but the age-old ‘as long as baby is healthy, that's all that matters’ was something that grated. No one asked how I was.
Support group
I spoke to a few friends who had also had c-sections, both emergency and elective, and realised that they often felt the same. It was then that I started a c-section support group on Facebook. To me, this was the easiest way to reach out to people. It took off quickly—women were turning to us because they didn't know where else to go.
Antenatal care is great. There are lots of check-ups, your midwife is there every few weeks for you to ask questions, and you can text her at all hours. But when it came to postnatal care, I felt that there was no one. The community midwife soon discharges you after your stitches are taken out and my first health visitor didn't really ask me how I felt. And this is not an isolated issue—the stories coming through the support group are heartbreaking. We have 150 members at the moment, some of whom had c-sections 5 years ago, some just a few days ago. The main theme running through each story is that these women feel like failures. That they couldn't do it. That they'd let their partners down and that there was no one to talk to about it. They appreciate the opportunity to talk to other women who have been through the same thing.
As new people joined the group and new questions were asked, I began to think that I needed to help more. I know that the NHS is already stretched and there are simply not enough resources to sit each c-section mum down and tell her what's going on, but there must be ways around it.
I'd like to set up a directory and be able to match new c-section mums with existing ones, to let mums know who we are and that we're there for them. I didn't see a single woman on the labour ward who wasn't on her phone during her stay—lots of photos being taken and a lot of texting—so I'd imagine that a number of them were using social media. If we can let them know while they're lying in bed that there is at least one of us up at every hour of the day, they will know that the support is there if they need it.
We generally don't encourage people to join the group unless they've already had a c-section, because some of the stories are so sad. Some women tell us they can't bear to look at their scar, even years later; that they can't bring themselves to undress in front of their husbands. That they're too scared to have another baby in case it all happens again. If women do choose to join the group before surgery, we give them lists and advice regarding what will happen. The thought of an operation is frightening enough on its own, without reading people's negative stories. Everyone in the group is sensitive to each other's needs and wants; no one is there to judge. People who have had scary emergency c-sections often give amazing advice for those who want an elective.
The group is focused, so we don't stray off-topic. No one's talking about the weather or what they did at the weekend. If someone finds a piece of research, good or bad, they share it, and we have interesting discussions about it.
Second time around
My second baby was born 4 months ago, at 42 weeks. I had gone into labour on my own. I wanted to try a vaginal birth as, although there had been no other complications with my first c-section, I was told I couldn't have a homebirth. My contractions were strong and regular for 6 hours before I went into hospital. I wrote my own birth plan, and this time the c-section was an option, so I was more prepared. However, all of my requests were ignored. No water birth, continuous monitoring, lying on my back, cannula. I felt pushed into all of the things I didn't want. After another 4 hours and no progression, I declined pethidine and an epidural and asked for a c-section. My husband and the midwives didn't really understand why I was asking. As they prepped me for surgery, I broke down. I apologised to my husband for letting him down. I couldn't do the one thing I was supposed to be able to do. I felt terrible again, but this time before the surgery. I was prepared for the procedure but not the emotions.
When they wheeled me into theatre they lost my baby's heartbeat, so a general anaesthetic was called for. My husband was asked to leave and I lay there, in pain, sobbing my heart out. I didn't understand what was happening and no one had time to explain. I kissed my husband goodbye and the only thought running through my mind was that I might not see him again. I've never been so terrified. I woke later, drowsy after the anaesthetic—and this time, I had missed every second of my baby's birth.
I remembered the pain from the surgical site from the first time, and all the little tips I'd learnt about how to walk better and get out of bed. My husband made the obligatory phone calls and I started to get text messages asking if I was OK. He'd told them that we'd had fetal/maternal distress and a general anaesthetic, and I received text after text saying: ‘Are you OK? At least the baby is here.’ Yes, he is, I thought. And that's terribly important, and I know that I am incredibly lucky to have him but—and here was my controversial thought—the baby is not the most important person here. That baby will be showered with love and gifts, and I might get the odd bunch of flowers—but who's going to check I'm OK in 3 months’ time? Who's looking out for me?
After my first c-section my husband and mum had picked up that I wasn't quite right, so this time around, Mum made sure she was with me when I saw the health visitor. I was asked to fill out a questionnaire and was swiftly told I was being referred to the mental health unit for postnatal depression. I didn't feel that I had depression, and when I went to the GP they agreed with me. This was when I was told about a service called Birth Afterthoughts, and I immediately made an appointment. The session was held on the labour ward in a room opposite the theatre in which I'd had my c-section. The midwife left me there while she got my notes and I started to panic. I was crying at the very thought of being in there. But seeing my notes and going through them made me realise that the c-section had happened for reasons out of my control, and I felt better.
I emailed the labour ward a week after I had my son because my birth plan was not adhered to. It took 7 weeks for an appointment to come through; I was told that there was no reason for my birth plan to have been ignored, and the procedures that took place shouldn't have, which made me feel so sad. The outcome could have been completely different.
Feeling unprepared
Many members in the support group complain that they were not told about caesareans before birth. There is no preparation for it, so the women have no way of knowing what to expect. Some midwives tell you what to pack in your hospital bag, but there is no information about c-sections—things like the fact that you won't be able to feel anything from the waist down after a spinal block. I was terrified when I woke up after my first c-section. I knew all about various risks, but nothing about how I'd feel afterwards.
When I started to write this article, I asked members of the Facebook group to answer some questions about their births, how they felt and what they would change.
Most procedures occurred because of failed inductions, and nearly all of the women said they felt disappointed. I was surprised at how many told me they had cried while writing their answers, as it all came back to them.
All of them had felt unprepared. Those who had done antenatal classes thought they would have all the outcomes explained, but no one was told about what happens in a c-section or the after-effects.
Nearly all of those who answered my questions said that they'd pretended to be OK to their partners, as they didn't want to seem ungrateful or selfish. There is guilt, disappointment, failure and frustration—and we have no one to tell. We need other mothers to talk to—and that's what the Facebook group, C-Section Support UK, provides.
Being a mum is tough regardless of how the birth unfolds. It rarely goes to plan, but I think it's telling that there are very few mums in the group who felt prepared for their c-section, even among those who took parenting classes. Perhaps this needs to be addressed. I want to push this support group throughout the birthing world. It has the potential to offer a directory of mothers who can talk to those going through the same experience. We know there isn't the money, time or resources for the NHS to do this for us, and women aren't always going to admit to health professionals that there is anything wrong.
My hope in writing this is that, if you have contact with women post-surgery, you will ask how they're really feeling and let them know that there is support available. We're here 24/7. There is always someone, somewhere, going through the same thing.
I have had two babies, both by emergency caesarean, and I don't think I'll ever really get over what happened. I will always feel that I've let my children and husband down, to some extent. I have good days and bad days; being a parent is all about ups and downs. Saying that, as Albert lies besides me sleeping on the sofa and Matilda is tucked up in bed cuddling her toy cat, I know that I am very lucky. I was able to conceive and carry my babies without any problems. For whatever reason, I couldn't have them naturally, but I still have my beautiful family. I couldn't have got through it without the support group. We need a birth debrief. We need to talk about how we really feel and, above all, we need to forgive ourselves.