Susanne Remic

Ways in which my c-sections make me amazing

31 May 2015 by Susanne Remic / Pregnancy Complications / Comments Off

I’ve had 4 c-sections (2 emergency, 1 elective and 1 planned due to medical reasons) and time and again I find myself making excuses, or defending myself when the topic of birth comes up. I’ve also spoken to many women who feel they failed, or did not give birth because they had a c-section. I’ve come to the point now where I want to celebrate the way that my babies came into the world, and show other women that they did NOT take the easy way out. A c-section is not the easy option and there is no need to feel ashamed either.

If you’ve had a c-section, I hope you know that you are amazing.

I’ve had four c-sections. And until now, I have always been- if not ashamed- a little defensive over them.

But baby was in distress, so the section saved my life.

My son WOULD have died without a section.

It was the easiest decision for me after two traumatic failed labours and emergency sections.

The doctors said it was the safest and only way my baby could be delivered alive.

I’ve always been a little anxious when meeting new mums and the conversation turns to the birth. I’ve always assumed that there was something wrong with my body. Something wrong with me. I failed. I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.

But I’m tired of defending myself. I’m tired of feeling like I never really gave birth. So what if my baby came out on the operating table? I might not have given birth in the conventional way, but I gave life just the same. Who cares how the babies arrived?

Ok, so I care. I do. I really care. I care about the fact that my very first experience of childbirth was terrifying. I was ignored and laughed at. I was dismissed. I was given drugs and injections and examinations that did not help me. My baby was taken from my body not just once, but for a second time too. I was left in pain. I was taken to the brink of death and my baby almost died. I was sent to sleep while surgical hands reached inside to find my blue baby and bring him out into the world. I was not there. And I care about that. I care so much.

And because I care, I want to make it clear that those first two birth experiences make me amazing. I laboured for hours each time. Alone. Without the support of a midwife to hold my hand. Without the knowledge that I was a strong, capable woman. Without power. I laboured despite myself, for hours, with no pain relief. And just when I thought I could take no more, I was taken for major surgery. The mask over my face and the knife to skin just moments later.

And if you know what it is like to labour so intensely, with the sole purpose of bringing your baby into the world, only to realise that you will need to see that happen in an operating theatre… then you will know that I am amazing.

And if you know what it is like to labour so intensely a second time, with the desperate need to bring your baby into the world otherwise he might die, only for the world to go black and to wake up with a baby by your side… then you will know that I am amazing.

And if you know what it’s like to move your battered body a few inches across the bed, to gingerly ‘swing’ your legs around so that your feet brush the floor, to step lightly onto the ground for the first time since ‘it’ happened… then you will know that I am amazing.

To stand in the hospital shower weeping in pain each time the water jets strike the cannula in your battered hand; cursing that cannula because you didn’t want to be there, in that shower, in pain, not again. To wince in pain with each step you take. To choose to spend the night sitting up in a chair rather than to lie down in a bed because it is slightly less painful to do so. To need a cushion so that you can laugh. To still hold on to the belief that your body might make it next time.

If you know what that is like, you will know that I am amazing.

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Life after birth trauma

31 May 2015 by Susanne Remic / Birth Trauma / Comments Off

My son was born in 2009 via emergency section while I was under GA. His birth affected so much and I suffered with PTSD and anxiety as a result. But life goes on, and this is what it’s like sometimes.

At first it is raw and oh so ugly. There are dreams when you sleep and dreams when you are awake. There are night sweats and flashbacks and anxiety attacks and panics. There are feelings of suffocation and of desperation. There are days when you cannot cope alone and the sound of your baby’s crying just cannot continue any more. There are days where you want to hide, to stay hidden and at the same time want someone to find you.

And then time moves on.

And then it is like all of that, only less intense. Like all feelings, emotions and responses have been sucked dry. Like the earth around you has breathed it’s last breath for you. Like it is time to move on. And your first thought when you wake is not how crushingly sad you feel or how prickly your skin feels or how desperately you want a different existence. That comes later. When it’s quiet. When your thoughts are whispers and your mind is still.

And then time moves on again and life picks up new interests for its enjoyment. Your memories of what happened are scooped into balls that get pushed to the bottom of the pile. What is important? Life. And it moves on, so you have too I suppose. But life after birth trauma is not so simple.

It creeps up on you. It waits around corners for happy moments to destroy. It is selfish. It is dressed in white when it should be in black; it should be clear for all to see. But it’s not. It is a marker. A point in your life where the world took a breath and did not dare to breathe out again. Where silence echoed and emptiness tried to suck you in. And you climb back; of course you do. But that climb changed you. And you won’t know by looking at me. You won’t remember.

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Don’t call me high risk! #MyPositivePregnancy

31 May 2015 by Susanne Remic / Birth Trauma, Informed Choice, Pregnancy Complications / Comments Off

This post was written during my 4th pregnancy, my journey towards a VBA3C. Throughout this pregnancy I was fit and healthy yet classed as high risk due to having had three previous c-sections.

Don’t call me high risk.

Don’t take heed of the warnings that spew out into the papers at an alarming rate. A VBAC is not a disease, or a dirty word. A woman who has had a c section is not ‘risky business’. I am a woman who wants to give birth to her baby. To feel her baby. To be awake to see her baby take the first breath, open their eyes onto this world and feel their skin against mine. I am a woman who wants to be one of the first people to hold her baby. I am a woman who wants to sit up and hold her baby. To feed her baby with arms that feel the life within. I am a woman who wants to tell the world her baby’s name; not discover it for herself when she wakes.

Don’t call me high risk. Don’t greet my intentions with raised eyebrows and furrowed smiles. Don’t assume that my intentions will not be ‘allowed’. Don’t deny me the chance to be normal for once.

This weekend I came across this article by Milli Hill (@millihill) and I found myself nodding along to almost every word.

When my body screamed out to me that my son was on his way, the ‘High Risk’ label echoed the cry and we called the hospital straight away, as we’d been told. We went straight in, as we were told. We never questioned a thing and we never assumed that we were anything but high risk. The fact that I was labelled as High Risk left me in no doubt- what I was doing was scary. I wanted no part of it. But in actual fact, lots of women have a VBAC, and the fact that we didn’t should not be held against me.

This time, I am a woman striving for a VBA3C. And supposedly higher risk than ever before. And yet I feel more positive this time than I ever have. Whether it is age, experience, or having come to a point of peace with what has gone before, I do not know. But I do not feel scared. I do not feel High Risk. I feel like a woman who passes a mirror and catches sight of her swollen body and smiles, stops to capture the moment; when once I would have collapsed inside.

I feel like a woman with a life growing inside. I feel special. I feel on the edge of something wonderful. I feel strong. Strong enough to question decisions that are made for me. Strong enough to face the fear that I know will come as the weeks pass by. Strong enough to cast aside my label and just be a woman giving birth. For once.

That is my positive pregnancy. It’s taken four attempts to get here and I’m going to hold on to it.

To find out more about #MyPositivePregnancy, #TeamMama and Mama Academy,please click here. You can also read about the Made to Measure campaign here and if you have a moment, please sign the petition urging all UK trusts to help save 1000 babies by adopting The Perinatal Institute’s GAP programme.

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IUGR: our journey so far

31 May 2015 by Susanne Remic / Pregnancy Complications / Comments Off

The following post was written on Ghostwritermummy when I was 32 weeks pregnant. Elsie was born at 37 weeks and you can read about her birth, and more about our IUGR journey here.

IUGR

IntraUtarine Growth Restriction.

A baby that is not growing as it should be.

Not just small.

Not just on the last percentile.

Not just the bottom of the average, as some babies must be.

A baby that is not thriving where it should be.

A baby that is deemed to be better out than in.

A baby at risk.

A high risk pregnancy.

When I was born, I was SGA. Small for Gestational Age. The doctors sent my mum for an x-ray as they were convinced she had her dates all wrong. I was born one week later, smaller than I should have been. My eldest was SGA. My third baby was SGA. These facts put me at risk for another SGA baby, or for an IUGR baby. For the record, SGA does not mean IUGR, but IUGR babies are all SGA. Still with me?

At my booking in scan, my consultant booked three growth scans for us and gave us a personalised growth chart. No more plotting my baby on the national average. This baby was to be measured according to what is normal for me. This was reassuring, but we were convinced that the growth scans were unnecessary. We’d had them with all three previously, one for each, and were told each time that baby was well. On the smaller side, but healthy and thriving and gaining weight well. We decided that we’d attend the first growth scan, but we’d probably request for the others to be cancelled. The biggest thing was that we wanted a VBAC. So we wanted to do what the doctors seemed to think was important. But if, as we were sure would happen, the doctors agreed that baby was growing well, we felt subsequent growth scans were pretty pointless.

So the first growth scan arrived at just over 29 weeks and from that point onwards everything changed.

IUGR had been mentioned in previous pregnancies, but always dismissed. This time though, we were told that baby might not be ok after all. There was no question that follow up scans would be necessary. Four weekly appointments were changed to two weekly, with a view to reaching 34 weeks gestation. Considering our first two were both born post 40 weeks, the idea of an early baby was a huge shock to us. We’d honestly assumed we’d be told all was ok, that baby was small but perfectly fine. Not so.

The second growth scan was devastating in many ways. It was found that baby was still small, and that blood flow from the cord was reduced. Baby was not receiving enough oxygen. Baby was starving inside of me. Not thriving. Not just small. Not just at the bottom of the percentiles. Not just SGA.

Appointments were amended again, this time to weekly and we were sent home with even more questions than before. We’re still unsure what it all means, and the only thing that is super clear now is that there will be no VBAC. There may be an early baby. There may be special care. There may be health issues later in life. There are so many may bes. There are no certainties.

During all of this, the one thing that has been drilled into me is to monitor baby’s movements closely.

I have never ever felt concern over this before. Three previous pregnancies and I had always felt confident that baby was well and kicking as it should be. This pregnancy has always been different though, even before we knew anything was wrong. Movements were late; later than previous pregnancies. Movements were scarce for a long time. We put this down to the position of the placenta, and we’re still told that the fact that it’s anterior could be the reason why movements are still not as noticeable as they are supposed to be. Following the second growth scan, I was put onto the monitor and everything seemed fine.

The next scan did not measure growth. Instead the fluid around baby and the flow from the cord was scrutinised, and all found to be within normal parameters. Hooray! Good news, at last. Although the doctors were careful to advise me that weekly scans were still necessary, and that baby was still small. It was also made clear that the results from the scan were normal today and may not be the same next time. Again, I was put on to the monitor to check baby’s movements and although they were definitely reduced from the last time, they were still sufficient enough for me to be allowed home. No decelerations and totally normal readings all round.

And so here we are. Days away from another scan, where I will be 33 weeks and 5 days pregnant. Potentially days away from delivery. The magical 34 week mark. And so many questions.

Is baby really IUGR? Or just SGA? Is 34 weeks really a suitable gestation for delivery? With each week that passes now, the risk of stillbirth increases, and yet there are risks associated with premature birth if they take baby too early. It is still hard for doctors to accurately diagnose and in many cases this can only be done once baby is here. If the birth day is at 34 weeks and baby is not IUGR, the chances of a fast recovery and minimal issues are great. If baby is IUGR, more help will be necessary. So many ifs!

We wait, and yet the waiting is excruciating. People keep saying that the longer they leave it, the more weeks that baby stays in, is better. But there will come a point where that is no longer true. There will come a point where baby is not moving as it should and they will decide to deliver. And I am so scared that they won’t make that decision at the right time.

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