I nearly died. It still doesn't seem real when I say it. I nearly died and walked away completely unscathed. And because I walked away with nothing more than a cesarean scar and anemia to show for it, it feels like it wasn't a near death experience at all. How could I complain when I was up the very next day, walking the halls of the hospital, laughing, and holding on to my beautiful newborn baby? But when I saw the fear in the doctor's eyes, when I had nurses, doctors, and EMTs checking on me the next day just to make sure I had survived, when I saw the bag that contained my blood soaked clothes looming over me like a cold shadow in the corner of my hospital room; the reality of my "near death experience" seeped deep into every fiber of my being. The day I gave birth to my son, the reality of my experience gave birth to new fears and unforgettable life changes.
Being back home from the hospital felt strange--it was too normal. I had just experienced a life-changing event and my home showed no evidence of it. Where was the blood that soaked the bathroom toilets? Where were the pants I had frantically tossed aside when the blood had poured down my legs? How did the bed not get a single drop of blood on it? The crimson trail I had left behind me had been washed away and replaced with the clean glow of normalcy, a normalcy that left me feeling uncomfortable. But why? Of course I didn't expect, nor wanted, to see the horrific retelling of my experience. So why did it bother me to see it so carefully washed away. And who washed it away? My poor husband. How could he have handled such a terrible task when he nearly fainted once when I nicked myself while shaving? The thought of him moping up my blood left me sick to my stomach. "I tried to wash the blood out of your clothes." he said to me as I inspected the wet clothes crumpled on the bottom of the bathtub. They were still tinged with brown and smelt metallic. "I'm sorry I couldn't get all the blood off of them." My husband looked at me apologetically. A lump formed in my throat. How could he possibly be sorry? I assured him it was okay and that I was just going to throw them out. But after some hesitation, I kept the dark grey tank top since it showed the least amount of evidence. Only in the right lighting could you see the shadow of brown blood stained into the fabric. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to keep it. To this day it still makes me uncomfortable to wear it.--It is a bad omen.
Later that day I decided to take a shower. I had hoped that perhaps, in some way, I could wash away my discomfort. I needed a warm and comforting escape from my awkward feelings of displacement and from the sweaty film of postpartum. My body ached with exhaustion as I wrestled with my clothes, as if they were made of lead. But as my clothes fell to the floor, I stood for a moment staring blankly at the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. Her tired eyes lay deep into her pale skin. Even her freckles held little color to them. On her wrists and the inner crook of her elbows were bruises and puncture marks, evidence of multiple needles that had pierced her skin. On her left hip was a bruise that looked much like a finger print. There was a long cesarean incision just along her bikini line that was still held together by medical tape. Her privates were swollen and bruised. Her stomach hung low and deflated from a pregnancy now over. Who was this woman, this victim? It couldn't be me. I have always been too warm and feisty, too confident and alive to be this woman staring back at me. No words can truly describe the disassociation I felt with my own reflection, with my own body. But as I inspected the wounds on my skin, retracing a story I couldn't tell, I felt...ashamed. I couldn't explain where all the bruises and cuts came from. I didn't know how or why. I was unconscious for everything that had happened in the O.R. For the first time in my life, I looked at my own body and felt embarrassed and painfully vulnerable. My body had been touched and ransacked by strangers and, in that moment as I stood in my bathroom, I felt like I had been raped. But who did I have to blame? I couldn't be angry at the dozen of doctors and nurses who had saved me and my baby's lives. They were only doing what they had to do in that situation to keep us alive and for that, I thank them with all my heart. So then...why did I feel like I was raped?
It was never a sexual thing. Although it involved my privates, I knew that it was necessary given the circumstances. What left me feeling unsettled was the fact that I had no idea what happened in that O.R. As soon as I was knocked out, the rest became a mystery. I gathered some information here and there from the doctors after the fact. But on my body, a desperate story of ruthless survival was written in cuts and bruises. I felt dirty, used, worthless, defeated. I was the success story, the woman who survived, and yet...it only felt like a part of me had survived but another part of me was lost. There I stood in my bathroom staring at the scraps of my existence.
In the weeks to follow, my nights were filled with vicious nightmares laced with gore and feelings of helplessness. My days consisted of a strange mix of joyful bliss with my newborn baby, and the ache of hidden tears and I sobbed in the quiet moments in between. And at random moments I felt the need to take deep breaths as I relived the terrifying moment of suffocation I felt just before I blacked out in the O.R. from the sedative they gave me. I was told later by doctors that most people pass out before that feeling kicks in, or their mind mentally guards them from remembering such a traumatic moment. For some reason, knowing that made me feel stronger than the average person. Unlike most, I remembered. My body was able to hold on for that second longer. Yet that sliver of strength did not eliminate the extreme fear and claustrophobia I still feel when remembering the moment. That horrifying second as I gasped for breath, trying desperately to yell out that I couldn't breath as the doctors pinned me down to the bed, forcefully holding the oxygen mask to my face as I frantically clawed at it with my last bit of strength. The thought of it still leaves me feeling breathless. I can't see an oxygen mask now, even in a movie, without feeling that tight feeling in my chest.
One week exactly after giving birth to my son, I had to go to the dentist for a root canal. The timing of everything was brutal. They very carefully prepped my mouth, stretching a thin rubbery sheet over my mouth to isolate the one tooth. All the gear in my mouth forced me to breath through my nose. So they placed an oxygen tube in my nose to help me breath and "relax". And finally, they placed headphone over my ears so I could listen to relaxing music. For a minute the dentist left the room to gather the supplies for the job. And as I lay there with all these devices jammed into every hole on my head, I suddenly felt a wave of panic. Flashes of being pinned to the bed, unable to breath, came rushing into my mind. Only a week after the event, it all came so vividly. Immediately I began to attack the headphones, yanking them off my head and weaving its cord from around my neck. One noose removed. I then set to work on removing the oxygen tube. It took everything in me not to rip out the gear in my mouth just so I could take a clean breath, but instead I gripped the seat of the chair and prayed silently that the dentist would be quick. When he came back to the room he looked surprised and even a bit annoyed that I had removed the oxygen tube. "You really should have it on." he insisted. "It will help to keep you calm." With a mouth full of metal and plastic, I couldn't verbally argue. But with the pleading in my eyes and the frantic shake of my head as I tried to steady my breath, the dental assistant took pity on me. "Do you feel like it's too much around your face?" She asked me tenderly. I nodded in near tears. She understood. To my great relief she convinced the doctor to proceed without the oxygen tube and in under an hour, I was taking in deep breaths of sweet fresh air as I left the clinic. It was the first time I realized just how deeply my experience in the O.R. had effected me. It was the first time I realized my life wasn't all washed clean and normal again. I had a lot of healing to do and it was going to take a long time.
It's for that very reason I am starting this blog. As silly as it sounds, a part of me keeps waiting for me to suddenly be "all better." But I am coming to realize that it isn't as simple as that. It isn't some switch I can just flip. I can't just tell myself to get over it and go back to "normal." I now know there is no going back. This is a new me, a new version of me, forever altered by my near-death experience. As odd as it is to say, I nearly died. And because of that, I have to find a way to accept the new me and what I went through.
I am a victim. I am a survivor.
No comments:
Post a Comment