It’s often said that the heart wants what it wants. I’d say that certainly holds true when it comes to the motherly desires that exist deep within us. In particular, those of us who have longed to be called “Mama” for as long as we can remember. Those who have always dreamed of having a big, happy, healthy family. The kicker? Life doesn’t always pan out as we envision . . . starting with the very arrival of life itself. We can plan and prepare for our birth experiences to work out favorably, but sometimes, best-kept plans go wrong. Sometimes, birth results in trauma, leaving us yearning, mourning, and longing. And we’re left between a rock and a hard place. Yet we still long for another baby.
Longing for Another Baby Amidst Uncertainty
Here’s my experience with wanting another child after having birth trauma:
The Start of My Motherhood Journey
As one of four myself, I always swore I’d have at least three or four children of my own. For years and years, I dreamed of a full dining room table at dinnertime. I imagined all the fun we would have on “big family” minivan road trips. But I never stopped to think about the limitations my body could — and would — end up placing on these aspirations.
When it was finally my turn to prepare for my first child’s arrival, I thought I had my bases covered. Specifically, I thought I was as prepared as I could possibly be for a textbook delivery. After all, I read the books, listened to the podcasts, worked with a doula . . . what could go wrong? It turns out a lot could. And it did.
I delivered my first child via emergency C-section following a very intense labor and heart rate decelerations. She was oxygenated for the first eight minutes of her life, whisked away to the NICU for a short checkup after our quick introduction, and brought back to me. Not how I had envisioned my birth story, but it could have been so much worse. And it would be.
I Didn’t Get To Experience My Son’s Arrival
A year and a half later, my second living child made his 33-week arrival without any warning, rhyme, or reason. I woke up in labor in the middle of the night and told my husband that either our baby was on his way out or something was going very wrong. As my first child was born at 41 weeks and 1 day, premature labor wasn’t on my radar in the least until, suddenly, I was in it.
By the grace of God, we made it to the hospital just in time for me to be rushed down the hallway in active labor on the triage bed . . . only to be put completely out under general anesthesia for yet another emergency C-section. This time, it was because of decelerations as well. But I had to miss my son’s birth, as there wasn’t time for me to receive an epidural or spinal tap. I remember pushing for five minutes before the doctor on call told me that he needed to put me under immediately. I pleaded with the operating team to put me under and get my baby out, and I woke up shivering, colorless, and disoriented. Soon after, I found out I was experiencing a stage three postpartum hemorrhage.
Throughout the course of that day, I lost approximately half my body’s blood volume and spent about 12 hours receiving blood transfusions, platelets, and plasma. I didn’t get to meet my tiny, strong, brave NICU baby until more than 24 hours after his birth. Once I was cleared to be wheeled to the NICU, I was only able to stay for a few minutes. I was sick, weak, and still fighting. I needed to get back to my empty mother and baby room. (The irony, by the way, when the room is completely sans baby.) I needed to get back under the inflatable, heated blanket I’d been underneath for the past night and day. I had to say, “See you in a few hours,” to my brand-new, tiny baby. Somehow, laying there alone in his NICU bed, he seemed to be doing far better than I was.
The Effects of Birth Trauma Reach Far Beyond Birth
I spent the days immediately following my son’s unexpected early arrival focusing on the positive. (All while feeling like death, to be frank.) He was notably healthy and strong for his gestation. 5 pounds 1 ounce, to be exact. Apart from simple oxygen support and a feeding tube, his NICU journey was off to a seamless start. My milk was coming in. The hospital staff were angels. I was able to walk myself to the bathroom. I was inching closer and closer to reuniting with my daughter at home, my first baby. “All was well,” I assured concerned family and friends via quick Facetime calls and short texts. In reality, though, it wasn’t.
In reality, I had gone into precipitous premature labor without known reason or prior indicators. I had fought through insane contractions without a split second to process everything, had been unconscious on an operating table just as quickly, and had woken up to find out I was losing an alarming amount of blood. All the while, my remarkably strong newborn was fighting his own fight. Without me.
Apart from the units of blood I received in the hospital, a handful of “recovery” days in my eerily quiet room, and a prescription-level iron supplement for the months following, I was expected to move on from my severe postpartum hemorrhage as if everything was just as it had always been. The truth is, nothing was as it had always been.
What I experienced changed me — and the dreams of having the large family I’d held in my heart for a lifetime. When I finally mustered up the courage to read the notes on my delivery records, I realized just how serious everything was. I never found out why my son was born when he was. I was only told to expect any future pregnancies (which, at this point, would result in delivery via C-section by default) to be at high risk of similar complications. To prepare for another premature delivery and, therefore, another NICU stay. I’m also grappling with the possibility of hemorrhaging again. That’s when the worst creeps into my mind. I have two babies at home to be here for, and I’m not sure how much more I can ever risk.
The Decisions That Follow Birth Trauma Are Impossible
Although I’m not currently in the right place to have a third child, my heart still longs for just one more baby. Or maybe two . . . but because of my history, I know that’s wishful thinking. I never wanted to have a C-section to begin with, and I certainly didn’t want a second. If I choose to have another child one day, I’ll also be choosing to take the risks that come with a third.
Yes, I’m grateful my babies got here safely, and I know they wouldn’t have without their doctors doing what they had to. Even still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also heartbroken at how things turned out. I still long for another baby one day. But I can’t say for sure whether that decision would be wise or too much of a gamble. Given my birth trauma and history, it’s all a gamble. Going forward, it always will be. And that’s painful.
Longing for Another Baby After Birth Trauma Is Hard
To be completely honest, having experienced birth trauma sucks, and no amount of preparation for potential future pregnancies will ever allow me to fully trust my body to protect my babies and me. No amount of reassurance from the best doctors out there will ever eliminate the “what-ifs,” the flashbacks, the fear. No amount of attempted encouragement by well-meaning others and their “At least you and your babies are okay” comments will ever actually comfort me. And no amount of “Well, you’ve got two healthy children, and that’s all that matters” will ever take away the longing in my heart for another. Another baby to snuggle, another chance to carry life within my body, another tiny best friend for my daughter and son, who thrive with other children.
No amount of looking on the bright side will ever dim the darkness of birth trauma — because birth trauma is utterly and entirely dark. And to be honest, I don’t think we talk about it enough. The reality of it all is this: it’s painful to experience it. And it’s equally as painful to long for another baby after it.
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