Traumatic Birth Clinic

I had another appointment with the nice lady at the Traumatic Birth Clinic today. I had a list of questions, and a stack of my own photocopied notes and my own version of the birth story, and I really hoped to discuss some of the medical reasons for what happened to me in more detail, so that I could get some good answers.

Except that the obstetrician was wandering around the waiting area, and I saw him twice and heard his voice, and was reduced to incoherent, trembling, sickened terror.

I spent most of the session crying or shaking or both, and wasn't feeling strong enough to refuse to have an observer - a man from Africa was there observing for some reason or other; I couldn't take in why or who he was. He was very quiet and unobtrusive and the only time he spoke he was very sympathetic, but I think I'd really have preferred him not to be there. I don't know. It did mean I didn't talk about some of the anatomical issues I have in as much detail as I had hoped, but it's possible that I'd have chickened out of that anyway.

I don't recognise the obstetrician. When I see him - or hear him, as I did first today - I don't think "I know that voice," I think "That's vaguely familiar - and I feel horribly sick and I want to run away." I actually tried to turn and walk away today but was thankfully stopped by Rob, or I'd have walked away from my session, which was useful. At least someone else is chasing me getting back on the waiting list for the psychologist.

And I can someday soonish begin writing the letter to the Head of Midwifery to explain which of the traumatising incidents were within the control of individuals and can be done differently next time.

In other news, we have bought Rob a suit.

The things I do

I walk around Mothercare, looking at double buggies and deciding which one would be best for my height and Rob's height and the width of our doors.

I read books about pregnancy and birth. I read about fertility and artificially assisted conception.

I think of names for the new baby.

I think of strategies to help Linnea accept the new baby.

I feel guilty for displacing Linnea.

I look at maternity clothes and hold them up against myself to see how they fit.

I imagine feeding a new baby, dressing a new baby, introducing Linnea to a new baby.

I plan the birth - I've decided that Linnea can come to the hospital with me, and see me as soon as I'm out on the postnatal ward. I want a private room with a sign on it saying "Knock." I want every single person I meet to introduce themselves to me - "Hi, I'm Bob, and I'll be your anaesthetist for the day."

I do not open the parcel with the vaginal dilators. I do not call doctors. I do not make any actual progress towards getting pregnant again.

But I cry...