No Mother Alone Foundation

Babies are beautiful. Birth is a time of growth, celebration, and love. It brings families together, strengthens bonds, and empowers a mother.

But, how birth takes place matters and so does postpartum care of the MOTHER. Babies aren't the only birth on a delivery day because with each new baby a mother is born as well. Even with subsequent children a mother changes with each new birth.

We're all given a pamphlet in regards to the signs and symptoms of postpartum depression, however, it doesn't cover the stigma attached to depression in a new mom.

Because what kind of mother looks at her newborn and cries?

What kind of mother has dark thoughts when she's got a beautiful little bundle of joy?

And how are those moms supposed to reach out for help and share what is going through their minds, when they are brushed off and told "it's baby blues, everyone has them"?

Postpartum depression, postpartum mood anxiety disorders, and childbirth related PTSD are all severely underdiagnosed. Many women are ignored upon reaching out, even by their families and care providers. More disturbingly are the results of a UK study that observed cause of death in new mothers within their first year after childbirth:  while a saddening 25% of deaths occurred due to hemmorhaging, 28% were suicides. That's not okay.

And we can do something about it.



The primary goal of the No Mother Alone Foundation will be to provide financial support for women battling postpartum complications and to help provide scholarship opportunities to individuals seeking training in fields that would support postpartum women. First and foremost we will strive to better the situation in the Twin Tiers area. This would include providing partial funding for:

Childcare or transportation to help make self care appointments happen.

Alternative therapies not covered by insurance

Doula support or childbirth classes for a birth following postpartum complications.

Scholarships toward training for birth support, child birth education, midwifery, counseling, lactation support, and other fields that would allow the support of postpartum mothers.

Publications for maternal service providers to share with expectant mothers.

But what's it matter?

Here's a look at how things can get really out of hand.

The following is MY story.

Keep in mind that I was one of the fortunate few who had good care providers. Even WITH a supportive network it was very hard to ever reach out for help, to vocalize what I was going through. There's a sickening taboo against anything less than being overjoyed immediately after birth. Anything else makes society paint you as a monster or a poor mother.

So my story is one of the few you'll be exposed to without sugarcoating. Don't let that fool you.

It's not that postpartum suffering is rare. 1 in 7 women are diagnosed, and those are just the ones who can reach out to professionals who will listen.

You won't see many stories like this because we're afraid.

We're afraid of having our children taken from us.

We're afraid of being told it's nothing.

We're afraid of ending up on a cocktail of drugs that will impair our ability to care for our babies.

We're afraid no one will listen.



My son’s first birthday was one month ago and I can’t even begin to describe how happy I am to have celebrated this milestone with him and our family.

He’s brought so much joy to our lives the past year and it has been amazing to watch the interactions between he and our daughter. I’m truly, truly blessed with a beautiful family.

But, there's another side to this as well. You see, I shouldn’t have made it to the point that I could see my son walk or talk or cause brilliant chaos. I need to talk for a moment about what the last year has been like for me. And I HOPE you’ll take the time to listen.

Despite the smiles and positivity you all see on a regular basis, I have a lot of darkness I deal with. And it’s almost daily. I suffer from PTSD in relation to the events following Jackson’s birth at the hospital. I developed a postpartum hemorrhage (an uncontrolled bleed) approximately an hour after he was born and sincerely didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to hold my children again, tell them I love them, or even look into the eyes of my husband for a final time. But modern medicine is a beautiful thing and I had a wonderful team of care providers watching out for me. They pulled me through and I’m still here.

But I shouldn’t be.

Jackson’s birth was BEAUTIFUL. I labored naturally, I delivered naturally. For the most part it was Caleb and I and it was awesome. I wasn’t told how to push, I wasn’t in excruciating pain. It was peaceful, and powerful, and everything birth should be. Cara, our daughter, came in a bit later with my parents and got to meet her baby brother. Then after a bit of visiting everyone was asked to step out for a bit so I could shower and freshen up. After everyone had gone two nurses got ready to help me out of the bed. I was in a lot of pain, though I tried not to show it, as I just figured it was normal “coming down” pain since I had labored naturally and the adrenaline was wearing off. But as I went to stand I felt like the floor was falling away beneath me and the room was spinning. They asked if I was okay and I remember saying, “I don’t feel very good.” They helped me lay back down and one pressed lightly on my abdomen to check my uterus. And that’s when the shit hit the fan. Blood came rushing. Clot after clot, ounce after ounce. Those pads they put down for blood or other fluids to save sheets? I soaked completely through a double thickness in less than three minutes. Twice.  And it just wouldn’t stop. They called in other nurses. They called for the midwife. The midwife was in the middle of something and couldn’t be reached for what must have been quite a while. There was quite a panic in the room as I was surrounded by nurses doing their best to lessen the blood loss, but it was proving ineffective. At one point someone asked how they were going to measure the loss. One suggested the baby scale, as another simultaneously said, “We’ll figure it out later. There’s too much and we don’t have enough time right now.”

Eventually the midwife made it in and ordered pitocin. Pitocin helps the body contract and reduce the hemorrhaging. The IV in my hand blew out and I had to inform the nurse administering the medicine that something was wrong. I guess she couldn’t see the large bubble forming in my hand. They couldn’t get another IV tapped fast enough and I was losing blood rapidly. The midwife ordered an injection of the pitocin to be administered into my thigh. A new IV was placed. I was given a medicine to help ease the pain the pitocin induced contractions were causing. This whole time I had not seen my husband nor my baby once. I was so surrounded by nurses that I couldn’t even see where my husband sat. I had finally started to go hazy. I don’t know if it was the blood loss, the medicine, the exhaustion of it all, or what, but I felt like I was fading. This was the moment I sincerely thought I was going to die. The moment people describe about their life flashing before their eyes… I experienced that. One of the many blessings I can comfort myself with from this is that when that happened, all I felt was peace. I remember searching for a glimpse of Caleb between the nurses and finally spotting him. I tried to say, “I love you”, but I know it came out barely a whisper. There was so much chatter at this point. Repeated over and over was the concern about having the OR ready. “If it doesn’t slow in the next three minutes we need to get to OR.” “If I can feel a tear we need to get to OR.” So many nurses talking, so much movement. At one point there was laughter over something. I barely caught any of it, but held it all subconsciously as I would later find out.

I was finally ripped out of my peaceful floating when I was catheterized. That unexpected jolt of pain had me crying out, but fortunately somehow in the next 15 minutes the bleeding finally slowed enough that all urgency receded. As the nurses were finishing up and tidying up a bit one asked if I needed anything, and I politely asked for someone to please explain to my family what had occurred before they came back in. My family just sat in the waiting room upwards of an hour waiting for me to take a shower. I felt they needed an explanation. But nothing was offered to them. They were just brought back in.

Over the next few days my blood was drawn every few hours to check for improvements in my blood count, but nothing was staying strong. Talk about blood transfusions was frequent, though the process never occurred. By the time I was released I was to have 24/7 help for at least the next 2 weeks.

By the time that 2 weeks was up I was back at the midwife’s office. I didn’t feel right. I was depressed. Strange stuff had been happening. It was brushed off as baby blues. Maybe a case of PPD. But it turned out to be so much more.



I have PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s been brought on by trauma related to childbirth. Here’s what 2014 was like for me:

I see things that aren’t real. I’ve seen nurses in my house. I’ve seen a woman pushing a cart up the street equipped with all the equipment of a phlebotomist. I’ve seen blood, everywhere. Including waking up to a non-existent puddle of blood in bed more than once. I’ve seen the bruising on my hands and arms from repeated needle pokes, blood draws, and attempts at an IV line.

I hear things that aren’t real. I hear the chatter of the nurses all the time. I hear someone laughing and it feels like it’s at me every time. I hear the beeps of machines. I hear things being wheeled across tile floor.

I have intrusive thoughts. I deal regularly with a message in my brain that says any of the following:

They should have just let you bleed.

She was probably laughing at you.

Your kids deserve a better mom.

What kind of wife can’t take care of herself and her children?

Your family would be better off without you.

Why don’t you just save them the headache?

I’ve felt things that aren’t there. I’ve felt the IVs in my hand. The pitocin shot to my thigh. The bubble in my hand when the IV slipped. The pain of saline going into my new IV after everything was set and done and they just wanted to get me hydrated. I’ve felt the sensation of having a catheter placed more times than I even want to discuss. I’ve felt hands pushing on my stomach trying to pump out blood clots. I’ve felt myself bleeding.

I’ve had nightmares and flashbacks. I’ve woke up screaming in the middle of the night. I’ve had nights where I get maybe 2 hours of sleep or don't sleep at all. I have nights where just laying down on my back sends me reeling through flashbacks. I’ve relived the hours after Jackson’s birth at least a thousand times. In slow motion, in hyper speed, and clear as day.

I’ve experienced dissociation. I’ve been doing something and just completely blanked. I don’t know who I am, what I’m supposed to be doing, who these children are… I’ve had to pull over on the side of the road because I don’t know where I’m coming from or where I’m headed I’m just in the car and driving.

Sometimes when I trigger it’s like this:

Imagine you’re at a really creepy amusement park in a “haunted house” that’s also a maze/house of mirrors. Only instead of clowns and creepy dolls and ghouls it’s like this:

I’m surrounded by nurses, and needles , and blood. Everyone’s got that creepy smile that shouldn’t seem menacing, but after a while it just IS. The characters can touch you, but when you turn around to see what had a hold of you by the waist there's nothing there. Everywhere you look you see the same scary images. But it’s a maze so it’s really hard to find your way out. There’s loud sound being played over head, but instead of creepy music it’s just constant voices and laughter.

It’s about to get rough, hang in there.



I’ve planned suicides.

I’ve dealt with the grief and the guilt of knowing that I might put my family through a really rough loss.

I’ve made attempts at taking my own life.

I’ve cried over the thought of my daughter yelling for mommom when mommom’s not there anymore. I’ve cried over the thought of my husband waking up without a wife and finding a body. I’ve cried over the thought of my brother in law being the first one at my house and having to make an unspeakable phone call to his brother.

I’ve caused physical harm to myself because at least then it was a pain and suffering I could control.

I looked for help. I tried online support groups, I tried to make an appointment with a psychologist. I’ve tried to reach out for someone to listen. But it’s really really hard to get the words out.

I stopped taking a medication that was helping because it scared the crap out of my family. They thought it would make me suicidal, when it was what was keeping me from those actions to begin with.

I tried to talk about what I was feeling. But everyone’s got their own stories. I was told repeatedly that I was just tired, it was just baby blues, I needed to relax… or met with interruptions or being cut off while trying to vent. I’ve been told I’m being ridiculous. And that I just needed some vitamins.

So for the better part of a year I dealt with this alone. Not because people don’t love me. But because they couldn’t understand and I couldn’t make them. This was my ordeal WITH a support system. Can you imagine if I had no one like countless other women?

But here’s what I know now. And if you’d like to help, maybe take these things into consideration.

The resources available in our area to individuals suffering from childbirth related PTSD are essentially nonexistent. Your average group therapy session, therapist, or psychiatrist isn’t going to understand what it’s like.

Medicine's not the answer, but it’s also not NOT the answer.

I can’t just will myself to be happy and at peace. Nor can I just let it go. Nor can I just “not let it bother me.”

I’m not afraid of hemorrhaging again during this next birth. It was a fluke thing that as a redhead I can be more prone to. I’m not afraid of receiving inadequate care. I love the care team available to me. And yes, the hospital and the nurses do scare me on one level, but the birth center is also where I feel safest when it comes to delivering a child.

Here’s some of the things that are triggers for me and make life really hard:

Loud noises, lots of noises all at once, crowds

Unexpected guests, phone calls, and surprises in general

Being overtired or dehydrated

Talking about birth, past or present

Bright lights, and driving at night due to others’ headlights

Needles, blood, hospitals

Being told, “Good Job” or “You’re doing a good job”

These are things I do to make it better:

I Pin. On Pinterest. Excessively.

I crochet.

I’ll put in headphones and turn music up to drown out everything.

I plan future events. Events that might not even happen for another 10 years.

I count. I drum my fingers. I snap. I rub my fingers together.

I draw, sketch, doodle, sculpt.

I know some of this has been potentially troubling to a lot of you, but please know this:

I’m doing well, now. I don’t need sympathy or apologies or questions. Unless those are things you need. I am doing a lot better because I’ve been able to start talking about what it’s been like, especially to Caleb, and that’s made all the difference.

I WILL BE HERE.

For birthdays, and holidays, and get togethers. I will be having our third child naturally, Lord willing, with the support of my husband, midwife, mother, and doula. I’m seeking support and am working on lining up appointments for very effective therapy known as EMDR.

What I do need now is your help.



The funding for these outreaches and events will be gathered via fundraising campaigns, local events, and eventually profits from the sales of products geared for mothers. In addition to the financial aspect, this organization will also be utilized to facilitate community outreaches such as "Meet the Doulas" nights, breastfeeding support groups, Mom's night out events, and events to promote dialogue between medical birth professionals and birth support providers.

 

For those of you that are currently expecting new babes in the family, or those of you who have recently had new additions please watch out for the moms. It matters how you bring a baby into the world. More than just physically. The wellness of a woman after childbirth cannot be based on tests, numbers, and vitals alone. Post partum depression and childbirth related PTSD are real things. They can present themselves in a variety of ways. Please talk to your obstetrician or midwife about it.

And here are some good suggestions for helping her out if she's having a rough time:

Give her the time to take a nice relaxing bath or shower.

Offer to cook dinner.

Watch another child.

Help her grocery shop.

Sit with her and see if she’d like to talk.

Help her to get out her birth story. It’s amazing how effective birth art and sharing the story of a child’s birth can really help to heal.

Don’t just tell her she needs to talk to someone. Get her to someone. Sit there. Help her get the words out if she’s having a hard time.

Don’t ever minimize her feelings or brush them off.



Please, if you can, help donate to this cause to make a difference in the lives of women in our area. Someday it could be your wife, your sister, your daughter fighting a battle just like mine. She deserves a helping hand. 

Help spread the word.

Because babies matter.

Because moms matter.

And NO ONE  should go through these types of struggles alone.