C-Section Recovery: My Story

I sat up in the hospital bed and rubbed my shoulder. I was just one day post-partum and of all the things that hurt, I found it most inconvenient that my right side was causing me grief. I was sure that I had slept on it wrong or held Silas in an awkward position but when I discussed it with the day-shift nurse, I learned otherwise.

The problem? A build-up of gas. The only way to get all systems going was to get out of the bed and get moving – no matter how much it hurt.

So I rolled out of bed and put my bare feet on the cold tile floor. With Silas in a portable bassinet and Mark at the helm, I ventured out of the wide threshold of my room and down the hall. Each step was labored and I found myself hunching as we went. We got to the end, where the nursery was, and I held myself at the wall.

"Can you believe I used to run marathons?" I asked Mark.

"You will again, babe," he said. "You will."

I knew in my heart that there was truth in his words but at that moment, recovering from the C-Section seemed long and arduous. All of the sugar-coated memories of my comeback from my first section were replaced with pain, Percocet and hormone-driven outbursts.

I thought back on that moment this week, running around the house and flying up and down stairs. I bent over to do laundry and carried two baskets from the basement to our second-floor bedrooms. All of it after teaching boot camp in the morning and running after lunch. Just one of those would have been impossible in the early weeks after the C-section much less all of them. But there I was, eight weeks post-partum, feeling (mostly) like the old me.

I didn't come across a lot of stories about C-section recoveries, especially pertaining to someone who was and wanted to be active. I thought it might be interesting to share my experience, if only to remember what the early days were like before my brain closes the door on those memories. And moms, we all know the details of newborn life are erased so we can have more.

Note: These are just my experiences and in no way a guide for another person's recovery. Please consult your doctor before resuming any physical activity after birth and honor your body.

Week 1: Walking and activities of daily life are challenging. You haven't felt pain until you try to sit on a toilet post abdominal surgery. After the painful walk on Day 2, I began to slowly add wings of the Labor and Delivery section of the hospital on each walk (about three a day). I was taking Percocet every four to six hours and Motrin every 12. After I was released at four days post-partum, I was moving better and was down to one Percocet every eight hours. The biggest challenge was taking the stairs so I had Mark set up the portable crib, allowing Silas and I to camp out downstairs.

Week 2: I stopped taking painkillers at six days PP so that I could drive Miles to daycare on Day 8. Caring for both boys on my own was a challenge, physically and mentally, and Miles was getting bored. I didn't experience too much pain driving but Miles had to climb in and out of his car seat. I went to the grocery store on Day 9, and it was a bit ambitious on my part. My favorite store is small but pushing the cart and lifting gallons of milk left my incision aching. I made sure to ask the bagger to keep each bag light.

Week 3: I went for my first walks this week, starting with a mile around the neighborhood. I had an awareness of my incision but not a lot of pain. I gradually increased my distance by a quarter-mile every other day. I found that it was most comfortable if I pushed Silas in the stroller instead of wearing him as the Ergo put pressure on my incision.

Week 4: I felt excited and ready to get in more of an exercise habit so I added in some strength training. I avoided all lower body and abdominal exercises to be prudent. I did have to be mindful not to overdo it, as I learned the hard way. At 22 days PP, we walked 2 miles in the morning and then went to the zoo with family. By the end of the afternoon, I felt achy and some pulling at the site.

Week 5: For a small piece of sanity, my Mother's Day gift from Mark and myself was the chance to run a mile around the neighborhood. This run was not pretty. I felt heavy and clunky, even awkward. I didn't have any true pain but I deemed it wise to stick to walking for the week. I also tried a barbell workout to prepare for my return to the Y but discovered lunges put too much pressure on my low abs and hips.

Week 6: I was feeling better so I decided to try another run, traveling by foot to my in-laws' house for dinner while Mark drove with the boys. I covered two miles but had it not been for my ego and love of round numbers, my body would have been fine with 1.5 miles. I continue to work on upper body strength and am picking up Miles with more regularity. He got heavy over the course of six weeks!

Week 7: I am officially cleared by the doctor to resume all physical activity and exercise as tolerated. There's nothing that I can do to the incision/scar that would do harm. He warns me to set my expectations low as I had major abdominal surgery. I celebrated by meeting my girlfriends for a 3-mile run. The first half felt good but I was happy to stop for water at the turnaround. I really had to work to finish strong. I also resume regular (for me) running, logging four outings. There is no pain save for a very localized spot where it feels as if one of the plastic clips is pulling/trying to poke through. (Note: My incision was secured with plastic clips that dissolve on the inside and steri strips on the outside. The plastic clips can poke through and work themselves out. I asked the doctor about this in the beginning of the week, and it's normal.)

Week 8: I participate in my first post-partum race, the Girls on the Run 5K. My endurance is improving, slightly, but I have one speed. The localized pain is all but a memory and lunges now feel as comfortable as they are going to get. I make my return to teaching at the Y and am pleased to discover that basic exercises such as jumping jacks are tolerable. Core exercises are challenging, in part because of the incision but also lack of strength.

Humbled

It was just a 10-minute YouTube video that I found with the ever clever search "arm workout."

Except that it wasn't. It was an eye-opener.

Silas was napping on Tuesday (well, I thought he was napping but that's neither here nor there), and it presented me with a much anticipated opportunity. It was my chance to add in some low intensity resistance training. I didn't want much and I expected even less. The goal was to get in something and regain some of the tone that I had lost over the previous three weeks.

I grabbed a set of 5-pound dumbbells and cued up a quick workout. It began with 10 rep sets of front raises and lateral raises, which target the shoulders. Five pounds would have been my go-to weight for barbell class, which has far more than 10 reps. It was a weight that felt good, sometimes easy.

Well, by rep seven, I realized that 5 pounds was no longer comfortably challenging for muscular endurance training. It was downright hard.

I wanted to cry ... but Silas took care of that for me. I waited a few reps to see whether he was having a moment or actually waking up. Just as the workout moved onto overhead presses, I realized that he was up and I was done. I could have been disappointed ... but I was relieved. I could stop the workout, stop feeling weak and do it without "quitting." I had to take care of Silas, after all.

I might have forgotten the situation or buried it under the Boppy, at least, if it hadn't been for Miles. The little stinker. That night, he saw the weight peaking out from under the couch. He picked it up and with one and, did a shoulder press.

"Look how strong I am, Mom!" he shouted. "Look how strong I am."

Yeah, buddy. You are so strong.

As for momma, she's got some work to do.

And that's OK. Honestly, I'm a bit excited to create a strength training plan and see where it takes me. I think I'm going to focus on muscular endurance, incorporating high reps, low weights and lots of body weight. I might even get crazy and get my hands on PiYo for some ideas and workouts.

Have you ever tried PiYo? What are your thoughts?

Note: I started this post last week but, well, I didn't finish it till today. Whoops.

Back on my feet

The discharge instructions from the hospital in regards to my C-section are fairly standard. No driving for 10 to 14 days. If I have increased pain or swelling at the site of the incision, seek medical attention. Follow up with the doctor in six weeks.

But what struck me as vague, at best, and problematic, at worst, was the plan of care for activity.

"Activity as tolerated. ... Return to regular diet and activity as tolerated."

Well, then, it's time to bust out the running shoes.

Ha! Just kidding.

Even though running has taught me to tolerate a lot of things, including discomfort and reasonable amounts of pain, it has also instilled a valuable lesson: Don't be stupid with your body. I would love to go for a run right now but I wouldn't deem it prudent.

However, I have been feeling the itch to be active again as my pain levels drop each day. I'm 19 days post partum, and I have little discomfort around the incision at rest or during activities of daily life. Any troubles seem to be internal and more than likely related to the uterus shrinking down to size (according to my very non-expert personal opinion).

I decided to test the road on Monday with a short walk to see how everything felt. I got Silas settled in the stroller and headed out for a mile loop that I did a lot during my run streak – also with Silas. Sort of.

It was windier, cloudier and chillier than I had hoped but it felt good to move. So good. I didn't have any pain – dull or jabbing – at the incision site during the walk. The only awareness was muscular in nature. Like, holy hell, woman. Your body was cut open 17 days ago and you want to do this. It quieted down, though, within minutes of arriving home.

Baby neck rolls! Note: I had a hat on him and had his head covered for the walk. It just didn't work for the selfie :)

Feeling confident and a wee bit bored on Tuesday, I strapped Silas into the carrier to see how we would fare on a longer jaunt. And by longer, I mean 1.5 miles total. I didn't want to push my body or him, as we're still establishing a nursing schedule. (*Refer to the part about not being stupid.) It was warmer, sunnier and lovelier. He napped, I listened to a podcast on speaker and enjoyed the day.

Even though I'm out for 30 minutes or less, it's amazing what the walks do for me. I feel bright, alert and enthusiastic. I rang my grandma during another 1.5 miles this morning and she noted that I sounded back to normal.

"Not yet," I replied. "But soon."

Silas Jasper: His Birth Story

I read a lot of birth stories as I prepared for the arrival of Silas, and I dreamed of what mine would say. A successful VBAC, an intervention-free birth. A beautiful delivery. When we discovered Silas' breech presentation and subsequent efforts to turn him failed, I filed away the drafts. A scheduled C-section didn't seem deserving of a lengthy post. This post, though, reminded me that every birth is beautiful and every story is worthy to be shared.

◊ ◊ ◊

Four forty-five came quickly on April 10. For the second night in a row, I had slept fitfully. My efforts to rest were interrupted by trips to the bathroom and pangs of anxiety. Intermittent prayers and pleas to St. Gerard, patron saint of mothers, did little to ease me into slumber. If anything, it kept my mind racing.

But the time had come. Sleep did not matter now.

I nudged Mark out of bed and headed downstairs. I brewed a small pot of coffee for him and began to braid my hair. I heard the rich brew drip slowly into the carafe, and I tried not to breathe deeply, for fear of wanting it. I had to fast for six hours ahead of my scheduled arrival at the hospital, and the directives included nothing to drink – not even water and definitely not coffee.

The sound of Mark's heavy steps on our old wood floors snapped me out of a daze, one that had set in from the monotony and familiarity of twisting my hair. I glanced at the clock. The lime green digital numbers on the stove read 5:05.

We needed to go.

◊ ◊ ◊

I was on edge for the 20-minute drive to the hospital. I blamed Mark – he took too long in the shower, he didn't need to shave, he didn't have his stuff together. I picked at him for drinking coffee and driving, talking about topics of substance when I was barely awake and operating on empty.

I was being a brat. Plain and simple. So when he asked if I wanted the remainder of the commute to be in silence, I nodded.

◊ ◊ ◊

 

The security guard was accommodating when I refused to sit in the wheelchair upon arrival. He warned me that it was against hospital protocol but I reminded him that I wasn't in labor. I wasn't sick. I had two legs – two legs that I wouldn't get to exercise for some time. I wanted to walk while I could.

I was led to a labor and delivery room, where I was greeted by a nurse. There were questions to answer, blood to draw and things to prep. Namely me. I had six wipes and a detailed diagram of how to use them. It was clinical, procedural. It was not how I pictured my birth.

I got back in to bed and thought maybe I would rest. I thought I might have time to do so, or at leat watch TV, when I was told that I would need to be there at 5:30 a.m. for a 7:30 section. I feared I would be bored, would have too much time to think.

But I was wrong.

Not 15 minutes passed without someone coming into the room. My doctor, nurses, a rep asking if I wanted to donate the cord blood and placenta, nurses. A university professor inquired as to whether I would allow a nursing student to observe the procedure.

"Why not? What's one more person in the room?" I thought.

I began the process going through the motions, almost defiantly, but slowly I felt a bit of the anxiety dissipate. More of me came out. I still picked at Mark but it was mostly in jest, and I might have laughed. Once.

◊ ◊ ◊

The room was sterile. The lights were bright. The sound of metal instruments clinking metal trays and chatter filled the air. I could feel my legs weaken beneath me.

It was real. The C-section was going to happen, and I was going to meet my baby boy.

The nurse who would be with me through delivery and recovery was kind and reassuring as she led me to the table, offering a step up. I sat up and swung my legs to the side so I could face the wall. The anesthesiologist talked to me as I was prepped for the spinal. About her son, about the medications I would be receiving. She asked me if I was more sensitive – to medicine, to pain, to the IVs – because I was a red head. It's a question I got a lot. No, I responded, but everyone had decided that I was.

I tried to breathe deeply. Remain calm. Be strong.

I followed directions. I contracted my abs, slumped my shoulders and braced myself on my thighs. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Be strong. My nurse grabbed my hands and told me to push against hers. I breathed and pushed. The first needle went in and then a second. I pushed harder against the nurse's hands. I inhaled and with the exhale came the tears. Fat, ugly tears. They were filled with fear, regret, grief.

There was little time to wipe them. I had to quickly swing my legs onto the operating table before the spinal took hold. The tingling began in my toes and began to travel toward my waist. I had to bring my legs into a butterfly position, the nurses helping to get them just right. My arms were strapped into a T-position. My head rested down. Waves of nausea came over me.

"Am I supposed to feel light headed?" I asked. "I feel sick." One dose of medicine , then another, went into my IV. And then there was nothing but the flurry of activity around me.

The anesthesiologist behind my head, guiding a nurse as she prepped me. Other nurses got things ready for the doctor and still others were awaiting Silas' arrival. I was in a room full of people but never had I felt more detached, more alone.

I closed my eyes and breathed. I shut out the goings on. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. As I focused on the feeling of the air passing through my nostrils – the one and only thing I learned in a college meditation class – I could hear it. The music. Familiar and soothing, it could be best described as contemporary Christian. It was no doubt the choice of my doctor, as it's what is played in his office.
It's not necessarily my style as unless it can be played in an aerobics room, I don't pay much mind to music. But this. I knew this. And for that, I was grateful.

◊ ◊ ◊

I felt his hand on mine before I heard him. Dressed in too big blue scrubs and an unattractive cap, Mark was there. Next to me.

It was time.

My doctor, for whom I cannot say enough good things, talked us through the process. Narrating the cuts, what I would feel. The tugs. The pulls. Telling us he was almost there.

I could hear him trying to coax out Silas, his butt firmly planted in my pelvis. I could hear the declaration of success ... which was quickly followed by a surprise. Silas thanked the doctor for his help by peeing on him.

Yes, my child came out pissing and moaning. And, yes, despite some sourness over a C-section, I can still find humor. I just hope my dear doctor did.

Mark moved from my side to take pictures and quickly reported that Silas had brown hair and was peeing. Again. And then again.

Amid his screams, those shrilling newborn cries, I called out, "How are his legs? Do they go down?"

One of my great concerns, thanks to consulting Dr. Google, was that Silas would be stuck in the Frank breech position. He could have hip problems or another congenital problem that caused him to be breech.

"They're just fine," Mark said. "He can kick them down, I can tell you that."

◊ ◊ ◊

The waiting. It's the worst part of a C-section. Waiting for the procedure. Waiting for the delivery. Waiting to hold your baby. 

Everyone gets to see, to touch, your baby before you. And even when I could, I was almost hesitant. It wasn't because I was shaking uncontrollably from the drugs like I had with Miles. It wasn't because I was still strapped down.

Rather, I was afraid of what it would feel like. I had worried that I wouldn't want for Silas the way I had with Miles as I had spent so much time grieving the VBAC (or pouting as Mark said). I was afraid I'd resent him. 

But, as I had been assured and reassured by others, I couldn't.

From the moment the nurse handed him to me, unwrapping the blankets as she did so and placing him on my chest, he was mine. My dark and brooding boy who likes to make his own way on his terms.

Just like his mama.