The bleeding. Oh my lord, the bleeding. I was eleven when I had my first period. I was twelve when I started using tampons. I was fourteen when my periods stopped altogether. For most of my life, I have been "lucky" to have only 2-4 periods a year. Even with the hormonal chaos during three years of fertility treatment and pregnancy, my periods generally have to be medically induced and are heavy, violent and painful.
As it turns out, so is the bleeding after childbirth. It's been ten days and I'm still regularly astounded by the volume of blood that is expelled on a regular basis - not to mention the pain associated with it.
Pads suck. I'm a tampon girl - no alternatives, that's it, the end. I use pads only when I absolutely have to (after surgery, or egg retrieval during IVF). Pads are messy, they move around, they stick to things they shouldn't. I have to wear underwear even to bed because hey, you can't wear a pad without underwear. And because of the aforementioned volume of blood, I have to wear the thick kind that feel (literally) as though I'm wearing a nappy. Put plainly: it sucks.
My boobs hurt. Two days after Isaac was born, I looked down to find my breast were suddenly as hard as rocks and my nipples were shaped in a way I'd never seen before. I poked my husband awake (it was 2am) and he grumpily informed me that never having seen a set before, he had no idea what lactating boobs looked like. He rolled over and went back to sleep; I staggered out to the kitchen to struggle with the breast pads we'd bought in anticipation of this happening.
I spent four days in a sports bra - 24x7. It resulted in lumpy, sore breasts which were alternately hot and rock-hard. They have calmed down since but they are still incredibly sore. Sometimes - for reasons I can't work out - they give a sudden stab of pain.
My abdomen is cramping. The midwife says this is because my uterus is trying to contract but there's too much blood in there for it to retreat back below the pelvic bone. It hurts. Sometimes Nurofen is enough, sometimes Panadiene is called for. Sometimes it makes me want to curl up and cry.
My nipples, breasts and belly are shrinking. And I hate it. Every time I look at my body - every time I look in the mirror or down at myself in the shower - I see fewer signs that Isaac was ever contained therein. I struggle mightily with the guilt that this body failed my little man. It makes it worse, somehow, that I can no longer see the signs of him. Each day takes him further away and I hate it. I hate it.
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