My Daughter Drank My Bones
For the past few months I’ve been dealing with a postpartum medical mystery. It’s been infuriating and debilitating and, at times, terrifying, but we’re finally getting a handle on it. Today, I was in good enough shape to write about it, so buckle up for a story.
Back in July I had a baby. Her name is Lyra, and she is wonderful in every way, but to say the postpartum period has been challenging would be a massive understatement. When we talk about how some people have an easier time parenting than others, a lot of variables get discussed — the family’s financial situation, the health and temperament of the baby, the amount of parental leave everyone gets, and the support of the new parents’ communities being among the big ones. In all these regards, our family has been extremely lucky, but one variable that doesn’t get discussed nearly enough about the postpartum period is the birthing parent’s physical recovery. And over the past six months our family has learned how vital that piece is.
To begin, some background. Going into my pregnancy I was extremely active. I ran, I did yoga, I lifted weights, I rode my Peloton bike. I hiked with my dog, I walked pretty much everywhere I could, and I continued something close to this level of physical fitness throughout my pregnancy (within reason, of course). I ate as healthily as I could, barring the weeks where I was so nauseous I could hardly keep food down, and my weight gain right up until the end was exactly the average for a pregnant person of my height. I had no complications with my pregnancy, barring a period of breech presentation which was resolved at week 37 with an ECV, and to top it off, my vaginal delivery was as straightforward as those things can be, even if it lasted longer than I would have liked. We had no issues with breastfeeding, almost no issues with sleep, and, not to brag, but I also had barely any tearing to contend with either. I thought if anyone was set up for a simple postpartum recovery it would be me.
Lol.