At first I was afraid, I was petrified.

My youngest child is soon turning three years old, and there’s nothing like a birthday to make you think back to the actual day of birth.
We all have our birth stories and most of us love to share them. I, however, can only share half of mine.
A scheduled c-section, I remember shaking laying there as they strapped my arms down and put up the curtain. All was normal and they showed me a gooey baby and whisked her away.
After that, I heard noises and someone kicked out my husband and told me I was going to sleep.
Hours later I woke up, drained (literally, of blood), confused and drugged up to a state of bliss. Something went wrong and although the child was fine, I was the one in trouble. Thankfully I slept through it all because I don’t think I would have had the strength to endure without being overcome by emotion.
In all, it took me 11 weeks to fully recover from the whole birth ordeal, to re-establish my milk supply from zero, to raise my blood count levels, to overcome split incisions, infections, strep, mastitis, depression.
It wasn’t pretty, but now I look back at what I got through, what I accomplished and grin to myself because I am so proud of what I did.
And on this third birthday of that awful day, I couldn’t be happier of the survival of myself and of my family. We have a lot of to be thankful for, including our strength and a little girl with curly blond hair.

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