Postpartum Rage, Pain & Recovery

By the third baby, I thought I knew the deal.

I knew I would be exhausted. You know the usual, sore breasts, even cracked nipples, the bleeding, the hormones were expected. I expected the postpartum emotional roller-coaster. None of that scared me. I thought the hard part would be getting the baby out. The birth itself went somehow okay, well except for the 8 hours of active labour while being gaslit about what my own body was actually doing. Then there was my second midwife seemed more fascinated with my natural hair twists and the colour the baby was going to be. It was a strange thing to discuss while in labour. When the 3rd midwife took shift, a young mixed race Melanie, I somehow felt relieved. She was even introduced rather remarkably, as “being black like me therefore I was in safe hands.” It was such an awkward thing to say. The truth is, I did feel safe with her. We worked together. Melanie listened to me. She worked with me. And at 1:15 in the morning, our little Mali made his grand entrance into the world. I cannot explain how victorious that felt.  A healthy baby in my arms.

Despite everything, I remember feeling so relieved that I hadn’t torn. No stitches or any major birth injury. I had made it through unscathed. Or so I thought. How naive of me. The newborn bubble lasted for a few days.

Then My Feet Started Hurting

Plantar fasciitis.

Before Mali, I had absolutely no reason to know what that is. And then suddenly my feet, of all things became a problem. I remember researching ChatGPT during the midnight feeds, Why do my feet hurt so much? To add on, none of my shoes fit. Trying to squeeze into them made things worse. I ended up with an infected in grown toenail. Those first steps in the morning hurt so bad.

I remember thinking how bizarre it was. I mean I was aware I had grown a human and some parts of my body were expected to hurt.

But my feet? I had never heard of it. One year in and I am still recovering from plantar fasciitis.

My Pelvis Was Not Done Yet

Then there was my pelvic girdle. This was not new. I had experienced the pain during the pregnancy. Of course I had expected to part ways after baby. But it said it wasn’t quite done. Burning is the best way to describe it. Walking, standing, laying in bed and even bending to pick the baby hurt.

I was asked to do pelvic exercises but how could I when the pain was so unbearable. Google and tiktok did not help much. There were videos of women who had ended up on wheelchairs as a result.

And Then Postpartum High Blood Pressure Made a Grand Appearance

This is where the piece shifted from painful and absurd to frightening. I remember feeling really dizzy with excruciating headaches. At first I did not think much of it. Why would I? I was sleep deprived so somehow the headaches were expected. The first time I saw the numbers confirming that something potentially serious was happening in my body scared me. Luckily, living in Denmark and with support of a very keen partner, I was quickly treated.

The Symptom That Frightened Me Differently: Rage

And then there was rage. Not the annoyance. Not I am exhausted and everyone is getting on my nerves. Rage. And this one is difficult to explain because, from the outside, the things that made me angry could look ridiculously small.

My husband would leave the dishes unwashed after dinner, and I would feel a level of anger completely disproportionate to a few dirty plates sitting in the sink.

But it wasn’t really about the dishes. I was angry that his life seemed to be carrying on and that his body was still his body. His feet didn’t hurt when they touched the floor in the morning and neither did his pelvis feel like it was on fire. His wrists didn’t hurt from picking up our baby and his blood pressure was normal.

Mine wasn’t.

And somehow, those dirty dishes became evidence of the unfairness of it all. I would look at them and think: How can you possibly leave those there for me? Can’t you see what I am carrying? Of course, he had a new baby too. His life had changed too. He was tired too. Rationally, I knew that.

But postpartum rage wasn’t particularly interested in rationality.

In those moments, I wasn’t calculating who had done more that day. I was looking at a man whose body had emerged from the birth of our child completely intact while mine seemed to be breaking down one body part at a time. We had both had a baby. But only one of us had been pregnant. Only one of us had given birth. Only one of us was living inside the physical aftermath.

Maybe It Was Grief

Somewhere underneath my anger was grief.

I missed the ease with which I used to inhabit my own body. I missed waking up without immediately discovering which part of me hurt that day, not having to think about my blood pressure or feeling emotionally predictable to myself. Maybe I even envied him and not because I wanted him to suffer but I just couldn’t understand why I had to suffer so much. So yes, sometimes I was furious about the dishes.

But I don’t think I was ever really angry about the dishes.

I was angry about the enormous, invisible imbalance that I suddenly felt after the baby: We both had become third time parents, but only one of us had come home from that transformation needing to recover from pregnancy and childbirth.

And on some days, all of that resentment, exhaustion, pain and bewilderment could somehow fit into one unwashed plate.

Let’s Not Forget the Postpartum Wrist Pain

This almost felt personal. What do you mean that the very limbs that are meant to carry the baby are now in the party. This was particularly cruel because what do I do with the baby the whole day? How do I pick him up, put him down, feed him, rock him or even change him. At this point, I started wondering which body part was going to submit it’s resignation next.

Why Am I Writing This?

The birth was over. The baby came out healthy. So why do I need to tell about the past? It worked out okay anyway. I am even back to the gym.

Because “it worked out okay” is not the same as “it was okay.”

And because I know that somewhere, another woman is standing beside her bed in the morning wondering why her feet suddenly hurt. Another woman is struggling to pick up her baby because her wrists are in agony while another is furious with the person she loves and doesn’t understand where that anger is coming from. Another is saying that something doesn’t feel right and wondering whether she is being dramatic because everyone around her seems unconcerned.

And some women will go through all of this with remarkably little support.

That matters to me particularly when I think about women in African communities and Black women navigating maternity systems in Western countries.

Important Links

https://lifeindenmark.borger.dk/healthcare/pregnancy-and-birth–when-you-become-a-parent