vulnerable.

In nine days, Benjamin will be four years old.

I know that it's cliche for me to mention it, but I really can't believe that these past four years have flown by so quickly. We have gone through so much together as a family since then, although Benjamin likely doesn't know it - besides the recent hospital visits. He doesn't know and perhaps will never really understand how much we have been through as a family, even beginning moments after his birth.

It's not easy for me to open up about something as vulnerable as what happened then. It's not easy for me to talk about in full, besides giving a few small details that may elicit a couple gasps and sympathies to those who ask. I don't like to open myself up to the full story... which doesn't just end after the four days I spent in the hospital. It continues even now, and only a few people know about how.

There are those who know that I have been talking more recently about having a c-section at 39 weeks with this baby. What you probably don't know is that I've been resigned to this option pretty much since the first doctor's appointment I had with this baby. I was not happy to hear that this would be the best option, and I am sure there are those who would say to me that any doctor who would suggest something at the first visit should be dropped immediately, that they are in it for the money {because doctors do get paid more to perform c-sections}, that they don't care about my well-being or my baby's well-being.

But I disagree, completely.

I cried on the way home after that doctor's appointment. I let my doctor know I wasn't 100% happy with hearing that, and after that she never brought it up again. Instead, any time a c-section came up again in our conversations, it was because I brought it up. I was upset after the initial visit, not because it had been suggested at all, but because deep down, I knew she was right. At the time, though, I didn't know how right she was.

I guess I should start from the beginning, for those who don't know the whole story.

Four years ago on January 19, I went in to the hospital five days past my "due date" to be induced at 5AM. I was nervous, but I wasn't scared. I was going to own this birth and it was going to be awesome and I was going to do great and so was Benjamin. I learned a lesson that day about how things don't always turn out the way you "plan" for them to.

I got an epidural after they broke my water because the pitocin contractions were unbearable and I'm a big weenie when it comes to pain. All day long I labored but didn't feel anything and I thought to myself that this wasn't so bad. I didn't progress all day, though, in spite of the contractions, and was disappointed to go hours and hours and barely reach 4cm. The words "failure to progress" were never spoken to me but now I know.

Late in the evening they were talking about a c-section. Benjamin's heart rate was dropping and they needed to do something quickly because you know that things can go from bad to worse very, very quickly.

I didn't want to have a c-section then, but now I know that I should have. When my doctor came in, she checked and I was finally at 10cm and it was time to push, so I did. For an hour and a half I pushed and labored until at long last my baby boy was here and it was all over... well, I thought it was.

I had no idea something was wrong until my vision went black around the edges and I announced to my doctor that I thought I was blacking out. Soon after, I did, although I remained conscious the whole time. I was bleeding out and they were struggling to control it.

Laying there, unable to see what was going on around me, I could feel Carl beside me, who came over from taking pictures of Benjamin to be with me, forgetting for the moment our son being weighed and those precious moments after birth, instead deciding to be with me and hold my hand and beg me not to close my unseeing eyes. I was pretty sure I was dying. I wondered what Carl would do as a single father. I was tired and wanted to sleep. They tried to find my pulse but the machine couldn't pick it up and they couldn't find it the old-fashioned way. Oxygen mask.

I'm not sure how long it took for them to stop the bleeding and stitch me up. I don't really remember a lot about it all, either because I was soon very medicated or because I've simply blocked it from my memory. I do know that because I was so weak, everyone else was able to bond with my son before I could and I secretly and silently hated it. While I was being stitched from top to bottom, and receiving bags of blood, and laying flat on my back, everyone else was busy smiling and taking pictures with Benjamin and I had barely held Benjamin for longer than a couple minutes. I asked a nurse how bad my tear was, and she told me it was a complete 4th - the worst they had ever seen at that hospital.

Try being 20 and swallowing that one.

There is one incident I remember clearly, probably on day 3 in the hospital. Carl had taken my mom back home {we lived 15 minutes away} so she could take care of her dog and stay the night. I asked to have Benjamin in the room with me, although he stayed in the little bassinet because although I could move from the bed to the chair next to it {very slowly and with assistance}, I couldn't hold Benjamin very long because of the amount of IVs I had. He started crying in his bassinet and I couldn't console him... I ended up having to push the nurse's button for assistance. I couldn't even take care of my baby without help.

For the first few weeks, my recovery was hard. Strong pain medication made it better, but being so helpless was something that couldn't be erased.

I made a mistake, though. Instead of dealing with the issues that came up after enduring such a traumatic birth, I brushed it away. I didn't address it. I didn't talk about it and I didn't research it. Because of this, my anxiety skyrocketed. Issues came up in my marriage. I developed a stress disorder. And I was ignorant to the fact that all of this could be linked back to my traumatic birth experience.

It took me almost four years to connect the dots, to research consequences of a fourth degree tear. By this time, as you may well know, I'd already become pregnant with this baby, and when it comes down to it, I don't know that I would have been pushed to research my symptoms had I not become pregnant.

Because during the first trimester, I was sick all the time. I was unhappy and I couldn't feel excited and so many assured me it was probably just hard to be excited when I've been so sick. I accepted that for a little while, but I knew that my problems ran deeper than that. Much deeper. I had anxiety about childbirth, I had little interest in baby things and when I did start thinking of preparing for the new baby, I easily became overwhelmed and anxious. Up until this point, the only reason I was entertaining the thought of a c-section was because I knew I still struggled with physical complications and the risk of causing more was not something I wanted to deal with.

Maybe about two months ago, maybe three, I hit rock bottom, though. I had prayed so much for God to help me because I was miserable. I prayed so hard because I didn't understand why I was feeling the way I was... because I knew my issues ran so much deeper and the word I didn't want to associate with myself was the only one I could think to describe how I was feeling: depressed. Maybe I didn't trust enough. Maybe I wasn't holy enough. I thought I had been doing my best but maybe I could do better.

But when the thoughts became darker, I could no longer ignore it. I researched four letters I had seen pop up on a pregnancy forum because I didn't know what they meant, and what I read knocked the breath out of me because it was me. PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Approximately 3% of PTSD cases are caused from combat, meaning those who have been involved in combat, especially soldiers. Approximately 4% of PTSD cases are caused by traumatic childbirth. And that's just diagnosed cases. 1 in 10 women who experience childbirth will develop PTSD. 10% of women will develop PTSD in contrast with 5% of men. It can set in immediately after the event, or it can occur months later.

Four years later, I am struggling tooth and nail with this mental disorder, desperate to feel something for my unborn child, desperate to repair the damage that my depression had caused in my marriage, desperate to feel something other than ... despair.

Two weeks ago I finally talked to my doctor about it, after talking with my husband for weeks and researching for weeks. It wasn't easy. It's not easy to admit that there is something wrong and you need professional help or medication or something. It isn't easy because it's so easy for people to judge when they don't know what you're going through, and it's so easy to be hard on myself. I felt like I was giving in, like I was defeated by myself, especially when I agreed to being prescribed an antidepressant.

I started this off by talking about our decision to go the route of a c-section, and I'm coming full-circle now. There are plenty who do not believe that anyone should have a c-section unless medically necessary, especially a scheduled c-section. There are probably even those who would encourage me to try a vaginal birth again because the chance of another tear is so low {although tearing again is not the bulk of my concerns physically. It goes much further than that.}.

Because of my PTSD, it is necessary for me to have a c-section. There is no way I would put my mental health at further risk just to "try again". This was what helped me decide to schedule the c-section during my last appointment. This is not something that my doctor pushed me toward - it was a well-informed decision that Carl and I made for myself and our baby, the same way we decided trying medication would be best for my mental health and the well-being of not only the baby, but my family as a whole. Because we all suffer together when it comes to things like this.

I am thankful to God for an understanding and compassionate doctor, for my supportive and kind friends, for those who have encouraged me to speak up because I am not alone and should not be ashamed... mostly for my loving, supportive, amazing husband who has been dealing with this along with me even before we knew what I was dealing with. I solicit you for your prayers as we begin this healing process, and I beg of you to extend your understanding to me if you catch me on an off-day. I'm trying so hard. I have resigned myself to get better, to seek out help and to help others where I can.

When we were driving home from the appointment, I was crying as I thought of the prescription for antidepressants sitting in my purse. Again, I felt defeated. I felt scared because I knew this wouldn't cure me, that it wasn't the full answer because taking medicine and pretending nothing is wrong would only hurt me more. I had to open up, I had to talk about it, and I needed to pull support around myself like a security blanket because there are certain things that one cannot endure alone, and certain things we should not even attempt to endure alone.

I don't know if it was providence or just sheer chance, but as we drove home and as I wiped my eyes with a Burger King napkin, Carl was flipping through the radio stations and stopped on one of those radio evangelist stations. We paused here and I'm glad we did, because something the evangelist was saying was so appropriate for all of my fears. He spoke about how our Lord prayed in the garden of Gethsemane, about how He brought his close friends - Peter, James and John - with Him to be near and pray with Him on the night which He was betrayed. Sweatdrops of blood beaded on his face because of the trauma He was facing, and although the three fell asleep as they waited, Christ made it clear: there are times when you need your friends.

I don't want to try to do this alone anymore.