No political aspirations here.
(Although, being Irish - the foul term does take on a different tone in my native brogue.)
C is for Caeser.
I'm not talking about the salad either.
During my first pregnancy, those two words sent me into a tailspin.
I absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances, over my dead body wanted a c section delivery.
(Okay, slight exaggeration. I subscribed to the "as long as bub arrives safely" political correctness in public - but really was soooo very petrified of the caesarean option.)
I'm a big wuss.
Not a fan of surgery.
Particularly of the elective variety.
Something about those silly, gaping gowns has me all a puddle of tears and nerves.
(Hence why I am destined to wear these poor excuses for breasts for the remainder of my natural life.)
I was also naively (and vainly) terrified of the six week recovery period.
I mean, I was going to be out running as soon as possible post delivery.
You know, while that first baby adapted to my lifestyle and all that (codswallop).
(Let's not fixate on the fact that Magoo's natural delivery left me physically unable to run for a lot longer than six weeks anyway!!)
So, second time around and a much more sheepish Shar willingly agreed that a caesarean section would actually be the safest, healthiest, least traumatic option for everyone involved.
(Plus, my ob was absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances, over her dead body willing to assist me with another natural delivery.)
Seven Weeks Post Caesar...
It seems I'm quite the fan of elective surgeries after all!
(Now, just to find the thousands of bucks to renovate the rack!)
Missi's caesarean birth was just beautiful.
Once you get past the super large needle directed at my spine part, it was a calm and positive experience for Hubby and I.
The post op period that I was most apprehensive about was just perfect.
I was completely lucid and pain free.
Missi was in my
During my hospital stay, I managed my pain with Panadol and anti-inflammatories quite easily. I was up, showering and walking by the morning after the surgery and doing laps of the ward with Missi's cradle looking for an escape route by day 5.
The only time I struggled with mobility and tenderness was on the second night.
Hubby has gone home with Magoo, so I was up and down to Missi a fair bit.
In retrospect I should have avoided the bed and spent the night in the feeding chair - or asked Hubby to stay a second night.
Once home from hospital, I was mobile - but sensible.(Apart from that 4th birthday party at home thing!)
I organised for my hairdresser's lovely cleaner to come and clean my house twice in the weeks after being home. Win.
Hubby was introduced to Mr Dyson and the Enjo mop. Win # 2.
(He now understand why both were worth every cent I paid for them.)
I began taking short, slow walks with the pram + Magoo within nine days of Missi's birth and built up the distance and speed each day.
I drove Magoo to daycare after three weeks and then began driving regularly a week later.
Now, I'm walking briskly again and feel pretty 'normal' in most ways.
My wound looks great (or so the professionals tell me!) and doesn't feel tender at all.
I still change the dressing weekly - to reduce scarring, the nurses said.
Wouldn't want my bikini modelling career to go to pot, would we??!
Unfortunately, hanging out the washing doesn't pose a problem anymore.
(But sssshh - don't tell Hubby just yet.)
|Happy feet indeed.|
Woo to the hoo.
(Okay, was probably more of a jogging pace, but that's a-okay.)
It felt pretty fantastic to be back on the road and I'm convinced I found a little piece of me out there.
Plus - those runs = almost 50 mins of time aloooone over the weekend.
Not to be underestimated.
It did hurt.
But it hurt in the way it hurts to step up to an exercise you haven't attempted in 9 and a half months.
It didn't hurt in the 'wearing my uterus on the outside' fashion some people have described after starting back too early.
So, (second) bottom line - I'm a caesar convert.
Do not fear the big C, people.