The Anniversary I Never Wanted
March 14. Three years ago today, I walked into my two-week postpartum visit expecting a routine checkup. I thought I’d hear that I was healing well, maybe get some advice on balancing recovery with life as a mom of two. Instead, I was blindsided.
My blood pressure was dangerously high. So high that the doctor refused to let me leave the office without promising to go straight to the hospital. I didn’t get to go home, pack a bag, or prepare myself for what was coming—I was just sent. Alone.
Whether it was because of the pandemic, the time of year, or just bad luck, I felt completely isolated. That’s what I remember most—being alone. Sitting in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, processing the fact that my body was still betraying me. I had already been through so much, and now, instead of healing, I was back in a place I never wanted to be.
John was home taking care of our newborn, Theresa, and our three-year-old son, John. Our family stepped in to help, making sure everything was handled at home. I knew I wasn’t needed there in that moment, but that was the only place I wanted to be. I sobbed and asked to see my baby for the two days I was there.
John did come to visit, but he didn’t stay long. He had an interview for an ambulance volunteer position, and instead of staying with me, he left early to go to it. I don’t know if he thought I would be okay or if he just didn’t understand how much I needed him there, but it hurt. I was scared, and I was alone, and in that moment, it felt like I didn’t matter as much as everything else going on in his world.
Eventually, I called my cardiologist’s office directly and got him brought in to consult on my case. Together, we came up with a plan. I was released from the hospital, but the experience left a mark. This was supposed to be a time of rest, bonding, and healing. Instead, it was filled with fear, uncertainty, and the overwhelming realization that postpartum isn’t always about rocking chairs and lullabies. Sometimes, it’s about survival.
I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning of what would become one of the hardest stretches of my life. But on this day, three years later, I just sit with the memory of what it felt like to be told I wasn’t okay, to be rushed to the hospital, to be left sitting in a room alone, wondering how much more my body—and my heart—could take.
If you’ve ever felt alone in your postpartum journey, I see you. You’re not alone. Let’s talk about it in the comments.
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