“So, this may feel a bit like … clowns coming out of a car,” the doctor says, delicately, before adjusting the collar of her lab coat. My tired, soggy eyes fixate on its immaculate whiteness.
So pure. So pretty. So perfectly contrary to the deep, dark red that now stained the hospital bed sheet beneath me.
A gaggle of tiny clowns proudly marching out of my lady bits—the absurdity revives my soul and my sense of humor—both of which had been sucker-punched by the postpartum nightmare that had awoken me earlier, 10 days after I’d given birth.
I chuckle. I smile.
She chuckles. She smiles.
An unexpected kinship is born. Dr. Tweedy, the on-call doctor at my OB-GYN clinic across the street from the ER, slowly begins to unravel the gauze that had been packed up my vagina by the attending ER physician. He is a younger, fair-haired doctor, and I am sure he is perfectly adequate. But my OB emergency has rendered him awkward and a bit out of his league (and likely wishing I had arrived with chest pain or a broken foot).
Inch after inch, foot after foot, the rolled gauze flees my body. The sheer volume is shocking. As the ribbons of rich, bright red continue to unspool, so does my memory. The last two hours of my life begin to replay in my mind.
At 1:30 a.m., I had been sleeping when I was suddenly awoken from my (desperately needed) slumber.
What jerked me awake? Not the sound of my son’s cry. In fact, it was eerily quiet. No, this time it was something else. It was something … inside of me.
I suddenly felt an incredible urge to pee. I bolted to the bathroom. I barely made it to the toilet before my nightmare plopped out: not one, not two, but three peach-sized blood clots staring back at me.
I heard my son start to cry, so I quickly wiped and rushed out. As I nursed him in the rocking chair, a warm sensation started rushing out below. I panicked. My heart rate skyrocketed. But I put on a brave, calm face for the sake of my newborn son.
After he fell back asleep, I darted back to the bathroom and pulled down my pants. My panties and (enormous) pad were completely soaked in blood. As I stripped them off, more blood trickled down. And then more. And then more. I was leaving smears of red everywhere—the toilet, the tile, everything. It was like a crime scene.
I grabbed a body towel and wrapped it around me like a giant diaper. I waddled to go wake my husband.
We dialed the emergency line at my OB-GYN clinic. The doctor said I could go to the ER if I wanted, or wait and visit the clinic right away when it opened at 8 a.m.
I was leaving smears of red everywhere—the toilet, the tile, everything. It was like a crime scene.
My husband and I looked at each other, our eyes casting the same vote. With so little direction given to us by phone—or in the scant section about postpartum bleeding in my hospital discharge papers—we had no choice but to go with our gut. And our gut said GO. GO NOW.
We packed the diaper bag. We grabbed the car seat. We buckled up our sleeping son (thank goodness newborns can snooze through anything) and raced to the nearest ER.
After Dr. Tweedy unwinds the last strip of gauze, I’m wheeled off to get an ultrasound. As the cold jelly plops onto my belly, I’m reminded how just weeks ago this would have sparked so much joy. Another chance to see my beautiful little wiggle-worm swirling about. Not this time.
As the medical team squint and speak in hushed voices, they study the ultrasound for any signs of placenta that may be retained in my uterus. (Only later would I learn that retained placental tissue is one of the leading causes of postpartum hemorrhage.) I feel more blood gushing out. It won’t stop. My heart flaps furiously against my chest wall. I’m supposed to lie still, but I’m freaking out inside.
They aren’t sure whether any placenta is still there. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still bleeding. A lot. And my hemoglobin is dropping. And the clock keeps on ticking.
Back in the ER room, Dr. Tweedy hands me a paper and pen, and then explains that I am experiencing a rare, but serious, complication called a secondary (or late) postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). Unlike primary (or early) postpartum hemorrhage, which occurs within the first 24 hours of delivery, secondary PPH can occur anytime 24 hours to 12 weeks after delivery. (Only 0.5–1.5 percent of women will experience a late PPH after delivery, according to several studies published over the last 50 years, including a large-scale review of more than 19,000 women published in the 2001 British Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology.)
They are not able to control the bleeding, so they must proceed with the next plan: scrape out my uterus with a surgical spoon, or curette, in a D&C procedure. The D&C can remove any possible blood clots and placental tissue preventing my uterus from properly contracting. Uterine muscles need to contract in the days after delivery in order to narrow the arteries and decrease blood flow to the uterus.
She’s going to tell me that I might die, I say to myself.
Dr. Tweedy continues: “Now, I have to explain this next part … and I don’t want you to panic. However, during the procedure, there’s a very small chance — I mean, it’s so incredibly small, but it’s imperative we inform you—”
She pauses. Her silence seems to linger.
She’s going to tell me that I might die, I say to myself. I honestly, truly, might die today … while my 10-day-old son sleeps beside me.
For hours now I’ve been bleeding and passing clots. What if the D&C isn’t enough? What if the bleeding NEVER ENDS?
The fear strangles my sanity and nearly suffocates me. Just when I’m about to explode, she finishes the thought: “There’s a very small chance that, if we cannot control the bleeding with the procedure, we will then need to perform an emergency hysterectomy.”
She stops, then studies me carefully for a reaction.
Her words sink in—then I burst into laughter.
Clearly confused, she emphasizes that this would mean I could never bear children again.
“Doctor, for the past several hours I have been paralyzed by the fear that I may die before the dawn. That I may never again smell my son’s skin, hear his giggles, or cradle his little limbs when he’s sick, tired or scared. Hysterectomy? I don’t care! Heck, take ALL my lady parts if you must. Just please, please … don’t take away this chance to be my son’s mother.”
Dr. Tweedy instantly relaxes. She takes my hand, then smiles.
“Die? Oh goodness, you are NOT going to die! Not on my watch. You are going to be FINE, sweetie. We will get through this. I promise.”
And with that, I sign away the rights to my uterus and am wheeled off to the OR.
By sunrise, I’m awake, and I see Dr. Tweedy, my first motherhood heroine, who has stopped the bleeding and saved my life.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. But what about raising mothers?
We need allies, too, to help carry us through. We need mentors, friends, and mother figures of our own—strong, compassionate women to nourish our wings so they may sprout and see us through the incredible heights (and sometimes terrifying tailwinds) of motherhood.
Some of these mentors will last for years; others, a few months. But every so often, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to witness one of them swoop in for just a day.
But one day is enough—if it’s the day she saves your life.
I still think about Dr. Tweedy from time to time. Her gentle humor, compassion, and professionalism have become the blueprint for my own approach to maternal mentorship. Friends, neighbors, even women across the world on online postpartum message boards—there are so many mothers out there needing allies and advocates. I may not have all the answers they need, but I do have my heart, my hand, and my humor. And I will gladly offer all three for the rest of my life—a life that I thought may never happen, on that tenth day postpartum.
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