Recovering at home is easier than recovering at the hospital. No one except my baby wakes me up. I get to eat my own food. No one pokes my veins on a daily basis. And there’s something peaceful about being at home. I feel hopeful.
During my first week at home, I nurse Henry and do skin to skin all the time. It’s good for us—and it pays off. After a week of being home with him, he doesn’t need to be supplemented with formula anymore. Being able to exclusively breastfeed was a prayer of mine at the hospital and I’m grateful it works out.
Home health nurses come over three times a week for two months to monitor my wound vacuum and incision. My wound looks more like a scar every day and I don’t have to focus on eating humongous amounts of protein to help it heal and regain muscle mass. Simple tasks like walking around our apartment or standing to wash some dishes no longer wipe me out. Friends and family bring us meals and encourage us with their presence in ways I can never repay.
At the end of November, when Henry is just a month old, my best friend, Amy, comes to visit us from Denver. She planned the trip before Henry was born and we were looking forward to a fun weekend together. Our fun weekend looks more like never leaving home and sitting in the living room and talking all day long. But it’s the best thing for me. Nathan and I credit Amy’s visit as a turning point for me—my sadness lifts as I laugh again.
It is a marvelous thing how we heal.