By Anneliese Lawton
After my boys were born, there were appointments.
To check their latch.
To check their weight.
To check their hearing.
To check the color of their skin for signs of jaundice.
There were appointments.
There were regular pokes and prods.
Their well-being was front and center.
I’d say, when it comes to our health-care system, they were well taken care of.
Then there was me.
A first-time mom without a clue.
Engorged, bleeding, and stitched up.
Sent home with some painkillers and stool softeners.
Thrown into motherhood with the expectation my instincts would kick in.
That I would know how to handle colic and late night feedings.
That breastfeeding would come as nature intended.
That my husband would sense my spiral into depression.
That I would know how to live in my new and very foreign body.
That this stomach wouldn’t make me feel hideous.
And my mind wouldn’t make me feel less than they deserved.
No one poked me.
No one prodded.
No one checked my stitches, my healing, or my sanity until eight weeks postpartum.
And even then, it was a pat on the back and I was sent on my way.
Our world forgets about mothers.