The first days after C-section – the drugs, the waiting, the nurse I will never forgive, the moment milk arrived, and the day we finally walked out the door.
Three hours in recovery
The best way I can describe the recovery unit is this: imagine being submerged in something thick and slow-moving, where the lights are too bright and the sounds come from somewhere slightly outside of time. I have never taken hard drugs, but I imagine this is something close to what that feels like. I was full of painkillers, freshly out of surgery, and the room around me held other people who had also just come from theatre – some of them crying out in pain. I lay there and waited for the feeling to come back into my legs.
That part took three hours in total. The anaesthetic from the spinal block leaves gradually, and there is nothing to do but wait it out. Normally I think I could have managed the waiting. What I could not manage was the waiting without my baby.
Fifty minutes
I had said it before the surgery. I had been clear: the moment it is possible, I want my baby on my chest. Skin to skin. Breastfeeding. Immediately. This is not a preference or a wish – it is something I feel very strongly about, and I had made sure the team knew it.
So when I came out of theatre and B was not there, I started asking. And asking again. And the responses I got were variations of the same gentle brush-off: what’s the hurry? You need to rest. He’s fine.
I understand that they were not being unkind. I understand that in a recovery unit there are protocols and priorities and other patients who are in serious distress. But I also know what I know about breastfeeding, and I know that those early minutes and hours matter. Fifty minutes passed before B was finally brought to me. I was relieved and also, if I’m honest, frustrated – and I still think it could have been faster.
Two hours at the breast, one hour old
When they placed him on me, he latched on and did not stop for two hours. Half an hour on one side. Half an hour on the other. Then back again. The nurses were surprised. Everyone kept remarking on it – how does a baby barely an hour old know to do this so persistently?
But he did. And I was glad. Because there was nothing there yet – a drop or two of colostrum at most, the kind of quantity you might miss entirely if you weren’t looking. But colostrum is not nothing. It is exactly everything a newborn needs in those first hours, and I wanted him to have every single drop that was available. With my two older children it was the same – no milk at first, and then it came gradually. I knew how this worked. B was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.
I could not move my arms properly. I could not shift position. The nurse lifted him from one breast to the other while I lay there, hazy at the edges, aware of the room around me in an unfocused way. I remember the lights. I remember his weight on my chest. I remember thinking: here he is.
A record I am actually proud of
Eventually the feeling came back into my legs and I was moved to my own room. The first night was a blur. At some point the nurses took B away for a couple of hours so I could sleep – the rest of the time he was placed at one breast and then the other, while I lay there unable to turn or shift. Above the bed there was a grab triangle, one of those metal frames you use to pull yourself upright, and it became my best friend. Without it I don’t know how I would have moved at all.
In the morning the doctor came and gave me good news about the operation. Then the catheter was removed – far earlier than I had expected. I asked the midwife, quite genuinely, how I was supposed to get to the bathroom. She said it didn’t matter if I didn’t make it – if something happened on the way, they would help me. The important thing was to move.
Sixteen hours after the surgery I was on my feet.
It was not graceful. It was maximum painkillers and two people helping me and a pain level I would rather not describe in detail. But I was upright. The doctor had been clear about the reason: after a c-section, especially a third one, the risk of blood clots is real and significant. Moving early is not optional. It is the thing that makes the recovery easier further down the line – and she was right. I believe it made a real difference.
I started on eight doses of painkillers per day. Then seven. Then gradually fewer. I am still reducing.
Blood sugar, heel pricks, and the formula question
B had trouble maintaining his blood sugar in those first days, which meant regular heel prick tests – a small needle in the heel, a tiny amount of blood drawn each time, and each time he cried in that newborn way that is small and heartbreaking in equal measure. I held him through every one.
The medical team explained that because milk takes a few days to come in, the colostrum alone – which was arriving in quantities of about 2-3 grams per feed – was not quite enough to keep his blood sugar stable. They recommended supplementing with 10 grams of formula after each breastfeed.
I want to be honest about my feelings here, because I think honesty is more useful than a version of this story that makes me sound perfectly calm. I do not believe in formula supplements. I have never bought formula for any of my three children. It goes against everything I know and believe about establishing a milk supply, and my instinct was to say no.
But I also had to weigh that against the reality in front of me: a newborn whose body was struggling, who was getting tired from nursing, who needed just a little more energy than colostrum alone could provide in that moment. I agreed to the supplementing. A small amount, after he had already nursed and taken everything from me that there was to take. Not as a replacement. As a bridge.
Over the course of three days he received supplement perhaps five or six times – about 60 ml in total. And on the third day, the milk came in.
4 grams. Then suddenly 24. Then 32. Then 40 and climbing. That moment – watching the numbers jump like that – was one of the most satisfying things I have ever witnessed. He had worked so hard for it. We both had.
The nurse I will not forgive
I have to talk about this, because I am still angry and I think the anger is justified.
On the second night, a nurse was on duty who I had already spoken to at length about my wishes. I had explained, clearly and more than once, that B was to be put to the breast first – always, every time, without exception. That even if he only got a couple of drops, the act of nursing is what signals the body to produce more. That this is not a preference but a physiological fact. I thought we understood each other.
In the middle of that night, she let me sleep. Which sounds kind. And then, without waking me, without asking, without any discussion, she gave B formula first.
I found out in the morning. I was furious in a way that I find difficult to describe without swearing. I told her exactly what I thought. She apologised, but it was the kind of apology designed to make a difficult patient quieter, not the kind that comes from actually understanding what she had done wrong. She said they had their own rules. I said I did not care about their rules when their rules contradicted both my clearly stated wishes and basic lactation science.
I threw a pillow against the bed in frustration. I am not sorry about any of it. Sitting here writing this, weeks later, I am still angry.
After that, she did not take B anywhere without me.
The contrast with the other nurses was striking. When the next shift came on, the first thing that nurse said was that night nursing is critical for milk production – as if explaining it to me, the patient who had been trying to explain exactly this for the past twelve hours. That nurse got it. Why was it so hard for the other one?
The most beautiful moment: when the family arrived
We had arranged in advance that my partner would bring Ms and Mr to the hospital to meet B. Ms is four, Mr is two. It had been agreed that they would come around three in the afternoon – Mr had an ear appointment that morning and they would come after.
They arrived at twenty to three. I had been waiting for them, and I was also waiting for B, who that nurse had taken to draw blood and who was taking an unreasonable amount of time to return. I found her in the break room. She said B had fallen asleep and she would bring him in a moment.
A four-year-old and a two-year-old do not wait well. And everyone – my partner, Ms, Mr, all of them – had come an hour’s drive to meet their new brother. The delay felt deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. But it felt that way.
And then B came, and none of it mattered anymore.
I managed to stand up. I hugged my partner properly for the first time since handing him Mr in a shopping centre car park two days earlier. Ms and Mr leaned in to look at their brother with the careful reverence that small children sometimes produce when something is genuinely new and important to them. They touched him gently. They were so good.
It was not a long visit – it couldn’t be. But it was the best moment of those four days. All five of us, together, in the same room.
What the paediatrician said – and the ear result I wasn’t expecting
B was seen by the paediatrician twice during our stay. Because Mr has Down syndrome, the doctor examined B carefully – watching for signs of any chromosomal anomaly. He said he didn’t see anything to suggest one. But he also noted, rightly, that chromosomal conditions don’t always present visibly, and that testing would be advisable. I hadn’t done any prenatal testing during this pregnancy, by choice. We will see what further checks recommend. His heart and brain may also need to be checked.
The ears were not quite what I had hoped. His left ear passed the hearing screen. His right did not. Mr hears only through his left ear – his right has never worked. I hope very much that this is different for B – that it is a fluid issue or a test-day issue rather than something permanent. But we will need to go back at one month old to check again.
The patch came off and I ate everything
On the third day the dressing was removed from the c-section wound and I was sent to shower. I had been iodine-yellow from the surgery and I scrubbed myself clean under warm water with a fervour that I think only someone who has spent three days unable to properly wash will understand. It felt extraordinary.
Every time food arrived I ate the entire bowl. The first two days were pureed food, yoghurt and kissel – easy on a post-surgical stomach. When solid food was finally cleared, I inhaled it. I would have eaten twice as much. The body knows what it needs.
I also made myself useful in ways that the nurses occasionally seemed to find surprising. I got up to change nappies. I made my own tea. I did not call for help for things I could manage on my own. Not because I was trying to prove anything – simply because I knew that moving was what would get me better faster, and lying still waiting for assistance for every small thing was not going to serve me well.
Day four: going home
On the fourth morning the doctor came, reviewed everything, and said I was free to go.
The rules for the next two months: no sex, no lifting the car seat, no lifting Mr or Ms, nothing heavier than the baby. B was born weighing 3,200 grams and measuring 51 centimetres. His weight dropped slightly in the first days, as is normal, but given how well he is nursing – and how well the milk has come in – I have no doubt he will be back at his birth weight well within the month.
Before we left, the nurse showed me how to clean the umbilical stump. She said, after watching me do it once, that I looked like a professional – she could tell I had done this before. It made me laugh. I have. Twice.
The tuberculosis vaccine was given. The final heel prick was done. The paperwork was signed.
And then we went home.
Four days of recovery, one nurse I am still furious at, milk that arrived like a small miracle on day three, a family visit that made everything worth it, and a baby who nursed for two hours when he was one hour old and has not really stopped since.
I am so grateful that all three of my children have had colostrum from the very beginning, and then milk for as long as they needed it. I plan to nurse B for at least a year and a half. Breastfeeding is such an enormous topic on its own – I will write about it separately, because it deserves its own post entirely.
For now, we were home. And that was enough.
You are not alone.
If this story resonated with you and you’d like to go deeper, you can explore my e-book Our Journey – A Different Path. It offers honest reflections and lived experience beyond this post.
If you’re looking for practical support, I’ve created Routine Templates to help parents and children navigate daily life with more clarity, structure, and understanding.
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