Postpartum in Turkey

In the old days, a woman in Turkey rarely left the bed for the first 40 days postpartum. She was pampered and taken care of by her family and community, her only responsibility to take care of her new infant. Visitors, for reasons of health, were kept to a minimum. Usually a baby was introduced to the wider community at a “mevlüt,” a special prayer ceremony held on or after the baby’s 40th day.

While some of these traditions remain in place, things have changed in the big cities like İstanbul. Unfortunately, like most things, births have become another showy occasion. Birth photographers not only photograph the birth, but also each guest as they arrive to visit the mother. What if the mother had a traumatic birth and doesn’t feel like smiling? What if she or the baby is ill? It doesn’t matter, guests still flock to the hospital. Thankfully my birth was not traumatic and I felt fine afterwards. Thanks also to the helpful warnings from my expat friends, I was prepared for the deluge of visitors.

First, I wish to make clear that I do love Turkey and its culture. However, confronting and analyzing cultural differences and misunderstandings should be a healthy part of every foreigner’s life in Turkey. By sharing personal experiences we can learn from other expats, so that we can possibly prevent another foreigner from a potentially negative or volatile situation.

Almost all of my expat friends who have given birth in Turkey had difficult postpartum periods. As I was being wheeled back to my room after giving birth, their stories were on my mind. I hoped that I had done enough mental preparation to handle what was to come. As Americans, we tend to be very private during and after the birth. Only close family members would dare come to the hospital to visit a mother hours after giving birth. Friends or others who wished to come would call first and ask permission. If the mother wasn’t feeling up to it, either she or her husband would tell people honestly and neither side would feel offended.

When we got to my room, a man and a woman were sitting in chairs near the bed. Confused, I told the nurses that they had taken me to the wrong room. The people stood up and introduced themselves as friends of my in-laws. I tried to smile as I lay completely naked on the gurney with only a sheet over me. I had left the operating room a mere minute ago and was still numb from the waist down. One of the nurses was holding my catheter bag full of urine. This was not the way I wanted to meet guests. I just wanted to see my baby and start the magical but difficult task of breastfeeding. The nurses sensed my irritation and asked the people to wait outside while they fixed me up. Afterwards my son was wheeled into the room with an entourage of about 20 people. Most of them were friends of my in-laws whom I had never met. Our room was stuffed to capacity. As I eagerly took my son in my arms, I ignored the chaos going on around me.

Without caring I tried to start breastfeeding. I secretly hoped that when I exposed my breasts the visitors would get the hint and leave. On the contrary, they continued talking loudly, drinking tea and taking pictures of us with their phones. I notified my husband that most of those phones now had a topless picture of me on them. Furious, my husband went around and first asked people to leave and give us some privacy, and second to erase the topless photos of me. As the day wore on, more and more people arrived.

We had about 100 little mesh bags of candy to give to people as they came, and by the end of the day only 15 remained. My husband was incredulous that 85 people had come to the hospital. He had blown me off in the weeks leading to the birth when I had told him to expect a deluge of people. He hadn’t mentally prepared for this and he looked much worse for wear than me, despite the fact that I was the one who had just given birth. He had not sat down all day, instead he had tried to shield me from people as much as possible, and protect my son and me while we got to know each other and work on breastfeeding.

When one woman lifted up the sheet that Can had placed over us while I breastfed my son, Can politely asked her to step away. A few minutes later when the same woman lifted the sheet again and this time ripped him from my breast, Can was there to take the baby and give him back to me. Thanks to Can I didn’t have to fight. I didn’t have the energy and didn’t want my son’s first day of life to be filled with aggression or anger. Can protected us from this.

At 9 p.m. he finally collapsed on the bed next to mine and we turned out the lights to sleep. We had one peaceful hour before the lights were switched on and all three of us groggily woke up. Incredibly, five more friends of the family had come to see the baby at 10 o’clock at night. I was too tired to be angry, and snoozed while Can sleepwalked through the formalities. They were very loud, so loud that the nurses came and asked them to leave, telling them it was well past the hospital’s visiting hours. They stayed, so the nurses notified a security guard who then came to our room to ask them to leave. Everyone started fighting while I just held my baby and tried to protect our sanctuary. They finally left and we all went back to sleep.

Looking back, it was a nightmare. At the time, however, my hormones were so high that I could think of nothing but my baby and I only felt extreme bliss.

I understand that the people who visited us at the hospital merely wanted to welcome our son to the community, give us gifts and good wishes and show us their support. However, greeting 85 people in one day right after giving birth is daunting for expats expecting privacy. The best advice I can give pregnant expats is to mentally prepare for the postpartum hospital adventure, as you will most likely experience something similar. Thankfully I had been warned by other expat friends, and had learned. It still wasn’t easy, but knowing what to expect had helped me get through the day. I never lost focus of what was important, the health and wellbeing of my baby and myself. No matter what happens, use the hospital stay as a time to recover both mentally and physically.