As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.
Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.
The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.
All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.
I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!
I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.
An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.
The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.
I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.
I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.
