Becoming Mother

I became a mother for the first time in May 2016. It was the best feeling in the world. That flood of emotion, the overwhelming love that the midwives in the prenatal clinic told me about was indescribable. It was just a shame that my baby was one and a half at the time. 

Confused? That’s alright, I’ll explain how that happened. 

On the 19th of November 2014 I walked into my last prenatal clinic. I was 40 weeks pregnant and due the next day. I had developed gestational diabetes and was monitored very carefully. The last four weeks had been torture. I was uncomfortable and sick of being told I would be induced next week. I was expecting the same thing on week 40. I had barely sat down in front of a doctor I hadn't met before when she cried, “Why are you still here?” She rang the hospital and told them I was on the way to be induced. I don’t think we really realised what was happening because we went home, had lunch, and checked the bags before we went. At 6pm I was induced and sent off to walk the corridors. 

The pains started straight away and got steadily worse. Walking became difficult as my body prepared for what was about to happen. I won't go into the gory details, anyone who has been through it, knows what I’m talking about. At 10pm I couldn’t take anymore and after an examination was declared 1cm dilated. My husband later told me that the midwife had stretched the truth to encourage me. He was also told that due to my slow progress, there would be no baby until the next day at least and he would have to leave for the night. I panicked. I would not stay there alone, I couldn’t. Because of my history with depression and anxiety and the fact that no one else was in ‘active labour’, Husband was allowed to stay, and we were set up in a delivery room for the night. To be honest if he had been told to leave, I would have left too. I’m stubborn like that, never mind the fact that I was scared out of my mind. 

And apparently, so was BB. Half an hour later, I was begging for drugs. I didn’t care what it was as long as it worked. I was given pethidine. That was where it all went sideways. The pethidine didn’t do anything for the pain. What it did do was make me feel completely out of it. I had no control over myself. I had to be given an IV during labour and because I was so shaky the midwife couldn't get it into any of my veins and had to get a doctor to do it. Husband had to stop them giving me the epidural I begged for because I could not keep still. The same epidural I had been so dead against until this point. 

Between the pethidine and a few panic attacks, the next four hours are a little blurry. I remember snippets of what happened, and the rest is a combination of nightmares, and what I was told later. Some of what I remember are not true memories. I would tell my husband what I thought I remembered, and he would tell me how it actually happened. 

I got very little sleep in the hospital. I would dream that while holding my baby, she would slip out of my arms and smash her head on the corner of the bedside locker or the floor. I could sleep a little when Husband was there, BB was safe then. Any doctor or nurse who checked on me was asked the same question. “When can I go home?” Then the dreams started happening when I was awake too. 

I struggled to deal with all the visitors too. I just wanted to be left alone. I was in shock and having a hard time processing what had happened. I didn’t want to see people or be asked the same questions over and over. “How are you feeling? Are you glad it's all over? Wasn’t it worth it? When’s the next one?” I feel like I’ve been ripped apart and hit by the entire M50 rush hour. It’s not all over, I have a tiny human totally dependent on me for everything. No, it really wasn’t worth it. And finally, next one?? Are you having a laugh?! I wanted to go home, lock my front door, and ignore everyone for weeks but Husband said we couldn’t do that. 

While all this was happening, I was struggling to breastfeed. It was not going well. I was uncomfortable and she was fussy. We couldn’t seem to get the latch right. It was a learning curve for both of us and we were not doing well. I was constantly worried that she wasn’t getting enough, and she was so unsettled. This continued for 5 days. But then Husband had enough of the crying and screaming from both of us. He left the house to search for a twenty-four-hour garage that would hopefully sell formula. I couldn’t give her that first bottle. I knew it was the right thing to do but it broke me a little. She settled better than she ever had after that first one. I decided I would express and try to feed her one bottle of breastmilk a day. She brought the entire one ounce back up. If I had felt broken the night before, this killed me. To me, this was a complete rejection. 

The exhaustion kicked in and I couldn’t hear her cry at night. So, we started a rotation. I would sleep at night and get up for her morning feed at five or six. Then Husband would do the reverse. We barely saw each other, and I was so guilty. What sort of a mother doesn’t hear her child cry? Women were designed to hear a crying baby in the night so why wasn’t I? 

Then in January I was diagnosed with Post Natal Psychosis. Sounds scary, doesn’t it? At the time it wasn’t because I hadn’t a clue what was going on. In a nutshell, I woke up one morning and didn’t recognize my own child. My doctor would later describe it as my brain saying, “Nope we don’t like this reality, here’s a different one for a while.” 

As part of my treatment BB went to live with my parents for a few months. With the help of doctors, nurses, and medication I was soon on the road to recovery. I’m not going to lie; it took a while but eventually BB did come home, and I was terrified. Terrified it wouldn’t last. Terrified I would relapse. Terrified she was better off somewhere else. Husband was so happy she was home. He really struggled while she was on her little holiday. At the time I didn’t know this because I wasn’t really aware of what was going on around me. 

After I ‘recovered’ I still wasn’t aware. I got into a routine, and I stuck to it like glue! We would get up, get organised, Husband would go to work, and I would wait, watching the clock until I could go to my parents’ house with BB. I would stay there until Husband came home from work. I did this because I felt safe there; I had help there if anything went wrong. This went on for months. I was hardly ever at home; I was always in my parents’ house. 

Soon after I joined my first creative writing class and eventually went back to work. Both were huge scary steps for me. I still spent a lot of time at my parents but now I had something outside of home that was just for me. The class was amazing and now I had a creative outlet, something I had been looking for but hadn’t been brave enough to go for. Husband had seen and ad in the paper, sat me down in front of the laptop and said, “you’re applying for this!” I protested a lot, I wasn’t brave or good enough, but it fell on deaf ears. The job was the same, I wasn’t ready, I was too scared, but again, Husband was having none of it!

So, within a year, I had a hobby I adored and a job I loved. Now I had a new routine. Get up, get organised, drop BB to parents and go to work. I was becoming independent again. Even though I was still spending a lot of time at my parents, I was also able to spend time at home with BB and the fear wasn’t as great. It was still there but it wasn’t controlling me anymore.

BB was growing steadily and developing well as she learned to walk, run, and talk. But I still didn’t feel connected to her. She was mine and I knew that, but I couldn’t feel that rush of love that others had described. So, once again, I was back at “what’s wrong with me?” The doctors declared me healthy and normal and told me not to worry. 

In the meantime, I changed jobs and this one was more flexible with the added benefit of fabulous clothes. Now I had a great hobby, a fantastic job and I was finding my own style. I now worked weekends, so the rest of the week was spent with BB and writing. Once again, I settled into a new routine. Husband also worked weekends, so this suited us perfectly. 



Then one day it happened. Husband and BB were driving me to work, and we were stuck in traffic. This little voice from the back of the car pipes up, “Mamam, I love you.” Simple as that. There was the rush of emotion and flood of tears. I mean floods. I cried buckets! I was on my way to work, and I cried all my make up off! Poor BB didn’t know what she did wrong, and Husband had to stop for extra tissues and coffee to try calm me down. 

It had taken a year and a half of post-natal psychosis, depression, and anxiety but here I was. I had finally achieved one of my life’s goals. I had finally become Mother.