In some ways this story is fairly complicated; but in other ways,
it's actually quite simple. It's a story of life and death, hope and
loss, dreams and regrets. It may also be my story, but it is also one that
belongs to so many women - past, present and future. It's also a story that I
need to share, for myself and for anyone else who has taken a similar
journey.
It all began a year and a half ago, although
the seeds were sown many months (and if I'm really honest with myself,
many years) before. I was overseas, pursuing what I thought would be a
life-long career teaching Classics. I was half-way through my PhD,
living with a man I love with all my heart, and two days plane travel
from family and friends. It was, in so many ways, a dream - or at least,
a world where dreams might come true. This is not to say it was
perfect, or easy, or even untouched by fear, grief or sadness - just
that it was all 'pre': it was all before the first day that changed
everything.
I remember waking up as I did every
morning: having a coffee, checking my e-mail, getting ready for the
day's events. It was a Friday and a day I should have gone in to school
early. I had a meeting to attend in the afternoon, but I had decided to
take the morning for myself. And then the phone rang. It was my father. I
had been living overseas for 4 years, and he had never called. I knew
immediately that something was wrong, but I wasn't prepared for the news
he had to share. My mother had been admitted to the psychiatric ward of
the local hospital - she had overdosed on Tylenol 4's. She had to have
her stomach pumped, but physically she was okay. She had to stay in the
psychiatric ward because she had attempted suicide.
My
dream-world was shattered and I was abruptly brought to a painful
reality. As I was listening to Dad's explanation, I was in shock, I was
incredulous. The mother who had loved me like no other, the woman I
assumed would always be there for me, gave up on life and decided to end
it all.
Even now, a year and a half later, I still
can't quite believe what had happened. The next few days were painful,
confusing and a roller-coaster ride of emotion. I called her of course; I
needed to hear her voice, to know that she was still there, to tell her
above all else that I loved her. She assured me, as mothers do, that
she was going to be okay, that she was getting the help she needed, and
that she loved me too. All I wanted in that moment was to hold her hand,
give a her huge hug, see her smile. But I was literally a world away -
there was no way to get to her, no way to see her sooner than in three
days time.
I don't know how my mother coped during
those days in the hospital. I only know the pain, sadness, and guilt
that I was feeling; probably mere shadows of her own feelings. The
decision to stay where I was and not fly home was one of the hardest, if
not the hardest decision I have ever made. I wanted nothing more than
to comfort my mother, but I was terrified by the prospect of coming home
and inevitably having to leave again. What if my leaving was
responsible for her despair and loneliness, what if my leaving a second
time triggered a similar response and she made another attempt on her
life? The thoughts of never seeing her again or causing her
uncontrollable grief and despair haunted me for days while I weighed the
decision to stay or go. I stayed. I still wonder whether it was the
right thing to do. She later told me she was glad I hadn't come home -
she couldn't have enjoyed my company then as she can now.
If
only this were the end of the story and not the just the first part.
With the help of my (soon-to-be) husband, I managed to get through the
following two weeks. I know I still hadn't dealt with all of the
emotions that accompany such an event - I was still in shock, and denial
too, I think. But life was not done throwing complications our way.
About two weeks after my father's phone call, we found out that I was
pregnant. I could hardly believe this - after all, I had been on the
pill for years. We were waiting until we were both finished school and
were settled somewhere with jobs before having a family.
With
no close friends to discuss or even share the news with, my partner and
I faced this prospect more or less alone. I was terrified. Not because
having a baby wasn't something I wanted (quite the contrary, in fact),
but because I felt truly alone. Not only was I in another country away
from family and friends, but the one person I wanted to talk to more
than anything, was in no condition to hear, let alone help me with, my
anxieties. Again, my fear paralyzed me and any thought of telling my
mother that I was pregnant. If I told her and it I miscarried - how
could she cope, how could I cope? We were in no position to have a baby,
and yet I knew I wanted it. Not so my partner, who asked me to consider
abortion. Consider it I did, but I knew that there was no way I could
deal with the trauma of aborting a child I knew I wanted. So we decided
to move forward with it, and we would figure it out somehow.
We
did the prenatal testing, started looking for a new and bigger place to
live and even met with a midwife. I altered my diet, started taking
vitamins and did what I could to ensure a healthy pregnancy. But
apparently that was not going to be enough. At seven weeks pregnant and
two days before Christmas it was confirmed that I had miscarried.
The
grief that accompanied this loss was more than I thought I could bear. I
felt empty, overwhelmingly upset, angry and guilty. And when I talked
to my parents on Christmas Day I had to tell them the news. And wish the
rest of my family good wishes when talking to them. A day on which
everyone was celebrating, I felt like I was dying. My mother, of course,
was concerned about my health and wanted to make sure there were no
complications. My father, in an attempt to make me feel better, but
which did not have the desired effect, assured me that my child was sick
in some way and it was better not to have been born. My partner's
parents were the only ones who knew about the pregnancy and I let my
partner tell them what happened. I think they were disappointed, but
they had another grandchild on the way who they could wait for. Indeed,
our niece (their granddaughter) has made them very happy.
I
kept replaying the events of those first few weeks of pregnancy over
and over again in my mind, trying to decide what it was I did, or didn't
do, that caused the miscarriage. I had gone to a Christmas party and
had a few drinks, not knowing of course, that I could have been killing
my son. Or maybe it was when I pulled the vacuum down from the cupboard
and strained myself. Or, maybe it was because we had an indoor cat and I
had cleaned her litterbox. I went through these and others countless
times and even know I still wonder why and how it happened. It took a
long time to realize that regardless of the cause (which statistically
is likely to have had nothing to do with anything I may or may not have
done), what matters is that it happened and the feelings of guilt which I
still carry, are part of a process.
I'm sure that my
mother's attempted suicide had a lot to do with the prolonged effects of
my miscarriage. I felt like a daughter who failed her mother, and a
mother who failed her son. It took two months of shock and denial, which
turned into a lot of anger, before I sought out counseling at the
insistence of my partner. Talking through some of my emotions with
someone was beneficial and it certainly helped me to see my emotional
roller coaster as normal and, in many ways, healthy for my psychological
well-being.
When I finally saw my mom for the first
time since everything had happened, we both cried, we both apologized,
we both sought solace from the other and validation that what we had
both gone through was tough but ultimately survivable. I still have a
hard time telling her anything remotely disappointing for fear of
triggering some negative response. But she has far more resilience than I
have given her credit for. She seems to be coping far better a year and
half on than I am.
My partner and I have recently
returned home to (hopefully) settle, but the adjustment is more
difficult than I would have imagined. It took me a long time (several
months) to be able to see infants and expecting mothers without wanting
to cry; and I had thought I finally had this conquered. But since
returning home, we have been living with my partner's parents. And while
this is great is many ways, it is also common to see our niece and my
sister-in-law here. The joy and happiness they bring to everyone in the
household is plain to see. Unfortunately it also brings back many
painful memories for me and feelings of intense envy as there is nothing
I want more than to have that same joy and happiness and to share it
too. It doesn't help that my sister-in-law is expecting again and
discussions of her ongoing pregnancy are common. I'm happy for them, of
course, but I'm also feeling inadequate and "less than." Although I know
that I'm part of the family, I feel like an outsider and as though I
have no real place here.
I know that a large part of
this is fueled by my desire to have children, a desire which is
currently being suppressed with much difficulty. Having no stability
yet, and no long-term employment, we are not in a position to have a
family. This all makes logical sense and yet it is something which I am
currently having difficulty in accepting. Perhaps this is an indication
that I'm not yet ready to have children, even though I know that is what
I want. Perhaps I'm still trying to find my way back to a dream-world
where life is full of potential instead of loss and grief.
