A Journey through Life and Death

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.