I will never forget October 10, 2012.
As soon as I saw "YES +" glaring back at me in pregnancy test form, my stomach instantly sunk. It was not at all how I expected to feel, but in that moment I had absolutely no control over my emotions.
We had wanted this. In a sense, we had planned this -- I just didn't plan on it happening so quickly. It had only been five and a half weeks after we started 'trying'. (If one can even call it "trying," in our case.)
I instantly began to feel anxious. I dismissed it as normal pregnancy nerves. In hindsight, I should have talked to someone about it right away. We also found out that my maternal serum screening numbers had come back a bit high, and -- coupled with the fact that Ty had been born with a congenital heart defect -- we'd have to head to the IWK to have a level 2 ultrasound done. We were lucky to see our baby at 10 weeks and again at 12 weeks and 20 weeks. At our 20 week ultrasound, they noticed some spots on her heart: a 'mid to soft level marker' for Down Syndrome. They said it was likely nothing, but they offered us an amniocentesis just in case. We opted not to. They sent us home, and told us that these 'bright spots' were fairly common. Ty spent the rest of my pregnancy with "99.6%" written on his arm in permanent marker: the chance our baby would be born without Down Syndrome.
The odds were definitely in our favour, but I was still terrified. Not only because of these test results -- but also because I didn't feel one bit ready for motherhood. No amount of nursery prep or baby shopping changed that. I never once had that 'peaceful' feeling. I was terrified for 100% of my pregnancy. I had always been an anxious person, but pregnancy (and -- as I'd later learn -- motherhood) amplified that anxiety past the point where I could handle it on my own.
As my due date approached, I was in complete denial. And when I went into labour five days past my due date, I tried to convince myself that the painful contractions I was feeling were 'just' braxton hicks contractions. I was SO not ready.
My labour was fast. I reluctantly arrived at 3:30 p.m., and was promptly admitted when they discovered I was 7 centimeters dilated. There was no time for an epidural. Labour was the easy part, even completely un-medicated. Peanut was born four hours later, and was perfectly healthy. I felt numb. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing a million miles a minute.
Things got even worse when we left the hospital. Peanut developed a particularly awful case of acid reflux, and she was nursing around the clock. When she wasn't nursing, she was crying constantly from the pain. She barely slept. When she did, I tossed and turned in bed -- anxiously anticipating her next cry and my next session of breastfeeding torture. I spent more nights than I wanted to hunched over her on the couch, trying to get her to latch until the sun came up. I barely ate. Or slept. I just cried and cried. And that sums up the first month of her life.
Finally, a lifesaving Public Health nurse told me to head to outpatients and see the on-call psychiatrist. I willingly obliged. She prescribed me Zoloft, a sleeping pill and Ativan. I knew right away that I wouldn't be taking the sleeping pill or the Ativan, or else I wouldn't be able to function to care for Peanut (I was home with her on my own at this point). She told me she didn't feel comfortable with my continuing to nurse while taking the Zoloft, and I didn't feel completely comfortable, either. I debated and cried and cried some more. I hated breastfeeding with a fiery passion, but it felt like the only thing I was doing right -- even though Peanut still cried in pain most of the time. But she was growing and it was because of me. I stopped breastfeeding. I felt numb. Like a failure. Relieved. All at the same time.
Over time, after taking the Zoloft and talking with a therapist weekly, I was able to function a bit better. I was still paralyzed with anxiety, though, at times. I didn't like leaving the house. I didn't like when Peanut cried in public. I constantly felt -- and still do, sometimes -- that I was her babysitter, and I was waiting for her real Mom to come pick her up. I sometimes forgot that I was even a Mother. I didn't feel like one at all. I kept wondering: "when will things feel normal again? When will I get my old life back?" And I couldn't, for the life of me, accept that this was my new normal. Every piece of my life was unrecognizable. I was a mess, and I hated every minute of it. Still, to this day, I can't stand it when people ask: "Can't you just not remember life before her?" Because all I CAN remember is life before her. It's life AFTER her that's a blur.
Don't get me wrong. I love her more than anything. But I'm still working on strengthening our bond, and I'm still constantly comparing myself to other Moms. I still don't feel like a Mom. I'm not sure when or how that happens. But things are getting better, even though I do still have my setbacks.
I have a long way to go, but I'm slowly getting there.
