Bonkers Page 12

  For the first time since being a mum, I felt like I was getting myself back on track. I was maintaining my mental health with antidepressants, I’d started yoga again, and I had a close group of friends who had all become mums at the same time. I was writing every chance I got, and this provided a healthy outlet for the challenges I had faced. Having the support and the network of mums on The Baby Bible group was a godsend. I will never be able to thank enough the amazing mums in the group who have offered me so much love, support and laughs over the last few years and who are still doing so today. I consider you all friends and hope that one day I get to meet you all over a glass of fizzy wine.

  CHAPTER 9

  GOING FROM ONE TO TWO

  Éva was around ten months old when we had the chat about having a second child.

  I’d always wanted to have our children close together, and as I was heading towards my late thirties I didn’t want to leave it too long before trying for a second. I was weighing up not just the normal concerns about trying for a second, but also the concerns of a mum with a history of maternal mental health challenges. So Jamie and I discussed in depth about whether it was safe to have another. When should we start trying? How long should we wait? And would my illness come back? Looking back now it is terrifying to acknowledge that our lack of awareness of the illness meant we didn’t realise the illness had not gone away. Despite me feeling more well than I had since having Éva, I was still not out of the woods.

  We didn’t have access to any advice on having a second baby after suffering with PND, there were no support groups and not really anyone we could speak to about it since we didn’t know anyone else who had been through it. I remember raising our concerns with our doctor, who said that getting pregnant again should be ‘fine’. Just because I suffered with PND the first time did not mean I would do so a second time. (My postpartum psychosis, which you’ll find out more about later, was still undiagnosed at this point.) The only warning was that I had to start coming off my anti-depressants before we started trying. So this is what I did.

  We started trying for baby number two with the blind naivety that all would be fine and that – in the words of my doctor – ‘having another baby would probably help sort out and rebalance my hormones’. A month later, I was pregnant. Éva was eleven months old, I was off my medication, and according to both the pregnancy test and the size of my boobs (enormous) we were having another baby. We were both bowled over by how quick it had happened, but also felt excited that after the hell we had been through over the last several months things were looking up. As a family, we were getting back on track, fulfilling our dream of having another baby, a sister or brother for Éva.

  MY SECOND PREGNANCY – I NEVER EXPECTED TO FEEL LIKE THIS WHEN I WAS EXPECTING.

  With the beauty of hindsight, and now that I am no longer suffering from a mental illness (which always helps), I can’t believe I was surprised to feel the way I did when I was pregnant with our second baby. I had battled two maternal mental illnesses for eleven months (albeit one of them undiagnosed), and had been taking a course of anti-depressants. Despite the doctor having told me it should all be OK, today, with my now well and rational mind, I can’t quite understand why I didn’t question him. I know how ridiculous – and dangerous – this must sound to you reading it. I know you must be wondering, ‘What the hell were they thinking? Of course it was too soon! Why could they not see that? And why was the doctor saying it was fine?’

  I know you are asking all of this, because I am too. And you know what? I don’t have an answer for you. I really don’t. Believe me, I am sitting here now shaking my head and racking my brain for an answer. However, all I have is the truth that I wanted another baby and that I didn’t want the illness to steal this from me; it had already taken too much. I was ill and neither my husband nor I had any real understanding of what we were facing, of what the illness was. We trusted the doctor and thought it was all going to be OK. Couple this with the fact that the medication had made me feel like my old self again and we both thought that I had come through the illness and were ready to start getting on with the rest of our lives. We were wrong. So very wrong.

  PREGNANCY AND PND – ‘PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN’

  This was what I asked – no, begged my husband to promise me. I remember the moment with such clarity and pain that just seeing the words typed out before me takes me straight back: five months pregnant, ill on bed rest and consumed with guilt for not being able to take care of my toddler properly.

  From the word go, my second pregnancy had been a difficult one. I fell pregnant when I was feeling well and convinced that I had conquered my postnatal depression. Little did I know that my battle had only just begun – and that it was about to get a whole lot harder before I was anywhere close to being better.

  You see, despite trying to deny it during the early months, putting my lack of energy, fatigue and low moods down to morning sickness and the difficulty of the first twelve weeks, there was now no denying that the illness I thought I had overcome had in fact returned. Before that second pregnancy, I had assumed that if I got ill a second time I would at least have the assurance of being forearmed, as the motto has it. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite play out this way for me.

  And why should it have done, I guess you could ask. Anyone with any sense would have realised that having suffered from a mental illness means that I was more prone to it returning – particularly after allowing myself just eleven months not only to adapt to motherhood but to recognise a mental illness and try to overcome it. However, at the time, the thought never even crossed my mind. I never thought: Hey, why not wait, you’ve been through enough. Oh no, after what I’d been through already in the battle against PND and given all the things it had stolen from me and how it had held me back, I was determined that it was not also going to rob me of my dream of having more children – no matter what the cost, to myself or my health. Today, I realise that this was incredibly naïve and just plain bloody dangerous.

  However, this was the situation I was in, these were the cards I’d been dealt. Now my only option was to keep going and hope that I came out the other side with a healthy baby and a healthy mind. Yet at that moment, when I found myself (yet again) losing my grip on my mental health and holding on to my husband for dear life, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I was going to get through the next few months without something awful happening to me.

  I’d started suffering both physically and mentally from quite early on in the pregnancy. However, when I was told I was having early contractions at sixteen weeks and that my blood pressure was so low I could no longer drive, I knew I was going to have to batten down the hatches.

  It was heartbreaking not to be able to answer all the needs of my energetic toddler. Every time I picked her up and carried her around as she requested, the familiar tightening of contractions would resume and I’d have to put her back down. She would look at me forlornly, upset that mummy would not hold her. And as she had been born prematurely, I knew the chances of this new little baby turning up early were stacked up high. So, ensued months of me feeling racked with guilt that I was neglecting my toddler and being a bad mum coupled with the stomach-churning panic that if I didn’t take it easy, I would bring on the early birth of my new baby. The burden of these two situations was at times too much to bear.

  I had enjoyed every moment of my first pregnancy (once I’d got through the morning sickness phase). I’d been active, clearheaded and more content in myself than ever before. I was blooming and really enjoyed planning for the future of our little family.

  My second pregnancy was the polar opposite. I was lethargic to the point that it was impossible to get out of bed – or even to stay awake some days. The feeling of contentment and peace I felt during my first pregnancy was now replaced by panic and sickening anxiety. And my mood was so low and debilitating that everyday felt as though I was walking through tar and not getting anywhere. I became in
sular, being scared to leave the house, and the thought of get-togethers with friends made me want to flee the country. I had such a self-loathing that I told my husband on numerous occasions to leave me, adding that I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Today, remembering that scene, when I was six months pregnant and full of baby and despair, I don’t even recognise the person I had become.

  Throughout my pregnancy my biggest fear was: What if this is now who I am? What if the illness has got such a grip on me that it will still be here, stronger than ever, once the baby arrives? How on earth am I going to be able to take care of a toddler and a newborn if I am ill?

  I felt ugly inside and out, was riddled with self-doubt, anxiety and anger. I knew that if I didn’t get help, things were going to become impossible for me to carry on. This was when I decided to go for counselling for the first time. I needed to get a grip on my mind for the sake of my husband, my daughter and the new baby I was about to bring into the world.

  Talking therapy helped me immensely. It provided a safe place where I could unburden even the craziest and darkest of thoughts and not be judged. It allowed me to vocalise all the thoughts and feelings berating my mind, keeping me awake for hours on end. The panic in the pit of my stomach and the barrage of guilt, anxieties and self-doubt running through my brain made me unable to sleep. I thought I’d never be able to sleep again.

  I walked out of my first session feeling a little bit lighter, a little bit freer, a little bit more in control. It gave me a taste of the promise that I would not always feel this way, that there was a way out – no matter how long it took to get there.

  My husband also noticed a difference in me – and in us – after attending the sessions. They started out as twice-weekly and by the end of the pregnancy I was attending once a week, with the option to go more frequently if I was having a particularly bad week.

  Counselling was not a quick fix. It was like having a companion, who knew the darkest of my despairs and the most fretful of my anxieties and didn’t judge me, but helped me work my way through them, helped me carry the burden until I was strong enough again. It also gave me a set of coping skills and techniques that I still call on today. It helped reinstall my confidence in my own abilities and helped quieten the shame I felt for being ill.

  If you had told me before having children and before suffering with mental illness that I could feel this way whilst pregnant, I would not have believed you. Pregnancy to me, pre-mum, meant being gloriously blooming and content whilst I got gloriously big. It meant being happy to have swollen feet and a swollen belly. It meant having a purpose. It meant being grateful to the universe for allowing me the privilege to create and carry a life. I felt all these things whilst pregnant for the first time, so the shock of being able to feel such darkness during what should have been one of the happiest times of my life rocked me to my pregnant core. On my darkest of days, I feared that the darkness would pass onto and somehow harm the little life growing inside me.

  It was an horrific time for me and my little family. We were marooned on an island of mental illness with no means of escape. This time is still a blur. A blur covered with a dark haze, which still makes me feel sick to my stomach when the enormity of what we went through hits me.

  Perhaps it was a mix of the counselling sessions and the surge of hormones in the final trimester of my pregnancy, but something in my mind lifted. The dark shroud that had covered me for the past seven months shifted and started to let in some glorious light. I found I could breathe easier, with my breaths no longer as constricted by panic, and the thought ‘How am I going to get through today?’ did not hit me each time I awoke.

  The relief of this respite from the illness was overwhelming. I was fearful to trust it, but despite being physically uncomfortable and in pain from contractions, I did feel mentally well for the first time since becoming pregnant.

  My naivety about the power of this illness had gone, and I had been through too much to believe that the illness had left me forever. However, this window of sunshine gave me hope that it was possible to feel well again amidst the chaos and destruction of the illness.

  So, if you are currently pregnant and the experience is anything but wonderful, I do hope that sharing my experiences with you will give you strength and reassurance that you are not on your own. That other mums and mums-to-be are also going through what you are. Most importantly, I hope it gives you hope. Hope that despite the battle ahead, there is a way forward to you being well again and enjoying being a mummy – something you deserve!

  CHILDBIRTH TAKE TWO – ‘I’LL HAVE ANOTHER ONE TOMORROW’

  In comparison to my first, my second birth felt like something scripted by Mary Poppins. I can actually say, hand on heart, that I enjoyed the experience. Yes, I know I used to stare in bewildered wonder at mums who told me this. Following the birth of my eldest, I didn’t think it was possible to have a positive word to say about childbirth and felt that anyone who said they’d had a good experience was part of some cruel childbirth conspiracy.

  Turns out I was wrong. Eighteen months after my first harrowing experience of childbirth, I was back in the labour room having a completely different experience. Thank God! Following the harrowing experience of my first birth and the horror of postnatal depression that followed me out of that labour room, I know that a similar experience would quite simply have meant the end of me. There would have been no coming back from the edge of that despair for a second time. My mind was just not healed enough or strong enough to fend off those demons again.

  I will, therefore, be forever grateful for the positive experience of giving birth to my second tiny human. The positive warmth it bestowed upon me gave me something reassuring to hold onto when things started to get tough. However, like all birth stories there was still a twist in the tale: the labour itself was pretty textbook, but the run-up to the birth and what followed ensured it was still laced with drama.

  It all started on a gloriously sunny day in July. After weeks of being on house arrest again, since I had been having contractions from around sixteen weeks, I was climbing the walls and desperate to get out of the house. I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, had already gone through a couple of scares at around thirty-two weeks (starting to sound familiar?) and had been told not to walk too far, not to pick up our toddler – and to take it as easy as possible (not easy to do with an eighteen-month-old running around!). I was fed up, hot, and desperate for an ice cream and some scenery that didn’t involve the four vanilla walls of our home.

  So I convinced the hubby that it would be a great idea to get us all out of the house for an ice cream. He took a lot of persuading as he was worried that I should be resting, but after promising him that I wouldn’t walk anywhere and that I would tell him the moment I felt tired, he agreed. So we all got into the car and set off. About three minutes into the journey, things didn’t feel right; I was getting the familiar tightening across my bump and sharp pains in my stomach. Dammit, I knew what this was.

  My hubby had noticed I’d gone quiet (something I do when contemplating life-changing events or the potential of unspeakable pain) and asked me what was up. I tried to sound nonchalant, explaining that I was in some discomfort, but at the mere whisper, the hubby swung the car off the highway and drove us all straight to the hospital. This time, it was only a short drive away; we’d moved house down the mountain several months earlier. By the time we’d parked, though, and got Éva out of the car and us all into the maternity ward, these tightening pains had advanced to sharp pains and I was finding it hard to speak.

  All three of us and bump were taken up to the maternity ward so I could be monitored, whilst Jamie called our best friends to come and collect Éva; the nurses had confirmed that yes, I was having labour contractions and yes, the baby was on its way. It seemed that both of our tiny humans were in a rush to get into this world and no amount of mummy taking it easy was going to deter them. Once again, bang on the thirty-four week mark, our second tiny human was abo
ut to make an appearance.

  Despite again being six weeks early and despite me not having had the steroid injection this time around, the doctors reassured us that it was perfectly safe to deliver her at this stage of the pregnancy, and the whole team of midwives and doctors took the very best care of me.

  The healthcare team looking after me knew all about my maternal mental health history and that my first experience of childbirth had played a key part in my being unwell. They therefore assured me at every point that they were going to take the best care of me and ensure my experience was as good and as calm as possible – and nothing like my first experience.

  My personal history was even known by the anaesthetist, who spoke to me in English (to help my addled, Brummie French brain). He said he knew all about my first experience with the failed epidural and wanted to assure me that this would not happen on his watch. I was even given my epidural when I was just three centimetres dilated because the midwives were aware of how fast I gave birth the first time and wanted me to be as ready and as calm as possible.

  I honestly don’t think I could have dreamt up or imagined a more calm and wonderful experience – words I never thought could possibly be associated with childbirth.

  The birth was textbook, and went without a hitch. It took around seven pushes and she was here. Despite the easy and calm delivery, she was having trouble breathing on her own when she got here, so after a quick kiss on her lips, she was whisked away to the team of specialists, with my hubby shouting from the side room to keep me informed about what was happening.

  Thanks to the epidural and because the whole experience had been a good one, I just wanted to get off the bed and be with her. In fact, I told the midwife this. After my first experience I had felt shellshocked, emotionally numb and in excruciating pain. This time around, I felt empowered, physically OK and just desperate to get off the bloody bed and get to my baby.