The Crash

It had to happen... the proverbial crash, meltdown, collapse - whatever you want to call it. I am in the aftermath now, bleary eyed, humourless, exhausted. Somehow the realisation of everything that is happening and everything that will happen has hit. And it has hit hard.

I am a mother.

Now, some people may disagree since my child does not appear outside of my body but for all emotional and psychological purposes I am a mother. This realisation (one that should be obvious by the belly that is growing on me)  hit me yesterday.

I decided to take a time-out from the day to do some relaxation breathing, sending my thoughts to the child in my womb, saying hi, sending reassuring messages and overall just bonding with this little being. My hands rested lightly on my belly and I couldn't believe the movement I felt coming from within. It was like s/he could feel me and was responding. Tears of joy escaped my closed lids and suddenly all of my own fear about the future disappeared and all I could think of was letting this little one know that there was nothing to be afraid of and that I am so excited to meet him/her.

It was a massive shift for me. I was suddenly very aware of this little life force that already needed to feel loved and secure in my belly. I realised that this little one had the tough journey of making its way into a very scary and unknown world after hours of pushing through a small and dark canal. To be honest, I think the baby will have a tougher time coming out than I will trying to help her/him out. A great sense of peace and purpose overtook me and I went through the day not as one person but distinctly as two people, one which I was holding close.

As quickly as this realisastion struck me there came a slow dawning of the fact that my partner and husband was not and could not feel the same way. Rushing around working, dealing with high stress means his mind is elsewhere. After contributing 12 hours of steadfast focus and stress there is not much room for the rest of the world. This difference meant that the distance between us suddenly felt like a gulf.  Like all of a sudden it was me and the baby on one side and he was on the other. The worst part? He had no clue that this had happened. It was a crushing realisation that sparked a lot of hurt and loneliness on my behalf which resulted in this being transferred to him. Making for an emotional night when what we both needed was rest.

I am not sure how to communicate with anyone how I am feeling. I feel guilt that I cant, guilt for being so emotional, guilt for changing whilst others stay the same. It is as though I am being pulled down a river on a tide of emotional and physiological changes that are taking me away from anything I know or understand .

It is quite isolating and yet I do not feel alone. Now it is me and the baby.


I know that in time I will wash up on the riverbank and everyone will be there waiting for me - they will probably be braaing enjoying some good wine and beer! And I will be overjoyed to join them again. Until then I have to accept that this is a very private journey that only I can fully experience, that is only happening to me, and that it is one that I will emerge from completely changed.

With only 3 months of pregnancy left I want to soak up this miracle that is happening within me and embrace it. I don't want to feel guilty for this private journey or feel anxious that no one can come along with me on it. It is truly an amazing experience, one that I have fallen in love with. I am filled with excitement and joy for the future as my love  for this little being that I have yet to meet face to face grows exponentially.

Quelling the Fears

When people ask how things are going with the pregnancy and all of the life changes that are occurring right now I dont often tell them the whole truth. Whilst there is a lot of joy, peace and happiness and I probably feel the best I have ever felt I am also TERRIFIED.

I have been trying to articulate what exactly I am afraid of and I thought that  by writing my fears down I may be able to calm the deep waters and do the last bit of embracing and letting go.

So here we go...

Escaping Caesars Palace

 

Some of my fear has stemmed from feeling out of control of the situation and by "the situation" I mean, actually giving birth!

When I was 8 weeks pregnant I was ushered into private obstetrician care as all good southern suburbs mommy-to-be's do. She was nice, friendly and recommended. I was in the system with 1000's of others and felt relieved. I saw photo's of my little one every time I saw her in her clean and crisp room. But something felt off, like this was a nicely lit and well orchestrated cover for the meat market I was actually in. I have since learnt that the hospital I was booked into is aptly called "Caesars Palace" and that my doctor has a Caesar rate of over 95%. So my fears that I would end up being "persuaded" into having a C-Section with the use of a lot of scary terms that I did not understand were true.

I have since made some changes to my care giving process and am happily with a midwife. Honestly, I had no idea midwives still existed and that it was even option. The name midwife conjures up images of women giving birth in the middle of dusty fields while picking potatoes. This is however not the case. Midwives advocate natural birth (something not a lot of women consider as an option anymore); they focus on the holistic experience i.e. how is the mother doing both physically and emotionally. They focus on the fact that natural birth is not an anomaly but is in fact wait for it...NATURAL and can be the most beautiful, rewarding and enriching experience both a man and a woman can ever experience.

I might add that this warm and cheery woman spent half an hour chatting to me about all the possibilities, gave me her cellphone number to sms her anytime and said she would email me some support material to read. Did I mention that she does not charge 400% of medical aid rates? I feel like I have won some battle; with the birth of my first child now firmly in my grasp I feel victorious and far more excited about the upcoming 14 weeks.

Introducing mommy-Charisse

 

Now that the birth is covered I fast-forward to being a first time mom. What will it be like? How hard can it be? Will I cope? My biggest fear is that Andre will come home to a cute sleeping baby but a crying wife with dirty disheveled hair, puffy and spotty face, unbrushed teeth, wearing an old tracksuit that is covered in baby puke. Any hope of conversation is replaced with an endless monologue of crying and moaning about how awful it is, how useless I am, how tired I am. Even now I shudder - is it possible that I will transform into this wreck of myself never to return to the calm, confident woman I am now?

When I ask mothers this question with a pleading look of fear and hope in my eye they respond with an oddly critical stare as though they are sizing me up, trying to measure my threshold for the strains of motherhood. No one has been able to give me any reassurance that this is not my fate. Let's face it, it could happen, there is that distinct possibility. 

What can I do to quell this fear? Nothing I guess...Hope like hell I don't find it all that difficult. Draw on the support of anyone and everyone I know. And, since not one of my friends has had a baby before, join a new mommy group for some sanity and camaraderie. Accept that I will have bad days and good days. Hold on to the knowledge that it will get better with every passing day.

Keeping it Hot

My final real fear is a selfish one. How will being parents affect our relationship? We have no idea how it will affect us; we know it will affect us and it will change a lot but those are just words and by no means any indication of what the future holds. This is a tough one. There are no answers really.

We have to keep talking and not just about the baby. We have to keep to our date nights and accept the use of any and all (okay, maybe not all) offers of babysitting help. Trust in our love. Be supportive and patient with one another and accept that we are both going to be finding our way slowly but surely. Stay close. Hug lots. Talk some more. Laugh. Try and enjoy it and not take it so darn seriously!


So now I have whittled the fears down to three concerns. I have conquered one and the other two...well it seems like I am just going to have a little faith, keep my sense of humour and remember that I am loved by many people who will understand and do their best to love me still even when I am snotty nosed and covered in baby puke...

Another Milestone

Today is a strange day for me. It marks quite a few milestones in my life:

1. It has been 1 year since I held my mom's hand as she took her last breath
2. It has been 1 month since I married my Prince Charming
3. I am 25 weeks pregnant today

Top that with the fact that I have a stomach bug and you have one very emotional and tired lady.

Last night we went for our first antenatal class. As we were walking through the gates I had this feeling we were in a movie, another scene from our very own romantic comedy. I could see us both nervously walking through the gates, clutching sweaty palms, walking towards another milestones that represents our ever expanding world of grown-up-ness.

Just a year ago we were both in such different stages and not even together, and now here we were sitting in a room filled with strange pregnant bellies waiting for a lovely woman to tell us it is all going to be okay. Unfortunately we couldn't stay for the entire session, thanks to this nasty stomach bug.

But all in all it was a wonderful experience, the two of us embracing this journey towards parenthood together. In truth we are walking the path slowly and carefully. I think we are both careful to not lose ourselves, as individuals and as a couple. The idea of losing what we are for each other is probably the thing that scares us most about becoming parents.

This entire experience is definitely changing me, changing us, in subtle ways all the time. I am trying my best to keep a handle on the range of emotions that seem to fly through me daily and not let the wave overwhelm me because no one likes a bumbling mess of tears!

To my wonderful husband: I love you more everyday and I am so happy to be going through this experience with you.

Revisiting the Past

I am thinking about my mother a lot. I have had some tearful moments, moments where I feel full of regret, saddened by the circumstances we both dealt with, hurt by the state of our relationship. As my own child grows within me, I guess it is natural to examine your own mother-child relationship.

My mother died 16 January 2012, a mere 10 months ago. It was just the two of us growing up, I never met my dad, my mother was my world and I was hers; that was the beginning of the problem. Our lives were so intertwined it was unhealthy. My mother never had a serious relationship besides from her almost marriage when I was a young toddler. After that I was her world.

But I grew up and was no longer mommy's little girl. I wanted so much to see the world, experience it, soak it all up. We spent my entire childhood in a small holiday town, Margate (a place I have come to loath for its small mindedness, its idle gossip and lack of originality). By the time I finished school I had bought a bus ticket and was on my way to the big city, Cape Town. I was free, there was so much to learn, to experience, new people, new places, mew ways of being. I was alive. I think it was two months before my mom followed and I was back in the house, back in the routine, back in Margate. I was frustrated, I wanted to break free. The more I tried to be my own person, experience my own things, the more I felt I was leaving her behind, and she knew it. She held on tighter and tighter.

Comments about my life and my experiences became negative; they became about how she never had the chance to do those things, how could I do them without her? would she ever be able to live like that? be happy like I was? be free like I was? I stopped wanting to share. Guilt & avoidance became our way of communicating, it was the undercurrent in every conversation, every visit. I begrudged it, she begrudged me for begrudging her. It was a cycle that neither of us could out of.

Then the lump was found. The fact is that the lump had been there for years, the first few times they said it was "nothing to worry about" - they were wrong. By the time they realised their error it was too late. Our visits moved to hospital waiting rooms, waiting in gloomy government hospitals to see some ineffectual doctor that would not help at all. You would think that something like this would bring us closer but it just made the guilt bigger. That secluded life she had built for herself became a place of desolation and isolation, but also the place she refused to leave, it had become her life, her comfort zone. This was not a place I wanted to be in. She lashed out at me - a lot.

During and since this period of our lives I have tried to avoid hearing of the stories she told of me, or seeing the pictures she painted of me - the reaction from our family was enough to tell me it was bad. I tried to ignore it, I swallowed the pain, the hurt, I dealt with the rejection from my family and I continued to be the person to be there for her, sit with her, speak about the good old days as if I knew nothing, I defended myself to no one.

We were fighting the cancer, with a mastectomy and chemotherapy and all seemed to be going as well as it could be. Until one day I arrived at her house to find a small, frail, bald woman screaming in pain then passing out, then vomiting, then starting again. Was this what chemo did to people? I did not know. I had no one to call. No family nearby, no family to even call due to the stale mate that had occurred over the past months. After an hour or so of this, we bundled this frail little woman, who no longer resembled my mother, into the car and off to emergency we went. A coma ensued. Emergency brain surgery was undertaken at 3am. I sat in a stark hospital room howling in pain, she was going to die and things were still like this...it couldn't be happening. I watched as the brain surgeon walked down the brightly lit corridor, with his white coat flapping, holding his clip board. What would he say to me? This man had the ability to my change my world forever and I had never met him before. She survived the surgery. I saw her wheeled to her room with huge staples running across her skull and a ventilator in her mouth. Now we would wait and see if she woke up and if she did, what state she would be in.

It was Christmas. I lay on the couch like a vegetable, watching Friends - the entire series. I had never watched it before, sure an episode here and there but never got to know these people. They became my lifeline, my world. My mother woke up, we took presents to ICU - she would never remember this. She had to relearn talking, walking, who she was, who I was, writing, expressing herself. My mother had been reduced to a child, she was scared, she cried a lot, she giggled like a little girl and she couldn't remember my name. I was physically and emotionally done. I cried in bathrooms, I cried everyday on the way to work. She needed and wanted me close by all the time, I felt like I couldn't breath, like the oxygen was being drained from the atmosphere.

It would take an exhausting year and a half of rehabilitation to get her back on her feet where she could live on her own again. We went through all of this, she came back from the brink of death, we struggled through the rehab, through everything just for things to go south. I think she was on her own for a year when the blurring of her vision started. One trip to the neurosurgeon and everything changed again. She was booked in for an emergency scan, after which they sent us to wait on the radiology floor for admission. We sat there for hours, no one said a word to us. We did not know why we were there but we knew it was not good. By the time a doctor came he was babbling about lesions and radiation - we looked at him blankly. It was then that he realised that in the four hours we had sat there waiting no one had come to break the news to us. My mother had multiple brain tumours and her life expectancy was extremely low - like 3 months low. He was sorry that no one had told us properly. I was sorry too. Its not the kind of news you just babble about.

In the end she decided not to fight. She was exhausted, the past 2 years had been hard, too hard. In her last few months I saw and experienced incredible things. I saw how her 2 best friends, who did not live in Cape Town, came down to spend a month with her - they loved her, they made her laugh, they took her out for anything she wanted, they wheeled her in a wheelchair when walking became difficult and had giggling fits about it. They bathed her, they laughed so much they cried. It was a beautiful thing to behold. She was probably the happiest I had seen her since she left Margate, which was 12 years ago.

I held my mothers hand when she took her last breaths. As it was in the beginning, so it was at end - just the two of us. Somehow we never really healed the fissures that had grown between us. But we did speak; I told her to go, I told her that I didn't blame her for anything; that her life was hard and it was time to let go and start again, somewhere new, a little wiser.

I miss her, not the woman she became but the woman she was when I was younger. I want to remember her that way, vibrant, young, beautiful, full of life and sass. I am hoping that my experience with my child will help me get closer to that person I so badly want to hold in my memories.