Reality bites

Looking back, I didn’t have a clue. I was married at the age of 38 and fell pregnant five months later.

Having a child was a dream I had already grieved for and let go. Now the dream had come true.

With excitement, my husband Martin and I read weekly updates about our baby’s development. We studiously attended antenatal classes where we learnt to expect a natural, empowering birth. And breastfeeding classes taught us that this aspect of motherhood would be like riding a bike—anyone could do it with practise.

Sure, I’d heard rumours of sleepless nights, and something about babies crying. But mainly I thought being a mum would be about wearing long flowing skirts, while carrying my baby on my hip. I imagined being an earth mama, enjoying an intuitive, loving bond.

Save my baby!

I was 11 days overdue when I was induced. My little one didn’t respond well to the induction, his heart rate slowing every time I moved. The midwife said the writing was on the wall and I’d need a caesarean. As they put in the epidural, I prepared myself by imagining what it would soon be like to hold my baby in my arms.

Then suddenly his heart stopped. A medical team rushed in and began putting me under anaesthetic, literally running my bed down the corridor. A room full of people were shouting, and as I looked around for my husband, I saw him in scrubs behind a sea of faces. He was being taken out of the room. I prayed over and over again, ‘God, save my baby, and save me.’

God answered my prayer. The surgeon got our son Jacob out in less than three minutes, and saved his life. I, of course, didn’t come out of anaesthetic for another three hours. My husband sat by our son in his incubator, stroking him and weeping. I don’t remember the first time I met our baby—there is a picture of me in my hospital bed holding Jacob, but I have no recollection.

To hell and back

I was too traumatised and too sick, but I felt driven to breastfeed. Every message I had heard and whole-heartedly believed was that ‘breast is best’, and that it was necessary for bonding. But it didn’t work. Over the next two months, I tried every gruelling regime I could and expressed milk after every feed. It took so long that one feed would run into the next, and neither Jacob nor I got any sleep.

Every unspoken expectation I had about loving my baby and being a carefree new mum was falling down around me, and I felt like an absolute failure. I found no enjoyment in being a mother. I feared I wasn’t bonding with my son. I was unravelling, and dark thoughts intruded my mind.

My husband had always said he would support me in my decisions, but eventually he lovingly suggested that it was time to stop breast-feeding, and sent me to the doctor. I believe our GP was a gift from God. He was the first professional to show me compassion, telling me that breastfeeding was not best for me and my baby if it wasn’t working. He also told me, ‘I have no doubt that you have post-natal depression.’ After the initial shock, I was relieved to go on medication.

During this time, a small handful of people spoke truth into my life. A friend I didn’t know well at church told me their first few months with their baby was ‘hell on earth’. I felt relieved that someone had said out loud what I was feeling.

With my counsellor, I was able to grieve for my shattered expectations. I felt ripped off that I had never had that moment: where I held my baby in my arms and felt it was all worth it. I grieved for the fact that I had been so traumatised I couldn’t face any visitors, or proudly announce Jacob’s birth.

A psychologist who goes to our church and happens to specialise in post-natal depression, gave me the words to process my shattered expectations. He said, ‘You didn’t feel you had a choice; you felt driven.’ He observed that teenage mums with no expectations are better off than the conscientious older parents who attend all the right classes and whose expectations are sky-high.

Where was God?

During this time, I felt confused about where God, the creator of childbirth, was in all this. The Bible talks about the pain of childbirth as the result of sin (Genesis 3:16), but I just found that more confusing. But my counsellor put it simply, saying, ‘Satan has screwed up child birth, but what Satan has meant for evil God will use for good’. I now see being born as the greatest spiritual battle of our lives. While the enemy brings death, God calls us out for a life that is significant to him.

Shortly after his birth, God gave Martin a vision that helped us understand the battle for Jacob’s life. In his mind’s eye, Martin saw the birth being replayed. But this time, as I was being rushed through the corridors, crowds of people lined the walls: they were the prayers of the saints. In the operating theatre, a man stood next to the surgeon, with an encouraging hand on the surgeon’s shoulder: he was the Holy Spirit. And as Martin waited outside the theatre, he saw an angel, about eight foot tall and dressed in Roman armour, standing guard in front of the doors. The angel held a giant, blazing sword, and repeated over and over again, ‘He’s ours, he’s ours’.

Learning to be a (less than perfect) mum

Each night, I prayed that God would heal me and restore my sleep—and that Jacob would sleep. But every night, I woke in the early hours and my anxiety increased. My counsellor suggested that maybe I should change my focus to thanksgiving as a way of dealing with anxiety. So, each night as I went off to sleep, I began thanking God for the blessings of each day. This was one of the most transformative actions in my recovery. If I woke during the night, I found things to thank God for. I wasn’t being spiritual, I was just trying to get back to sleep. But as I began looking for the small joys, my focus started to change and I slowly—if unsteadily—began to experience the good in each day.

It was also really important that I practised telling myself the truth. I asked Martin to tell me each day why I was a good mum, and I tried to let his words to sink in. It was as simple as believing that I loved Jacob because I fed him and got up for him in the night. It was as simple as lying next to Jakie, and breathing in the moment.

In those months when I felt nothing, I learned the truth that love is an action. Love is doing all you can for another human being, even when you’re stripped of emotion. Yet, it was the biggest relief when I began to enjoy Jacob—when I looked at him and began to feel that transcendent love and adoration.

I began to cherish the bond I had with my boy as I held him close and fed him his bottle, sprinkling kisses on his forehead. I unlearnt many of the ‘truths’ I had believed about motherhood.

Recovery didn’t feel like a ‘spiritual journey’. Trying to pray and read the Bible would simply have felt like another expectation. But I knew, deep down, that I needed God for every second of every day.

I thanked him for the miracle of medication, which lifted me out of the pit and helped me start adoring my beautiful son.

It wasn’t deliberate, but as I began living within new expectations, I learnt to accept it was okay to do things the easy way, rather than the ‘right’ way. I drank tea and watched daytime TV. I didn’t go to playgroups. I deleted my Facebook account, and didn’t do any writing or journalling. I only felt slightly guilty that I wasn’t keeping a diary of Jacob’s milestones. I threw out half of my pre-pregnancy wardrobe. I couldn’t be bothered anymore with glossy magazines that idolise the super-mum myth. I began to love pottering around home, joking with Jakie and enjoying his presence.

I remember the deep sense of relief I felt when I caught up with some friends-of-friends who are now mums too, and they broke into a can of Diet Coke and chocolate at 10 in the morning. It was freeing to be with people who weren’t trying to be perfect, and I decided that’s the kind of mum I want to be. I want people to feel rested in my average, getting by, self-accepting presence.

Lessons from my son

I don’t believe that life is a series of lessons from God—he is not standing at a distance, teaching us things for our own good. I believe God walks our journey with us, holding us up in an intimate embrace, and along the way we get to know God more. On this journey of motherhood, God has revealed so much about his love through Jacob.

As a mum, I delight in my son’s smallest accomplishments. I even find myself praying that God will help with his crawling, or with his teething—to me, nothing about Jacob is insignificant. And it blows my mind that if God made us in his image, he must feel exactly the same way about us. Is anything too insignificant about us, that he wouldn’t be interested? Does he really delight in our smile; does he give us things just because he finds joy in blessing us? He calls himself our heavenly father, and we, the apple of his eye. He delights in all our quirky uniqueness, just as we do our own children.

I hope that Jacob will know he is utterly accepted by me and that he never needs to earn my love. Yet, in so many ways, I have tried to prove my worth to God. If only I had known, deep down to my core, that I am loved and accepted just as I am! Because that’s the truth. God doesn’t call us to strive, but to the deep spiritual rest of knowing we are loved.

Today, I can honestly say Jacob is the light of our lives. I’m looking forward to my first Mother’s Day because Jacob is the thing I am most proud of in this world. Part of the mystery of this new journey into motherhood—one I am still just embarking on—is that life’s deepest heartaches sit snugly alongside life’s greatest joys.

This was perfectly captured in a children’s verse I heard at my niece’s Sunday school production (she was an angel). The chorus of children sang: ‘When things are good, God is there. When things are bad, God is there too.’

This struck me as a profound piece of theology, and sums up all that I have experienced and all that I have learned over my first year as a mum. It is the truth about our heavenly father.

He is there.

By Ingrid Barratt (abridged from War Cry 4 May 2013, p5-7)

 

If you are suffering from post-natal depression, here are some words of encouragement:

This is something that has happened to you, it is not who you are: If you had diabetes, for example, you would take medication and get help. PND is no different—it is an illness you have; it is not who you are.

You don’t need to be ashamed: People often keep PND secret, but there is no shame in it. It can be really helpful to let people know you’re having a rough time so they can support you.

Getting help is the best thing you can do for your baby: Soldiering on won’t help your baby, but getting help will. Your baby will be happiest when you are happy—even if that means giving up some of your expectations.

Your feelings are not the truth: Strong truths can help you combat negative thoughts. I had truths prepared such as, ‘I’m doing a great job under difficult circumstances’, and ‘It’s okay, nothing is really wrong’ to reassure myself. Sometimes I had to say truths forcibly—and out loud. 

You are not alone: PND is a lonely feeling, but there are people who care about you and want to help. Ask for help, ask for encouragement, ask your partner for a cuddle, ask for meals. You can’t do this on your own—it really does take a whole community to raise a child.

If you know someone with PND, here are some ways you can help:

Acknowledge it: PND doesn’t always look like depression —a mum is driven to get out of bed in the morning by her baby, and she may seem like she’s coping. But if you sense she is struggling, don’t minimise it, encourage her to get help.

Ask about it: Sometimes we want to talk about our struggles, but need permission to open up. Don’t avoid the topic, ask how things are going. Sometimes it’s helpful to talk, and at other times it’s not, but it’s good to be asked.

Don’t compare: We often relate to others by making comparisons from our own lives, such as ‘Oh yes, I felt weepy when my baby was born, too’. But when you have PND these comparisons can make you feel more alone or play further into your fears. Do be sympathetic, do listen, do ask—but don’t compare unless you have really been through it.

Give her a break: If you can, offer ongoing support that will provide a break, such as walking the baby or making meals. Taking the load off a little bit can be hugely restorative.

• Go to www.plunket.org.nz/your-child for more information on post-natal depression