A Pregnancy I Didn't Plan and a Birth I'll Never Forget

At the outset I would like to credit my gynec Dr Saba Fathima for my smooth pregnancy and delivery experience. Well, as smooth as she could make it. While I had no major health issues, I still had heartburn all day, trouble sleeping, the craziest cravings, mood swings because of hormonal changes and constipation. I was already overweight when I got pregnant and I was advised to control my diet. While I managed to do it and remain within the weight limit, I didn't like having to control what I could eat and that added to the stress of pregnancy.

Since I did not get contractions till the estimated date of my delivery, Dr Saba recommended that I be induced. I agreed, and so I got admitted at hospital at 6.30am on D-day. The first dose of induction didn't trigger any contractions, so I was relaxed and myself all morning. My gynec was not around at that time, so even though she asked that I be allowed to walk around, the duty doctor strapped me to some machine and refused to let me get up. I don't remember now if I ate something or not.

With the second dose of induction at around 12.30pm I started getting labour cramps. They were startlingly intense and very painful. I started writhing and moaning. By 6.30pm I was screaming and delirious with pain. Between 12.30pm and 6.30pm multiple people came to the room and stuck their hand inside my vagina. One duty doc scolded me for not staying still while she examined me. "I can't do anything if you don't show me. Stay STILL," she commanded. Fear made my comply. After the second or so "hand test" to see how far I was dilated by every random nurse who walked in I disengaged from it so that I could get through the invasive touch.

I asked for epidural and got some relief. But during delivery (just before 10pm the same day) my daughter spent too much time in the birth canal and so when she came out, she was not breathing well. Even though my gynec disagreed, the duty pediatrician insisted on admitting my baby to the NICU. I spent the next 3 days in an agony of anxiety and uncertainty, while my baby remained in the ICU. I was allowed to visit her whenever I wanted, but my back had frozen from the delivery experience and so I was unable to get up without assistance.

While my gynec did not insist that I breast feed, she highlighted the advantages of doing so and encouraged me to at least try. In hindsight, my extreme fatigue post delivery and the stress of my baby being in the NICU could have affected my ability to breastfeed. During the 3 days I was in the hospital, nurses taught me how to hold the baby and what a correct latch feels like. But my breasts were tender and when they squeezed my nipple I would cry out in pain, and get a stern look in response.

I continued to try to breastfeed at home but received no support. Every time the baby cried I would try to get her to latch on to my breast, while my mother looked on, chastising me for "torturing her for my selfish needs". She kept saying that I was bottle fed and she had had no milk when I was born, so surely I was also like that. Combined with the endless chaos of managing a newborn, lack of sleep and a long recovery, I slowly gave up trying to breast feed my baby and increasingly bottle fed her instead.

Having to frequently wake up in the night to feed my baby triggered insomnia. Pre-baby, I loved to sleep. For me, a good night's sleep was all that I had needed to face a new day. But with a newborn and frequently fractured night's sleep, I started hating the idea of sleep itself. This made me irritable and always exhausted during the day, leading to frequent bouts of crying. A combination of factors, including lack of sleep, an inconsiderate and judgemental family, and an overnight change in lifestyle from being an independent, working woman to a housebound new mother whose schedule revolved around a screaming infant, led to severe post partum depression. Thankfully, my gynec had counselled me pre-delivery, telling me about the symptoms of PPD and to not hesitate to reach out for help. And that's how I went to therapy 6 months after my daughter was born. My gynec found a therapist close to my home so that I didn't have to commute too much.

"The unborn baby's primary goal is survival, so it will take what it needs from your body."

When I went to therapy I had insomnia, deep guilt for not being able to breast feed my baby, extreme loneliness and a marriage under great strain. I was crying all day and all night, and fighting suicidal thoughts.

The first challenge was attending therapy without my baby. At that time I was managing my baby all by myself. My husband went back to work 2 days after she was born and flatly refused to help thereafter, saying that he was tired after work. He would hold the baby and bottle feed her, but only when it was convenient for him, not when I needed help the most.

Initially I didn't tell my parents about going to therapy because I knew they would disapprove and try to convince me out of it. So I had to rely on my husband to watch the baby. He didn't always agree, and when he agreed to come home at a certain time from work so that I could go to therapy, he was always late. The one time I asked my aunt (who was sympathetic about my condition and offered to help) to watch the baby my husband threw a hissy fit and threatened to never help with baby care again if I asked someone else.

To cut a long story short, 1.5 years after starting therapy I went on anti depression meds. The meds gave me the support to work on myself, get stronger physcially, mentally and emotionally and slowly, slowly heal. In hindsight, it is possible that my husband was going through his own version of post partum depression. A new baby creates challenges for any marriage, which neither of us was ready for.

I continue to go to therapy even today, almost a decade since I started. I went off meds shortly after covid, and have continued to rebuild myself. While my husband eventually came around, supported my therapy and made efforts to work on our marriage along with me, my parents disapproved of therapy and still taunt me for "throwing money at a quack".

On bad days I wish I had never had a child. It changed my life irrevocably, and hardly for the good. It probably saved my marriage, but I haven't been back to work since, although I have done a number of part time projects. Working on myself and my marriage, and taking care of a child felt like 3 full time jobs, so there just wasn't room for more. But if not for my daughter I wouldn't have had the courage to face my demons or stare them down. I wouldn't have fulfilled my capacity to love, or had the motivation to grow and become a better person and a good mother.

I wish that as mothers, we can talk freely about what we have had to give up for our children, and mourn them openly. I wish we could celebrate what motherhood has made us, just as much as what it broke in us. I wish we could treat adoptive mothers the same as mothers whose babies came out of their bodies. I wish people wouldn't look at survivors of depression as escaped mental patients.

This is why I am writing and sharing my story.