Relatable Reactions

Its funny how friends, family, the wider community and even strangers can react when you are facing difficult times. During my parenting journey so far there have been countless happy times and mixed in with these have been some challenging hurdles. People generally love to lavish with you in the good times, although not always. But I have found it’s the tough times that really test a relationship.

Thinking back on our parenting journey thus far I can clearly identify a few tumultuous times when I was able to see how strong my relationship with my husband (my parenting partner) is and how little some of the usual suspects seemed to care for us in times of need. When I had my secondary PPH after our first child was born, only three people stood beside my hospital bed as my body fought the infection that could have easily claimed my life; my husband, my mother and my infant daughter. When our middle child fractured her eye socket, again those people stood by supporting our child, yet we also now had grandparents from both sides helping to support us. And now as we tackle me being on bed rest whilst our unborn child fights against a SCH our circle of support has dramatically widened to now also include close friends and members of our local congregation, play morning, preschool and neighbors.

It has been said time and time again that it takes a village to raise a child. Yet it also should be noted it takes a village to raise a family; to support parents growing these families. We are certainly extremely grateful for the frozen and fresh meals, the books and DVD’s lent and given to occupy my mind, the prayers and encouraging phone calls and messages and for our friends that come round simply to check in on us and stay for a chat. We are also so appreciative of our own parents who have cooked, cleaned, babysat and called continuously to ensure we are supported as we play the waiting game, preparing for the worst yet hoping for the best. And I am so incredibly thankful for my husband, who has showered me, dressed me, fed me, brought me my medicines, wiped away my tears and held my hand. We know the journey is long, we know it is hard, and we know we have each other. And my beautiful children, who make me smile every day; my Miss 3 who on the weekend held my hand as I was punctured by needle after needle in emergency, my Miss 5 who gently pats my belly and talks to our baby each night before bed, drawing her pictures and picking her flowers, and our Master 18 months old who distracts me from the reality of what is happening with his cheeky grin and sweet laughter.

Bed rest isn’t quite as endearing as it sounds. Sure for a day it might be okay, to sloth about in your bed, food brought to you by your loved ones. But it gets tired, really fast. By week 2 my bum hurt, as did my back and neck. My legs were hairier than I have ever seen as I couldn’t bend to shave. Husband offers to help me but I refuse, I want to keep our romance alive after all. By week 7 I give in and he shaves my legs, noting himself that he would make a good nurse, and I admit, after weeks of him running our household solo and pandering to my every need he really is a wonderful carer. Week 3 and I start feeling dizzy, look pale as clean snow and have my hair cut short because standing for showers makes me woozy so the less upkeep I have, the better. I up my does of Metamucil, staying still doesn’t do much for your bowels. The orange smell the medicine emits will never be erased from my memory.

Week 5 brings with it vertigo so severe it induces constant vomiting and I am whisked to hospital. The sunlight is so bright yet with the spinning and nausea I am unable to enjoy its warmth. I venture out in week 6 as strict bed rest  is downgraded to modified bed rest with me being “as lazy as possible”. For so long my only outings have been for weekly scans and now my mother drives me and my daughters to a local dance shop to get concert items. I sit as the kind shopkeeper fusses over my girls fetching all the accessories we require. I stand to pay and my heart starts thumping, hard, fast. I feel hot, really hot. My head hurts, did someone wack me with a bat? I see stars, then feel searing pain across my abdomen. It is crippling, I know something is very wrong. I try to sit. My chest tightens. In a blur I arrive at hospital. Swiftly I am on a bed with crisp white sheets. My daughters watch wide eyed as my vision is blurred by tears. Husband is now by my side. Then I feel the familiar and terrifying gush of blood. I am pricked with needles, fluid courses through my veins. I can’t move my head, the vertigo starts if I do. I am told to let whatever will be, be. But I can’t. As long as my baby is okay I can endure anything.

By week 8 husband is being sent back to work. I worry how I will cope. On modified bed rest, my activities limited whilst our baby fights against the SCH, finally she is growing bigger and faster and the hematoma isn’t. My placenta is now low lying. By 20 weeks the hematoma must be gone and my placenta moved upwards. Our baby must stay strong and win this fight. Husband and I put plans in place, our household will be run with military precision to avoid all unnecessary lifting, bending, movements. So shaken by this experience, of a high risk pregnancy, our OB refers me to a psychologist. Clearly he has seen anxiety rise within me, some days rendering me a blubbering mess as I vanish into invisibility as life unfolds around me.

Our children have all reacted differently. Miss 5 years old has coped by ignoring me, only starting to reconnect once I was more accessible on my place on the couch or our outdoor seating. Miss 3 has thrown tantrums daily, sometimes all day. She has relished in snuggling in with me when she is overwhelmed with emotion and despaired when I have been unable to take her to preschool, to sit with her in the sand pit, to play at the park with her. Master 18 months old stopped breastfeeding within the first week of bed rest, pulling my top down and shaking his head. He enjoys his time on my bed, reading books and playing peek a boo. He cried when I couldn’t pick him up, he still does. And I have cried, a lot. I am an observer of my own family, missing so much yet seeing so much.

When I reflect on all the responses, many of which are helpful and thoughtful, some reactions have been both surprising and upsetting. First there are the family members or friends who you would expect would be first to call in times of need, who simply vanish, no word, no nothing. I question why this hurts; because I know I would be there for them. Then there are the mildly spoken responses to our situation, with comments about how we already have three healthy kids so if the worst happens, it should be acceptable to lose a baby, we should be able to cope better, we have more than enough joy already. It is never acceptable. The pain will never be diminished. If anything, we know from the immense love we have for our three walking children, we already love this baby incredibly and unconditionally, deeper than the deepest oceans and further than the moon and back. I understand people, nurses, doctors, friends are all trying to reason a way around this situation, but forgoing our emotions is a mistake. We have watched our baby wave her arms about as if conducting a symphony orchestra during our scans, we have seen her grow bigger and stronger week by week and we have loved her since before she was even conceived. We want her more than anything, she is our missing piece, our finishing touch to our family.

This journey has had its set backs, and we hope we have seen the last of those. We know the road ahead is uncertain and we will need to remain strong. Telling me not to worry, not to fight, is inconceivable. I am this baby’s mother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing! Prayers and positivity, support and love is what our family needs. And we hope that anyone else out there going through a difficult time, or even a joyous chapter, has the unconditional love, support, connection and communication from their family, friends and community, because it takes a village to raise a family, to raise the parents who grow these families.