Tang, ginger ale, salt and vinegar chips. That was what made up my diet during the first 3 months of pregnancy. I had heard of morning sickness but had no idea that “morning” meant “all day”. It felt like a constant hangover without any of the fun of being drunk. I was miserable and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. Once my appetite finally came back around 14 weeks, I then had to worry about the safety of the food I wanted to eat. Listeria? What is that? A flower? Nope. It’s a bacteria found in cold cuts and unpasteurized milk and milk products. Although I craved a huge italian sub, I couldn’t have one without properly microwaving it first and that just sounded gross.
When our mothers were pregnant with us, there wasn’t this excess of information and I’m kind of jealous of that. How blissful it must have been to be so ignorant of the dangers of cat litter, cold salami, and smoking. For us prego Gen X, Y and Zers, the plethora of dos and don’ts available on the internet within .3 seconds is crippling. The responsibility of incubating life while keeping track of everything that is and isn’t allowed causes some serious anxiety for women. I googled things like “Is cream cheese pasteurized?”, “Benadryl and birth defects”, and worried about whether or not Tylenol could cross the placenta when my aching pelvis needed relief from the extra weight it was carrying. Then my midwife asked me what my birth plan was. I never took any of the classes and all I could say was 1) epidural, 2) no episiotomy, and 3) let’s aim for a 2nd degree tear at worst. I kept my hope of not pooping while pushing to myself. Moms who have pushed, you know what I’m talking about.
Around the 36 week mark, when I feared every trickle to be my water breaking in front of my high school Spanish 2 class, my focus turned toward numbers 2 and 3 of my birth plan. I became familiar with ways to prevent vaginal tears and learned that properly applied olive oil could be very helpful though I didn’t actually try this. How was my body going to allow this impending child to exit without forever maiming me? I consumed internet horror stories of 4th degree tears and wondered how, exactly, a woman could come back from that kind of trauma. When I wasn’t thinking about perineal massage, I looked up information on bleeding post-birth, hemorrhoids, size of epidural needles, risk of paralysis with epidural, epidurals and catheters, and best nursing bras to buy. In my self-directed education I learned that there was such a thing as nipple cream and I was going to need it to help with all the cracking and bleeding. Riddled with anxiety, I showed up at the hospital in the vicious throes of labor and puked all over my johnny.
After our son was born and I survived with a very minor 1st degree tear, the onslaught of hormones and emotions arrived like a tsunami and I sobbed over his tiny little face. I insisted he stay in my room that first night and barely got a wink of sleep—a decision that was my first postpartum depression domino. Then it was time for domino number 2, the circumcision. I wasn’t prepared for just how horrible I would feel about this little procedure when my son got back. My GOD. WHAT did I DO?? I questioned that decision and every other decision thereafter that concerned his health. As my boobs filled with more milk than he could drink and afterpains began the weeks-long shrinking of my uterus to prepregnacy size, I turned into a 5 foot sleep-deprived wreck while wearing the largest underwear and biggest pads I had ever seen. With the waddle of a toddler and the responsibility of keeping a human alive, I did what most new mothers do—kept all that shit to myself.
No matter how much help a new mother receives, there is nothing that anyone can do with the contents of her brain. We are all wired in our own ways and, for some of us, that wiring spells danger in the postpartum period. The stigma attached to mental health is debilitating to so many. More comfortable discussing bowel habits than thoughts and feelings, we back ourselves into corners that some do not escape. Let’s cut that shit, shall we? It took me until I had my second child to ask for the help I needed. I failed to see the error of my ways, and it was exactly that—error. I erroneously thought it would get better, worried about things over which I had no control, and felt like I needed to hide what I was going through. But, as Alexander Pope once said “To err is human; to forgive, divine.” With three births under my belt, and the children to prove it, I’m learning all about the divinity of forgiveness and, more importantly, the rightness of speaking uncomfortable truths. My childbearing days are over and my friend has dubbed this perimenopausal period a “second puberty”. Bring it on, I’m ready for it because I no longer hide behind struggle. And for all the moms-to-be and moms out there who are wrestling with their thoughts and feelings, find the courage to speak your truth. I’m proud of this imperfect truth I tell, I promise you will be proud to tell yours too.