I’ve often wondered how someone like me who really has nothing to complain about can end up with postpartum depression. Luck of the draw? Or genetics, or hormones, or whatever. It happened. Is happening. It’s a legitimate illness and most days I accept it even if I don’t always understand it.
But then I read stories that are so heartbreaking a little piece of me thinks, again, that I just need to suck it up.
Over the weekend I came across Finding My New Normal – one woman’s painfully honest story of having a stillborn child at 36 weeks following years of infertility. I can’t imagine.
Through following a trail of blogs tonight I found this post on transplanted thoughts. Holding your 7-month-old son as he takes his last breath? Almost unbearably awful. I can’t imagine.
When Connor was really small, I participated in an online community of pregnant and new moms. Through several weeks I followed one woman’s story, from her finding out through testing that her baby would have a birth defect to her daughter being born and their endless trips to the hospital. The baby was better. And then she wasn’t. She was better again, and then worse, and then really bad. Finally, none of the things they did were working and she couldn’t breathe. They had to keep her throat open with a tube, but the tube meant they couldn’t feed her properly. One surgery and then another, but in the end it came down to feeding or breathing. And those things aren’t mutually exclusive.
They made a decision. They took her out of the hospital and to the beach. They showed her the ocean. They held her and talked to her and soaked in every bit of her small being one last time. And then they took the tube out and let her go.
When this was happening, she let us know this is what they planned to do. It was awful to read, especially because none of us could do anything for her except hold her virtual hand. And when it was done, she came back to let us know. The community rallied around and a day or so later, at a specified time, we all lit a candle for this small child who had left the world far too early, and for her parents who had to carry on without her.
I lit a candle and cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. What an absolutely horrible thing to have happen.
So what on Earth is my problem? So my child doesn’t sleep well. Eventually he will. Right? (Right?!) So he had to be bounced all the time when he was small so he didn’t scream. And he was heavy. But hey! I lost all my baby weight and then some. I could have had a baby who slept and played happily and rarely fussed. Luck of the draw, I guess.
Compared to other stories, none of that matters. He’s alive. He’s healthy. He’s beautiful. And I love him with all my heart. My heavy heart. For tonight I will be grateful for all I have and send loving thoughts to those moms who aren’t so lucky.
