I had never really known if I wanted children, and given a history of clotting disorders, wasn't sure it was even well-advised. Nonetheless, I was excited and did everything 'by the book'. No coffee, no alcohol, limited fish, you know the drill...
We started to plan, we were building a new house at the time and designed it to have a nursery connected to our master bedroom. We picked names for either a boy or a girl.
And then on our moving day, I started spotting. An ultrasound showed no heartbeat at 12 weeks. While the movers were busy taking the boxes to our new home, I was busy losing our future child.
Surprisingly, I didn't take it as hard emotionally as I thought I might. I understood that sometimes these things happen and that we could try again.
What I didn't plan for was the crash. About six weeks later, my brain fell apart. I stopped remembering things, had trouble concentrating, experienced confusion, could no longer chair meetings reliably. I felt absolute fatigue and despair.
I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. Treated with a combination of Cipralex, Wellbutrin & Risperdal. It felt like I had left my body, was floating around watching my life from outside of myself. I couldn't carry on a conversation, couldn't feel much of anything, actually.
Falling apart was an awful experience, it involved giving up my career for which I had earned three degrees and considered my identity. I lost my job, my confidence, my life as I knew it.
Two years has gone by and yet still the grief hangs there. As does the question, was it really postpartum depression? Maybe I was misdiagnosed and that might explain why I failed to respond to medication.
Will there ever be a chance to try again? Do we even want to risk it at this point?
Holidays are a good time for reflection, and somehow, despite the noisy children in the hot tub and the screaming babies at breakfast, I am still wondering...
