This morning I found myself crying uncontrollably in the walk in wardrobe, blowing my nose into my towel. As I listened to the phone ringing the hospital, I thought ‘just compose yourself enough to talk to whoever answers’. A lady at main reception answered my call and sure enough as soon as I attempted to explain why I was calling, I was a bumbling mess. To her credit, she managed to work out who I needed to talk to and promptly transferred my call, telling me, “It’s ok honey, just hang on.”
I attempted to compose myself again and waited for someone to answer. A nice, older sounding lady answered the phone and I managed to get a few more words out before bursting into tears and apologising. “I’m nearly 30 weeks pregnant,” I said, “and I need help.” I thought perhaps I was being a bit melodramatic but then the little, concerned and confused face of my four year old poked it’s head around the door and asked “what’s wrong Mummy?” Ringing for help was the best thing I could’ve done.
I put my arms around my son and told him I was just not feeling well but it would be ok. I spoke to the lady on the phone for a few minutes and she promised that she would call me back tomorrow as soon as the doctors had read the referral that the obstetrician had sent through last week. She said they usually just make appointments and mail them out but she would call me herself as soon as she knew. I sat on the bed with my son and he took his little hand and rubbed my arm reassuringly. How the hell do you explain depression to a four year old? There are adults in the world who will never understand it, so a child has no hope.
As I sit and think about my gorgeous boy who has no real idea of what’s going on, the tears well up again. The guilt I feel for not being a good mum at the moment is overwhelming. All he knows is there is a baby in Mummy’s tummy and since the end of last year (which must feel like forever when you’re four) Mummy has either been sick in bed with headaches or cranky and sad for no real reason. Writing that down makes me feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I’m ruining his life and I have absolutely no control over it. Well, perhaps I do, or at least I did. I didn’t have to get pregnant. I could’ve been more careful. I could’ve prevented it from happening. Had I have known what this pregnancy would do to my life, I would’ve thought long and hard about EVER becoming pregnant again and perhaps I might have made different decisions at the beginning.