The Roller Coaster of Life

Waking up in recovery after surgery, I was groggy, yet incredibly grateful my partner was there waiting as requested. I had just had a laparoscopy to remove an ectopic pregnancy that had embedded itself in the end of my right tube, blocked by an ovarian cyst. A surgery that should have taken an hour took 3. In the process I’d lost a litre of blood. My trip to the hospital was the end of a long 8 weeks intertwined with several servings of life’s lessons.

Twelve months ago I discovered I was pregnant again. I was ecstatic. Secretly I’d prayed for another chance at motherhood. Finally, I had sorted myself out and was in a place where I felt I could have another crack and be okay this time around with what came my way. Although whenever people asked me when the next one was coming, I would joke that the one was more than enough for me. My outsides and my insides weren’t matching.

A few days after my positive test, I was at work and had started to spot. I left immediately and went to the doctor. There I was told I had a 30% chance I would miscarry. I went home to prepare for the worst; except it didn’t come soon.

Over the next few weeks I was sent for blood tests and scans as the spotting continued. The scans showed nothing. Nothing in my uterus and nothing in my tubes. I had begun to wonder if I had concocted the pregnancy in my mind. I secretly hoped that everything would be okay and we would get our baby. My little girl kept asking about the baby in mummy’s tummy, even though we hadn’t told her what was happening. Kids always know.

By now I had a great community around me with the coaching school, so I put it a post out on Facebook to see if anyone had dealt with threatened miscarriage (yet another label I could attach to the collection). I eventually received a message from one of the trainers asking if anyone had responded. I ended up phoning her and we spent 45 minutes together in a coaching session. After that time together, I knew that no matter what happened, it was well outside of my control and either way I would get an outcome.

I was due in Melbourne early October for a week-long training course. My symptoms remained the same. No changes. After consulting with my GP, she advised I should go and do my training. It would be a great opportunity to take my mind off things. And for reassurance she would write a letter and give me all of my reports to take with me in case anything happened while I was away.

The training in Melbourne was incredible. I am forever grateful I took the time to learn and develop my knowledge of NLP. It’s been an invaluable tool for me personally, for my relationship, my bond with my daughter and my ability to help others.

Once I returned home, it was back to the doctor who referred me to the obstetrician at the hospital, as there had been no change while I was away. Writing this now, the whole experience seems surreal. It still feels as though it happened to someone else and I just witnessed the event. Maybe that’s because I had my emotions in check this time and I had a support network like I’d never had before.

At the hospital we saw an Indian obstetrician who was difficult to understand. She delivered her verdict so cut and dry, without any emotion. I guess these guys see this every day. It doesn’t make it any easier though. Her options were to go for surgery straight away or to have an injection to stop the growth and for it to pass naturally. I was not the only one being given bad news that day; the girl in the cubicle beside me was being told she was miscarrying. My heart broke for her. This kind of loss is so common and yet it’s barely spoken about.

The fear of being cut open was still fresh in my mind; anyhow they didn’t even know where this thing was located. There was no way I was being cut unnecessarily.  I opted for the injection. This meant I could go home that night and needed blood tests every 3 days for 2 weeks to ensure the levels of the growth hormone were coming down.

Two weeks later and my levels were back at zero. I thought I had gotten through unscathed. However a couple of afternoons later, I went to get off the bed and was doubled over by a sharp pain surging up my right side. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t get comfortable. In the end I took some panadol and went to bed, hoping it would go away. By the morning I could barely move.

Somehow I managed to get my daughter picked up, as my partner was at work and organised for my mum to take me to hospital. The whole time I just had this feeling that everything would be okay. It was constantly chanting away in the back of my mind. I was incredibly calm.

The doctor at the hospital pressed on my stomach and I almost flew through the ceiling. She ordered an ambulance and some morphine stat. The pain was unbearable. You know what came next.

Back on the ward later that night, I was under constant observation as my blood pressure was dangerously low. I felt wonderful. I was so happy and so grateful to be alive. I was even more grateful for the blood donor who took the time to go and donate the blood that ultimately kept me here on this earth. One of the doctors was ready to send me to ICU, but I wouldn’t have a bar of it. I felt fantastic. I was coherent and communicating. He and the nurse were shocked!

In moments of reflection, I’ve wondered where my strength came from. I keep getting the same answer. It’s all from within you.  This amazes me. To see myself as strong, capable and able to control my thoughts and outlook on a situation is a true testament of how far I had come.  Years ago it would have torn me to pieces. Now it’s a notch in my timeline.

Not long after this had happened, I was in the shopping centre one day and a friend of a friend, who I didn’t know very well, came up to me and told me she was sorry for my loss. I thanked her for her concern and walked away incredibly embarrassed. I didn’t want people feeling sorry for me. This was private and not something I wanted to be the source for local town gossip. Especially when the meaning I had given my situation was more of gratitude, appreciation and a realisation that I have been put her on this earth to make a difference.  

And I guess that’s what happens all the time – people go through stuff and we instinctively feel sorry for them, but they don’t necessarily need or want you to. Sometimes it’s just about being there, lending an ear if they need to talk and just general support. The only person who will ever know what an experience feels like is the person who has had the experience – food for thought!

Back in the Driver's Seat

Being back at work two days a week was wonderful. I felt like I had really come home. I was back in the place that was so familiar, comfortable and safe. I never knew what each day would bring, but I knew that I had the skills to deal with whatever happened. In moments of reflection I’ve often wondered why I didn’t apply the same principles to motherhood, wondered why I didn’t trust myself more than I did, that I actually knew what I was doing.

I loved being back with people, my teammates, my clients, being busy with a purpose and putting money in the bank to boot. My confidence was coming back. I felt more certain and more sure of myself than I had in the longest time. I was back where I thought I was meant to be. Grandparents and baby were happy as they shared the two days together. Most of all I was happy to be contributing again.

A couple of months in and my old role of team leader became vacant. There was a tugging feeling from within as I explored the idea of returning to that position. This place felt like my own. I had been there since the day the doors opened. I was the only one still there 2 years on. I felt a sense of responsibility and no one else was putting up their hand to take the reins, so I did.

Two days a week to five days a week was a massive step. I had talked it over with my partner and decided it was worth a shot. We quickly sourced family day care 2 days a week and let the 2 sets of grandparents take care of the other 3 days along with my partner. We had a plan.

The next 18 months were one massive rollercoaster. The first few months were exciting and new. I loved being back in my old position, working with my team and helping them grow individually to help them become better consultants and sharing my knowledge. I had a fantastic Area Leader who inspired me. He had a way with people that I’d never witnessed before. He was able to ask questions in a way that lit people up so openly. 

One day I asked him what his secret was. He looked at me quizzically at first. I said “how is it that people are so open and honest, what are you doing?” He said he’d done some coaching training. It was my turn to look quizzical because my pride didn’t allow me to ask more questions at this stage.

So I turned to my good old friend Google and started researching this “coaching” thing. The more I saw of it, the more I liked it. I’d always loved helping people. My grade 1 teacher, Mrs Hansen had nicknamed me the mother hen of the class. I was always finishing my work first and then going back and helping the slower kids to get it done. This was a quality I had carried through life. I will be honest; it’s not always something I’ve done resourcefully.

I managed to find one particular coaching school that really resonated with me and requested their information pack. The day it arrived, I was so excited. I read everything from front to back and had decided that I really wanted to do this. Then I remembered I was working around 50 hours a week with a small child and a partner. So I tossed everything into the drawer of my bedside table.

As the months went on, we got a new Area Leader; and boy was she so different. Suddenly we weren’t about the people anymore, we were about how many enquiries we had taken, how many bookings we had made, how much money had been made for the day. I had met my polar opposite.

About 12 months in I began to realise that I wasn’t coping very well with the whole “super mum” game I had been playing. I was constantly on edge. The shallow breathing and anxiety had returned. I was often in tears at the drop of a hat. I felt guilty for being at work so many hours of the day, so I would take it home with me at night to do it then and then felt guilty for not being there for my daughter.

Then there were the middle of the night phone calls from our Assist team because one of our clients was stuck in an airport in the middle of God-knows-where and I needed to make a decision there and then in a bleary state to get them home at the least cost to the store. This was especially fun during Christmas and New Year.

There was a day I finally cracked. One of the staff told me she couldn’t talk to me and she was getting a mediator.  Wtf? I couldn’t believe it. She and I had never gotten along well. I had a massive conversation with my burly Area Leader and told her I wasn’t coping and asked what my options were. She wasn’t a mum, and she didn’t understand any of the guilt I felt. We had our mediation and I then left work for the day.

Again, I was in that place where the walls were crashing down around me and I felt as though I was spiralling out of control. I didn’t know where to turn. So I called my doctor and went and saw her. Like history repeating itself, she pulled out the depression questionnaire and had me answer it. Again I rated very high in the “depressed” category. I left with a script, a psychologist’s referral and a note for 2 weeks of stress leave.

During the 2 weeks, I gained a lot of clarity. What I was doing wasn’t working for me or for my family. I would reduce the number of days I worked to 4, a slight pay cut, but it was worth it. I also made a decision that I would begin my Certificate IV in Life Coaching studies. I went back to work and this lasted about 4 months.

There are always turning points, pivotal moments where you can take the red pill or the blue pill. I remember the phone call with my Area Leader, I’d called her to know I’d received someone’s resignation. Her comment back to me was that I was the reason people were leaving. I knew this wasn’t the case. 

This business had had my blood, sweat and tears and I had little to show for it. I always put it above myself and my family’s needs. I told her that I could no longer fulfil the role and she needed to find someone who was capable of fulfilling the demands she required.

In that moment I was strong. I was clear and I knew what I wanted. I knew I wasn’t going to tolerate any more crap or be responsible for something so much bigger than me. I didn’t need to rescue or save the business; it would take care of itself. It was time for me to put myself and my family first. I had no idea who I was anymore when I looked in the mirror. I was exhausted – mentally, physically and emotionally. I had no idea what fun was or even how to take a joke. The toll those 18 months took on my life was phenomenal. How my partner is still with me today remains a mystery. Full credit goes to him for being so wonderfully supportive and picking up the pieces in the path of my destruction.

Identity Grief

Identity grief: definition –  the realisation that life after having a child will never be the same, accompanied by an almost constant grieving for the person you used to be before becoming a mother, the career you once had and the social circle that kept your calendar full.

Somewhere in the madness, I decided I wanted an income for myself. I wanted something for me; a business, independence, a way to show the world I had my shit together. I wracked my brains for days as I sat knitting yet another baby’s blanket. I did a lot of knitting over that period. It was a way of doing something that I could see a result for the effort I was putting in, something I could do in between taking care of baby, that didn’t require a lot of brain power. During my search for money making ideas, I decided I would open my own business and sell the blankets that had been accumulating.

This great idea lasted a day. By the time I sat down and worked out how many hours it took to knit one blanket, with continual interruptions, (everything takes three times as long with a baby to care for), compared with how much I would need to sell them for to make any kind of money, it just wasn’t worth it. Anyhow, who wanted to buy knitted baby blankets in Central Queensland.

I was looking for something. Even though I’d begun to feel better within myself, not as edgy, a bit more confident, I just couldn’t get a firm grasp on the whole motherhood thing. No matter what I did, I just felt awkward like trying to wear shoes that are a size too big. It wasn’t as natural as I’d been led to believe, at least not for me.

Although I had been going out more with baby and wanted so badly to fit in, I was ashamed of what I’d gone through. The conversation of how many wees and poos baby Joe had done today did little to soothe my feelings of inferiority. I often left mother’s group feeling even more alienated than when I had arrived. I couldn’t believe my life had changed so much.  Was this all I had to look forward to for the next 18 years? The whole “my child is better than yours because mine can do ABC”.

Somewhere in the throes of hormones, sleepless nights, vomit, failed attempts at soothing the seemingly endless demands of a 6-month old, I decided I wanted my identity back. I couldn’t relate to being a mother. This was not what I’d signed up for. I wanted my life back where I knew when I was doing the right thing, the wrong thing, when people were calling for me, to get my advice, when I was validated for the job I was doing. That’s what I was craving. Somewhere in the haze, I thought the smart move was to go back to work. And my psychologist had recommended dipping my feet back in that pond, to do something for myself.

Eventually, I made the decision to go back to work. I was strong, confident and knew what to expect when I returned. Those days of sitting on the couch for hours on end, watching the meaningless TV shows, and hearing about life insurance over and over again, watching dead-pan soapies, cleaning up the spew from between my breasts yet again, were coming to an end. I was going back to work for 2 days a week. I was getting some of me back! Woo hoo! Party time!

It’s not just the fact that I had been struggling with adjusting to life with a  baby, not able to communicate in mother’s groups how I was feeling, feeling alienated, it was the fact that for 12 years I had been earning my own income, supporting myself. Suddenly, my baby arrived and I was cut off from that. If you are lucky, you receive a measly payment from the government, but nothing like what I was used to earning. I began to feel guilty about money. I didn’t want to spend it because I didn’t have it coming in. The whole time I was on maternity leave, I didn’t ask my partner for money. He paid for a lot of the household things, but I was too proud to ask him for any for myself.

Something tells me I am not the first, nor the last woman on this earth to experience this. The big thing for me was that I didn’t really know who I was anymore. My identity was tied up in what I was doing, rather than the kind of person I was. I can see now that the qualities of me as a person far outweigh whatever title I choose to put after my name. After all, I could have been “Super Mum” ticking all the boxes with an inability to show love and affection for my child.

Somewhere along the way, society has gotten us all mixed up. I think feminism is a fantastic thing. I am grateful to be on an apparently even-keel with our male counter-parts. Although it was something I couldn’t get my head around for the longest time. Women are having their children later on in life now. We have usually established a decent career for ourselves by the time we’re ready to start our families. And having children is something we slot into our busy lives, as opposed to a few decades ago, a woman’s purpose was to get married and start having babies pretty much straight away.

We have experienced so much freedom and have held positions of leadership, made decisions, had choices by the time a baby comes along. We have a strong sense of self – who we are, what we stand for and what we believe in. Somehow, what we do has become so intertwined in who we are. When that was taken away from me whilst I had my baby, it was so isolating because I had never known anything different. Motherhood was foreign to me. The identity of being a mother didn’t fit.  It seemed to go against the grain of what I was used to and perhaps that’s what led me on my journey. Learning that my values and who I am as a human on this earth holds so much more meaning than any position I hold has been one of my most empowering insights yet.

 

The Help

Sitting on the couch with the psychologist across from me, re-telling my birthing story again with tears streaming down my face, I began to wonder if I would ever get over what had happened. Every time I went there I was asked to tell my story. I get it now that she was trying to de-sensitize the experience for me. It just wasn’t working and definitely wasn’t helping. I was caught in a spin cycle, just like that of a washing machine – going round and round, faster and faster. I had no exit strategy, no way of getting out or escaping the feelings that engulfed me whenever I was taken back to that life-changing experience.

Whenever I thought about it, it would dredge up feelings of failure, helplessness, hopelessness, being out of control, not being perfect, not being good enough. These feelings made my heart feel heavy, my chest tight and then the sadness would set in, like a tonne of bricks weighing on my shoulders.  I felt trapped. I loved my baby. I hated what had happened when she was brought into the world. I just couldn’t move on from that.

I realise now I had no control over what happened with the way she arrived into the world. I had a choice though as to how I responded and the meaning I gave the event. Back then I didn’t realise. I was naïve, ignorant and uneducated.

The psychologist t told me one day she didn’t believe I had post-natal depression. It never sat well with me any way. She had another label for me, post –traumatic stress disorder. On one hand  it was a relief, on the other I was still entrapped by a  “label” of what I was going through.

Once I accepted it was post-traumatic stress, I was able to move on a little. Our sessions then took on a different focus, and began delving into my relationship with my partner. He couldn’t understand why I could just snap out of it, why I couldn’t get over it, why I couldn’t just enjoy being a mother and being home all day with our beautiful girl. We started to argue. Constantly. Whenever we were together, we’d end up arguing. Me out of pure frustration of not being able to communicate what was happening and him out of pure frustration that he came home to a helpless mess.

Part of me was jealous of the fact that he got to go out into the big wide world every day and talk to real people who didn’t pee or poo on him, who didn’t vomit between his breasts just as he was about to head out the door. I was envious that he didn’t have to worry about when baby last ate, how much she ate, when she was going to sleep, how he was going to soothe her cry. I longed to be connected with the real world again.

As I discussed my relationship with the psychologist, the struggles we were having, the issues with communication, me feeling like my actions were controlled by him, she began to wonder if he had narcissistic personality disorder. Another label pulled from the endless pot of labels that seemed to come from the health professionals. She’d never even met him. I must have told a great story about him though for him be to sporting his very own label. I’ve never told him about that.  He probably would have forbid me from going back to her.

For the longest time I believed that how I felt was in direct proportion to how my partner was treating me or how I perceived him to be treating me. I thought my happiness was hinged on him being in a good mood or a bad mood. Flicking back through my memories and other previous relationships, it was a strategy that I had always run. I had no idea that I was in control of my feelings or that I actually chose how I wanted to feel.

Being happy for me was always tied to being in a relationship with a guy where I felt worthy and wanted. I had to be in a relationship to experience happiness. When I realised this much later on and realised how much control and choice I actually had when it came to mastering my emotions and being in charge of my own life, it was like discovering Pandora’s Box had been hidden under my bed for the past 30 years.

I couldn’t believe it! Who’d have known that I had the innate ability to make myself happy or sad or good or bad or elated or dreaded or ecstatic or depressed? That I could choose the meanings that I assigned to events in my life. Who knew that I had the power and the ability to move beyond circumstances and that my happiness in life was directly in proportion to how I felt about myself. Its been the discovery of this power that has led me on a journey of learning more about human behaviour, what makes us tick, how we choose our beliefs, how we communicate with the rest of the world and has ignited a passion from within to help others discover their Pandora’s Box and open up a world of endless possibilities for themselves.

Silent Screaming

As the weeks wore on, my feelings about myself and motherhood weren’t getting any better. I loved my baby, yet I didn't love me and how I felt. Constant anxiousness, racing heart, tight chest and shallow breathing were my new friends. I felt like I was drowning. I felt so out of control that I had to control everything I could.

When I was feeding our baby girl, her feeds were timed. Ten minutes on each breast, I recall being the magic number and the rule I had. I hated feeding. It was so uncomfortable. I hated not being able to move and hated even more those moments when I needed to go to the toilet but was in the middle of a feed and not able to take her off the breast knowing all hell would break loose if I did. So I carried on, hating it.

I wondered what was wrong with me. I didn’t get the warm and fuzzy feeling that I’d heard many mums talk about when they were feeding their babies. I felt so relied upon all the time and that scared the living daylights out of me.

There were days when I couldn’t shift the anxiety. I couldn’t bear to hear our girl cry. If I did, I would start too. There was so much sadness in my heart. My favourite hangout when she was sleeping was in the bottom of our walk-in robe with the door firmly closed. Enveloped in darkness, I felt safe. My external environment matched how I felt on the inside. I remember silently screaming. So many fears and emotions running rampant, I just couldn’t get them out. I didn’t know how to. I didn’t know what the consequences would be. And so they stayed inside me and the internal screaming continued to get louder and louder.

But the feeling in my chest just wouldn’t let up. I can clearly recall the day that I realised my world was falling apart. It was 7am in the morning and I’d already done 3 loads of washing, hung them on the line,  baked a chocolate cake, some monte carlos and had an apple pie on the way. It was as if I had a momentary out of body experience. From afar I saw myself doing what I was doing and said to myself, “This is freaking crazy! You are not okay and you need to talk to someone about this. It can’t be normal!”

It seemed like forever until it was 8.30am and I could ring the doctor’s surgery to make an appointment with my GP. Finally I got through.  The receptionist must have picked up that things were not good with me; she managed to get me in straight away. As I got off the phone, I felt relief. The tears were streaming down my face and the feeling of hopelessness and imperfection came bubbling up again. In my heart I knew I was doing the right thing for myself and for our baby girl.

Sitting in the room with the doctor, I managed to tell her what I had been going through. I felt safe with her and trusted her. Through the tears I managed to tell her my story, how I hated breastfeeding, how I felt like a failure and how I wasn’t cut out for motherhood. She turned to me and said, “If the mother is happy, then the baby is happy. If you being happy means stopping breastfeeding and moving to formula, then so be it”. It was really that clear cut and simple.

I was with her for a long time. I talked. I cried. I shared my pain. She just sat and listened and offered me tissue after tissue. She then looked at me and said, “I think you may have postnatal depression, with what you’ve experienced with the birth and everything else that you’ve gone through”. In a sense, there was relief. What I was going through was abnormal and yet again, I wasn’t alone. Now I had a label to add to the collection, and it definitely wasn’t Chanel.

Together we came up with a plan. Start weaning baby off the breast and get her onto formula. Then we could start to take care of me. She gave me options. Once baby was weaned I could go onto medication and see a psychologist. I was to see her every other week as well, so she could keep track of my progress. I left with a fistful of pamphlets about post-natal depression, it’s causes and it’s treatments to take home to share with my partner, phone numbers for Lifeline in case I needed someone else to talk to, phone numbers for playgroups because I needed to start mingling more with other mums and her own personal mobile.

As we left, that familiar sense of failure came back. I had felt so completely safe and trusting in the doctor’s office. Yet as soon as I was back in reality, I felt totally out of control. I had no idea how I was going to explain to my partner what was going on with me and what was happening in my head.

That night I had a discussion with my partner about my visit to the doctor. I had always struggled with knowing the “right” thing to say. When I was younger, I would spend hours having conversations in my head, just to ask my parents a simple question like “Could I go to the disco on Friday night”. Communicating my feelings to my partner was a huge risk and I was terrified of how it he would accept it.

I was able to tell him about our trip to the doctor and her recommendations. He told me there was nothing wrong with me; it was all in my head. Darn tooting right it was in my head!!! He wasn’t in favour of me going on medication, but said if that helped, then so be it. He agreed that the breastfeeding was upsetting me and wanted to become more involved in that side of things. I couldn’t help but feel that I had let him down too, that on some level I had failed his expectations of motherhood.

And I guess this is where it all fell down for me. I had the picture in my head of how it should be and what the right thing was and the wrong thing was. There was no room for someone to throw a spanner in the works and change the course of my pre-planned events. Over time I’ve learnt to loosen my grip on control and have learnt to go with the flow more. To just relax, take a deep breath and trust that things will work out the way they are meant to.

 

What's your story morning glory?

 The first few weeks of motherhood are just a blur when I look back. A constant cycle of feeding, nappy changes, bathing, changing, trying to get some sleep where I could. I can’t access any specific memories during that time. I remember feeling out of control, out of my depth and just taking things day by day. After all, I was still healing too. The time came for my partner to return to work and I guess it’s from there that the memories flow from. He worked long hours and I was often at home alone at night with our girl.

I remember it being quite lonely. Not being able to drive for those first 6 weeks was a real isolator. I was alone in a brand new home with a brand new baby to boot and no instruction manual to get me through. Thank goodness for the mid-wives popping in every couple of days for their checks and for my mum coming to take me to the shops when I needed it.  It was comforting to have people around me, but I didn’t know how to reach out and ask for help. I thought if I did, I would be seen as a failure, as the chick that couldn’t get this motherhood thing right. Because you either get it right or you don’t. There was no room for trial and error in my mind. So I pushed my feelings down and carried on.

There were so many rules that I’d made for myself and for our girl even before we’d even met her. I would breastfeed her. She would wear cloth nappies. She would sleep in her own bed. Our child would never have a dummy. I never had one and I managed to survive okay. When I think about these rules now, they weren’t really my rules at all. I had learned them from when my mum was a mum and she from her mum and so on, back through the generations it goes. The rules were rigid, structured and judgemental. Lacking flexibility and from generations where the woman became a stay-at-home-mum once she’d given birth. She was expected to raise the family and manage the domestic chores.

One day, I had our angel midwife from the hospital visiting me and my mum was there too. On this particular day and for a few days before, I’d been struggling to settle our baby. Every time I lay her down for a sleep, she would wake within a few minutes. It was driving me bonkers. The constant crying and no peace was sending my world into chaos. I didn’t know what to do. Nothing I did seem to work. I was exhausted from a lack of sleep. My hormones were out of control. Tears came without warning.

With the help of our angelic midwife, we discovered that our girl liked to sleep with her head slightly raised. Who knew what kind of discomfort she had with her brace on? That’s the other distressing thing with a newborn too. There’s no instruction manual and no real indication of when you’re doing the right thing for them and when you’re not. There’s also no praise nor validation for when you do get it right. Something I was very much used to in my line of work. I don’t know that I ever got used to that. I just felt like a failure.

It dawned on me one day that I was never going to be the “perfect mum”. You know the ones you see on the cover of magazines in a bikini just weeks after giving birth. Trim, taut and terrific. I was never going to look like that because I’d had my stomach cut open to even have my baby. I couldn’t bring myself to look at my Caesar scar for the longest time. It was a constant reminder of how I’d failed as a mother right from the get go. Man, I couldn’t even have a natural birth, so what hope did I have of being the “perfect mum”.

These were the demons I was constantly battling with. You’re probably reading this and may even be thinking, that story you were telling yourself is complete and utter bullshit. And sitting here now writing it, years later, I can say without doubt that it was a bullshit story. We create our reality each and every day, in every single moment. With everything that happens in our world, we have a choice, whether we are aware of it or not. We choose how we feel. We choose how we respond. We choose what we believe in. We don’t always make good choices and at times may not even be aware that choice exists.

Looking back now, I know I took the safe choice, the familiar choice, the I-am-so-used-to-beating-myself-up-about-what-it-is-that-I-can’t-do choice that I don’t have it within me to see any positives in the situation. I wasn’t even aware at the time that if I’d not had the emergency c-section, I wouldn’t be here to share my story and most definitely wouldn’t be blessed with sharing my days with my beautiful, intelligent, inspiring and often challenging 4 year-old daughter. This is something I am now grateful and appreciative for every single day when I wake up and greet the world. I am truly thankful.

High Flyer

Boarding a flight with a week-old baby was not something I had ever thought I would be doing. I also had never imagined that I would be travelling to the Royal Children’s Hospital to seek out treatment. But I was and we did. And we survived.

Getting on that plane, suitcases being loaded underneath, having no idea of how long we’d be away for, what would happen or what we were in for, was one of the scariest things I’ve done. My need for certainty was incredibly high and my anxiety levels were off the radar. It took a lot of deep breathing to remember that everything was going to be okay, that we would get through whatever was about to come our way.

The flight to Brisbane went by without a hitch. I was able to feed our girl during take-off and landing. No crying baby here. Only a mum who suddenly realised that everything she did was now on show, judged and that her most private anatomy was no longer her own. Breasts that had a mind of their own and were producing milk like there was no tomorrow to keep up with the demand of a newborn. The human body really is amazing. It always knows what to do and when to do it. We get into trouble when we overthink and overanalyse things. Sometimes you just need to let things be.

We checked in at the hospital for our appointment and were sent upstairs for an ultrasound of our girl’s hip. As we navigated our way through the corridors, I soon realised how lucky we were. It was heartbreaking to see other children who were much worse off than our little girl. We started to think that things were going to be okay. We were going to make it.

In the ultrasound room, we got chatting with the sonographer and told them about the experience we’d had in the other hospital. They kindly advised us that the bones of babies can’t be seen by xray until they are about 6 months old. WTF! I started to wonder why we had gone through what we had back there and was incredibly relieved to know that we were somewhere that knew what they were doing.

After meeting the orthopaedic doctor, he checked her out and consulted the ultrasound images. He confirmed that her right hip was dislocated. He told us that it is quite common in breech babies, female babies and first-borns. Yep, we had the hatrick! Treatment is usually a brace fitted on the body to hold the baby’s legs abducted while the ball joint grows into the hip socket for a period of 3 – 6 months. My partner and I looked at each other, bewildered at the simplicity of the treatment, yet overwhelmed with the brace the doctor had just produced from nowhere.

The brace was fitted there and then and suddenly our baby was a boxed package. Picking her up for the first time it was like picking up a robot and trying to cuddle it. It was awkward. Where was our baby! Newborn nappies no longer fit. We had to be careful about the outfits we chose for her to wear. She couldn’t wear skirts or pants or dresses. Thank goodness for wondersuits! That was it, we could go home. “Come back in a month” the doctor told us, “we’ll change the brace because she will grow”. 

Off we went back to the airport. I was exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. I was going through the security scanner carrying our girl and we kept setting the alarm off. Finally it dawned on me that her brace had metal in it and that’s what was setting the alarms off.

Back home that night, the wheels started to fall off. My breasts were so sore and tender from the constant feeding, my nipples had started to bleed and the ends of them were hanging on for dear life. I hadn’t heard about nipple cream and definitely hadn’t read about any of this in the pregnancy books! I sat on the edge of our bed tears streaming down my face, in so much pain, feeling helpless, that I had a crying baby depending on me for food and the one way I had of getting that to her was failing. I hadn’t brought formula, because my rules said that I was going to breast feed. I hadn’t brought a breast pump, because honestly I had no idea about them. Somehow I managed to get through the night.

The next morning, my partner had me on the doorstep of the shops as soon as they opened. We left laden with formula, nipple cream, baby bottles and a breast pump. Looking back now, I wonder why I wasn’t more prepared. Obviously I had no idea of what I could have been in for and no one ever mentioned to have these things on hand ….. just in case.

I’ve come to realise that in life it’s healthy to have more than one way to reach an outcome, more than one way to fulfil a need.  Someone wise once said to me “If you only have one way to reach an outcome, you’re screwed”. You’ve got to have options, more than one way to get to where you are going. Because sometimes you don’t know what you need until you need it.

When Instinct Kicks In

Standing, looking through the glass window watching my day-old baby being placed on the xray table, the assistant pulling her legs down to straighten them, her screaming and my partner being tasked with holding them straight was the moment I knew I was really a mother. All I wanted to do was run in there and push them out of the way, scoop up my baby and hold her in my arms. Soothe her. Protect her. Stop her cries.

Never had I felt so helpless and out of control. I wasn't allowed in the xray room, because I’d just had an emergency c-section. It was one of the most horrific experiences of my life. It was like living through a bad dream that I couldn't stop.

Soon enough the experience was over and I got my precious little bundle back. I could hold her tight and comfort her. We were sent back to the maternity ward to await the results of the xrays. And wait we did. At 9.30pm that night, I had just drifted off to sleep and a young doctor came in to tell me that the xray showed nothing about her left knee. He then proceeded to wake her up and check her out. He mumbled something about her hip not being right and left the room swiftly, with nothing else to offer.

Two days later a burly midwife came in and abruptly told me that I was to be down in xray in 10 minutes for baby to have her hip xrayed, otherwise I was spending the weekend in hospital. I was already climbing the walls and wanted out. However we couldn’t leave because the doctors couldn’t figure out what the issue was with baby’s leg.

Somehow I managed to get up and out of bed and shuffle myself along, ignoring the pain to push the crib to the lift, tears streaming down my face. I was on my own as my partner had left to get something to eat. On our way down we ran into my partner and he came with us to repeat experience at all over again. Talk about repetitive nightmares!!!

We were then sent for an ultrasound of her hip which revealed it was dislocated. At last we knew what was going on. What a relief! But it was temporary. The hospital we were in didn’t treat children this small. We were sent back up to the ward and told to put double nappies on her and wait for our next move.

Even though we had an answer, my partner and I were distraught. Would our child ever walk? Would she ever run? How did this happen? Whose fault is it? Why didn’t the young doctor send us for an ultrasound? And so began a vicious cycle of doubt and blame. It didn’t do us an ounce of good. We had to trust that the doctors knew what they were doing and would do their best to remedy the situation.

But the waiting game is the hardest of all games to play. You don’t know what comes next.  You don’t know how long you will be waiting for the answers to appear or if they even will. At some point, there’s a choice to be made about trust. Trust that everything will be okay and things will work out in the end, the way they are meant to.

Quite often when you’re in the heat of the moment, under stress with your adrenal glands in full flight, it can be difficult to focus on anything other than that moment. You get so caught up in all the emotion, you lose sight of the bigger picture. Our baby was healthy. We are not the first parents that this had happened to.

While we were waiting for our answers, we were blessed with the arrival of our midwife from antenatal classes. An angel sent from heaven. She talked to us. She listened to us. She cried with us. She got frustrated with us and went searching for answers. Finally, we had someone on our side, willing to bat for us.

And answers she got. After making several calls we were put on standby for an Angel Care flight to the Royal Children’s Hospital in Brisbane. Somehow we managed to get suitcases packed for us and brought to the hospital ready to go. We waited and waited and waited. It was getting later and later and didn’t look like we were going anywhere that day. Our beautiful midwife came in and told me she was going to discharge me, as nothing would happen over the weekend. We were to come back Monday and she would sort everything out for us.

Leaving the hospital with our bundle of joy was such an elating moment. What an ordeal it had been. Life had been turned upside down over the past few days. We were blessed with our beautiful girl, we just needed to get some answers and they would come in time. At least we could go home to our own home and get settled in, get used to being a family of 3.It was time to take some deep breaths, relax and savour those first precious moments together. We had an obstacle in our way, but it wasn’t stopping us from having our precious girl with us. We learned to be grateful for what we had.

Thinking about this experience now, reminds me of the saying …. “It’s not the hand you are dealt, it’s how you play the cards”. Little did I realise how big an impact this would have over the next few months. 

Journey of a Lifetime

Have you ever planned a holiday to some exotic location? Your tickets are booked. You’re busily reading everything you can get your hands on about your dream destination. You daydream. You fantasize. You imagine what it will be like to be somewhere you’ve never been before – to hear a different language, make an attempt to speak the language, to try different food and to experience a different culture. You’ve talked to your friends who been there before you and gotten their advice about the hot spots, the do’s, the dont’s. You’re pumped. Suitcase is packed. You’ve got your passport, your ticket and your hopes and dreams are pinned on this adventure of a lifetime. You are filled with anticipation, hope, excitement and curiosity.

There are some things in life you just can’t prepare for. It doesn't matter how much you research or how many books you read or how many other people you talk to who have been through the same experience, you just can’t prepare for becoming a mother. You also can’t walk down the street pregnant without a stranger offering some random advice and throwing in their two cents about what’s right and what’s wrong when it comes to motherhood and childbirth.

No two birthing experiences are ever the same. We are all unique as individuals, our bodies built perfectly for us. The birthing manuals can’t possibly cover it all. Well if they did, it would probably be a 24-volume encyclopedia version, and what mum-to-be has time to read that while she’s busy preparing for the arrival of her precious bundle. That same precious bundle that’s destined to turn her life and her world upside down and inside out, and not just during the birthing process, but potentially for the next 18 years or so as the bundle goes through the various stages of development and growth.

No book or conversation I had with anyone around pregnancy, motherhood or giving birth could have possibly prepared me for the experience I encountered when my beautiful girl came into this world 4 years ago. I was ready for her. I had wanted children for a very long time. I had natural maternal instincts. I believed that motherhood was my destiny and my future would see me as a stay-at-home mum raising a brood. My pregnancy was like a dream. No morning sickness for me. Everything was like clockwork, all according to the books and magazines ( the couple that I read) !

I remember at my 37-week check up with my GP, she told me that baby’s head was engaged and we were ready to go. I also remember at my 38-week check up with the new, young obstetrician at the hospital that he had some doubt as to whether or not the head was in fact engaged. At the time I laughed at him, mainly because :

a)      He was young and male

b)      I trusted my female GP implicitly

For whatever reason, he eventually concluded that things were as they should be and sent me home to wait out our impending, and much-anticipated arrival.

So I did. Everything was washed. Everything was set up. Everything was ready to go. All we needed was our baby. At ten past midnight on my due date, my waters broke. Off to the hospital we went. I had no labour pains at this stage and when the nurse checked me out at hospital she was going to send me down to the ward to see if anything was going to happen, except there weren’t any spare beds.  There was however a vacant birthing suite, so off we went to “see what happened”.

At 5.30am, I turned to my partner and told him I was ready to push and to find a midwife, they’d been few and far between. He looked at me like I was some crazy woman, but off he went nonetheless. When he returned with the midwife, she gave me the same crazy look, said she’d check things out to see what was going on.  She confirmed that I was indeed ready to push.

Nothing I had read, heard or talked about prepared me for what was to come. After some pushing it was confirmed that my baby was in the breech position. I was offered a c-section or to keep pushing to have a natural birth. My partner chose the second option, as I’d expressed my beliefs around c-sections. It was only to happen if it became a life or death situation.  
Pushing again and passing the time limit, without a baby, I was told that I hadn’t gotten very far, despite the midwives having convinced me I was about to give birth any minute.

I was whisked down to theatre for an emergency c-section, one leg hanging in the air as I was wheeled through the corridors and into the lift. In theatre, I was awake and conscious of what was going on. I don’t remember much of the actual process. I recall some tugging at my stomach and the doctor pulling our baby out and taking her to the observation table.  A reassuring cry came from our baby. The doctor came over, without telling us if we’d had a boy or girl (we were leaving it as a surprise), to inform us that there was something wrong with the baby’s leg and they’d need to investigate.

In that moment, I told myself that I was a failure. I wasn’t even good enough to get making a child right. I carried that with me for a very long time! It was all my fault. I was a failure. I wasn’t good enough. I was so disappointed in myself and felt like I’d let my partner down. I took that one moment and made it mean the end of the world in my mind. I could have chosen to be grateful for the fact that my child was otherwise healthy and well. After all, all of her limbs were intact and she was perfect in every way.

As humans, we tend to focus on the tiny negative aspect, rather than the more abundant positives that surround us. Focussing on the negative is to our detriment. I didn’t know any better at the time! I do now and so make conscious choices on a daily basis to be grateful, to focus on the positives, to live in the moment and to appreciate the little things. There is no guidebook for life. There is no rule book set in stone. Life is for living. Life is for making mistakes. Life is for breaking and bending the rules. Life is for figuring it out. Life is for making it happen. Lighten up. Live in the moment. Love your life for who you are and the experiences that have shaped the wonderful person you are today.

Reminiscing, Not Returning

I'm sure you've seen or heard this somewhere in the past,  You can't drive to the future using rear view mirror". I agree with it to some degree. From where I stand, it's okay to look back at the past and what happened, it's okay to reflect upon the lessons you learned then, it's okay to pat yourself on the back and say "Hey, look how far I've come. Man I've kicked some great goals and I am glad that I went through XYZ to get to where I am today". That kind of revisiting of the past is healthy, helpful and reassuring.

What's not healthy is when we revisit the past and hang out there. When we take on the emotions, the character we were and the beliefs we had at that time. To give you an insight of what I am talking about, I was recently set a challenge by a mentor to revisit a time in the past that was very defining for me, to write about my experiences and learnings that have helped me to get to the place I am in today. At the time of the experience, I felt helpless, hopeless, lost, dark, heavy, fearful, afraid, like I couldn't do the right thing and had no clue what I was doing. My self esteem was sub zero to say the least.

I will admit, I've been procrastinating ... a LOT. Consciously I know that the past is the past and its over and done. I've had endless flashbacks and memories of what happened during that time. The defining moments have been popping into my head daily and yet I've been struggling to get the thoughts out of my head and down onto paper. I have also been waging a full-scale internal military battle about the fact that I've been set this challenge, have been procrastinating and now two weeks since our meeting, I've not yet gotten anything concrete done. Fear has arrived and unpacked its suitcase, yet again. This time it's different though. This is more a fear around rejection, however that's a story for another time.

On the weekend I had decided that I was going to sit down and make a start on my challenge. I knew what I wanted to write and thought I knew how the words would pan out on the page. I sat in front of my computer and began to call upon the memories and pictures that had formed that particular experience. But then something else happened, I also took on the emotion of the feelings of the time just like putting on an old comfortable jacket. It probably would have been okay if I'd used these emotions to actually write with, but I chose the more commonly-trodden path of throwing myself a pity party!! 

Suddenly, I was right back there and I was that character. My partner called me to ask me to do something for him and he got the girl that was haunted our lives 4 years ago, not the woman I've become today. Then that caused a whole lot of tension between us. It was as if someone had hit the rewind button on our lives. It was scary. I had succumbed to the powerlessness I used to experience.

To be honest it lasted longer than it should have. However, I did pour a glass of ice water on my face to wake up to reality. To reflect that I am no longer that person. I am growing. I am changing. I am evolving. I am learning from the past and the lessons it presented. I am now even more passionate about my challenge, so much so that I am taking the time today to sit and write about my experiences.  

Today, I will choose to take the observation deck to the past. The emotion is still there, the memories will always be there, but I know now that I am merely an observer. The past has no power over me. And if I can help just one other person by sharing my story and my experiences, then I will be a happy woman. If I can help someone else to feel empowered, to see the light when all they can see is dark and to hear that life has a beautiful melody that you control the volume, the tempo and the bass of, I can go to bed at night knowing that I have fulfilled my passion for life. I believe that inside all of us is a story filled with lessons, waiting to be told.