I Surrender by Claire Olson
I became a parent 9 years (and some months) ago, when my husband and I welcomed our oldest son, Brayden, into the world. Since then, I have had three more children. That makes three boys living earth side and our youngest, our girl, living in our hearts. I delivered Piper at 18 weeks GA. She had died sometime before, but we didn’t know until an US was completed in follow up to abnormal genetic testing results.
Piper was diagnosed with Trisomy 13, a genetic abnormality that we had no control over. The day we found out she might have Trisomy 13, our grief journey was initiated. The day we delivered her sweet, tiny body (perfect in every way), we set foot on the actual path.
Two months after I delivered Piper in the hospital, surrounded by rooms of screaming babies, my grief changed from channeled energy, self-sufficiency and healthy discussion to sadness, fear, chest pain and incompetence. I withdrew from my life.
The holiday season had commenced, our only daughter had died, I was back at work (6 weeks later), my husband cried and my boys needed their Mom for… EVERYTHING. I was left with little time or energy to accept the complicated grief of personal regrets and fears of my living children and an inability to connect with my daughter who had died. I couldn't identify as a bereaved mother.
I knew they existed. I was one. I had started a group to help us, but what did it really feel like to be a bereaved mother? I didn't know and I couldn't figure it out because as I grieved, somewhere along that path, depression settled in. It placed a dark, heavy cloud over the top of a grief fog. I could barely navigate what was happening in my mind or put it into digestible thoughts that made sense.
By definition I was a bereaved mother, but I couldn't see past my depression to accept that piece of my story and make sense of it. I went from not crying and being in shock, to crying about everything. I could not think about Piper the same way as before. I didn't know how to talk about her, I didn't want to see friends, the thought of going to work the next day left me paralyzed in my home. I couldn't handle decisions like broccoli or carrots for dinner or simple transitions from brushing my teeth to physically turning around to answer questions from my other children.
I felt overwhelmed by simple choices, to the point that I stopped making them. I frantically searched for help from my doctor, obgyn, online support groups, psychiatrist, family counselor, grief counselor… nothing came fast enough. I requested help from my family out of fear of being by myself or alone with my children. I pleaded to my husband to hear the desperation in my voice and stay by my side while I melted to the floor unable to rise up.
I cried to my children, while simultaneously hating myself for putting them in a position they were too young to understand. I texted some friends and then I didn't text at all. I stopped leaving the house. I was freaking out and wondered how the hell I had gotten into this mental space and questioned if I would ever be able to survive being a bereaved mother?
I was depressed and dealing with complicated grief. I wasn't alone, but it sure felt like it. I wanted people to know how much I was suffering, but I didn't want them to see me like this. I hated myself, I had no confidence. It just felt easier to be a puddle than an active participant in my world.
I quickly learned that mental health after pregnancy and loss can change; and it can change fast. Depression doesn't give warning and the term is used so loosely, you might not even trust its meaning. The medical professionals around you, who should know and understand, might not understand at all. All the things that you were worried about or didn't cope well with before come right to the surface after your baby dies. They manifest in healthy ways and then, sometimes, for some people, they take an ugly turn, making your mind feel like a jumbled mess of irrational thoughts and fears.
Some people get help, some don't… all I could think about was this very small, barely flickering, light inside of me that has been a part of me since birth. That light gave me what little I needed to acknowledge that I was scared. That I had to call, ask for help and forget about how demoralizing it was to admit it.
I remember thinking "I don't wish this on anyone. How do women get help? Someone, just believe me, wrap me up in your arms and save me."
I finally found a grief counselor who acknowledged my reality and affirmed the steps I needed to take for my safety and mental well-being. I was able to get confident enough to make the decision to take a leave from work for two months, get medication and a psychiatrist to manage it short and long term.
I began to simplify - big time. No more worries about…. Well EVERYTHING. I couldn't do it all, if I kept it up, it was going to kill me and I wanted to still be here in this world, even though I had to figure out how to do it without Piper in my arms.
My mom cooked meals, did laundry, cleaned kitchen countertops, put the boys to bed at night and picked up the phone every time I was panicking and needed calm reassurance that I was not alone. My husband loved me, shared his admiration for my strength and honesty. My work approved my time off. My friends checked in, the few that really knew what was going on.
When I began to settle into this new reality of self-care and self-focus, as I had never done before, and I wasn't freaking out, mind racing second to second, worrying about the next thing, I remember asking my husband "Is this depression or is this what life after deep loss teaches us? Acknowledging good moments, slowing down, loving… a hug, sleeping in, exercise, appreciation?"
When you are strong all your life, you hussle, manage, do the right thing, love deeply, fear irrationally and want the absolute best for everything and everyone. The first person who won't believe you have a mental illness stopping you, potentially endangering you, is yourself.
You didn't do this to yourself, but you take full responsibility for the position you are in, and you shouldn't. You literally think people will hate you, doubt you or fear you. You hope for a clear timeframe on when this will end, but there isn't one. Grief and depression are similar, yet different.
It is important to know that grief should not be used synonymous with depression, but they can co-exist. There are times when grief is no longer the only force taking hold of your mind, and it is important to seek medical help. This journey is scary but can be beautiful. It can open your heart to a deeper understanding of yourself and your purpose in the world. But you cannot do it alone, and you cannot reach these mental and emotional spaces if you also have untreated and managed depression.
There is a light flickering somewhere inside of every bereaved mother, even on the darkest days, that is fueled by faint pieces of who we are. That light may be dim, but it can shine brightly again. Let a friend see you, a family member hug you, a professional evaluate you and let your guiding light show you the way to a peaceful tomorrow - because you are a bereaved mother who is worth it.
