Infant Loss

After my first pregnancy, I was prescribed an antidepressant for postpartum depression. Within 24 hours of starting the medication, I’d cut my hair, started a YouTube channel, and deep-cleaned and redecorated my house. I discovered a new ability to run off of three hours of sleep, and felt like I was thriving. So relieved to be out of my previous state of zombie-like living, I wasn’t willing to admit I was equally unwell, and experiencing what I would later recognize as having been a manic episode.

I was 22 then, and wouldn’t receive an accurate diagnosis until five years later.

At 27, I was trying to finish college, working part-time at an elementary school, and taking care of my then-5-year-old daughter. I knew that if I didn’t help myself, I’d be fighting the same battle of taming my own mind for the rest of my life. I spent my nights watching my daughter sleep, knowing that I needed to do something – anything – to be the mother she deserved. I knew in my bones that I was a nurturing and devoted mom, but I wanted to feel at peace in order to be able to provide her with peace.

I reached out to a therapist through my university, and canceled my appointment four times before finally showing up. That first session was the beginning of a healing process that was one of the most brutal experiences of my life. Forgiving people who have wronged you is hard; forgiving yourself is merciless. I received a Bipolar II diagnosis, and after dosage adjustments, have had immense luck with the right mood-stabilizing medication.

I found out I was pregnant with my second in December of 2023, and told my doctor that I wanted to taper off my medication. I’d done the research, and knew that mine was one of the most recommended mood-stabilizers for pregnancy, but in spite of advocating for the destigmatization of mental-health conditions, I knew deep down that I didn’t want to admit to my new medical team that I was dependent on a medication for survival. My doctor expressed concern, but said it was ultimately my decision. I made the choice to stop.

Though I’d had an easy first pregnancy, this one hit me like a freight train. I was consumed by depression and anxiety, my mind brimming with current dilemmas, past conflicts, and personal downfalls. I had to take frequent bathroom breaks at work to steady my breathing and avoid giving in to my spiraling thoughts. I struggled to perform daily tasks at home, and knew I was losing my ability to hide my diminishing mental health from my daughter – the very reason I’d initially sought help years before. I realized that it wasn’t wrong to need help, but it was wrong to jeopardize what I worked so hard to maintain over the years, just to avoid stigma.

I went to my OB’s office and was met with pure grace by the resident medical assistant. I’ll never forget the kindness that he showed me in such a vulnerable moment. He told me that while I’m choosing to share my body with someone else, I’m still worth loving and advocating for. He was clear and communicative about the medical basis for his reflections, sharing the scientific justifications for why it was okay to restart my medication. I walked out of the office feeling seen.

A diagnosis does not define you. It can dictate choices you make, but it doesn’t have to be your entire identity. The imbalances within my body don’t determine my capabilities as a parent. I can be a great mom, a loving wife, and a functioning member of society while also needing assistance in maintaining the disequilibrium in my brain that is quite literally out of my control. What is in my control, however, is choosing to be honest with myself and my support team, so that I can not just survive, but thrive.

I sensed hesitancy from the sonographer as she clicked incessantly on the keyboard. After hoping, waiting, and praying, I was more prepared for thispregnancy than I was for my first child, Olivia. But I was shocked when, as my bladder was near bursting, the sonographer exclaimed while she typed in all caps – “TWINS!”

My mother died three months before I became pregnant. I yearned to dream of her, to feel close to her again. When I finally did, it branded the creases of my brain. She came to my side, and in an uncharacteristically calm voice, she told me that one of my babies wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t share the dream with anyone, but I buried it in my shoulder like a quiet cross to bear. I couldn’t let go of it because it was a precious visitation of my mother I missed dearly, yet I fiercely blocked it as a possibility. Her peaceful presence then would resurface later to comfort me when my nightmare came true.

“We have Baby A who is doing well, Baby B is pretty sick, but all the nurses and doctors are trying to help her now.” I awoke to these words from my husband, struggling to comprehend as I tried desperately to awake from anesthesia. I was in disbelief. I was almost 37 weeks. My co- worker had just joked with me that they were just getting fat now and could come out anytime. My specialist had told me I could “write the book on having twins.” We would say goodbye forever to our Baby B, Jacqueline, just eight hours later. For eight powerful hours, we held her.