Elizabeth's Story

Her daughter, Melissa, was born after 26 weeks of gestation. She weighed one and a half pounds exactly, and she was told her baby wouldn't live the night. This was only the beginning, as Elizabeth describes it:

Naturally I was devastated, but to make it worse, I went through it all alone. I had my immediate family in the UK, but Melissa's father, whom I'm now actually married to, lived in America. So essentially, all this little baby had was me. During the eleven and a half weeks (seven in intensive care) that she was in hospital, I lived in a blank period. There was no normality of life in this at all. I functioned day to day pretty much as a robot.

I too was sick. The pregnancy had had complications: I had undergone a C-section, and I was suffering from severe infections, but all that seemed to matter to me was my daughter's welfare. I neglected myself terribly, never giving myself a chance to heal either physically or emotionally.

I spent every day at the hospital by my daughter's side. I'd arrive home exhausted, and my body kept protesting at the lack of rest. Even when I was away from the hospital, my mind was always there, always on my daughter's fight for life. I dreaded the telephone ringing, in case it was bad news, and if I was anywhere else other than by her side, I felt this immense guilt, because I felt that I should be there.

I shut everybody out that tried to help me. Nobody could possibly understand what I was going through. People would tell me, "She'll be all right," and I wanted to scream, "How do you know? You can't have any idea."

(Melissa had actually clinically "died" at birth, though I never discovered this until much later. It took them ten minutes to resuscitate her, and she went on to have kidney failure and numerous other problems.)

I dared not breakdown. I was all this child had and I knew that if I succumbed once, it would be all over. During the whole of this period and for months afterwards, I did not shed a tear. I simply never allowed myself time to grieve. It was like well, I'll schedule the breakdown for later, I don't have time now. Only later did I realize that being strong carries a price.

Melissa arrived home at the beginning of September, but what should have been a time of joy only added to the stress. My child had been monitored for months by the latest in medical technology, and now all she had was me. Then, in October, my grandmother died. I was talking to my niece one night on the phone and we were having a perfectly normal conversation. All of a sudden, she asked me if I was okay and it was like being hit by a thunderbolt. I literally collapsed in a heap. I was a blubbering, jabbering wreck, a total emotional mess. I recall that my niece came over and took Melissa from me for the night. I cried for hours and hours until I eventually fell asleep. That was the start of many nights like this.

I carried on like this for months, I didn't want to go out, I didn't want to see anybody, and I didn't want anybody visiting. My life essentially felt over, and I began to convince myself that my kids (I had an older boy, too) would be better off without me, and that I wasn't a good mother. I was irritable and miserable, and they didn't deserve this. This went on until Melissa was almost 18 months old.

I actually knew that people were avoiding me. They couldn't cope with my depression and they didn't understand. If they stayed away then fine. It suited my frame of mind completely. I think the breakthrough came when I actually sought medical help. I finally swallowed my pride and went to the doctor's. Then, as he was talking about antidepressants, something funny happened: I realized that this is not me, this is not how I work, so I actually refused the medication. I went home and I completely changed my attitude, shocked with myself for letting myself sink so low.

Things improved almost immediately, and gradually I got back on track. Maybe if I had sought help earlier, I might not have gotten to the stage I did. On the other hand I also believe that I needed to have my own grieving process for all that I went through. I also acknowledge that what turned out right for me does not necessarily apply to others.

My last child was also born a preemie, and, happy to say, I handled things a lot better this time around. In fact I managed to give some comfort to others new to these experiences. I have no doubt that all I have been through has made me a far stronger person. Things that I might have considered daunting before now seem less so. My experiences were very traumatic, but they also taught me the value of life. I learned some harsh lessons after my bleak period came to an end - being strong is an admirable trait, but we all need to realize that it doesn't hurt to ask for help.

Postscript: Melissa is now almost four and quite an animal!

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