As I start writing this, I can’t help imagining my daughter reading this when she’s older. I’d want to tell her that I love you so much; literally more every day so I can’t even imagine the feeling by the time you’re reading this. That I’m heartbroken that you couldn’t have my love from the start. That none of it was your fault because you’re the most amazing human I know. That I’m writing this to process the pain, but please never think that I don’t care. You deserved more but you were still held, rocked, kissed, sang and read to. I just wish I could have done those things with my heart singing for you as it does so easily now. I would do it all again to have you as my daughter.
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I never had any doubt about wanting children, definitely at least two, probably in quick succession like me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. I always loved kids, especially babies, although I wonder now if this was based mostly on seeing 6-12 month olds out and about in impossibly cute snow suits rather than any real time spent with them… I craved the feeling of being pregnant and having a bump with a growing baby inside. I couldn’t imagine a more special feeling than that. I pictured cradling the bump and feeling so content at the prospect of a newborn baby of my own. When friends told me they were pregnant this was always accompanied by a primal longing for that to be me. I was present at a 20 week scan during my medical degree and basically cried when I saw the perfect vertebrae, the ventricles of the brain and the impossibly small-but-there limbs and digits. I could only dream about how strong these feelings would be when it was my own turn.
Operation baby kicked in as planned when we moved to Sheffield a few years ago for work: a move we’d both been looking forward to for years down south. Starting my new career as a junior doctor was full-on with long hours and a steep learning curve; feeling constantly under-qualified to be doing the things asked of us. It took up a lot of my energy and occupied my thoughts at home a lot of the time – had I remembered to stop that patient’s anticoagulation, did that consultant think I’m incompetent… We were also exploring a totally new city, plus getting a puppy at the same time was hard work – the first few weeks involved getting up at least once per night to let him out and just having him in the house required constant vigilance for toileting accidents and chewed possessions. My husband described feeling ‘the puppy blues’ (I hadn’t heard of it before either): that sense of your life being suddenly and completely changed for the foreseeable future by the reality of having to put another being’s needs before your own. Poor, sweet innocent us, we had no idea!
The second month of trying, for boring logistical and timing reasons I reckoned it was impossible for me to have conceived. So I relaxed the no-alcohol rule and had a couple of glasses a few times. When I had a positive pregnancy test later that month I felt mostly shock and guilt; logically I knew it was probably fine and if anyone else had come to me with the same worries I would have reassured them as much but what if that alcohol had affected the baby? Already I felt like I’d failed at giving the baby the ‘perfect’ start in life. This was the first hint that having a child was not going to be the joyous experience I’d imagined for so long. Instead I felt a barren numbness. Where was the explosion of excitement that I’d taken as an absolute given I would feel at the news? Nor did I feel any of the more negative emotions I might have expected like fear or trepidation, strangely that would have been more reassuringly normal to me. But duty I did feel, and I got on with arranging midwife appointments and scans.
I continued to feel not much about the prospect of having a baby for the next few weeks, we told only our closest friends and siblings at this stage. I think I said things like ‘I’m so excited’ to them because there didn’t seem to be anything else you could say when giving this news. Then around week 5 the exhaustion and nausea kicked in and life became a thing to be endured for the next 35 weeks. The tiredness was nothing like I’d experienced before – in previous life if I’d felt tired I could usually give myself a boost with a brisk walk or something fun – now it felt like there was a certain amount of fuel in the tank and that had to be rationed; doing more just ran the battery down. Horizontal was where I wanted to be, and very much not where life as a junior doctor allowed me to be. The nausea was constant, like lots of pregnant women I got used to vomiting most days, especially as I was getting ready for work, and sometimes in the car on the way to work. Whether this was a separate symptom or just a result of the fatigue and nausea I’m not sure but I also felt a weird sense of dissociation – like I wasn’t fully present or myself most of the time.
Somehow, although I told people how I was feeling after the 12 week scan, it seemed almost impossible to actually act as though I was constantly nauseous and exhausted. I just seemed to carry on ‘as normal’. Only my wonderful husband really saw my reality, when I got home from work each day I would sit on the sofa feeling spent and relieved to be quiet and still. He picked up the slack, doing the vast majority of the cooking and housework, something I am so grateful for.
At pregnancy yoga, the teacher would tell us to focus on the foetus and channel our love towards them. Society told me I should be dying to meet my little one and ideally already feel a special bond with this growing person. I was indeed keen to meet her, but only because I felt sure this would trigger the feelings I was empty of. One thing I’ve looked back on with weird guilt is that I never felt anxious about her health in the womb; if I’d had reduced foetal movements for a prolonged period I would have sought medical help as advised but most mothers I’ve spoken to describe unstoppable pangs of anxiety about their baby’s movements or odd pregnancy symptoms. I felt nothing.
Having spent a lot of time wondering what the root cause (if there is one!) was of my later feeling of disconnection from my baby, I keep coming back to the circumstances when I conceived. My head wasn’t really in the game: all my focus was taken up with a new career, new city… Plus it came easy for us. We were incredibly lucky to get pregnant quickly. There was no opportunity to yearn for a baby; we were just following the plan. And I get the sense my heart didn’t get chance to catch up.
If this experience resonates with your current situation - please know that love will come and be more beautiful and joyous than you can even imagine! You are amazing for continuing to be there for your little one and wonderful times lie ahead.
Hey Laura, this was really good to read. I felt like this for a lot of pregnancy too. I think, as a naturally anxious person, I didn’t let myself bond with my baby before they were born… this anxiety continued in the first few months of motherhood and I was in survival mode a lot of the time rather than blissful bonding but it came and is just so strong now. You’re not alone xxx
Wow, such frank writing, Laura. I'm sure sharing these stories will help others who have felt similarly. (And I hope it helps you process the experience a bit for yourself too, now with the benefit of some time distance.)