Gosh, my first pregnancy was the best, but not until…
I had people envying me because of the ease with which I carried my baby to term. I’ve never in my entire life desired someone as much as I desired this baby, what did I not do, ehn? I ate my vegetables, went for regular check-ups, had a fitness trainer come to the house twice a week, I prayed and fasted when I could. My mother(s) were excited, because they had never experienced this type of pregnancy, they treated me like an egg and to be honest I felt like one.
On the day of delivery, I walked into the hospital like a boss not knowing that my life was about to do a 180.
Five hours into labour, after several attempts at pushing, my doctor realized that my cervix wasn’t dilating properly, and of course, there just had to be a surgery. Unfortunately, I have tomophobia, a fear of surgical procedures, this fear developed after losing my father and sister to surgeries at different points in my life. Prior to my delivery, when I discovered I was pregnant, I asked my doctor about the possibility of having a caesarean delivery, and he assured me I was healthy and might not have to undergo a caesarean section.
Imagine my shock when I was then told there has to be a surgery, I was numb, all my planning went down the drain and I felt I was going to die.
But I survived. At least, I think I did But I don’t think I’m the same woman that went into the surgical room. Every day I see my father and my little sister and sometimes we have conversations. Everyone thinks I’m lying; the doctors call it hallucination, some say I’m going mad. But honestly, I think I’m just a spirit renting time in a host, and my time will soon be up. I tried explaining to my husband that I’m not “here” anymore, but he took me to a doctor who say’s I’m experiencing post-partum depression. I don’t believe him, I want to ask him if he sees people walk through his door, but I’m worried that he might chain me to a bed.
I don’t know what post-partum depression is, I don’t know what it looks like, I don’t understand what the medication I’m using is supposed to cure, but I know that as I was wheeled into the surgical room, a part of me left. Maybe if I find that missing part, I’ll be what they call “okay”, but how do I explain how it feels to be here but not here, how do I explain that living through my worst nightmares took something that can’t be returned. Who would understand?
-Inifolu