Tag Archives: motherhood

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

The Poison is the Medicine

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It’s probably horrible to refer to my kid as “poison,” but there we are.

I went to the second weekly meeting of our bereavement support group today, and one of the themes that arose is the need for those of us in mourning to be gentle with ourselves. Our brains might not be working properly, we might not feel how we think we should feel, and possibly our single goal for each day is to make it through the day. We are supposed to be patient with ourselves. Mourning is a multi-stage journey, and how we are today is not how we’ll be weeks, months or years from now.

My immediate response to this was anger and resentment. I often don’t feel like I have the luxury of being gentle or patient with myself, because I have a four-year-old son who is in the middle of major life transitions. Isaac lost his dad four months ago, moved with me across the province, started a new preschool and is surrounded by a completely different set of family and friends.

Most of his toys and books are buried in our storage locker, which he told me tonight makes him “frustrated” and want to hit.

The Poison

No matter how much slack I want to give myself during this grieving process, I never feel like I can let it all loose because I have a son to take care of and comfort. I can’t get drunk, spend the day in bed or subsist on crusty bread, blue cheese and salami.

Sometimes I crave a week of solitude, just so I can sit still with the loss of Brock and do whatever I need to, to get all this sadness out.

And, in fact, I could run away for a week. But Isaac would miss me. And my job, at least for the immediate future, is to give him some stability and structure.

The Medicine

THEN it occurred to me, as I ate my way through the tin of chocolate cookies at hospice, that while Isaac makes this whole grieving thing more difficult, he is also what is pulling me through it.

Brock and I planned this move to Invermere for Isaac. Regardless of all my own reasons for coming here, if I didn’t have Isaac to consider I would probably set off on the Appalachian Trail this year. I wouldn’t be building a house here, or settling in for the next 15 years. It’s comforting to have this plan. I don’t ever feel lost or overwhelmed with decisions, because they’ve already been made. And I like our plan.

If I didn’t have Isaac, I wouldn’t have to get out of bed every morning (he likes to turn on all the lights to ensure I’m awake). I wouldn’t have the structure in my days (thanks to his preschool and various activities) that makes it possible for me to write and finish my first ever mystery novel.

Yes, having Isaac in my life forces me to function at a level above where I would like right now, but he also helps me grieve Brock. He talks about his dad every few days, telling me stories or clarifying memories while we drive around or read in bed. These mentions are random and therefore I don’t have my defences up: he forces me to remember, and it’s painful. Making Isaac’s Christmas gift, a photo album of “dad and Isaac” pictures, was a therapy session unto itself.

It’s All About the Dose

I Googled “poison is the medicine” for kicks and it comes from toxicology, specifically its father Paracelsus, a Swiss physician born in 1493-ish, who wrote:

“Sola dosis facit venenum”

Which Wikipedia translates as:

“Only the dose makes the poison.”

I interpret this to mean that my regular outsourcing of Isaac to preschool, gymnastics, swimming & skating & skiing lessons, Aunt Evy and his grandparents is a good thing.

And I suppose the fact that I use that alone time NOT to eat salami and drink martinis and sob in bed, but rather to write and attend a support group and read mysteries, is a good sign.

Maybe the dose is exactly right.

The hardest Christmas present I’ve ever made: a photo album for Isaac of all his photos with his dad.
A Year of Re-Skilling

Post-Partum Depression is (Sometimes) Bullshit

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Post-partum depression is (sometimes) bullshit. I believe this so much that I’m repeating the headline.

I included the “(sometimes)” part because I’m sure that some women really do get clinically depressed after having a baby. I don’t want to devalue their experience: I’m sure it’s legit and very tough, and I’m glad there are resources out there to help these mamas.

That said, I know lots of women who are unhappy after having a baby — downright sad, miserable and gloomy, who might even regret getting knocked up in the first place, and these mamas don’t necessarily have clinical depression. They’re just HUMAN BEINGS who have experienced something traumatic, their life has changed irrevocably, and they continue to be tortured by sleep deprivation, physical trials and natural hormonal imbalances.

Having a baby can be a super shitty experience, from the pregnancy experience to the birth and right on through the child-rearing stages.

I was downright miserable for at least 18 months after Isaac was born. It’s not his fault: he was/is a great kid. I just hated being responsible for a baby.

Actual conversation from 2014:

WELL-MEANING FEMALE COUSIN: “Aw, look at him! You must be loving every minute.”

HEATHER: “Actually, no, this is hell and I’m living a nightmare. The only reason I’m laughing right now is because I’m exhausted.”

I’m naturally a positive, optimistic person and so I thought to myself, “don’t be so gloomy. Focus on the happy moments.” So I designated a “Happiness Jar” and told myself I’d write down every happy moment and put the slip of paper into the jar. I found that jar when we moved two years later: there were three slips of paper inside it. Three happy moments in one year. Yep, that sounds about right.

I was not, at any time, depressed. I’ve been depressed before. I ate Prozac for eight years in my twenties. I understand the kind of depression that motivates self-harm and suicide and self-medication. I was never depressed as a new mom, and so “post-partum depression” does not describe what I felt.

Any human being, even trained soldiers, can crack when sleep deprived. That is why it’s a method of torture.

And yet we tell new mamas they are “sick,” they’re not “normal” new moms, if they aren’t happy caring for their babies. They are labeled with “post-partum depression,” when many of these struggling moms (most of them?) are just human beings in new, very trying circumstances.

I didn’t realize how angry this all made me until my very good friend was told by her doctor that she had post-partum depression. I know depression, and I’ve even seen this friend clinically depressed, and PPD was not the right diagnosis.

This doctor had never had children, so maybe she can be sorta forgiven for her ignorance, but still.

New mamas are vulnerable to judgement. Maybe we’ve never changed a diaper before, or held a newborn, or are just figuring out how to breastfeed. It seems unforgivably cruel to me to then tell this vulnerable new mama that she is not “normal” or healthy because she’s struggling emotionally. That she’s mentally ill with depression.

The one good thing about my friend being “diagnosed” with PPD is that she started to see a counsellor, which I think is almost always a good thing because it helps to talk about stuff. AND, because she had counsellor’s appointments, she got a little break from taking care of her baby. Awesome. About time.

There aren’t many issues in this world that get me angry. But I’m often tempted to take on post-partum depression.

I want a world where it’s okay to say: “Wow, this is really tough. I’m having a hard time with this new mom thing. Babies are so goddamn needy and I’d love to have a shower, drink a hot tea and read a book like a normal person,” and then your doctor would hook you up with a great respite program and book you into the spa. They wouldn’t respond with: “There’s something wrong with you. You’re sick. Most moms don’t feel this way.”

I call bullshit.

Isaac eats cotton candy for the first time.

[Note: Isaac is about to turn four years old. The older he gets, the more I like and LOVE him. I’m finally experiencing that “whole heart” ache of love that some baby moms describe. Motherhood got infinitely better for me after about 18 months, and I hope all mamas who struggle with the baby years find their own groove eventually too.]