Living My Nightmare

When I was pregnant with my fourth child, there was a dark little spot inside of me that did not truely believe that my baby would be born alive. It was all the normal pregnancy worries amplified far beyond normal. This was not every moment. But there were enough of these dark thoughts pressing on me that it was definitely not healthy. I put off preparing his room and getting out the baby clothes for a long time because of these worries. And then one day when I was finally making myself work on it, I actually thought to myself, I wonder if the Relief Society will send someone over to pack these things up for me, or will I have to do it myself when I get home from the hospital? Yeah. Really dark stuff. So that moment when the doctor laid my perfect little boy in my arms was the first moment that I really and truely knew that I was taking a baby home from the hospital with me! A very joyous moment.

About five months later, a friend from church lost her baby girl during labor. It tore my heart open, and shook me to the core -- here she was, living my nightmare. And then I had to watch as she kind of came a little unhinged. She got pregnant again soon after that, again with a baby girl. Mostly she seemed so incredibly strong to have gone through what she did. The day I started to really worry about her was when she told me that she couldn't decide whether to use Natalie's things for the new baby. I told her that I was sure that Natalie would want her little sister to use her things. And then she said, "but what if the Millenium comes?" I was so shocked by the question that I couldn't begin to articulate an answer. I suppose then they could have had their two baby girls share the clothes that they had lovingly prepared. The millenium did not come, but her baby did. We moved away before her baby was even born, but when we went back to visit, she was beautiful. Perfect. And alive. I think the wounds were still there for my friend, though, under the smile. I'm not sure if holding her sweet baby was healing wounds, or picking at the scabs.

Now another friend is living another of my nightmares. My sister in law is hospitalized as I write. For post partum . . . I don't know what to call it . . . I suppose it has gone far beyond depression at this point, so is is post partum psychosis? I don't actually know her clinical diagnosis. My brother called me the week after Easter, and made her get on the phone with me to talk about post partum depression, and the wonders of medication. Because after my fourth child, a little boy, was born -- healthy, perfect and alive -- I still found myself lost and wandering in the maze of depression. Walking that balance beam between the darkness and the light. And medication saved me. It is still saving me every day. She and I had a nice conversation about it. She was not particularly open to the idea of taking something, but said that she could see my points that I was making about it, and said that she would prayerfully consider what to do.

I never followed through. I thought so many times that I should call or email and see how she was doing, what decision had she made about medication, did she end up feeling like she needed it. And now she is living another of my nightmares. Of course, it is a nightmare from which she will emerge. She is getting help, and I am confident that she will be fine. But I find myself feeling so so sad for my brother, who had to involuntarily commit his wife to a hospital, worried for my four nephews who must be scared and confused, and heart broken for my sister in law.

And I also have to admit, I am sad and worried, and heartbroken just a little bit for me, too. I can't stop thinking: How close to the edge did I come? In my wanderings through the darkest of times, how close was I to where she found herself? Am I even now safe?