I originally read this piece aloud on May 7, 2015 as part of the Little Rock, Arkansas edition of Listen to Your Mother. I was both awed and humbled to be included with a cast of charming storytellers whose stories were diverse but still familiar on some level with anyone who heard them. Click the link above to find out more about LTYM and to get on the mailing list, so you will remember to share your own story next year!
After my daughter was born, I did everything I was supposed to do. I pat-a-caked; I peek-a-booed; I counted pink little piggy toes, but I still didn't feel it. "It" being the overwhelming sense of adoration and affection that I felt after each of my first four children were born. It wasn't my little girl’s fault. Aubrey was a beautiful baby who ate well and slept well; never mind that after four boys, she was the sweet little bundle of sugar and spice I had always dreamed of. Still, I could do nothing more than go through the motions: feeding, changing, bathing, repeating, day in and day out.
After my daughter was born, I did everything I was supposed to do. I pat-a-caked; I peek-a-booed; I counted pink little piggy toes, but I still didn't feel it. "It" being the overwhelming sense of adoration and affection that I felt after each of my first four children were born. It wasn't my little girl’s fault. Aubrey was a beautiful baby who ate well and slept well; never mind that after four boys, she was the sweet little bundle of sugar and spice I had always dreamed of. Still, I could do nothing more than go through the motions: feeding, changing, bathing, repeating, day in and day out.
With my other children, even though life grew increasingly
dark as each pregnancy progressed, everything brightened after delivery. When
the depression didn't lift after Aubrey’s birth, I tried to break free the best
I knew how: I exercised more. I took vitamins and herbs and used essential
oils. I threw myself into hobbies, trying to ignite even a spark of interest in
life. I finally resorted to
antidepressants, which hadn't served me well in the past, but I was desperate
for relief. None of it worked, and the depression gradually transformed from
the thin dark air of a starless night to a thick black tar that both suffocated
and paralyzed me. Eventually, my
psychiatrist told me we might want to try something more radical:
electroconvulsive therapy or ECT, which is more commonly (and dramatically)
known as “electroshock therapy.” This term often conjures up images of “One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” and Jack Nicholson in the throes of sweaty,
violent convulsions, but reality is much more sedate. Literally.
ECT is actually performed under general anesthesia with some
muscle relaxers thrown in, so there are no convulsions when a little
electricity induces a seizure. I always
imagined myself being hooked up like a car battery that needed a jump start.
Looking back, it still sounds a little frightening, maybe even barbaric, but
it’s amazing what you’re willing to do when your life is on the line. I was so
sick by the time the doctor explained the risks of ECT to me that when she
said, “Anytime general anesthesia is involved, there is a risk of death,” all I
could think was, “That would really simplify things.” Over the next six weeks, I was put under and
shocked into a seizure nine times. Just
before the sixth or seventh treatment, as the doctor was injecting anesthesia
into my IV, I rushed to slur out a question before the meds kicked in: “I’m
actually afraid I won’t wake up this time. Does that mean it’s working?” The nurse patted me on the hand, smiled, and
said, “Yes. Now go to sleep.”
It’s odd that I remember so clearly the conversations I had
with the medical staff just before each treatment because memory loss is one of
the most troubling side effects of ECT. Since what I like to call my “electric
summer,” I have discovered many things I didn't know I had forgotten. Some of them are silly, like when I opened my cabinet and noticed a box of Jake and the
Neverland Pirates Band-Aids. I said, “These are so cute! When did we get these?”
My husband informed me that I was the one who bought them. Some lost memories
are just strange, like when I found three batches of soup in my freezer that I
don’t remember making. And sometimes the
lack of memory is painful. Luckily, I have an email transcript of my interaction with my oldest son Alex, who has already moved away from home, but I don’t remember watching my second oldest son, Eric, graduate
from high school. I can’t recall dropping my third son, Jacob, off at scout
camp for his first summer job. A trip
to the zoo with Aubrey and her three-year-old brother, Aidan, only lives in
photos. And three people who held special places in my heart passed away around the time of my
treatments. For several months, I would see or hear something that reminded me
of them, and it was almost like learning they were gone all over again.
I also have trouble making new memories.
Sometimes I struggle just to recall what I did yesterday, but other times I
remember with clarity something that happened a month ago.
The good news, though, is that in
the moment, I’m finally feeling it. I treasure the moments when Jacob, who has
become the last teenager living at home for now, looks up from his phone long
enough to grunt at me a little more than usual. When Aidan goes into great
detail describing the ins and outs of the latest Angry Birds game, I want to
hear it. When
he informs me that I am one puppy or another from Paw Patrol, I play along,
barking for good measure. And even
though the first two years of Aubrey’s life are a blur, I no longer cringe when
I hear her chattering on the baby monitor as she wakes up in the morning. And when
she dances to the theme song from Curious George, I get up and dance, too.
I never stopped loving my children, even in the darkest
hours, but now I can really feel it. I adore them again. I enjoy the time I
spend with them again. And even though next week or next month, I may not be
able to remember the little moments of joy that we create together today, I
hope they will. And in the end, that’s all the really matters.