Most of us who have had children experience the blues in one form or another in those early months. Whether it’s the notorious ‘Baby Blues’ that strike around day 3 or 4 as your milk comes in and messes with all your hormones, or the blues brought on through lack of sleep and the enormous life changing event of looking after a newborn baby and all that entails, we all tend to have had our moments of feeling down. But eventually the fog subsides and we become completely enamoured by this new little being we brought into the world.

But what if you don’t and haven’t? That’s usually a warning sign that you may be experiencing something more serious than a case of the blues. Postnatal depression affects approximately 15% of woman after the birth of their baby. This is *Kate’s story.

(*Name changed to protect privacy)

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I can vividly remember how I felt when my daughter was first placed in my arms. I was so happy I thought I would burst. As time went by and I adapted to the crazy world that is motherhood, I only fell more and more in love with her.

Fast forward a couple of years and my husband and I decided to try for a second child. I fell pregnant again quickly and we were over the moon. I assumed things would be just like the first time, but I was wrong.

From the start, my second pregnancy was a difficult one. I had extreme morning sickness that never went away. I was vomiting at home, at work and in the car. I was utterly miserable and sick of being sick.

As the pregnancy progressed, I began to have trouble sleeping. I’d fall asleep exhausted each night and wake at 2 or 3am and that became the start of my day. Coupled with looking after a toddler and a stressful job, it all became too much. I felt low, anxious and tearful, but figured that was just pregnancy hormones.

When my son was finally born, things began to unravel. I held him in my arms and waited for a sense of elation to take over. It didn’t. I just felt tired and detached. There was none of the emotion I felt when my daughter was born – I could have been holding a stranger’s baby.

Things worsened when I got home. Lack of sleep is a given with a newborn, but even when my son was sleeping, I was lying awake, filled with anxiety as my mind raced through a variety of horrifying and improbable scenarios.

I never had the slightest intention of hurting my son, but I was so scared I would do something accidentally. My thoughts became more and more irrational. I was afraid someone would shoot us. I was afraid I would crash my car with him inside. I was afraid I would drop dead and fall on him.

Visions of my son lying badly hurt or injured flooded my mind constantly and I couldn’t shake them. These thoughts would pop into my head, unwanted, uninvited, at all hours of the day and night.

When it was time for my husband to return to work, I’d beg him every morning not to go. Not to leave me alone with my son. This tiny new human who filled me with so much fear.

I spent most of my days sobbing. As a second-time mum, I knew in theory what I was supposed to do with a baby. Every day I would go through the motions – changing nappies and singing songs to him, but with tears rolling down my cheeks. My two year old would do her best to comfort me “Don’t cry, mummy – it’s ok”, which only made me cry harder.

I felt nothing for my son, except resentment each night he woke crying. He didn’t feel like mine. I was certain the only reason he was crying was because I was a failure as a mother and that he deserved a better one. I genuinely thought adoption would be a good solution.

The sadness, the emptiness and the guilt became unbearable. I’d force myself to go out and put on a happy face, so no one would suspect a thing. When people asked how I was doing, I’d say ‘fine, fine’ and crack jokes about tiredness.

Eventually, leaving the house became so complicated and overwhelming, I’d end up staying home.

I realised I needed help when the empty feeling started to extend to my 2 year old. The rational part of my brain knew that I used to love her more than anything, so it wasn’t normal that I felt so detached from her now. Everything she or my husband said or did seemed to anger me. I would alternate between irrational rage, lashing out at the people closest to me, and total numbness.

In some part of my mind, I understood that this must be postnatal depression but I didn’t want to admit to it. I had little experience of depression before that point and didn’t understand the ways in which it could manifest itself. I thought depression meant you were suicidal and couldn’t get out of bed or function on a day to day level. I was still functioning, albeit not very well.

At the end of my son’s 6 week check up, the doctor asked how I was doing. As I prepared to say ‘fine”, I burst into floods of tears instead. It all came out – the intrusive thoughts, the anxiety, the tears and the fact I was such a terrible mother and that my children deserved better. She gently suggested I make another appointment to come and see her.

I was formally diagnosed with post-natal depression and together we decided on a course of counselling and anti-depressant medication

I got in touch with a local organisation which offered help and support to people suffering from PND. Through them, I met people who were in a similar boat and who understood.

Slowly, things began to improve and I started having more good days than bad. As the medication began to work, my anxiety lessened and I began to laugh again.

Recovery has been a difficult journey. At times, I’ve felt like I’ve taken one step forward and two steps back. But I’ve progressed from feeling nothing for my son to all-encompassing love. We recently celebrated his first birthday and I can’t believe there was ever a time when my heart didn’t ache with love for him.

I still have the odd bad day, but they are fewer and further between now. I no longer lie awake every night, anxious and terrified or spend my days in tears. I’m aware of my stressors and understand the importance of self-care.

In some ways, I think I’m a stronger, better person than I was before. I certainly have a much greater understanding of mental illness and have become less judgmental and more empathetic.

As I’ve started to feel better, I’ve begun to be more open about my experiences. I hope that the more we can talk about postnatal anxiety and depression, the more we can shed the stigma of it and help mothers to get the support they need.

For further information click here if you are in NZ and if you are in Australia click here.

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Have you or someone you know ever experienced PND?

Linking up with: #IBOT @ Kylie Purtell 

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The post Your Voice, Your Story: Postnatal Depression (PND) appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Itchy bugs. I don’t mean the tummy bug type bug that is every parents worst nightmare, waking up with spew in your hair is no fun for anyone (yes, that really happened to me and very recently in fact!). No. I’m talking ACTUAL BUGS. The alive creepy crawly type bugs. The microscopic beasts that make your skin crawl, the kind that will have you itching your skin and scalp by the end this post in full blown paranoia.

I have honestly had the worst September. I wrote about it the other week in fact and I had hoped that was the end of it. Do you ever have those months where it’s just one bad luck event after another? Well mine continued to pile up until it became a comedy of errors that just had to be written about because if you don’t laugh you cry right? It was certainly one of those months! And I appreciated the laughs because it made me feel like it had all been for something, even if it was just to give others a giggle at my expense! But just to top things off, it wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning of the worst of it. Yes, I said WORSE.

My 3 year old son came home Tuesday night with a few spots on his legs, the kind that make you look twice. As he has eczema though I shrugged them off. Fast forward to Wednesday night and suddenly he had WAY more spots. All over his legs and arms in fact. I panicked and thought chicken pox and immediately made a doctors appointment because not only have my kids never had it, but my husband hasn’t either. Chicken pox was the last thing we needed! Can you imagine both your kids AND your husband holed up miserable with chicken pox?! No. Just, no. So off to the doctor we trotted, fingers crossed and all. And it turns out it wasn’t chicken pox at all. No. It was worse. Scabies.

SCABIES

Have you ever heard of scabies? It is a bug that crawls under your skin and hatches eggs so more bugs can crawl all over your body eating you. Kind of. the true definition is as follows:

Scabies is a very itchy rash caused by a parasitic mite that burrows in the skin surface. These tiny insects burrow along in the skin, laying eggs as they go. Above the eggs small blisters form, surrounded by red patches which are extremely itchy and can spread very easily through human contact.

Yeah. RIOT!

Contrary to popular belief, scabies can attach to anyone no matter social standing or cleanliness. Even the cleanest people can catch scabies because all it takes is brief contact with someone who has it and it can spread like wildfire.

The ‘official’ diagnosis was ‘possible scabies’ but I just heard bug, itchy, eggs, crawl, washing.

Yes, that’s right. WASHING. Did I mention we had torrential rain forecast AGAIN (hello Spring!) and I was informed I needed to wash EVERYTHING in the house – sheets, blankets, towels, pillowcases and any clothes that had been worn in the week prior to the ‘possible diagnosis’ and any clothes that had touched other clothes in the last week. HOT wash. NIGHTMARE.

In addition, we also all had to shower and coat ourselves in cream from head to toe overnight before showering again the following morning. I’m itchy just thinking about it! As it turns out, it’s likely he did not (I repeat, DID NOT) have scabies as his rash started to clear up by that afternoon BUT after reading all that, would you not still do what you were told in total fear of bugs crawling under your skin and laying eggs?! Yes? Yes. So I had a fun filled weekend of neverending washing to do and nowhere to dry it. Story of my life!

Scabies are however, not the only itchy bug you will probably be introduced to at some point in your lifetime.

Hellooooo NITS

Head lice (nits) are small, wingless insects than infest the human head and hair feeding on tiny amounts of blood drawn from the scalp.

My head gets itchy just writing the word! (Still itchy!). Nits are a common childhood nightmare brought to you (mostly) by little girls with lovely long thick hair that they just love to get tangled up in and provide hours of entertainment (ha!) for already run off their feet parents to tediously comb through and remove eggs and live crawly treasures one by one. And even then they very rarely go away and you need to repeat, repeat, repeat! Apparently the cleaner the hair the more they love it! Terrific! Thankfully I have yet to re-experience these little beasts since becoming a parent (I was just the carrier as a child on a couple of occasions!) but I don’t hold my breath. I’m sure I will get to experience it at least once! And it’s not the boys I’m worried about (hello head clippers!) it’s me! The boys in my bed = easily spread from one head to another.

Ugh!

FLEAS

Fleas are wingless insects, with mouthparts adapted for piercing skin and sucking blood.

If you have had a cat or a dog in your lifetime, then chances are you have dealt with the pest that is fleas! Some seasons are especially worse than others! Like as the temperature warms and eggs that have sat dormant come to life and start hatching in your carpet and baby fleas start bouncing around the place. You’ll be sitting relaxing on the couch and then you’ll see one hop across your arm and you’ll realise you have a problem. I hate fleas! They can be really hard (and expensive) to get rid of and the vet recently told me that they have been inundated with pets infested with fleas in the past month (joy!) so my hubby tends to search Teddie’s hair most nights and hand pick them out if he sees them, just to be on the safe side! I actually think he finds it kinda relaxing but don’t tell him I told you that! Fighting fleas one by one since 2016. Ha!

BED BUGS

Bedbugs are small, oval, brownish insects that live on the blood of animals or humans.

As the name proclaims, these lovely bugs love to hang out in your bed and feast on your blood. Lovely!

Fortunately I have never had to deal with bed bugs but I know someone who has and it sounds like a nightmare of epic proportions! I’m using the word nightmare A LOT in this post but it’s definitely warranted! I’ll stick with fleas that require a few flea bombs and a fortune invested in pet companies to kill (what is with flea treatment for pets being so darn expensive?!). Even scabies sounds better than bed bugs!

Have you ever had to deal with any of these microscopic beasts? Are you itchy yet?

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Kylie Purtell 

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So right in the midst of an epic vent on Facebook the other day about an incorrigible puppy who insists on peeing on the carpet, it suddenly occurred to me that the things I complain about most with this little devil puppy have remarkable similarities to the things I moaned about when my kids were younger (still moan about where the youngest one is concerned!).

Did you know puppies and young children are in fact remarkably similar in many ways?

Here are some of the startling similarities between puppies and young children:

1. They don’t care where they pee

Or shit for that matter. My puppy had a propensity to think that anywhere outside of her crate was free game. The carpet, wooden floor, couch, a child’s bed. It was seriously driving me to drink the brink of frustration. My miniature little shit disguised as one of the most adorable fluffy bundles you have ever seen, also hates to get her feet wet. She thinks rain is acid falling from the sky and therefore she was point blank refusing to pee in it. She’d begrudgingly walk in it but not do her business.

This scenario is mightily similar to that of both my children who incidentally BOTH refused to poo on the toilet. They’d happily poop in their nappies and undies on occasion but the actual TOILET? Oh hell no. How civilised! Why would they actually want to sit on the toilet and do poos? Why, that would be way too easy on mummy. This way I get to wait for my night nappy and have a valid excuse to get back out of bed! Genius!

And poos aside, why must they aim for IN the toilet basin when they could pee on the floor AROUND the toilet instead? I mean, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go right? Concentration was seriously not a strong point. It wasn’t deliberate, it was simply that they got distracted far too easily. Thankfully the toilet aim has improved exponentially with age and the invention of a poo city with all the poo houses and poo people and poo pets and poo EVERYTHING that you could possibly imagine could reside in such a place eventually became an acceptable place to ‘send’ their poos by age 4. Thank god for that.

But the puppy? She’s better but we’re still working on it.

2. They don’t want to eat what they’re given

We went from a Labrador (AKA a convenient garbage disposal) who would literally eat ANYTHING that could be considered remotely edible (raw potatoes anyone?) to a Shih Tzu x Poodle princess who thinks that dog food is for dogs and she should eat human food. Our food to be precise. Even when it’s not hers to eat (did you know little dogs can really climb?!). She has been seen to jump up onto the kitchen table and help herself on more than one occasion, hence she is now in time out (crated) at dinner times. A bowl of dry dog food can take her up to three days to finish, one dainty ‘do I have to? Is this all I’m getting?’ mouthful at a time. Only cos she’s probably STARVING to death by that point. Cos we’re so mean.

Children on the other hand don’t want to eat what they’re given either! The ‘good’ healthy foods are not for them. Oh no. They want biscuits. Bread. Chips. Ice-cream. They have been known to climb on bench tops to get into cupboards and steal biscuits. Ironic that the dog wants their meat and veg but not her biscuits, while the kids want biscuits (of the human variety thankfully!) but not their meat and veg! At least they eat their Weetbix though I guess … however, it can take up to 3 days for them to finish the food in their lunch boxes. Snap.

3. Put them in time out and they’ll whine

Speaking of time out … lately my three year old has been put in time out quite frequently for his inability to listen and his propensity to throw a tantrum when he doesn’t get his own way (threenager anyone?). Once he’s in there he will scream and cry and bang on the door to try and get our attention so he can come out. When the dog pisses on the carpet or climbs on the table, she is also put in time out in her bedroom (crate) where she will scream (bark) and cry (whine) and climb up the bars in an attempt to be let out. Sound familiar?

4. They never want to go to bed

Like my children (and most everyone’s children!), puppies are usually not enthusiastic about being put to bed and would rather stay up and play. Thus they tend to complain vocally when bedtimes arises. At least the puppy stays in her bed all the night though! Likely this is only because she is LOCKED IN. Now there’s an idea …

5. They hate taking medicine

Have you ever tried giving a dog medication? You have to be extremely sneaky, like CIA sly in your ‘disguised in food’ attempt or force it down their throat because there is really no way in hell they are going to say ‘Ok, give me that yummy tablet and I’ll just eat it for you!’. Even if you do manage to hide it like some hide and seek super ninja, chances are they will know and they will manage to spit the tablet part out just to spite you. This is not fun to then retrieve and try again, trust me!

Giving my kids medicine on the other hand requires willpower, patience and strength (the brute kind) because man, these little people can be strong when they really don’t want to open their mouths! Forget medicine cups taken willingly, no siree!

Apparently medicine tastes like the foulest thing in the world to both puppies and children, who woulda thought? At least children do tend to grow out of it though I guess, can’t say the same for dogs!

6. They like to chew things 

Let’s see, I have two drink bottles with chewed spouts still in existence, one where the child was the culprit and one which was the dog. They look the same. At least the kids don’t want to chew worn underwear though I guess (UGH! Why do dogs do that?! So so gross!).

7. They want to be on you ALL THE TIME 

So kids. They like to sit where you sit. Even when there are two other couches present in the room with no one on them. But no. They want to be on YOUR chair with you. Or your bar stool. Or in your bed. Basically wherever you are, they want to be. Now not only do I have two children sharing my lazy-boy chair, I also have the damn dog! I come home at night and I am piled upon by two little boys AND a dog. Ok, yes, I secretly love the attention because it makes me feel all loved but still.

They’re ALWAYS on you. Always.

8. They do what they like …

At the end of the day, the biggest commonality between puppies and young children is a very simple one – they both just pretty much do what they like whether we like it or not!.

Lucky they’re cute!

Do you have children and a dog? Can you relate?

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Kylie Purtell and FYBF @ With Some Grace

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The post 8 Startling Similarities Between Puppies & Children appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Comedy of Errors: A set of amusing or farcical events involving a series of awkward missteps or other mistakes.

I have been seriously procrastinating booking my puppy’s spey operation (aka desexing or getting fixed) for the past several months for two reasons:

ONE. The exorbitant cost (always starts at one thing but add all the ‘optional’ extras that are ‘Up to you but it could save your dogs life to have this $83 blood test because then we can see that she’s healthy. But it is fully optional, no pressure. You don’t have to have it but if you don’t we won’t know if she could have an adverse reaction. Entirely optional though’); and

TWO. Hands up who loves to look after a dog with a slit in their tummy and a cone on their head that irritates the shit out of them? Didn’t think so.

Well, I finally booked her in for it last Friday. We came home from a family holiday on Monday and I googled and panicked when I read that dogs can come into heat anywhere from 6 months old and she’s 8 months. Who wants a bleeding dog?! No friggin way. So I booked it.

Thursday:

6.30AM:

3 year old child: ‘Mummy, my ear hurts! It really hurts!’. Crap, ear infection. Time to make an appointment with the doctor but the doctor is in our suburb and I work in the city so I’ll have to take time off work. 1 hour later ‘It doesn’t hurt, I was just saying that’. Scrap plans for doctors appointment.

Husband: ‘I have a terrible toothache. It’s killing me. I’m going to have to go to the dentist’.

Fab!

6PM:

3 year old crying hysterically in distress ‘My ear hurts!’. Luckily had made an appointment for Friday morning doctor visit just in case. Phew!

Husband: ‘I made an appointment at the dentist for tomorrow morning. I haven’t slept for agony in two nights. It’s going to be expensive’.

Fuck.

‘Oh, and by the way, our warrant just expired on the car and we need new tires’.

Double fuck.

What is worse than a vet visit on the bank accounts? A dentist visit and a mechanics visit. But all at once?! Yeah, a few choice words may have been said.

Friday

3.30AM: Wake to godawful gagging sound. In sleep haze realise sound is coming from 3 year old child in my bed. Suddenly wake up in a panic and lurch up only to realise it’s too late. Not only do I have vomit in my bed and on my child but I have vomit in my hair and all over me. Race to shower with crying gagging child and decide that it is now 4.15am and my alarm is set for 5am so I might as well stay up. Husband changes sheets while complaining he has only had one hour sleep for pain in his mouth.

7AM: Race kids out the door with dog in tow. Get in car and turn key and car key snaps in half. Of course.

7.15AM: Manage to semi-rescue key enough to get car started. Race to get 5 year old to before school care and dog to vet. Find out all about hidden extra costs and have slight panic attack. Return to car and realise I’m running late. So what happens? The petrol light comes on. Of course! Did I mention it is also pissing down with rain?

8.30AM: After racing detour to petrol station arrive at doctors in just the knick of time. Find out child has a very infected ear at the point of just about to rupture. Red, swollen and pussy. Leave chemist with two large bags full of medication.

9AM: Husband calls. Had a hole through back molar exposing the nerve. Root canal = $1800. Extract tooth = $300. Advises he extracted tooth (thank god for that!)

10AM: Very unhappy husband comes home and I race into the city to grab my work to bring home for the weekend because tearful unhappy child (not to mention husband!) needs me at home and won’t let me out of his sight. Poor boy. Poor me.

4PM: Pick up very unhappy puppy from the vets. Say goodbye to $500. Dog has a cone on her head that she explicitly does not like.

Saturday

6AM: Wake to torrential rain. Go in the lounge to let out crying dog from crate only to find that she has had runny poos overnight and tromped it through her crate, bedding and all. Clean that mess up while in the meantime she pisses on the couch (thankfully covered with a mink blanket). Threaten to get rid of her.

Go to the laundry to dispose of poo soaked bedding and find it has flooded overnight as 3 days of non stop rain have leaked through crappy back door. Step over piles of washing to dry it.

4PM: Realise that child asleep on couch has wet their pants all over OTHER mink blanket. Torrential rain means no chance of doing any washing. Add blanket to Mt Washmore in despair. Child now won’t go to bed tonight because of sleep. Cries and clings to me. Puppy cries because I put her back in her cage and she bangs her head unhappily against the bars because CONE. Tips over water and spills food everywhere in her unhappiness. Rain continues. Husband snores happily on couch. Think about running away.

Sunday

Dog pees on sons bed. More washing.

Monday

Dog pees on sons bed again. WTF?! Banished to crate.

This Morning …

Dog pees on sons bed AfuckingGAIN. No idea why dog is doing this and have been trying to keeps doors shut but CHILDREN. Dog can now live in crate forever.

Things can only get better this week right?! Does anyone want a dog?

Have you ever had a comedy of errors or disasters such as this all at once?

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Kylie Purtell 

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Smooshes:

Squeezes your brain into a big pile of mush.

How do you know when enough is enough? To stop pushing the things that aren’t coming naturally to fit into your days? For me blogging has become one of those things. I started off with a hiss and a roar, wrote some of the best things that I have ever written in my life and then I just all of a sudden ran out of words. Some of the things I felt compelled to write were cathartic. Healing. Some were controversial in a sense (gender disappointment is a known topic of derision) and some were ‘tie your tummy up in knots’ nerve wracking to publish (hello hunt for the father who doesn’t know I exist – now the potential father who does know I exist but claims never to have met my mother so either she lied for some reason or he’s in denial/has a terrible memory). The posts I wrote about mum were probably the most healing of the lot. Losing a parent is probably going to happen to all of you at some time in your lifetime and it’s a lonely experience. I think whether you are young or old, it doesn’t make the pain any easier. Some could argue fairness (hell, I know I did! In what world does losing your life to cancer at 43 seem fair?) but that’s life isn’t it. Unpredictable at best, heartbreaking at worst.

My fun posts about my boys were probably my favourite. I started this blog in humour before touching on more serious notes. I love to write in humour, it’s how I live my life. Full of jokes and sarcasm and way too many swear words! But this winter has been a rough one with sickness and a bit of a crazy busy schedule of a new routine with a new school starter (in NZ they start school on their actual 5th birthday). After a thorough back and forth over the potential fit for him at a few schools, we decided on one outside of our suburb. A 15 minute drive to be precise (20 in traffic) and that has altered my entire morning. I do one drop off of the youngest in my area before driving to drop off the other and stay with him until the bell rings, then drive to the train station to park, catch the train, walk to work starting at 10am these days (but leaving the house at 8.15am!). I then work until 5.30pm, walk back to the train station and catch the 6pm train to my car and drive home, generally arriving at 6.50pm. By the time I get the kids settled to bed and sit down it’s between 8 and 9pm. And of course I need to be in bed by 10pm to have any semblance of enough sleep to be energetic enough to pull it off the next day! Is it little wonder my brain is too fried to find the extra brain power to write?

I’ve spoken to lots of bloggers lately who have felt the same. With winter comes sickness, darkness and cold. Cold is best tackled with a warm blanket on the couch and a marathon of addictive mind numbing television. Or a book and a hot coffee. Or bed with its electric blanket and a dog or cat asleep on your feet. I can’t speak for everyone but I think when you are frying your brain with a busy schedule it can stomp all over your capacity to form coherent words. That’s how I feel.

I love my little slice of the internet but I’ve decided that I need to refill my glass to the top to be able to form the words to write here, at least to write something of substance. So yes, I’m sporadic in my posts. I’m not saying goodbye, I’m just saying sorry that my writing is a little infrequent at the moment! Until I get something better in place with my routine (if I can!) I won’t be writing as frequently. But I will be writing sometimes. I hope you can bear with me!

Do you ever get burned out and give up on something you used to love? Do you ever take time out for you?

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 Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

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“To dream anything that you want to dream. That’s the beauty of the human mind. To do anything that you want to do. That is the strength of the human will. To trust yourself to test your limits. That is the courage to succeed”

Many of you may not know this, but years before I started Maybe Baby Brothers I actually had another blog. My little slice of the internet was used to document my way through my infertility journey and was called Maybe Baby … (or maybe the loony bin). I started it as a survival mechanism, infertility is a lonely and hard road to travel, especially so soon after losing a parent. I was 25 when we started trying to conceive our first child and 29 by the time I gave birth to a healthy baby boy after 3 cycles of IVF.

During my journey through infertility I met many women travelling down the same road. We all had our own battles and fortunately most of us came out with a baby at the end, although sadly there are a few who did not. There were long awaited pregnancies, babies, failed IVF cycles, miscarriages, twins, break ups, babies born sleeping. It was a big box of highs and lows, joy and heartache. One of the woman who I met on an online forum is sharing her story for you today. Athena was a source of strength, hope and friendship for me during those years. She probably doesn’t realise just highly I regard our friendship, even though we have moved in separate circles since we had our children, we will always share this bond that only someone who has experienced the struggle to conceive can truly understand.

This is Part One in Athena’s Your Voice, Your Story contribution: Infertility & Hope.

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I’m lying on a squeaky bed. I can feel the metal bars across my back, the crisp smell of potent detergent in the sheets. I’m being rolled along a corridor and all I can see is the dirty sealing and the lights flashing as I go past. People in white, blue and pink uniforms dash from door to door. One of the lights somewhere needs its bulb changed as all I can hear is the buzzing and buzzing, fading, fading. Welcome to day surgery Athena. The first operation in my life, ever.

I was always a healthy kid, even as adventurous as I was; I never had any bumps or broken bones. But today at 32 years old, I was having a laparoscopy. In layman’s terms, 4 probes. One through the belly button, 2 above the groin and one conveniently in my hoohoo. One of them was thick enough to have the tiniest of cameras attached to it. My Fertility Specialist wanted to take a look inside my uterus and see whether there was anything to explain my infertility. Infertility – the word I had become quite accustomed to now for nearly 2 years. And today was not the happy ending story. There’s an additional 4 years to this adventurous journey of holding my child in my arms.

My husband and I met when I was 21. We dated for awhile, went on holidays, drank, partied, lived life. We moved in together when I turned 24. Having come from a strict Greek background, this was finally my time to shine. To really express myself, not be bogged down by rules and finally experience adulthood. We lived happily and started to become more involved with our careers and saving cash for our first home. We got married when I was 27. Throw in a few more holidays, helping our families and establishing comfortable jobs. I was 29 when we finally opened the door to our own home. The thought of children never really entered our minds. We were happy. Everyone around us was the same age and only now starting to have kids. We weren’t far behind. So we decided to have a go. How hard could it be? Everyone else was having kids.

Everyone but me.

I can’t tell you the amount of times I cried in those 6 years. Some of them were loud and destructive when no one was around to hear. Other times it was in the shower, holding my mouth shut so tight so that my husband wouldn’t hear my pain. There were times when I sat in the train, my head against the window and silent tears trickling down my cheek, a packed train full of people minding their own business completely oblivious to this woman sitting close by wanting to just die. So many reasons set me off, if it wasn’t my friend who hated kids but found a good bloke to keep and is texting me she’s pregnant with her second or a 1st birthday party with my husband and I being the only childless couple whilst an old Greek lady approaches me, rubs me in the tummy and in broken English asks “no beby?”. To top it off, being a youth worker working with adolescents didn’t help either. There was always that 15 year old nonchalantly telling me she was pregnant after a night out of booze and drugs. “My baby’s daddy is a loser and doesn’t want me to keep it, what should I do Athena?” While she’s inhaling a cigarette. “Um well you can help me by tightening up that noose around my neck” I respond.

And then all those times, peeing on a stick with one line not two. Big. Fat. Negatives. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to bombard you with all this negativity about my experience. Only a woman who has experienced infertility and the challenges to have a living baby can truly understand the feelings and thoughts that I went through. My story does have a happy ending, and by reading this I pray that it gives others out there hope that miracles do happen. But first we must acknowledge the journey in order to welcome the accomplishment.

The road to becoming a mummy begins. I’m 30 having baby danced whenever, wherever. See what happens approach. Our schedules sometimes didn’t synchronize, so a year later it didn’t really bother me that I wasn’t yet pregnant. I embraced new sweet smelling babies with delight and awe. I then began the process of getting blood tests just to make sure that I was healthy and to correct any obstacles. My doctor discussed with me timed sex. Basically I had a perfect 28 day cycle and somewhere in the middle were my ‘fertile’ times to get jiggy with it. No pregnancy. I then had ultrasounds to check that I actually had a reproductive system that was functional. All clear, baby dancing resumed. No pregnancy. I then said fuck it, time to see a specialist. I’m not a procrastinator. And now there were just too many babies to meet, christenings to attend, 1st birthdays where my Oscar winning performing fake smile reared its head. So I had the laparoscopy. Bingo. Endometriosis. A disease that no hyped up ten thousand degree fertility specialist has given an answer as to why women get this. Surgery fixes it, but it can still come back. My uterus was now squeaky clean. Baby dance, timed sex, ovulation predictor tests, spit in this and see a fern test. You’re ovulating Athena. Vitamins, Elevit, gave up the smokes and coffee. No pregnancy. In between all of this, my husband got his swimmers checked much to his delight. All perfect.

No pregnancy.

The road to assisted conception begins. I’m 33. My body gets prepped up for an in uterine insemination. Basically a more relaxed version to IVF. Small amounts of hormones injected in my tummy daily till at least one follicle is primed ready to ovulate. Once it’s big and strong, another injection to ovulate it and then my husband’s swimmers are inseminated into my uterus. Just like they do to cows. Moo. Fingers crossed. No pregnancy. Another 2 attempts at this. Nothing. My specialist doesn’t believe in putting women through further IUI’s if unsuccessful after 3 goes. So now we’re recruited for the Big League. IVF. More higher and potent amounts of hormones. We want more follicles. However, not too much as what the body would normally discard as crap is now kept for harvesting. But the crap ones can affect the quality of the good ones. Every second day are blood tests and vaginal ultrasounds. Counting how many follicles are in there, size and ripening up for the harvest. Back to that corridor again, wheeled down to surgery for egg collection. 16 are written on my hand when I wake up from the morphine. Hmmmm morphine…… 7 fertilise and become embryos. We do twin transfers at Day 2 growth. “A” grade embryos. Excellent chance of pregnancy. I didn’t care if I had twins. Although I’m feeling bloated, sick and my tummy looks 6 months pregnant. I have a mild case of hyperstimulation. We still go ahead with the transfer.

No pregnancy.

5 of the embryos are frozen for when we do the frozen cycle transfer. Twin transfers again twice in consecutive months. No pregnancy. On my way to the clinic to get the final last frozen embryo transferred, the nurse calls me. “Sorry Athena, the embryo didn’t survive the thaw”. Gutted, here come the tears again. Disillusion kicks in. What now?

Second IVF cycle begins. The same results. 16 follicles. Though this time as I’m now nearly 35, the specialist decides on a Day 5 blastocyst transfer. 7 fertilise, only one makes it to transfer. No frosticles. Big. Fat. Negative. Those 3 words again. Devastated. I speak to my husband about divorce. He is such a good man, deserves better, a more fertile woman. Not this woman I have become. Consumed with having a child, entrenched in this Trying To Conceive world.

It’s time to take a break. Yeah right! My age didn’t help, but my body was tired. Physically and mentally. I needed to have a baby now. The finances are just too tight. My husband sold his motorcycle just to afford the 2nd IVF cycle. So it’s a break from the big league and time to explore other more affordable and natural options. As long as I was trying everything and anything, I felt better about achieving my goal. Chinese herbs came into my life. I heard it referred to some many times. Surely this was my miracle? Geez how many Chinese people are on this Earth? Billions? Well here we go. I walked out of that consult room elated. This herbalist was amazing, constructive and believable. Chinese herbs are not so great to drink. Take it out of your head those delicious sweet pork rolls, coconut cakes and the lush jasmine tea.

These herbs are disgusting.

If I ever drank shit that came out of an aged and decrepit dead animal, sprinkled with the vomit of a sewer rat then this is how I would describe it. Nevertheless, the stuff worked and only after one cycle. Those 2 blue lines on the pregnancy test came up quick. I was late by a day and thought I would check before I went into see the herbalist again for more stock. I was pregnant. Like really pregnant. I envisioned the smiles and laughter of my husband and including my beautiful parents so eagerly waiting to become grandparents. My sister the sports fan already is picking out the baby Nike’s. For one whole week, the dreams danced around in my head. The nursery, the name, the little hands and feet, my beloved little child. Then the bleeding began, the cramps soon after. I miscarry. 7 weeks this little one held on. Loved and never forgotten. This little angel gave me the strength to believe that miracles do happen and overall I was fertile, I could fall pregnant. Further extensive tests later couldn’t conclude why I miscarried. Unexplained infertility and now unexplained miscarriage. I just had to keep going. Hope is all I had in the end.

And then came Callum. My sweet glorious little man. I was 36. I was just about to embark on another IVF cycle. But because it was Christmas time I waited till the clinic was opened again with its usual friendly staff. Knowing that we saved to go down this path again, feeling a bit more optimistic and concluding that no matter what, I will have as many cycles till my body says no more. I would scrape, scrounge and borrow. Nothing will stop me. Hope. So I relaxed. New Years Eve and my period is late. Surely I’m not pregnant? I didn’t even try. Peed on a stick. Negativity creeping in again, I’m probably menopausal. So young for that. But just my bad luck. The universe hates me, God hates me. I hate me. Waiting 5 minutes for those two lines to appear is everlasting. I could live another life in that time. Prays, my eyes shut as I make my way into the bathroom where that plastic stick is waiting for me. “I swear God, if I’m pregnant I will be a better Christian, Please God let this one be a keeper.”

Thank you Lord! Pregnant and silly. Raw emotions flooding my body. I want to scream, I want to cry. I’m scared. And scared I was for 9 whole months. But that’s another story. My Callum arrived on the 8th September 2009. One day before my wedding anniversary. The best gift I have ever received. Healthy and content at 4.1 kgs. Oh and did I mention that Callum in Gaelic means Dove – The Harbinger of Hope.

And so the journey ends. The little man in my arms. My son. His mum.

I will never forget that long, frustrating and arduous journey to have him. I learnt a lot during those years. Just hand me that Medical Degree. I’m still tired though – but that’s a good tired.

Dear Reader – The only advice I can give you if you are experiencing a similar journey is this: Never. Give. Up. Do anything, try anything. Explore all your options. There’s a saying that I stuck on my fridge, my office cork board, in my diary when I was trying to conceive “Regret what you haven’t done, not what you’ve done”.

“Regret what you haven’t done, not what you’ve done”
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This always gave me hope.

The other important thing to have whilst you walk this path is to always have some kind of support around. Whether it’s friends or family or someone you can confide in and who understands. My journey lead me to an online forum. The support I received from these wonderful women also with their own issues and journeys was one of the best things in my life. Just getting a reply to my posts lifted my spirits up so high after a day of tears. People I never met, but who understood exactly how I was feeling. And last but definitely not least, don’t forget your man – he is going through the same thing as you. They hide their emotions so they don’t add to your pain.

They love you and they are with you all the way. 

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 Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here

The post Your Voice, Your Story: Infertility & Hope appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Meet *Valerie.

I met Valerie in an online group for mums. We didn’t meet when we had our babies but shortly thereafter and over the years she has shared tidbits of what she went through in her first marriage and now she has agreed to share her story.

I am astounded at the courage she has shown to go through that and come out the other side the woman she is today. She is sharing her story in the hopes that it will be able to reach someone who is in the same situation and help them to find the courage to get out. She is certainly not what you would think of as a typical victim which just goes to show that there is no typical in family violence. It could be happening to anyone. Chances are it’s happening to someone you know right now and you wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Statistics show that 1 in 3 women experience physical and/or sexual violence from a partner in their lifetime. That is a very scary statistic.

We have included websites and helplines for Australian and NZ residents at the bottom of this post.

*Name was changed to protect privacy.

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There was something about him.

Something that enticed me to leave my life and my friends; and move 800km away to be nearer to him.

He was adamant we didn’t live together before we were married. He said he wanted to do everything right so I got an apartment. Mouldy and damp, but in a great location, right on the corner of the 2 best streets in Melbourne. Life was good. I was working in gyms, teaching classes and meeting great people.

One night I got a call to fill in a class at 6am. The class was at a gym 2 minutes walk from his apartment, as opposed to mine some 2 tram rides away. I asked if I could stay. He said that would be fine.

That night he lost his temper. I can’t even remember why but I remember he threw a bag of wet gym clothes at me. It was heavy. It hit the wall. Not much, I know but enough to scare me. He was sorry of course … it was his guilt at letting me stay before we were married. There was only one thing to do. We had to get married.

OMG right?? I was excited. I called my friends back home. Their reaction was predictable: “You hardly know him!” “Are you serious?” His response was equally as predictable: “I don’t want you talking to them anymore”.

We moved back to his home state. I was accepted to finish my law degree and my parents had since moved there but I didn’t have the support of my friends and was too ashamed to tell my family that their strong willed smart kid was being bullied and hurt by someone she was supposed to marry.

There were other warning signs of course. It started off as control. Snide comments about my clothes not being appropriate. I wasn’t “allowed” to do a lot. I made friends at the gym where I worked and one of the girls invited me out to a club around the corner from my apartment. I wasn’t “allowed” to go. He framed it as ‘what would people think of him if his girlfriend was seen at a club with “those girls” ‘. I didn’t go. I was asked to fill in shifts at a pub because I had done it before. I wasn’t allowed to work in such an establishment. If I disagreed or stuck up for myself at all; he would yell, scream and throw things. I had very few friends. They were ‘our’ friends. It was easier to just do what I was told.

Leading up to the wedding, I knew it wasn’t right. He gave me instructions as to what I was to choose for my dress. No pink. Simple. He didn’t want me to look like a fat marshmallow. He told me if I was 1 minute late, he would walk (I’m notoriously late. Even now). If he smelt a whiff of alcohol on my breath, he would walk (so much for my champagne breakfast).

That sort of control isn’t normal.

I knew that; but I felt trapped. Like I had come too far and couldn’t back out. I know now that was because he destroyed my self esteem. He actually said that I would never find a man that treated me better because it was me, not him. Never him. (I have since found out he did this to both his ex girlfriends before me and also publicly humiliated a girl after me when they broke up; so I’m guessing nothing has changed).

It escalated when I started to question this control. I’m smart and independent. I worked to support myself while I went through Uni. I completed Law and practised as a lawyer. Not a wallflower by any stretch.

He didn’t like that. He threw things at me, at walls, and then started hurting me. It was slow, but it was like slow motion. I didn’t feel like there was any way out.

We were married on 27 November 2004. Even on the actual day there were reasons why I should have run. But I didn’t.

He first made the transition from throwing things at me to hitting me when I was 7 months pregnant. I tried to leave. I got in my car. He kept ringing me continuously until I eventually picked up. He asked where I was going. I said my mum’s (some 2.5 hours away). He said he would call my parents and tell them what I was ‘really like’ unless I came back. I didn’t know what this meant. I was scared. I went back.

On 15 January 2006 our daughter was born. He wasn’t there when my waters broke. In fact it took him close to 6 hours to get to hospital but that in itself is another story.

After my daughter was born, the violence stopped but the emotional bullying did not. But it was OK. He was tired. It would get better.

We built a house. When we moved in, I was sure this was it. That this was the start of our life together. We went from staying with his parents to being on our own.

Our new life.

Guess what? It wasn’t better. It got worse. The violence started again. I was working as a lawyer in family violence and living it. I would find myself cradling my toddler under a bridge at 3am because we had been kicked out of the house again. But who could I tell? He was a charmer… a good catch… and I was a lawyer… this wasn’t the profile…

With each incident it got worse. And worse. Punching the steering wheel while I was driving, pulling the handbrake when I was going 100km/hr; nearly breaking my finger. By this time our daughter was 20 months. She witnessed it. She was living it. At less than 2 years old.

I had to leave. But how?

I was living on an island state hundreds of kilometres from my friends. My parents were living in the UK. Predictably, he controlled my money. I had no access to the joint account but I received $50 a week to fuel my coffee habit.

So I started saving that $50 a week. I scrimped on groceries and saved those few dollars too. I stopped buying clothes for our daughter, syphoning the few dollars here and there into a new bank account I opened in my name. I told 1 person. My best friend in the town where I was living. Together we hatched a plan that we would save what we could and run (she was in a similar situation to me).

But there was one problem. I couldn’t leave the state without a court order allowing me to do so.

I knew this, and also knew that as a lawyer I would be made an example of and forced to return if I ran. So, I did what I never thought I would be brave enough to do. I confided in my boss (who had seen my bruises) and another friend who had her own family law practice. We drafted orders to allow me to leave and presented them to him with an explanation that if he didn’t let me leave, we would press charges. He let us go. Just like that. I had $550 to my name when I got on that boat on 23 February 2008 to start my new life. Luckily for me I was coming home to friends. To people who helped me get back on my feet. I survived. My baby survived.

People have asked me where I think I would be if I stayed. Honestly, I would be dead. He would have killed me. I truly believe that.

No matter how bad things are; you can always escape. I’m not saying it will be easy. It will be the hardest thing you ever do. But it will be worth it.

Are you looking for a way out? If you are in Australia you can find information at White Ribbon Association (Ph. 1800-737-732). In New Zealand you can contact Shine (Ph. 0508-744-633) or Women’s Refuge for further information and advice.

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here

The post Your Voice, Your Story – How I Escaped a Violent Marriage appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

I’m a cat person. I am. I have to confess that right off the bat.

I never grew up with dogs, only cats so when I was old enough to make my own decisions I ‘encouraged’ my now husband that we needed to get a dog. In all honesty, I’d just come back from a big overseas adventure in Europe and was quite possibly just bored and looking for something new to inject a bit of excitement into my return to an everyday mundane routine.

So armed with no knowledge of the ins and outs of what to look for in a puppy, we got in the car and traveled up the line to a pet shop that we knew had Labrador puppies. There we chose the male puppy with the biggest feet because I decided I wanted a big dog. I then decided after a few months that I was right all along – I preferred cats. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Shimano. My husband especially loved him. He was a big black bundle of energy but he wasn’t the smartest cookie in the box. He’s what I would describe as a lovable rogue!

Some dogs can be smart, in fact I’m sure many of them are super smart but we chose one who was ruled by his tummy and had no ears. Much like my children come to think of it. But Labradors are renowned for there ability to eat until they burst (apparently horses can be much the same I’m told, some would eat until it killed them). One time my husband came home from fishing, he’d got a great haul of snapper and spent the next few hours filleting them all. He set the freshly filleted fish on the bench and instructed me to bag it up. Then the phone rang. When I got back to the kitchen every last fillet on the bench had mysteriously vanished and I had a very sly looking dog. Despite all this, he was a beautiful creature with a lovely nature. Sure, he occasionally stole food, was kicked out of puppy training school for being unruly and disrupting the class, was always jumping on furniture (and people until he was about 5!), couldn’t be trusted off a lead (you know how some dogs stay with their masters? Not ours! Once he went swimming in the ocean after a stick and just kept swimming and wouldn’t come back! My husband had to go rescue him because the damn stick just kept drifting further out to sea and he just kept chasing it!) and he was riddled with health problems. Here’s what I was saying about doing research. Now we would know never to get a pure bred dog from a pet shop but at the age of 22 we had a lot to learn.

Our Shimano was diagnosed with hip dysplasia as a pup and we were warned it would cause arthritis later in his life. In the end that’s what took him from us. His hind legs started wasting away the older he got until he could barely walk and would hop about the place. He had an ok summer but as soon as the first cold southerly hit us this Autumn he was whimpering in pain and my husband knew he had to make the tough decision to take him to the vet and potentially say goodbye to his best friend. And say goodbye he did. The vet nurses said there wasn’t a dry eye in the clinic seeing the devastation on my husbands face. It was, I think, only the second time in our 14 years together that I have ever seen my husband cry.

I then pronounced no more dogs. I was a cat person. I didn’t want another dog. Ever. I didn’t like dogs (not in a ‘I really hate dogs’ way but in a ‘dogs are needy and like children whereas cats are independent and can look after themselves’ way). I liked cats!

But my husband was adamant that we would one day get another dog. Apparently little boys NEED to have a dog. Cos they do. Apparently. So I thought I would start doing some research on the kind of dog that I wanted if we were to get another dog. Not big. Not too small. Not purebred. Not too needy or too ruled by its stomach. Happy to be left alone. And cute! It had to be cute. And cat like. Basically a cat dog.

I decided on an oodle.

I wasn’t sure what kind of oodle but I wanted an oodle cos oodles are generally damn cute! And half cat. At least, they look that way! So what’s an oodle? An oodle is a dog that is half poodle. There are lots of oodles. I had no idea. Spoodles, Labradoodles, Groodles, Cavoodles. Turns out you can cross pretty much anything with a poodle! Labradors, Golden Retrievers, Cavalier King Charles even a Bernese Mountain Dog (Google Bernedoodle, so freakin cute!). I started looking on Trademe (the NZ equivalent to eBay) just to see what was on offer. Just to look. Honestly. I didn’t WANT another dog. I didn’t LIKE dogs.

Then I saw her.

She wasn’t an oodle by name but she was crossed with a poodle all the same. She was a Shihpoo. Shih Tzu crossed with a Toy Poodle. NOT named a Shitpoo. Which would be unfortunate! Pronounced Shy-poo. I fell in love with her photo. I text the breeder. We hadn’t even discussed getting another dog this soon and I didn’t want another dog. But somehow I bought her. Somehow she was on a plane and we collected her 3 days later. Somehow. Ahem.

This dog is really too small to be a real dog. This dog is a teddy bear. She looks like a teddy bear from the front and a bear cub from the back. She’s just gorgeous.

Her name is Teddie and I’ve decided perhaps I am a dog person after all! She’s soft and fluffy and pretty and loves cuddles. She’s basically a cooler version of a cat. She follows us around, wants to sleep on our knees and pisses on the floor (sorry to ruin the illusion but puppies. PUPPIES!). The kids adore her and she adores them, in fact the other morning I’d taken her outside to go to the toilet (not that she listens mind you!) and my youngest got up and came in the lounge promptly bursting into a flood of tears because she was GONE!

So I’m guessing it’s too late to change my mind?! Even if I did want to. Which I don’t because, hello! CUTE! She’s a little Ewok (I had to google it ok, I didn’t get it but now I do!). So I’m thinking that she’s here for keeps. Much like my children. Occasionally they piss on the floor but I still love them.

So yep, I may be converted after all! I think I’m now officially a cat and oodle person. Cat dog. I’m softening in my old age.

Are you a cat or dog person? Do you own a dog? If you could choose any dog breed, what would you choose?

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here!

The post How I Somehow Accidentally Bought A Puppy … appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Meet Jessi.

Jessi and I met when we both became pregnant at the same time in 2010 and due in the same month, July 2011. We bonded over our difficulties in conceiving and our friendship just grew from there. We were in the same online birth group for our first born sons and I have had the pleasure of meeting her and her wonderful family several times. She is such a beautiful soul who doesn’t deserve this heartache but sadly she is not alone on this journey. I have met several women who have gone (or are going through) the same thing.

Miscarriage is one of those silent topics that many women are ashamed to talk about for fair of being belittled.

‘It’s not a real baby yet, just try again’.

What so often happens is that in the early weeks of pregnancy we don’t always tell people. It’s one of those secrets we keep until we are in the ‘safe zone’. So when a woman loses her baby to miscarriage, family and friends often didn’t know to begin with so they don’t understand the pain and disappointment as they never experienced the joy, hopes and dreams that came with the initial pregnancy discovery and excitement.

Sadly miscarriage is far more common than many people may believe – it is thought that as many as half of all pregnancies miscarry before the fertilised egg even implants in the womb. In NZ and Australia approximately 1 in 4 pregnancies will end in miscarriage. Research shows that 5% of women will suffer two miscarriages or more. Recurrent miscarriage (RPL) is classed as 3 miscarriages or more.

Here Jessi shares her story. 

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I have attempted to begin this post what seems like a million times but since I am about to reveal my biggest journey with you all I feel I should just be blunt and honest. So in the style of an alcoholics anonymous meeting, “Hi, I’m Jessi and I suffer from recurrent miscarriage (RPL)”.

My husband and I have lost more babies than you can count on one hand and slightly less than what you can count on two. If you’re reading this and have suffered miscarriage be it one or many, I want to hug you and tell you how sorry I am and how much it sucks.

People don’t say how much it sucks enough. In my experiences I have heard it all. “Oh there must have been something wrong with the baby”, “You can just just try again”, “It will happen when the time is right” and the most anger inducing one of all “It obviously wasn’t meant to be”. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that …. I know, I know. People are just trying to care but I needed to hear more.

December 10 2015, my midwife entered my house after I had had ultrasound confirmation that our precious baby’s heart stopped beating. Our 5th loss in a row. She sat down on the couch next to me, grabbed my hand and said “This f***ing sucks“. It was exactly what I needed to hear. She had been through my entire journey with me up to that point except the losses before our first earth baby. She had delivered our miracle son and daughter and supported us through the wild ride that is recurrent miscarriage. She was one of the only ones who got it.

Throughout my journey with RPL I have become horribly familiar with the process, both physical and mental. Being familiar with such an awful experience is never something I thought I would have to deal with. I never thought that I would be one of the 2-3% of women who suffer recurrent miscarriage.

The physical pain is hard enough as anyone who has experienced this knows, but what shocked me the most is the grief and the mental pain.

Grief is an asshole.

A necessary asshole albeit. It’s a whole other journey on it’s own.

Here’s what I know about grief (listed by funky bullet points):

• It makes you cry in the supermarket when you see pregnant women
• It makes you cry in the mall when you see babies
• It forces itself out in floods of tears at the most random of moments
• It makes you want to leave your husband and run far away so he can find a woman who can give him babies … not take them away
• It causes extreme jealousy. I’m talking ‘tummy turning to ice’, ‘I’m gonna spew’ type jealousy when you hear pregnancy announcements from friends
• It makes you lose friends. Good friends. Friends who came to your wedding because you are so jealous they can get pregnant so easily and have healthy babies and you can’t
• It sticks around. It sticks around for days, months and years and pops it’s little head up unexpectedly just to remind you of your strength

The one thing I am grateful for from the grief, the losses and the heartbreak is the way I have fallen deeper in love with my earth children. I adore them and I am so blessed to have them. They are my little miracles and I really didn’t think my heart could grow bigger in love for them. Turns out it can and it has. Losing my babies has forged a stronger bond with my children and for that I am grateful.

Losing all my babies has also made me hate the ‘taboo’ label of miscarriage. I hate that I can only talk about it with a few people in my life without the subject being changed immediately. I hate that I can’t cry to family if I’m having a bad day. All babies gone too soon, no matter how tiny they were, should be remembered. Their short lives should be celebrated and mourned, for they were someone’s son, daughter, sister, brother, granddaughter, grandson, niece or nephew. Talk about your babies. If you haven’t suffered miscarriage and you know someone who has, don’t be afraid to ask about their baby. Talking is part of the healing process.

Living with RPL has softened me but hardened me. I am stronger but I live more gently than ever before because I know how fragile life is. It’s made me parent differently and it’s made me not take being a parent for granted. We will always miss our babies, but time is a healer and life does get easier slowly.

Very slowly.

I have had numerous blood tests, genetic tests, chromosomal testing, ultrasounds, DNA Karyotype testing, NK testing, diet changes. I have tried natural fertility and herbal remedies. I’ve lost count of how many specialists have seen my lady garden and if I’m honest, I’m getting tired.

I’m strong but I’m tired.

It’s hard on the body and on the mind too. My heart wants to keep fighting and my husband feels the same despite everything we’ve been through, but he too is tired of seeing me suffer. I am scared and that beacon of hope is fading. The children ask for a baby brother or sister and we are honest with them. They know Mummy struggles and they know that they have siblings in heaven. They love finding feathers as they are presents from their angels.

So only time will tell, but for now I will keep living and learning as a Mama who adores her children and who really, really misses her babies.

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Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

To read more like this, follow me on Facebook by clicking here!

The post Your Voice, Your Story – Recurrent Miscarriage appeared first on Maybe Baby Brothers.

Life is like a patchwork quilt.

It’s a tapestry of emotions and life events quilted together to tell a story.

We have bright patches of colour in happier times and more subdued colours in sadder times. Some people’s tapestries are brighter than others and some are duller but every persons quilt is unique and everyone’s lives are made up of a million different events sewn together to tell their individual story. 

This evening I sit on a bar stool armed with a glass of sparkling wine. A bolognese is simmering on the stove top, the kids are occupied by an Easter movie (even though Easter is long gone) and I’m quietly reflecting as I listen to some music playing.

The music is a Grey’s Anatomy playlist and given that Shonda Rhimes is the Queen of making your soul sing or break with her carefully crafted storylines, the accompanying music is food for the soul.

Are you a Grey’s fan? Perhaps you watched Private Practice instead which always had me in a tangle of emotions and crying my eyes out with their fertility and baby related story lines (these were especially close to my heart given I was going through infertility at the time it started).

Then of course there are Scandal and How To Get Away With Murder. So outrageous are the stories accompanying them that I can’t turn away. I’m a TV addict at the best of times and Shonda is one of the best storytellers. What I love about her shows is how I get drawn into the story of each individual character.

We all have a story.

They may not be on TV shared with millions accompanied by a carefully chosen soundtrack but we all have a story. No one is immune.

My story began as an accident. Or a blessing, I guess it all depends on which way you look at it! It’s morphed into what feels like two split lives. Incidentally my life with my now husband started a couple of weeks before my mum died. It’s almost like I transitioned from one life into another because the two lives didn’t really cross except for one brief meeting at a hospice.

An introduction and goodbye all in one.

My life consists of a ‘before’ and an ‘after’. It’s hard to say which life was happier. Life with my mothers presence was one of security.

A blanket of love. Naivety. Comfort. Friendship.

Life after is one that has always consisted of a life with a piece missing.

Marriage. Infertility. Motherhood.

Both have had their moments of brightness and their moments of grey entwined. My after life has had a shadow cast over much of the brightness but as time goes on those colours are getting brighter and some of the shadow that muted it is lifting. Time is rubbing out that shadow.

‘Before’ was a life that felt … different. I had my moments but overall I felt like I could conquer the world with a confidence to match. ‘After’ has been a reality check. Once you experience that kind of heartbreak your life can never go back to what it was before.

The significant ‘patches’ on my quilt so far would be my childhood, my mum dying, my marriage, my infertility battle, my joy at finally conceiving and subsequent pregnancy, my sons births, motherhood.

I have written individual stories on some of these things and I am looking for people who would like to share their story. One of their ‘patches’.

Your voice, your story.

I am starting a series of personal stories written by you, the reader. We all go through something and somewhere someone will no doubt be able to relate to yours the way people have to mine.

If you have a story to share, please contact me by filling in the online contact form here. You tell the story and I’ll edit and publish it (they can be credited or anonymous, it’s up to you). I look forward to hearing from you!

How bright is your quilt? How many significant ‘patches’ do you have? What would your story be about?

Linking up with: #IBOT @ Essentially Jess 

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