The visit to the radiologist was filled with trepidation and apprehension on my part. I could feel the knots in my tummy. I felt physically ill.

During the ultrasound, the radiologist told me that it seemed as if I had miscarried, pointing to dark spots on the monitor spread apart.

I felt like a freight train had rammed into me. My hands and legs went completely numb, and my palms were sweating in an 18degree air conditioned room. The silence was so deafening it felt like my heartbeat was roaring like tidal waves in my ears. Then every joint started to tingle, the same way it would when one becomes anxious. All of a sudden my nerves felt frayed and taut. The moment I walked out of that room, I collapsed against my husband in total despair. I cried and cried and cried. I cried when we met with the gynaecologist. I cried on my way home that day. I cried throughout that night. I cried for the next ten days to follow. By the time we saw the gynaecologist and he confirmed life within me, it was way too late, those careless words  in the radiology room spurred my  entry into the world of depression, unknowingly. The months that followed were beyond me.

In my first month I started losing the desire to eat, bath or work. My hubby kept telling me to ‘pull myself together’. I tried. I really did, but I could not rekindle the zest for life. It had somehow gone awol on me. After a while I started resenting those words and would freak out every time I heard them. One day, in a flat panic I called my father out of his medical practice to have a father-son chat with hubby. That night my father counseled and educated hubby on depression, its debilitating effects on the sufferer and the best response was unconditional support.

The rest of our family, stayed well clear of me in the months to follow. It seems they had no clue how to deal with my sudden lapse and they themselves were traumtised by the rapid decline of my mental health and physical wellbeing.

In the second month I started waking up in the middle of the night, pacing the hallways of my home with my arms raised on either side. I could no longer sit still for long periods, lie down with ease, I would always be fidgety and restless, pacing. Always pacing. It was at this point that my husband realized there was something seriously wrong with my mental health. With a strong recommendation from the gynaecologist, we made an appointment with a psychiatrist.

I had to undergo many consultations and psychological evaluation and tests. I was put on two anti-depressants with high dosages.

During the months to follow, I remember my daughter stroking my hair and rubbing my hands. She would talk in a soothing, soft tone all the time. I felt her doing that. I saw her doing that. I heard her doing that, but never uttered a word. I had no feeling for her. It did not matter to me whether she was there or not. I did not care in the slightest.

My husband was juggling my illness and playing the role of both mommy and daddy to our daughter before our son was born, and then when he was born, assuming all the other maternal responsibilities showered upon a newborn. It was a traumatic and exhausting period for him as well. He did not have the luxury to break down at any point. He had no choice but to keep strong for the children and myself, and with the help of my father, they kept it all together.

But our daughter suffered the most. She endured deep psychological scars that led to her even experiencing nervous episodes and bouts of childhood anxiety. She has been for counseling since and has improved tremendously though. Still, she had to grow up too quickly in that dark period. Too quickly for a four year old. This is a silent torment that will plague me for the rest of my life.

I was regularly admitted to hospital to be fed intraveneously, since I was not eating and drinking at all, thus with no sustenance for myself, there was no nourishment for the baby to thrive on.

During my sixth month of pregnancy I turned suicidal. I started throwing myself on the ward floor, tummy first. I just wanted it out. The baby. I just needed it out of me. I did not want to be pregnant any longer. I do not know why. I just felt that and acted on it.

One night, the team of doctors assigned to my care, called my father and husband to inform them that my mental and physical condition was worsening, and at this rate, there was little else they could do, other than increase the dosage of the anti-depressants, and perhaps some electro-shock therapy. My father was determined I would not have any electrodes stuck to my head sending electric jolts that could spell further mental anguish later on in life for me. I remember him ushering everyone out of the hospital room and coming to sit beside me on the bed. He looked down at me, tears started to run down his cheeks and he said in a quiet, trembling voice, “My baby, Muslims do not commit suicide”. I do not know if it was the tears or what he said, or a combination of both, but it left a profound imprint on my brain, and I stopped throwing myself on the floor. Whatever explanation there is for such a dramatic turnaround, and I am sure there is one, I personally cannot define it. Verily Allah SWT knows best.

On one of my routine gyneacological check-ups I complained to the doctor about feeling movement similar to that of contractions. He duly examined me, ran a few tests and decided to admit me for observation.

During the night the contractions became stronger and fewer apart.

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