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.
I remember the look of shock on his face the next morning when he read the overnight report. It seemed I had gone into full labour and there was not a thing anyone could do to delay or prevent it. Of course this news also left the rest of my family in total shock.
Well, like it or not, at six and a half months, my son would be making his way into this world.
The birth was quick and so easy. Probably because the epidural did a magnificent job as always, and I thought here is my chance to finally get this thing out of me. Pushing him out of me felt like a huge burden had been set off my shoulders. I enjoyed a feeling of exhilaration and relief. Not because I had a healthy newborn son, but because he was finally out and I could get back to dealing with just me.
The arrival of my son, after spending the first two weeks of his infant life in neonatal ICU, was cause for much celebration in our household. I had no interest in this new arrival and saw him as a hindrance to my needs and wants. Could no-one understand. I wanted to be alone. This little person was invading my space.
Till this day, when I look upon my son, waves of guilt overwhelm me and I feel so ashamed. I worry about the day he will be told and what then ? What will go through his mind ?
The magnitude and extent of human suffering this illness brings on, is inexplicable and devoid of comprehension.
The only regret I have is being ill-informed. Two and half years is what it took for me to return to but a mere shadow of former myself.
You know what I ended up accepting. Lightbulb moment. Experiences like this are life-altering by its very intent and nature.
I find that I can no longer tolerate conflict-laden situations, or everyday pressures with the same gumption and resolve I had before my depression.
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