May is #MentalHealthAwareness Month. And this Sunday is Mother's Day. I felt compelled to write this article because a couple of days ago, I read some horrifying statistics in The NZ Herald.
• Every year, about ten women die while pregnant or within 42 days of termination of pregnancy. Of that, two or three are lost to suicide. However, support groups say those figures are likely to be higher as women took their lives well after six weeks.
• One in seven new mums suffers postnatal depression after giving birth.
• The reported rate of maternal suicide in New Zealand is more than five times higher per capita than that of the UK.
Presented with these shocking statistics, I felt moved to tears. I know what it's like to experience prenatal depression. However, I had never even heard of it before falling pregnant. I was unprepared for the possibility that I wouldn’t feel wonderful when pregnant. Prenatal depression causes so much guilt and shame because being pregnant is supposed to make you radiate with joy, not get lost down a black hole. There is nothing quite like the weight of having dark thoughts when you are feeling the fluttering of your unborn child/ren in your belly. Your mind keeps telling you, "If I am not happy now, how can I ever be enough for my children?"
Fortunately, my story ends well. I feel my soaring hormones (there was a suspicion that I was carrying triplets at one point) had a negative impact on my emotions in early pregnancy. Under the wings of Maternal Mental Health, I threw myself into mindfulness and meditation, and I practised positive mindset shifts when my mind played tricks on me. For me, it worked. I did not suffer prenatal depression throughout my second and third trimesters of pregnancy, and I did not have postnatal depression after giving birth.
But that's not to say that parenting itself is an easy ride.
Becoming a mother is a huge transition. Like a snake sheds its skin, you also have to - literally overnight - adjust to a new role as 'mother'. And while the love for your children may feel like the most natural thing on earth, that new role can be anxiety-inducing. Lonely. Overwhelming. Exhausting. Sometimes it's hard to find perspective when you're so tired you can't see straight.
I want to share some of my earliest memories of being a new mum.
The very first was hearing my babies cry as they were tugged from my belly. My breath caught in my throat. I was instantly blown away by the purest love on earth for my children. But despite endless love, motherhood is not all sunshine and lollipops.
My next memory was struggling to come-to after the epidural. I could hardly hold my head up, and my eyes were mere slits. I had no idea where I was, where my babies or partner were or any concept of time. A nurse shoved a barley sugar in my mouth and said (rather angrily), "Wake up!! You have to hold your babies soon." I remember the panic I felt at that moment. "I can't. I can't even sit up," I thought as she raced out of the room.
Later, I tried to breastfeed, but my breasts stubbornly refused to release any milk or liquid gold 'colostrum'. I felt that my body was failing my boys from the first few days.
I'd pray for sleep during the two-hour break from 'round the clock' tube or bottle feeding of premature twins. But inevitably, a nurse would wake me to attach a pumping machine to my breasts. Still, no milk came.
After several days I couldn't take the stress of trying to force the breastfeeding anymore. Amazingly, my two-kilo superhero boys had skipped NICU and were healthy, gaining weight and used to formula and the bottle. I needed to release some of the stress I had put on myself and my body.
I took myself to a TV room in the hospital, turned the volume up on the TV, closed the door and wailed. I cried until no more tears came, and then walked back to my room and declared that I would not try to breastfeed anymore. The nurses and midwives supported me. But my obstetrician did not. He flat out refused to give me the pill to dry up my milk. "It's my body, and this isn't fair. The boys are doing fine. This stress is mentally breaking me," I told the nurses. "We know, and we agree, but your OB says you have to keep trying," a nurse told me. "Well, he should fucking try breastfeeding twins," I growled. Not my finest hour. But I had every right to be angry and frankly, I still am. Given that I had been through Maternal Mental Health system and my birth plan was outlined with the support of counsellors, he should have been taking my requests seriously. He did not.
A lactation consultant came into my room carrying frozen nappies and placed them on my breasts. As she massaged the rocks out of them and silent tears fell down my face, she looked like she too was about to cry. "I am so sorry. I could have helped you. I know we could have got the milk flowing and you would be feeding those boys and wouldn't be in this pain. I wish someone had told me the trouble you were having."
But I was done by then. If my obstetrician wouldn't support me, I would sort it myself.
The next day, I got dressed and walked gingerly out of the room so as not to burst open my freshly stitched c-section wound. Looking back, I shouldn't have left my babies, but I was not thinking straight. I knew there was a hospital pharmacy and I didn't think it would take too long to get there. But of course, it did. I got lost. Again and again, I found myself in strange wards. Eventually, I made it to the pharmacy and told the pharmacist I wanted some 'Milk Stop'. They looked at me with disbelief and horror that I had walked all the way to find this stuff as I protectively clutched my hand to my c-section. "It's sold out. Sorry."
Feeling defeated, I made the slow journey back to my babies. Eventually, my obstetrician gave me the pill to stop my milk. And it was a bitter pill to swallow because even though I had wanted it, I had never wanted things to pan out the way they did. Five and a half years on, I still shed a tear thinking about this. I hadn't even left the hospital, and things were hard. Traumatic even. And yet I was one of the lucky ones.
Mothers can find themselves lost in the stretched public health system and battling society’s expectations around 'breast is best' (no actually: 'fed and with a sane mother is best').
Mothers can find themselves up against the expectations of being 'happy, happy, joy, joy' despite the exhaustion and physical pain of a birth - vaginal or c-section. (Funny that a man is advised to take it easy with an ice pack on his crotch for two days after a vasectomy, while a woman is expected to 'get on with it' having had seven layers of muscle, fat and skin tissue sliced through to give birth 'the easy way'.)
Mothers can find themselves unsupported at the other end too, knowing that their parental leave might not cover the bills and that their partner gets a measly two weeks off to help with the baby. Money worries, along with housing and food instability may impact a mother’s wellbeing.
In early 2018, ANZ increased its paid parental leave policy to 26 weeks of full pay after the birth or adoption of a child. I applaud this kind of thinking. As Nathan Wallis teaches, those first 1000 days of a baby's life are so important for families and a baby's development. But it is important for parents to feel supported too.
The old saying goes, ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ But there is no village anymore. Many of us lack family help as older generations continue to work to support the extraordinarily high cost of living in this country.
But maybe we could turn around these statistics if mothers were supported. In the hospital. In the home. By their employers. And by a tribe of people that are available to help.
I was so lucky. My own mother stayed with us for two wonderful weeks. She fattened me up on her incredible cooking and we’d each feed a hungry baby boy at midnight and 3am and whisper stories to each other across the couch. She never once complained and always had a smile. I can’t tell you how much I needed her at that time. I cried my eyes out when she had to go back to her home far away from me.
Fortunately, we were able to pay for help after that. To have someone show me how to care for a baby so I moved through my days with more ease and confidence. I had advice on solids, sleep and routines. My babies were happy and slept easily, so even though there were two of them, not once did I have to get up in the night to endless screaming. Not every mother is in that situation. And plenty of new mums had to face their new reality in isolation during a pandemic too.
So how about we check in on the mothers we know? Ask if they need anything. Offer to help. Do our bit to support them through this huge life transition.
It's not easy for mamas to admit that we aren't holding everything together and need help. But whether it’s a listening ear and a warm hug, a cooked meal, a pile of laundry folded, a baby held while mama naps, or just ‘being there’ - you might never know just how much that support meant to her.
If you are a mother in need of help, please reach out.
Reach out to your regional Maternal Mental Health or Mothers Matter
Other places to get help
1737, Need to talk? Free call or text 1737 to talk to a trained counsellor.
Anxiety New Zealand 0800 ANXIETY (0800 269 4389)
Depression.org.nz 0800 111 757 or text 4202
Kidsline 0800 54 37 54 for people up to 18 years old. Open 24/7.
Lifeline 0800 543 354
Mental Health Foundation 09 623 4812, click here to access its free resource and information service.
Rural Support Trust 0800 787 254
Samaritans 0800 726 666
Suicide Crisis Helpline 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO)
Yellow Brick Road 0800 732 825
thelowdown.co.nz Web chat, email chat or free text 5626
What's Up 0800 942 8787 (for 5 to 18-year-olds). Phone counselling available Monday-Friday, noon-11pm and weekends, 3pm-11pm. Online chat is available 3pm-10pm daily.
Youthline 0800 376 633, free text 234, email talk@youthline.co.nz, or find online chat and other support options here.
If it is an emergency, click here to find the number for your local crisis assessment team.
In a life-threatening situation, call 111.