My Journey to Creating Family Foundations: Part I

As the years have passed, and my wounds have begun to heal, I have opened up more and more about my own survival from Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety, and Post Traumatic Stress Order. But, to be frank, my trauma started much sooner in life than Postpartum; as I am also a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. While I will spare the gritty details, I do want to emphasize that the story I am about to share may trigger those still recovering. Proceed with caution as I dive into seven years of my life filled with pregnancy loss, suicidal ideations, abortion contemplation, a brutal dog attack, and divorce, before I finally found my way back to myself, and took my life back.

To get the story started, I’ll rewind back to October 2015 —

I was just 21 years old, married to my first husband, and found out I was pregnant for the first time ever. I was immediately filled with excitement, and could hardly keep quiet. We told our immediate family and friends, and I told my employers - I was a full-time Nanny in Daniel Island, South Carolina, at the time. We kept our secret from social media until Thanksgiving week, when we announced to our Facebook and Instagram friends with a simple picture of a Christmas ornament “Baby U, Due June 2016.”

The weeks felt like they were moving slower than ever, not just because of the morning nausea, or the constantly sore breasts, but because my OB-GYN said that there was no reason for me to come in for an ultrasound until I was about 12-weeks along. I was so excited as I headed into my first appointment. An appointment that would lead to being led out the back door, for privacy, as I was overcome by endless tears.

It was early December, I was supposed to be heading into my 2nd Trimester, but instead, I was informed I had experienced a missed miscarriage, and that it was recommended I undergo surgery in the coming days, as I was at risk for an infection.

I spent days in the shower sobbing, not understanding how this could this. At the time, I didn’t realize that 1 in 4 Women will experience a miscarriage. It felt isolating and alone. On December 4th, 2015, I underwent a surgical D&C, as recommended. I took a week off from work, mainly to recover emotionally.

Despite the pain of my loss, I was eager to try and get pregnant again, and with my doctor’s approval, I waited one menstrual cycle before doing so.

By February 2016, I was pregnant again —

This is likely when my anxiety began to develop. It feels impossible to enjoy a pregnancy so soon after experiencing any loss - let alone a missed miscarriage, when your body doesn’t even alert you to the loss.

Thankfully, my doctor was understanding of my concerns, and monitored my pregnancy more closely, starting at 6 weeks. We tracked baby’s growth with ultrasounds every 2 weeks for the first 12 weeks. I was then transferred to the care of a Fetal-Maternal Specialist, for fluid concerns.

At 20 weeks along, I got the best news of my life, and my sweet baby was a girl. The daughter I was desperately hoping for. The remainder of my pregnancy was mostly uneventful, and on October 12th, 2016, I got to meet my sweet girl. I was enjoying every moment of being her mom, and perfectly content with the thought of only having her.

When she was 5 weeks old, my world came crashing down, when she was rushed to the Emergency Room and within hours, diagnosed with Meningitis.

What started out as a normal day, turned into my sweet baby girl napping for hours and hours on end. Snuggled up with me, I began to question if she was running a fever or if my body heat was too much warmth on her. I grabbed whatever thermometer we had - nothing special - and got a reading of 104.

At the time, I must not have known the danger of a temperature in babies. I headed to the children’s urgent care, where they quickly took her temperature again (likely in shock that I said she had been at 104 degrees), but they quickly confirmed that my at-home thermometer was right. They told me an ambulance would take too long, and to drive her to the ER immediately.

I barely got through the doors before they had her information pulled up, her tiny hospital bands printed, and into a private room. I remember her father was working overnights, and I had to call him to meet us there.

We spent the first few hours doing labs, a spinal tap, a catheter to catch a urine, sample. And then we were told she needed to be admitted. I remember worrying about who would take care of our cats and dogs. I remember worrying about work, and how much time I would miss. I remember asking if we could just do antibiotics at home.

That’s when they explained the severity of her potential diagnosis; the importance of IV antibiotics; and how we would spend the first night doing continuous monitoring on her brain activity. The first 48 hours were spent praying she wouldn’t die.

I will forever be grateful for team at the Medical University of South Carolina. Their care and compassion while we spent 12 days in the PICU were unmatched. After 2 days, and no decreased in brain activity, my daughter’s prognosis was stronger. We still had many unanswered questions, but after several more days of labs and and bringing in Infectious Disease Specialists, we were able to determine that our baby girl had a severe UTI, and ultimately caused by Stage III Kidney Reflux. She would need 10 days of antibiotics, and 48 hours of monitoring afterwards, but we had a “going home” date insight.

We spent her first Thanksgiving in the hospital, but made it home shortly after, with a happy and healthy baby girl.

Just when life started to get back to normal, I found out I was 8 weeks pregnant when my daughter was just 5 months old —

To rewind a few weeks, there was one, single adult “oopsie” moment. A moment that caused immediate chaos, confusion, and contemplation. My husband at that time offered to buy, and supported my decision to take a Plan B pill. But, I was sure it wouldn’t be necessary. I tried to tell myself “everything will be fine, it will be okay.”

I started testing around 4 weeks post conception, but got several negatives. I figured that my body was still adjusting to postpartum from my daughter’s birth 4 months prior and that my cycles might be irregular for a while.

It wasn’t until a month later, when we went on a family vacation, which required a Ferry ride to the island we were visiting, that I got super nauseous. I didn’t think too much of it, until the humidity started to trigger some emotional outbursts, and then I lost my appetite for a long awaited meal at Red Robin (its okay, you can laugh at that part). On the drive home, we decided that we should grab another test and just make sure that I was still testing negative.

But, it was positive. I immediately placed blame, I felt anger, I felt insecure, I was a cauldron of bubbling emotions. I kept saying: I didn’t want this. My husband gave me an out, he told me I should have an abortion if that’s what I felt was right; he would understand. I’ve always supported Women’s Rights to choose for themselves, but this wasn’t a choice I could make.

While I never regretted my decision to keep my second pregnancy, I struggled early on to connect with it. Soon after finding out I was pregnant, I was hit with gender disappointment, the one thing I was holding out for - I wanted another girl, but found out I would be welcoming a boy - my first son.

I was in my second trimester when I confessed all my thoughts and emotions to my OB-GYN. She diagnosed me with depression, for the first time in my life. She recommended I begin medication for treatment, but I declined, feeling unsure about the risk of exposing my baby to medication. I mustered through the next few months, but never really felt joy or excitement. I reached a point where I was “ready” and knew that I would figure out a way to get through it, but thats about it. Just a neutral, “I’m ready.”

And just 13 months and 1 day after my daughter was born, I welcomed my son —

The initial transition home was fine. He was born just weeks before Thanksgiving, and my Grandma was staying with us, to help me care for my two babies. They wore cute outfits, and I took cute pictures, but I don’t recall much else.

Christmas came, and again, it was all fine. Our first year of matching Christmas pajamas. The day came, and it went, and it was fine.

I was living in a constant state of “it’s fine.” Days grew into weeks, and weeks grew into months.

I kept telling myself it was fine. But, I was anything but fine. I was dying, slowly. Anxiety was following me, while Depression was consuming me. My brain constantly making up stories; like short movies in my head. I would be driving down the road, when I would imagine a horrific car accident. I would play out every move I’d make, the things I’d say, the emotions I’d feel.

Couple my intrusive thoughts with months of sleep deprivation - and I broke. I held my babies and told them I was so sorry. I’m sorry for not being the mom they deserved, I’m sorry for not being more patient, gentle, and kind. I’m sorry I demand too much, and fight with your dad. I’m sorry for all the times I’ve thought I didn’t want you, mostly because I thought I didn’t deserve you. I’m sorry, but you will be better off without me.

I never had a plan to take my own life, but I didn’t have a plan on how to live, either —

Somehow, through sleepless nights, a demanding full-time job as a Nanny, a marriage that was unraveling, and my own thoughts eating me alive, I managed to keep going. I managed to wake up each day, and just go through the motions.

I’d get up, get the kids ready, and I’d take them to work (I had continued my career as a Nanny), take them home, do dinner and bedtime, and repeat.

Day after day after day.

And then, on July 7th, 2018, my world turned upside down when my daughter was brutally attacked by a large breed dog —

I didn’t often work on weekends, but I my schedule was reflective of the Mom I worked for at the time. I had managed to create a decent schedule with four children in my care, two of whom were my own, and so my son and their two children were still asleep.

Troian had just woken up from a nap, and I brought her downstairs to watch TV and have a snack. We had less than an hour left before we would be heading home for the night - or so I thought.

Instead, when my daughter approached the dog, a dog she had known and seen 5 days a week for nearly a year, it brutally attacked her, knocking her little 25lb body to floor, latched onto her face.

Through my screams, and pleads with 9-1-1, I held a rag to my daughter’s face. I begged them to hurry so she wouldn’t die. My arms, my legs, and my chest, covered in blood. She was rushed to the Medical University of South Carolina, for a second time, and underwent emergency surgery to repair the injuries. Even though my daughter survived, a piece of me died that day.

Two weeks later, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and had no choice but to accept the help of prescription medications —

Every day I was numb. I could see five years into the future, and it filled me with fear. I could hardly function. I was having panic attacks daily. I couldn’t be around dogs. I couldn’t leave my daughter’s side. Shortly there after, I was terminated from my job. I was in financial distress. I felt like the world was closing in on me, in every way possible. But this time, I refused to give up the fight. My daughter needed me to fight battles she was too little for.

It was my 23rd Birthday the day I hired her Injury Attorney. An attorney who would spend 1.5 years standing by our family, helping me fight for what my daughter deserved. He continued to represent our family even after we moved across the country to Phoenix, Arizona, in April 2019.

Continue reading Part II, as my life continued to shift, later leading to my divorce, as I continued to battle PPD, PPA, and PTSD nearly 3 years after my first diagnosis.