I don’t remember a time when anxiety didn’t haunt me. There’s been periods of lesser worries, but it’s always lurking. Most of my anxieties have centered around health and death.
Around the age of 8, I wrote a note to myself explaining how to cope with anxiety, particularly anxiety concerning death. I don’t remember writing the note or what led me to do so, but my mother brought it to me two years ago in the wake of one of my worst seasons with anxiety to date.
I was recently married and found myself to be pregnant just two months later.
I knew what childbirth entailed. In fact, I found myself sitting on the floor of the hospital room as my sister fearlessly gave life to my nephew 6 months prior. The screams of agony, smells of blood, and looks of terror on my sister’s face had me passing out, and it wasn’t even my pain.
A few months following my nephews birth, I read a Humans of New York post on Facebook about a woman who had died during childbirth. Call me naive, but this was my first realization that my sister yelling “I’m going to die!” while in labor wasn’t as far-fetched as I had thought. I began to research how such a thing was even possible. Turns out, there are lots of ways women die in childbirth.
At three months pregnant, I had a dream where my deceased grandfather came to visit my family in my childhood home. It was apparent to all of us there that he was deceased. He spoke of life after death, how happy he was, and gave a stern call to increasing our faith. He then sat next to me on the purple, leather couch. The same couch where I spent my childhood watching TV and being cared for when ill. The same couch where I would talk to boys till 3 in the morning during my adolescence. There he said, “You’re next.” He dissipated, and I awoke to sudden anxiety that would only accumulate.
I skipped work that day and spent hours upon hours researching all the ways in which women die in pregnancy and childbirth. Because of my family’s history of heart attack, I was particularly drawn to the condition of arterial dissection.
I wore a Fitbit that tracked my heart rate, and I paid close attention to it. I literally had to charge it numerous times a day due to my constant checking. It got to the point where due to my increased heart rate (This is normal in pregnancy, by the way.) I was referred to a cardiologist, who had me wear a 24-hour heart monitor. That heart monitor found that I had about 20 premature ventricular contractions (PVCs), which again are common, but made me uneasy. To this day, I still have PVCs, and because I know about them, I feel them every time.
After the cardiologist didn’t find anything alarming, I found a red blotchy spot on my right breast. I again went internet diving and found Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC). I also learned that pregnant women are more likely to find out they have cancer because of all the hormone changes and doctor’s visits they attend, so I began paying close attention to my breasts. In addition to my blotchy spot, I found a lump in my armpit. For this, I was referred to a specialist who did an ultrasound. The specialist found a cyst and “some fat” but was ultimately not alarmed. (The red blotchy spot turned out to be a fungus, which is also not uncommon in pregnancy.)
Aimlessly still searching for what might kill me in childbirth, I came across Preeclampsia (PE).
When I spoke to my OB about my fears of preeclampsia, I was written off. His exact words were, “You’re making this [pregnancy] look easy!” Not something someone who has struggled with all of the above wants to hear. If this pregnancy was “easy,” I wasn’t about to do this again.
I continued to take my own blood pressure at home against my OB’s advice. One weekend, at 37 weeks pregnant, I received two high readings. 140/90. These readings might not seem high, but I had done my research. Anything 140/90 and above is in the running for gestational diabetes at a minimum. I called the Labor and Delivery unit who told me to sit tight, continue monitoring my blood pressure, and come in if anything changes.
I waited for my regularly scheduled OB appointment that Tuesday. There, I again had a reading of 140/90. Because I had been taking my blood pressure at home, I let the doctor seeing me know that I had similar readings over the weekend. She marked me up with gestational hypertension and twice weekly OB appointments to track fetal monitoring. She also gave me two jugs to pee in.
I knew these jugs were to check for Preeclampsia. The drill was that I would pee into the jars for the next 24 hours.
That night, in between pee breaks, I sat on the couch eating my weight in skittles.
The next day, I took my two jugs of urine to the Labor and Delivery unit. The nurses looked at me and said, “Oh, you’ll be out of here in no time. No one with PE has two jugs of urine.”
They were wrong.
The protein in my urine came back at 780, indicating severe Preeclampsia. (This number should be under 300.) I was induced.
26 hours later, I had a baby. I LIVED. And for one glorious week, I was anxiety free.
I’m forever thankful for my week of what I imagine those who don’t have anxiety feel consistently, but it did not last. My fears came back tenfold. I still worried about SCAD, postpartum Preeclampsia, hemorrhaging, etc., but I also worried about my baby. And 19 months later, that is where I still find the majority of my anxiety.
Writing this all down and rereading it, it seems silly. I’m a rational person. I make safe, logical decisions. I think through things before acting. BUT, when I start spiraling with anxiety, I’m not able to tell you which way is up. I may even know that my thought processes are unlikely or irrational, but I can’t control them. They come like rapid fire. I jump from one thing, to the next, and back again until I’m fatigued and irritated.
In a last-ditch effort to control my mind without the use of medication, I recently began seeing a counselor through the church I’m virtually attending as of lately. (That’s a post in itself. Maybe another day!) I’ve only had two sessions, but somehow talking with someone and finding out I’m not alone on these crazy mountain treks my mind takes is freeing.
That’s what I hope to achieve through this blog. I’ll continue sharing my anxieties in an attempt to rationalize them, and along the way, I hope to spread awareness and let others know, YOU ARE NOT ALONE in your struggle.
The note I wrote to myself at the age of 8 may no longer apply, as my anxiety has transferred to the well-being of my son, but I find it still relevant. Every time I walk by my fridge, I’m reminded that this is nothing new, but I’m determined to change it.
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