The Return of my Demons.

Hormones and Stress. A Lethal Combination.

I am working away, merrily enjoying my time working on the stroke rehab ward. During this time we would go on little holidays within the UK, I was a confident and competent driver, and I could do anything without a second thought about anxiety or panic attacks. You could almost say I was cured, aside from a few minor 'quirks', as mentioned in the previous instalment.

Lew and I had been living together as a couple for almost two years, when we decided to try for a baby. After two successful and problem-free pregnancies, I had no fears about falling pregnant again.
Lew was also now working, although in all honesty, I am surprised he managed to keep employment, he was as reliable as a car with no battery.

Soon after Easter, I drove to collect him from work. He hopped in the front seat, and I watched his chest puff up with pride as I told him I was pregnant. It was a lovely moment. Unlike with my two previous babies, I was actually finally having a planned pregnancy, with someone I loved and wanted to spend my life with.
I was 23, and I had spent a blissful few years with minimal to no anxiety, and no panic attacks. I could do anything. It was brilliant.

The baby's due date was Christmas Day. What were the chances! I believed myself at the time, to be a birthing goddess. I was born to have babies. My body was a temple, and it was perfect at safely carrying and delivering my babies.

I had my booking in appointment with the midwife. This is the first appointment, where you go through all of your medical history and previous births, and discuss your care for the current pregnancy. I was healthy,  I had had two normal, healthy pregnancies, labours and babies. I wanted a home birth. Not just any old home birth. A home birth on Christmas Day of course. With my family around me to welcome the newest member of the family. In front of the Christmas tree, with the lights twinkling, carol songs playing, and two excited children who would be getting a new brother or sister as an extra Christmas present.

Obviously I didn't tell the midwife all of that. I simply told her that I would like to have a home birth, and I didn't need booking in at the hospital. At the same visit, I requested no scans, no blood tests, and no screening tests. It didn't matter what life had to throw at me or this baby.  had confidence that my body could look after me, and the baby it was nurturing.

The midwife looking at me unapprovingly. She immediately refused to consider to allow me to have a homebirth. Despite homebirths being statistically safer for women undergoing a normal pregnancy, she still put the fear of God into me. It was 10 years ago now, but I remember her clear as day saying to me 'You can't have a homebirth at Christmas. If anything goes wrong, there will be no ambulances available as they will all be dealing with drunken family fights. How would you feel if you or the baby died because of that?'.

I'll be honest, I hadn't actually considered me or the baby dying during labour and birth. I mean, I know it happens. I know there is a possibility. But that is a minuscule possibility. A fraction of 1%. Not something that anyone should really worry about following two normal deliveries and a third normal pregnancy.

I also ended up having scans, screening tests and blood tests too, again after I was terrified into it by horror stories of bleeding to death, babies born with no heads, and dying a painful death simply because I refused a few tests.

I was attempting to use my autonomy and informed, educated choices for the pregnancy. I was beat down with horror stories and the fear of God, by someone who should have been my care giver and advocate. Although I spent the few months following this feeling absolutely fine, I still had her words bouncing around in my head throughout the pregnancy.

I stopped working at around six months pregnant. I found the heavy lifting and carrying that was needed on the stroke rehabilitation ward was too much for me to continue with, and as I was only working on the bank, I was entitled to no maternity leave, and no alternative positions within the hospital whilst I was heavily pregnant and unable to continue with the heavy patient contact work.

Lew had lost his job unsurprisingly. He always arrived late, spent the day doing as little as possible, and generally just didn't want to work. Looking back, I amaze myself that I actually stayed with him. Not only that, that I actively wanted to be with him, and loved him more than anything.

I was no longer working, although was able to return to do the occasional bank shift just to keep registered with them. Lew wasn't working, and spent most of his time on the xbox again. He did eventually get another job, working for a family member, but again, he was unreliable and didn't seem to care whether he kept the job or not.

My pregnancy progressed with minimal problems, until one night, whilst I was 6 months pregnant, my daughter woke up in the night, projective vomiting everywhere. She had the norovirus. For three full days and nights, she didn't sleep, eat, drink, she just vomited. During those same three days, I rarely had chance to sleep, eat or drink either. Just as she seemed to settle down a little bit with it, my son suddenly vomited everywhere. She seemed to get over the virus just as he got it. He seemed to have it worse than her, and it was about five days and nights I was up with him. He was vomiting several times throughout the night. I reckon I got about 6 hours total sleep over the nights that week. He started to get better and then...yep, the inevitable happened. I got it.

I don't think I have ever been so ill in all my life. It was approaching two weeks, where I was barely sleeping, barely eating, barely looking after myself at all.

I got up one morning, towards the end of the virus' hold on the household, and suddenly felt very very unwell. I was dizzy. I was faint. I felt sick. I had palpitations, cold sweats, tunnel vision, the shakes and generally just felt like something was seriously wrong.

I dialled 999 for an ambulance. I then phoned my mum and Lew, and they were both at the house rapidly.

The paramedics arrived and asked me to explain what was wrong. I didn't know what to say. There was no one thing I could pinpoint. I explained that I 'Just didn't feel well'.

My pulse was through the roof, and blood pressure was sky high. Blood sugar was slightly low, but what do you expect when you haven't eaten in days. The paramedics suspected an infection of some sort, or possibly a complication of the pregnancy, and so I was taken in to hospital to the maternity department to be checked over. Of course, we all know what I am going to say. There was no infection. There was no pregnancy complication. I had had a panic attack. Out of nowhere.

Well, I saw out of nowhere, it was off the back of two weeks of no sleep and minimal food.

I was sent home feeling shaken and delicate. I had a few early nights where I tried to catch up with some sleep. But with being pregnant and having two kids under three, it wasn't an easy task. Over the next few days, and the next few weeks, I noticed my anxiety increase further and further. I noticed me panic more often. I noticed I was struggling to sleep, and struggling to eat. I lost 20kg of weight, and felt absolutely terrible. I was feeling more and more stressed, and more and more worried about everything.

I found myself sitting up in the bathroom at 3am every morning, crying and panicking about being pregnant and worrying that something was going to go wrong. My daughters birth played on my mind constantly. The speed of it. The lack of control I felt, the fear as I didn't know what was happening to me as I till tried to decide whether or not I was actually in labour.

I began to fear going out. What if I went into labour when I was out, and delivered this baby quickly, in public. What if I went into labour and didn't make it to hospital in time. I began to dread that moment where I go into labour, and feel that panic and loss of control that came with labour and childbirth.

I went back and forward to my GP, who prescribed a low dose of anti depressant medication, which did nothing at all to take the edge off my anxiety. I felt constantly unwell, tired, scared, overwhelmed. I was just struggling with life.

One night, at 4am, I phoned the maternity ward at the hospital. Crying down the phone, I told the midwife at the end of the line 'I am pregnant, but I can't give birth, I don't want this baby'. Dee (not her real name), the midwife on the other end of the line worked hard to reassure me. I explained that I was suffering panic attacks, terrible anxiety, I had developed agoraphobia, and I just couldn't go on any more. I told her I couldn't have this baby, and needed help.

Dee gently told me about her history of panic attacks. And how I needed to breathe and relax my shoulders, and that she would help me, there was help for me, I had options available. I was becoming more relaxed as the panic I was experiencing wore off with the help of Dees comforting and reassuring voice. She asked me a few questions about myself, such as my name and date of birth, and then asked 'How many weeks pregnant do you think you are?'.

She didn't know what to say when I told her I was 32 weeks. She gasped, explaining that there was no way I could have an abortion. There was only one way this baby was going to be coming out. Obviously, I knew that. I didn't want an abortion. Not at all. But I was absolutely petrified. Terrified of the thought of having to give birth.

Dee arranged for me to go to the hospital the following day, and she would arrange for a doctor to come and see me and make an assessment.

The following day, my mother took me up to the maternity ward as arranged. It took me ages building up the courage to leave the house just to get to the hospital, and I panicked the entire way there.

A lovely obstetrician visited me, although he confessed that I was perfectly well from a physical point of view, and the baby was absolutely fine too. He asked if I would like an evaluation from a psychiatrist. I agreed, perhaps they could help me?

A few hours later, I was taken into a side room for a psych evaluation. I cried, I shook, I panicked. My mother sat there as I described about how I just didn't want to live anymore. I was petrified of giving birth. I had a completely irrational overwhelming phobia. It was taking over my life, and I knew there was no way to escape it. The only way to be free of that fear now, according to my dysfunctional brain, was to not be here anymore. To be dead. I would be free.

The two psychiatric doctors wrote lots. They filled several pages with scribbles, as I sat and just poured everything out to them. They asked when I last slept, and when I last ate. I didn't know. I couldn't tell them. They spoke quietly between themselves for a little while, whilst  sat awkwardly twiddling my thumbs whilst my mother just sat there in silence. They eventually turned back to me, and had made a plan. They suggested speaking to the obstetricians, and seeing if it was possible to book me in to have a caesarean section. If my problems stemmed around my phobia of giving birth, then perhaps the problems would go once I realised I didn't have to give birth. Well, of course, the weight that I had been carrying around on my shoulders was instantly lifted. An alternative!! The relief when they returned to the room after speaking to the obstetrician, and saying he had agreed to me having an elective caesarean section, even under general anaesthetic if  wanted, was immense. I felt my rigid uptight body just melt as it relaxed.

I was kept in hospital that night, and given a sleeping tablet that night at about 8pm. Well, I didn't get to see 8.15pm, I was out like a light. I was in a four bedded bay, but was the only one in there. The next thing I remember, I was being woken up by one of the midwives, it was 9am. I had slept! A whole night! And my word, I felt amazing. I felt like an entirely new person. I was kept in for a few more hours until I had eaten and spoken to the obstetricians again as they booked my elective caesarean in. I went home, and spent a few days feeing absolutely fine. I felt great. I started to enjoy the pregnancy again.

Now, looking back, again, how things could have been different. Whilst I look at that offer of a caesarean section as something that rescued me from my fear and would keep me safe, in fact, it was simply another way for me to avoid facing those fears. It confirmed to my brain that it was right to panic and worry.

Sure enough, after a week or so, it returned. Now, I was panicking because the scheduled date of my operation was six days before my actual due date. Well, what if I went into labour? I labour so quickly that there wouldn't be chance for me to get to theatre for a caesarean. The agoraphobia returned, and I spent weeks doing nothing but laying down. I had follow up home visits from the psych team, but there was little else they could do for me other than support and reassure.

I figured, if I just lay down for the rest of the pregnancy, then the fetus wouldn't be putting much pressure on my cervix, making it unlikely that I would go into labour. Obviously, the rational side of me knew it didn't work like that, but the irrational side of me was winning this fight yet again.

Rapidly, I was suffering from constant panic attacks. I was tiring of life. I just wanted to be away from that awful feeling. I had an appointment with he consultant obstetrician at the hospital when I was 36 weeks pregnant, where an ultrasound scan also discovered that my baby was in the breech position. He was bum down. He would need to be born by caesarean section whether I had requested it or not! I cried and cried in front of the obstetrician, and explained to him how I felt. I told him that I was struggling massively, and I was terrified that I wasn't going to be here for much longer, as my irrational side was completely taking over and I felt as though I was losing total control.

He agreed to bring my caesarean section forward to 37 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy. I could have kissed him. I did hug him. And cry on his shirt. A lot.

So there I am. 37 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I had one more day to go. My anxiety was through the roof as I went into hospital that night ready for the operation the following morning. Lew stayed with me until visiting was over at 9pm. At midnight I was still awake as one of the midwives snuck into my bay to take my water away as I was now 'nil by mouth. She noticed I was still awake and asked if I was OK. I explained that I couldn't sleep, and soon she was back with a sleeping tablet and a little sip of water. The next thing I knew, it was 7am and I was being woken up to begin prepping for theatre. I was due to go down at 8.30am. I sent Lew a message. I heard no reply.

I pottered about on the ward, getting myself ready. At 8am, I still hadn't heard from Lew, so I tried phoning him. His phone was off, so I phoned his sister. It transpired that he had gone round to hers last night after leaving me at the hospital, and had drunk an entire bottle of champagne that his parents had given us to celebrate the birth of our baby. He was still in bed asleep. I was fuming. There I was, petrified, alone, and finally preparing to have this baby. Something I had been fearing and panicking over for the past few months. If there was any time I needed him, it was right there. Yet there he was, sleeping off a hangover.

Lew arrived just as I was leaving the ward to go to theatre. He walked into the hospital foyer just as the midwife and I were making our way to the elevators to go to theatre.

I don't know if she will ever read this, but my midwife, Franky (not her real name) was absolutely amazing. She had delivered both of my previous babies, and although she didn't work clinically much anymore, she wanted to be there as I completed my family. I trusted her implicitly, she knew what I had been going through, I could talk to her openly and freely and she was amazing at calming my fears and keeping me as relaxed as possible.

I had never had an operation before. I had never been in a theatre before. I felt like I was walking into doom as I made my way towards the theatre. I wanted to turn around and run as the elevator doors opened. Franky held them open as I stood in front of the elevator, my mind racing, wanting to just run out of the hospital and leave it all behind.

A few deep breaths and I entered the elevator and walked out of the doors as they pinged open onto the floor of the theatres.

It was clinical. It was scary. It was alien. There were people walking around in scrubs and caps, appearing to be distant, unusual, alien.

Lew had to go and get changed into theatre scrubs whilst Franky took me through to meet the anaesthetist and receive a spinal block to numb me from the waist down.

I sat on the bed as the anaesthetist poked around on my spine. I knew that once that spinal was in, I would have no control of my legs, I would lose the ability to leave, I would be trapped there for hours until I was able to move again.

Franky spoke to me, She held my hand, she talked about my older two children, and we laughed about what they were up to nowadays. The last time she saw them, they were hours old and she had just helped me bring them into the world.

I was lay down on the theatre bed, screens went up. The anaesthetist stood beside my head and joked and worked to keep me calm. The operation couldn't commence as my blood pressure was too high, but I said that was because I was so anxious. So the next 10 minutes was spent with the theatre team working to calm me down. Although they worked solely in obstetrics and gynaecology, and had very limited experience of mental health problems, they were brilliant. The entire team. They were perfect.

The operation commenced, and eventually a skinny and angry looking baby boy was held up over the screen. Lew was green, because he decided to be clever and look over the screen to see my  abdomen cut open from hip to hip.

I looked at the baby and I screamed. I don't know where it came from. It was a scream of elation. It was pure, unbridled joy. I burst into tears. I grabbed Lews hand, and was just yelling over and over again, 'We done it!!'. That was it. He was born. I survived the pregnancy, and more importantly, the baby survived the pregnancy. We done it. We were survivors. I had been so close to suicide throughout the last few weeks, and I looked after myself so poorly, I was elated that we were both there, and we were fine.

The baby was taken and dried, and bought back to be tucked up into bed with me for us to start breastfeeding, whilst the surgeons finished off putting me back together.

I was transferred onto a clean bed, and wheeled into recovery, still on a massive high, and so in love with this little person, who I felt I had already been through so much with, despite the fact he was only minutes old.

I looked behind me as I was wheeled into recovery, and was taken aback. The theatre floor was covered in blood. There were footprints of my blood all over the theatre. It was everywhere and covered everything. I remember thinking as I was wheeled out 'crikey, I didn't realise I even had that much blood'. I thought no more of it. I was too much in love. I was too relieved. I was too elated.

Back on the ward, and I felt amazing. I didn't want to stop holding my baby, and I kept him tucked up in bed with me. The day went on, and I began to feel slightly unwell. they

Everytime I tried to sit up, I appeared to faint. I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow without fainting. Visiting time was approaching, and I asked Lew to tell our parents not to visit as I just didn't feel well enough. I was struggling to stay awake, I was so so tired.

The visitors came anyway, as they had already left by the time I said I wasn't well enough to see them.

I can remember Lews parents turning up, but I don't remember much more of that. I remember sleeping and waking up intermittently to see them sitting there, before falling immediately back to sleep again. My mother turned up with my older two children. I introduced them to Franky, and told the children that she was the midwife that helped bring them into the world, and was also the person my daughter was named after.

I told Franky I wasn't feeling well. She suggested it may have been due to the spinal anaesthetic, and said she would call a doctor to come and check me over. My mother didn't stay long with the children as she could see I was unwell.

I vaguely remember Franky coming back and taking my pulse. I remember waking up as she held my wrist, smiling at her, then my eyes just closing and I was gone again.

The doctors came round, they checked me over and said I was fine, and then left again. I knew something wasn't quite right. But I just didn't know what. The other mums in the same bay as me, and who had had their caesarean sections after me were up and about, they were sitting up and chatting. They seemed to be fine. Why wasn't I fine?

Lew left, I slept. I had the baby tucked in with me, much to the dismay of the night shift midwives. But I was physically unable to lift him in and out of the bedside cot. I was weak, I'd get light headed and faint whenever I sat up to move him. I was terrified of dropping him.

The following morning, I woke up to see Franky standing over me. She explained that she had gone home the previous night, and was worried about me. She said she had been speaking to a few people to try and work out what was wrong with me, and asked if she could take a blood test. I agreed. Within an hour, she came back to me, and told me that I was severely anaemic. My haemoglobin was 5.2, whereas it should have been 11-13. She explained that she looked through my notes the night before to see what my recorded blood loss was, and it was written as 600mls. She said she knew, and even I knew, looking at that floor, there was a lot more than 600mls there.

A blood transfusion of three units of blood later, and I felt amazing. I could finally sit up without fainting. I could hold my baby. I had energy.

I had no panic. I had no anxiety. Four days later I was discharged home, where I was completely back to 'normal'. The very thing that was triggering my panic was now gone, and so was the panic. I felt amazing.

Now. I know this is just a boring 'life story' of mine. But I have added it, as I think this was the turning point in my life. The pregnancy was the start of my panic and anxiety in adulthood. Although it was now over and I felt fine, I think the entire episode is pertinent towards the issues I developed later through adulthood.

Looking back, I can see. Yet again, I avoided the very thing that was causing me anxiety. I managed to escape giving birth. I had a 'get out'. This get out reinforced to my brain, that I was right to panic. I was right to be scared. There was a potential danger, and I 'saved myself' from it. Whilst outwardly I thought I had been successful in dodging the panic and anxiety, subconsciously, it was a massive fail, and a backwards step.

I was scared of the entire process of giving birth, and I also still had the original midwife's comments in my head 'What if you die, what if your baby dies?'

There is an irony in the fact that I felt that in avoiding giving birth normally, I avoided the potential of me dying or the baby dying. Yet the caesarean section, the very thing that was supposed to 'save me' nearly resulted in me dying. The huge blood loss I suffered bought me close to death.

It is common knowledge that although it is still very safe, a caesarean section is higher risk than a normal delivery. Yet somehow, my brain couldn't process that fact.

That is the nature of the beast that is anxiety and panic disorder. You think that in avoiding a certain situation, you are 'safer'. However, that is not always the case. Sometimes your alternative choice IS more risky. It is more dangerous. But you don't care. There is no logic. It is completely irrational. You reach the point where you don't care about the level of risk when you have choices. Your choice tends to focus solely on what will cause you the least anxiety. What will hopefully prevent a panic attack. What you feel most comfortable with. That is what makes this disorder dangerous. Your decisions are skewed. You don't consider risk vs benefit. You consider least panic vs most panic. And that is how I began to live my life...

Thank you for reading if you got this far.

I am just setting the scene, providing a backdrop to bring us bang up to date. If you are enjoying reading so far, please feel free to subscribe, and/or share to others who may benefit from reading.

A few more instalments whilst I finish setting the scene, and then I will start concentrating on current issues, treatments, legislations and difficulties that I, and fellow sufferers are battling with.

Take care of you.

Kirsty.x