How did we get back here?
How did we find ourselves in this hell again?
What are we doing wrong?
In the hollow hours in the dead of night, these thoughts began to emerge. Two hours into a non-stop scream fest with no end in sight, my mind had started to unravel.
In the cold harsh light of day, the daily analysis begins. We turn the pieces of our broken night’s sleep in our hands, run our fingers along the jagged edges and hold them up to the light for inspection.
Perhaps his room was too dark.
Or too light?
Should we have gone in less?
Should we have stayed longer?
A noise might have woken him.
Was the silence too deafening?
Maybe we should buy a new bed.
He should have napped.
He napped too long.
Bedtime was too early.
We put him down too late.
We chastise ourselves. Fools. How could we have made that mistake? Next time we’ll do better. Next time we’ll get it right. But there is no getting it right. Again and again and again no matter how hard we try, the pieces don’t fit. Will they ever fit together again? Will we ever sleep well again? Is this our new normal? Memories from three years ago begin to sneak out again from the gloom, taking the opportunity to slip through the reopened cracks in our minds. The shadows we thought we’d managed to escape from are fuzzy at first but slowly sharpen.
I remember standing at the front door as my husband swung his satchel over his shoulder. Our baby lay in my arms. Milk and tears leaked from me as I silently begged my husband to stay.
Please don’t go.
Please don’t leave me.
Please.
“Should I take the day off work”? he asked, brows furrowed with concern. I looked down and mumbled “no, I’ll manage” but wished with every fibre of my being that he’d stay . I watched him leave, the door swinging shut. The day stretched before me, vast and endless. I remember thinking I can’t do this. How does one survive day after day on snatches of stolen sleep?
I remember lying in bed eyes fixed on the ceiling and wondering: is it possible to die from exhaustion? An orange notepad lay open next to me, pen splayed across the taunting wakeup times scrawled on the page:
23:27
01:25
02:20
04:15
5:30
7:00
I remember staring hollow-eyed, the exhaustion deep and painful in my bones, as friends exclaimed one by one that their babies were sleeping through the night.
I remember watching a storm light up across the Alps in the middle of the night. We were on our third hour of crying. My son’s face as red and furious as the time mocking me from the oven door. The sky flashed with lightning and I knew I was experiencing something my slumbering neighbours wouldn’t that night but in that moment I would have traded anything for some ever-elusive sleep.
I remember with every piece of advice, every “have you tried…” and “just…” I’d shrink a little more inside.
Just take him out in the pram.
Just put him in the carrier and go for a walk.
Just put him down drowsy.
Just.
Just.
Just.
I’d sob around the park in unison with my baby in the pram.
I’d trudge for hours around the streets with my baby in the carrier, wide awake and exhausted.
I’d gently put him down then snatch him up again as he cried to the point of choking.
Just what?
What now?
Then, a miracle happened. Our second attempt at using a sleep consultant worked. He began sleeping through the night. Finally, we slept. Until, seizures struck.
I remember bringing him to physio and the physiotherapist sternly telling me not to bring him tired. Every week I tried to make her understand that his anti-seizure medicine caused insomnia. It didn’t work. I began to dread going knowing each time would involve an emotionless berating. After breaking down in front of her, we finally changed physios.
It got better. It did. The seasons changed and so did his sleep. For almost three years, it was good. Better than good. We got smug and complacent.
But now, we are back to square one.
Scrutinising every move we make. Trawling the internet for answers. Tag teaming to the point of implosion. Try this, try that. No, don’t do that. Do this. No, wrong again. You failed.
The cracks from strings of broken nights begin to appear everywhere. You start to question everything. Loneliness and self-doubt creep back in. Why can’t I do this? What is wrong with me? I should have… just… have I tried…?
While the broken pieces look a little different this time, the feelings of inadequacy remain the same, further exacerbated by preference for a particular parent (hint: it’s not me). We’ve been here before. We’ve felt this way before and we’ve survived. We hope this season will change like the leaves on the trees around us but, quite, honestly, we don’t know what the future holds. For now, a good night’s sleep is all we can think about. It haunts our days and our nights, tantalisingly close yet always slightly out of reach out of sight. The more we chase it, the further it retreats behind a veil.
For now there is no solution, no happy ending, no way of tying this post up elegently. There are no words of wisdom or lessons. learned Just an exhausted mama out of options but not hope.
