Half of my body is numb. Pins and needles run up and down my legs and arms. Heart racing, back aching. It’s pitch black, yet I think I’m awake. A reoccurring nightmare? A heart attack? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just going insane. Space and time become convoluted. Where am I? What’s going on? Then I smell his breath on my face. Then I hear his snoring in my ear. Then I feel his weight on my body.
Luciano, my 50kg, 10-year-old son has rolled his dead weight on top of me. Slowly, I lift my right foot to his stomach and push him over, ever so gently. His father, my husband, snores, unaware that our son has come into bed with us, again. I start to open and close my numb hand and move my numb foot in a circular motion in attempt to get blood flowing through my dead left side once more. When I start to feel my body, I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to sleep! But I do none of those things. Instead, I inhale and exhale until I regulate my physically and mentally drained body.
On the night my son was born, I was the only woman giving birth that day in Fairfield Hospital. I had all the midwives’ attention. Despite the pain of labour, it was wonderful to be the centre of everyone’s world. Because I knew that soon (by other women’s account), my son would take up all the space and time in mine. He was born at 1am. He was a fairly easy birth and a healthy premature baby, I was very lucky, the midwives kept telling me. No stitches, no drugs, no intervention, very lucky. They showed me how to breastfeed, said I was a natural—I did not feel like a natural, I felt like a bleeding and torn nipple failure.
I ended up pressing the button and the only words I could muster were, “I’m exhausted,” to which a red lipstick wearing-midwife responded, “Welcome to motherhood, hun.”
Right after Luciano’s birth, 19 other women came into the hospital to deliver their babies. The midwives quickly moved me into the maternity ward. My husband was politely told to leave. Suddenly, no one had time for me or my newborn. Baby and I were left on a hospital bed, behind a wraparound grey curtain on our own but not quite on our own. We shared our room with three other button-pressing mothers, three other constant-crying babies.
I eavesdropped, in hope one of the mothers had pressed their button for a reason that I needed too, that way I could learn vicariously. No matter how many times, I failed at getting my son to sleep. No matter how many times, I failed at getting him to suck on my breast not my nipple. No matter how many times, I failed at calming him down. I did not want to press that button. I did not want to declare to the entire maternity ward that I needed help and that I was a failure of a mother. This was the first time I felt like this, but it definitely was not my last. I ended up pressing the button and the only words I could muster were, “I’m exhausted,” to which a red lipstick wearing midwife responded, “Welcome to motherhood, hun.”
Twenty four hours after I’d given birth I was discharged with a handful of pamphlets and blue baby book. It had been over 24 hours since I’d slept. As a Uruguayan, my room during visiting hours meant it was overly crowded to the point where one peroxide-blonde midwife said, “I know you Latinos like to party, but this is not a fiesta, it’s a maternity ward. Newborns and mothers need to rest.” On my way home I knew my entire family would follow me but at least my husband, my mother and all the aunties would take their turns at looking after Luciano whilst I slept. Or so I thought.
All my son wanted was to hear his mamá’s heartbeat, drink his mamá’s breastmilk, feel his mamá’s warmth. Nothing else
Not one woman could calm my son down. No years of experience could stop the crying. All my son wanted was to hear his mamá’s heartbeat, drink his mamá’s breastmilk, feel his mamá’s warmth. Nothing else. I was beyond exhausted, so I began to co-sleep. It felt like an awful decision to make after reading the SIDS leaflet. I carried the guilt into my dreams. Yet, my husband’s now-late aunt, Tía Chula, reminded me over a Skype call that back in the day that’s how we were all raised. It was deeply uncomfortable but nonetheless, it was the closest to sleep I could get.
One night at 3am, whilst I breastfed my son for the 100th time, burped him for the 100th time, rocked him for the 100th time and sang every single lullaby I could remember from Arroro mi Niño to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I longed for an endoscopy, more precisely, for the drug induced sleep I was once placed under for the invasive procedure.
Nothing worked with my son: Karitane, sleep apnoea test, prescribed melatonin, specialist after specialist
That’s when I finally decided to call one of the many 1800 hotlines at the back of the baby book. The nurse over the phone advised me to download this new app created by health professionals. The app had a multitude of videos demonstrating how to settle your baby and get them to sleep in their bed at varying ages, birth to four months, four to eight months, eight to 12 months and one to three years. One to three years! ‘F--- me’, I thought. Back then, I could only imagine being sleep deprived for another three years would be beyond insanity. Nothing worked with my son: Karitane, sleep apnoea test, prescribed melatonin, specialist after specialist, but here I am 10 years in, still struggling to get a decent night’s shuteye.
For years I blamed myself for my son’s behavioural sleep problems. I had spoiled him with my constant attention, with my desperate decision to co-sleep. And it wasn’t until seven years later whilst listening to a podcast where I was finally relieved of that guilt. The host interviewed neonatal paediatrician, Dr Howard Chilton, I learnt that approximately only 15 per cent of newborns sleep the night through! Meaning 75 per cent were like my son. Waking through the night was normal, it wasn’t my fault. Dr Chilton explained how babies prefer having a carer nearby when sleeping as this makes them feel safe. I made my child feel secure. The knot of culpability that tied my self-judgement down was loosened. I was free.
Nowadays my son doesn’t wake up every 40 minutes like he use to as a newborn. Most nights he’s up somewhere between 2am to 4am and stumbles onto our king size bed (all parents should have king size beds). And I’ve adapted to the lack of sleep. But since becoming a parent 10 years ago, with every night that drags on, I’ve understood more and more why “Rest in Peace” is a common epitaph on gravestones. This is because sleep is sanity for us sleep deprived parents. And once we cease to exist, all we want, all we need is to rest in peace.
This article has been published in partnership with Sweatshop: Western Sydney Literacy Movement
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