The relentless grip of OCD during pregnancy is a harrowing journey, one that I, like many others, have navigated. It's a battle against an invisible enemy, a constant fear that haunts every moment. Picture this: I'm in a hospital, dressed in a paper gown, my grippy socks a testament to my anxiety. It's the early hours of the morning, and I'm surrounded by indifferent faces, but one nurse, new to the unit, offers a glimmer of compassion. I'm grateful for her kindness, especially as this is my third visit this week.
The medical staff, some with eye-rolling impatience, suggest I'm overreacting. But I know the truth: my lifelong companion, OCD, is whispering doubts and fears in my ear. I've become a regular at both local hospitals, switching between them to give each staff a break from my anxious presence.
Strapped to a monitor, I pretend to understand the machine's beeps, a charade to hide my true fears. My husband, exhausted and torn, has sometimes refused to accompany me, feeling he's enabling my illness. Yet, here he is, waiting calmly, having driven us through the deserted predawn streets. I watch as my child's heartbeat unfurls on the hospital floor, a zigzagging graph that offers no solace.
The staff's reassurances fall on deaf ears. "The baby is fine," they say, but my OCD demands more. It's a battle between logic and obsession. Leaving the hospital with a clean bill of health is a relief, but it's a temporary respite from the true battle awaiting at home.
Intrusive thoughts assault me: "What if I miss a kick?" "Is four kicks an hour enough?" These questions haunt me, and the answers never bring peace. I turn to sugary drinks and peanut butter, hoping to induce fetal movement, but it's a temporary fix.
In the privacy of my spare room, I perform my rituals in the dark, clenching my jaw and willing my daughter to kick. I research, I test, I monitor, but nothing brings certainty. I'm afraid I'm leaking amniotic fluid, even though I've just been tested. I'm trapped in a cycle of anxiety, my mind racing with catastrophic scenarios.
This battle with OCD began when I was just 5 years old, learning to write. The letter 't' reminded me of a crucifix, and I believed making it symmetrical was a matter of life and death. I traced shapes, rooted to the spot, terrified of moving on. The legend of Bloody Mary, with its numerical spell, only added to my fears.
I was officially diagnosed at 9, and exposure therapy helped me manage my OCD. But life's twists and turns brought it roaring back. The terror attacks of 9/11 triggered fears of bombs and anthrax. I saw myself as a guardian against terrorism, my hypochondria worsening.
As I grew older, I thought I had conquered OCD. I threw myself into life: college, friendships, love, and a successful career. I even published a book of poetry and got married. But pregnancy brought it all back, with a force I had never experienced.
My doctor advised me to stop taking Prozac during my first trimester, and I complied, terrified of another miscarriage. But this decision unleashed a torrent of anxiety. I felt trapped in my own body, claustrophobic and afraid.
As my pregnancy progressed, tracking my baby's movements became an obsession. I counted kicks, paced during classes, and sought reassurance from friends and family. My therapist and midwife tried to help, but nothing could silence the voice in my head.
I fantasized about a spa-like psychiatric facility, a place where I could be monitored and analyzed. But reality offered no such escape. Instead, I took matters into my own hands, checking myself into the hospital, demanding surveillance.
Near the end of my third trimester, I spent a night in the hospital, hooked up to monitors, finally able to relax. It was a brief respite from the constant vigilance and self-torture.
Weeks later, I returned to the hospital, determined not to go home. My husband joined me, and we learned that our baby was showing signs of reduced movement. An emergency C-section was scheduled, and as I was wheeled into the OR, I felt a glimmer of hope.
During the surgery, I felt a sense of relief. The doctors casually chatted, and then I felt the heavy weight of my daughter being lifted from me. The umbilical cord, knotted and wrapped around her neck, was a testament to the realness of my OCD. It may have saved her life, a bitter-sweet victory.
As I held my daughter, I felt a flood of emotions. She was outside of me now, observable, and I could finally know if she was okay. The arrival of more mundane worries was a welcome change. I had survived, and my pregnancy had served as a rehearsal for the dangers ahead.
Starting a new job and becoming the mother of a happy 2-year-old, I learned I was pregnant again, this time with a son. I sought a female doctor who understood the unique challenges of pregnancy with OCD. She kept me on my SSRI, and together with my therapist, we developed strategies to preempt OCD thoughts.
At 20 weeks, the familiar panic resurfaced when I couldn't feel my son's kicks. But this time, I had a different perspective. I went back inside, crawled into bed with my husband, and together, we counted the kicks. It was a moment of connection and reassurance.
Pregnancy with OCD is a unique and challenging journey, one that requires strength and support. It's a battle, but it's one that can be won, and the rewards are immeasurable.
