by Jessica Rowe
For the first time in a long time I felt safe. I believed my husband’s words of reassurance, and through that pane of glass I could feel his heart beating.
The next morning I went back to see our obstetrician, Dr Jan Dudley. Peter and I called her Cuddly Dudley, as she had a warmth, earthiness and kindness that made you want to hug her after each appointment. When I walked into her rooms, sat on that familiar chair, and looked at the small grey sculpture of a pregnant woman and the photos of her blonde daughters on her desk, I knew I could exhale, just a little.
Jan held my hand as I confessed my terrible thoughts. I told her I was afraid I was turning into my mother and I didn’t want that to be my future, my family’s future. I wanted to be the best mother I could be and did not want to let my baby girl or my husband down. She made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist, a specialist in postnatal depression, the very next day. Ever so slightly I felt the crushing weight on my shoulders lift for a moment. I had finally given voice to my black thoughts, and as those thoughts bounced against the glass, they lost some of their fierceness.
I dressed deliberately for my meeting with Dr Marie-Paule Austin, choosing a brown cotton fifties-style dress with a diamond pattern, silver glitter ballet flats and pink lipstick. I kept looking down at my silver shoes as I sat in the white architectural-looking chair in Dr Austin’s rooms. How I wanted to click my heels, Dorothy style, and vanish from this reality. There was a box of tissues on a side table nearby, and as I looked up at the doctor I smiled one of my practised smiles.
‘Hello, thank you for seeing me,’ I said.
‘You can stop pretending,’ replied Dr Austin.
‘Pretending?’
‘Tell me what’s been happening.’
I told Dr Austin about my worries for Allegra, my problems breastfeeding, losing my job, Mum’s illness and my obsessive thoughts.
‘But that’s normal,’ Dr Austin said.
‘Normal—what? Is it normal to have images of clocks and knives going around on a constant loop in your brain?’
‘Yes, it is normal for someone who has postnatal depression,’ Dr Austin continued. ‘Obsessive, unpleasant thoughts are very common in people with PND.’
‘I would never hurt Allegra.’
‘I know that.’
‘And I would never hurt myself.’
‘I know that.’
‘So why is it happening to me? Where have these thoughts come from?’
‘Because your mind has been working in a panicked and anxious state, normal objects that you deal with every day can start to become sinister,’ explained Dr Austin. ‘You start misinterpreting things like the clock and the knife, things that you have used for a long time without having any problems. Because of the way your brain has been working, such objects start to appear hazardous and dangerous to your baby. The world becomes a very scary place because you want to do everything to protect your child—you are so intent on looking after her and keeping her safe that everywhere you look there is danger.’
‘So I’m not a crazy lady.’
‘No, but you do have an illness, postnatal depression.’
‘I’m worried it’s bipolar disorder—am I turning into my mother?’
‘It’s not bipolar, that is a totally different illness to PND,’ Dr Austin reassured.
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘That’s because you have anxiety, and your body is operating on high levels of adrenaline and is ready to fight or flight.’
‘So what can I do?’ I asked pleadingly. ‘I want to be better—I want to be me again.’
‘There are a couple of treatment options, medication is one.’
‘Will that get rid of the thoughts?’ I persisted.
‘Yes, there are particular medications that are good at helping with that and dealing with anxiety.’
‘Okay, when can I start? Can I get a prescription? How long will it take to work?’
Dr Austin laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a patient so eager to start medication. Normally I have to convince them.’
I didn’t have a problem taking medication because I’d seen the difference psychiatric drugs had made to Mum’s life, their complex biochemistry adjusting the chemical imbalance in her brain. Various combinations of drugs had really saved her life, even if it took a long time for doctors to find the right medication for her over the years.
On my way home from the appointment I stopped off at the pharmacy to get the antidepressants. I marked the date down in my diary with a star as I swallowed down my first tablet. Day one of starting again. Day one of cleaning that grubby pane of glass.
CHAPTER NINE
The turquoise salt water rushed up to my feet. I turned around, squinting into the sunlight, to wave at Harriet where she sat under the shade of the beach tent, Allegra next to her on a frangipani-patterned towel. It was my first ocean swim since my daughter was born and I waded tentatively into the deeper water. Big waves have always frightened me, but I am also drawn to the cleansing, calming effect of the sea. Diving under the first wave, I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the surge to wash over me. I stood up with my eyes still closed, gently rubbing them until the sting of salt water forced them open. Fine soft sand flicked out from under my feet as I walked back up the beach to the stripy tent, the sun on my back transforming drops of seawater into splotches of glittery salt.
These exquisite, sharp sensations seem to thaw out my frozen body. I am gradually becoming myself again.
It’s only two weeks since I started taking the antidepressants. Standing on the front lawn back at our house there is the scent of jasmine in the breeze, the sweet, heady smell of summer tickling my nose and making me sneeze. I love this fragrance; it makes me think of sand, sunshine, hot concrete, lemonade icy poles and cool blue water. I haven’t smelt this in a long time, even though the vines have been flowering along our back fence since I brought Allegra home.
My baby girl has been doing everything right, sleeping, putting on weight and making my heart sing. There is no more breastfeeding; bottle-feeding is working a treat as Peter, my mum and in-laws can now give Allegra her milk. I’m able to untether a little from the crushing responsibility I’ve been feeling for this sweet soul and now I can exhale as I walk down the street on my own. And it feels good.
When I notice that sweet smell of jasmine, there’s a flickering deep inside of me, like a butterfly beating its wings. What is it? It feels like hope. A change in the breeze, a chance to breathe out and exhale just a little more. And as I take a breath I feel like I am returning to my body. Closing my eyes, I drink in the new feeling of lightness, a little like I’m emerging from a cocoon into the bright, white light.
The dead of night frightens me less and less. My obsessive thoughts start to fade to grey, until they have totally disappeared. I kiss the top of Allegra’s soft, sweet head, inhaling her very essence. The snuffling sounds she makes as she breathes in and out tell me she’s hungry, and that no longer fills me with anxiety at the thought of trying to feed her. Now I delight at the way she rubs her eyes when she’s tired, in exactly the same way that her father does. Her beautiful mouth opens wide, copying mine, as we laugh together when I hold her aloft under the bright blue sky. I forget what life was like before she was around. It’s like she has always been here.
The weeks flew by and the scent of jasmine and gardenias had now faded from the garden as we stood again on the lawn, my high heels sinking into the soft winter grass. We were christening Allegra, beloved family and friends by our side, and Reverend Crews, who married us, on duty again. The reverend began by telling the story of an African tribe, and as he spoke he poured a small amount of blessed Sydney tap water onto our daughter’s head. The story went something like this one, which is retold by Jack Kornfield in his book A Path with Heart.
‘There is a tribe in east Africa in which the art of true intimacy is fostered even before birth. In this tribe, the birth date of a child is not counted f
rom the day of its physical birth nor even the day of conception, as in other village cultures. For this tribe the birth date comes the first time the child is a thought in its mother’s mind. Aware of her intention to conceive a child with a particular father, the mother then goes off to sit alone under a tree. There she sits and listens until she can hear the song of the child that she hopes to conceive. Once she has heard it, she returns to the village and teaches it to the father so that they can sing it together as they make love, inviting the child to join them. After the child is conceived, she sings it to the baby in her womb. Then she teaches it to the old women and midwives of the village, so that throughout the labour and at the miraculous moment of birth itself, the child is greeted with its song. After the birth all the villagers learn the song of their new member of their tribe and sing it to the child when it falls or hurts herself. It is sung in times of triumph, or in rituals and initiations. The song also becomes a part of the marriage ceremony when the child is grown, and at the end of life, his or her loved ones will gather around the deathbed and sing this song for the last time.’
The story’s sentiments resonated deep inside me. My tears fell onto my daughter’s flushed cheeks, as I looked down at her in my arms. Allegra looked away, her attention drawn to the fairy beams of sunlight reflecting off the embroidered lace of her christening gown, and her tiny fingers went back to fiddling with the ends of the long white ribbons that her godmother, Annebelle, had painstakingly stitched onto the puffy sleeves of the gown.
My tears continued to fall as I thought about the circle of love around us both, a circle that I had almost broken because I was too ashamed to admit that I wasn’t coping. I had walked away from my village when I needed it most. On that crisp, ice blue afternoon it now stood next to me on the lawn and joined in our song of love, hope and second chances. And as the afternoon turned colder, I wrapped Allegra in a white mohair rug and she beamed as she was passed around her village.
Although I had told my family about the postnatal depression and the medication I continued to take, I still hadn’t revealed the depths of my illness.
It had been hardest telling my father and stepmother as they didn’t agree with my decision to take antidepressants. They were worried about the side-effects of such drugs. They did, however, give me plenty of hands-on support with their love, concern, endless babysitting and enthusiasm for Allegra. My sisters understood and kept up their unconditional love. My in-laws came around often to take Allegra and me out on walks around the neighbourhood. It was a relief to have their companionship and understanding. And the biggest relief was I no longer had to keep up my happy mother appearance. Finally being honest with those closest to me was liberating.
But I still couldn’t reveal the whole truth, as a part of me was ashamed of where my mind had taken me in those dark months. Mum knew more of the full story than anyone else, even Peter. The pane of glass was still there, but it locked me away from the rest of the world less and less. It didn’t frighten me anymore as I now knew I had the power to wipe it clean and even make it disappear eventually. The chill I once felt in the dead of night had disappeared and had now been replaced by a peace and calmness that I revelled in.
In the hours before dawn, Allegra often enjoyed her bottle of formula while I watched reality television shows like Extreme Makeover, Trinny and Susannah Undress the Nation and The Girls of the Playboy Mansion. The glow of the television flickered off the walls as she fell asleep against my chest, and I wanted to tattoo this feeling of contentment into my heart. I was happy. Once the Playboy bunnies had got out of their Ugg boots and into their four-poster beds, I’d put Allegra down in her cot and creep back into bed next to Peter, falling into a deep, blissful sleep.
My head was in a better place but I still felt bitter and resentful about what had happened to my career over the past year. Now that my mental health had stabilised I was in a stronger place to consider what I might do with the professional side of my life. I worried that my prospects for working in the media again had been destroyed and feared that I wasn’t any good at my job anyway. It was hard to ignore the voice whispering nastily in my head that I was a has-been. Maybe the television critics were correct; for the first time in my life I started to seriously question my career-minded self.
Since becoming a mother I had changed forever. Some of those changes I embraced, but the shifts in my career goals I was still struggling to reconcile. There was no doubt that I had lost my confidence, and this desperation to still have value in the professional world led to me agreeing to be part of a reality television show, Dancing with the Stars. Ignoring the advice of my husband, who said I should lie low, I convinced myself that this job would be my only chance at a media comeback. It also fitted in with my lifetime philosophy that it was always worth giving something a go and taking a risk.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the floor Jessica Rowe and her partner, Serghei Bolgarschii.’
Serghei grabbed my hand as we walked in darkness to our places on the dance floor. Wearing a catsuit and black sequinned pussycat ears, I sat on the bottom of the stairs and carefully arranged my feather boa tail behind me to avoid any tripping hazards once we started our dance routine. The piano began to play and I stretched my black-gloved hand out to Serghei.
Thankfully my brain was on autopilot, the twenty hours of foxtrot rehearsals that week meaning I didn’t forget the routine. I stopped counting each step and started to really enjoy the sensation of sliding, stretching and spinning across the dance floor. The song was ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure, one of my favourite dance tracks as a pimply teenager. I let the words wash over me as I brought my ‘paw’ up to rub my sparkling ears. I could do this! I gave my sexiest look down the camera lens before trailing off in the other direction, my feathery tail slinking behind me.
The judges liked our performance and we scored the highest points of the evening. For me, taking this role on Dancing with the Stars was a way of blasting the pane of glass away forever, although scaring myself witless on national television with the accompanying risk of public humiliation may have been an extreme way of doing it. I also wanted to show all those people who didn’t believe in me that I hadn’t disappeared. If I won the contest, I figured it would reinvigorate my career and sense of self-worth.
I trained with Serghei from 8.45am until 1pm every day in a mirror-panelled dance studio. Determined to be a good student, I focused on learning all my steps perfectly as well as trying to relax at the same time. But despite working hard, I was not what you would call a fast learner, and the blur of quicksteps, jives and lifts did not come easily to my sleep-deprived brain. My Russian dance partner’s tough-love teaching style didn’t help either, and he occasionally lost patience with me. How many times did he have to say heel first, not toe first! I had to keep reminding him that I wasn’t a professional dancer but a journalist and a new mum who liked a sparkling costume. And thank goodness for the costumes—in the end it was the promise of wearing a dazzling gown, gloves and jewels that kept me motivated each week.
Cooking Allegra dinner at night, I marked out the dance steps on our narrow kitchen floor. Thankfully Peter was away a lot so I could be single-minded about trying to reinforce what I had learnt each day. The rehearsals were fun as it gave my days a structure far removed from sleep routines and mashed avocado. I enjoyed having a fresh purpose to focus on. Each evening I counted dance steps in my head before going to sleep, although there was always a point in the routine where I had a mental block and forgot what came next. I also got extreme stage fright whenever we had to perform in front of anyone else, a slight problem when I had to dance in front of a studio audience and television cameras each week! No wonder my dance teacher’s blood pressure was rising.
Despite sometimes floundering on the dance floor, I did find my groove again, a confidence that had been missing for nine months. To my surprise I also found I could manage being apart from Allegra for a couple of hours each day. It was a treat t
o be doing something that was just for me. And with the help of my dad and stepmother, and later our wonderful nanny Libby, I was able to travel to Melbourne with Allegra for two nights each week for TV rehearsals and the live show. The pane of glass had finally gone and I was able to get on a plane with my baby, look out the window at the bright white clouds, stay in a hotel with her and leave her with babysitters while I embarrassed myself on national television.
Each Sunday evening before the live taping, I waited with Serghei next to the dusty black velvet curtain and felt sick. Rather than getting better each week, my mind seemed to empty of the steps I had to perform despite the hours of rehearsals. I had peaked too soon with my ‘Love Cats’ performance! What on earth was I doing here? I tried to calm myself by drawing on the advice of showbiz queen Patti Newton, my dressing room buddy, who told me ‘you just have to let go’. I was ready to go alright—go right away from this curtain and bolt home, where I could be watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta while eating a block of Toblerone chocolate.
One of the bonuses of doing the show was meeting Olympic swimmer Elka Graham. We clicked straight away, and I loved her enthusiasm, naturalness and preoccupation with statistics. For Elka, every topic of discussion had a probability rating, a percentage of winning or losing. Her passion for numbers and precise details also helped with my stage fright. She had a wonderful knack of trying to distract me when she saw the panic start to flicker in my eyes, calming me down beautifully by asking me plenty of questions about Allegra.
Not surprisingly, it didn’t last: I was voted out by week six or seven of the series. That night, after doing the samba and bungling all my steps, I kept up a smile for the cameras. Calling from home afterwards, Peter told me that he and our cats, Audrey and Alfie, had their paws over their faces, unable to watch as I stumbled my way through the routine. I tried to laugh at his description and my grin remained fixed at the after party as I guzzled down glass after glass of cheap champagne. Once I got back to my hotel room and peeled off my false eyelashes and long blonde wig, I howled with disappointment and relief in the bathroom. Standing in the hot shower, the water ran over my orange spray-tanned skin as my hot tears fell down the drain. I had desperately wanted to win, somehow believing that a trophy topped with a glitter mirror ball would save my career.
