A Is For Anxiety

I feel the word “anxiety” is a word that gets used a lot. I’m sure you’ve heard (or even said yourself), “I have such bad anxiety,” or “This makes me anxious.” Anxiety can be common for many; it can also be a very severe issue for others.

The Beginning

When I was pregnant with my second, I had people tell me how much calmer they were the second time around. I felt confident that bringing our son home would be difficult (as ALL newborns are), but we would all get back to our normal routine pretty quickly, with my older daughter able to help. I was wrong.

The first few months with a newborn are difficult. You’re sleep-deprived, stressed beyond your max with thoughts of bottles, diaper changes, and nap times on a constant loop in your mind. Of course, you’re going to feel a little “off.”

When my son was about two months old, and he was in more of a routine with sleeping and napping, I started to notice a little bit of a panic feeling in my stomach if I couldn’t clean the kitchen thoroughly after a meal because he was crying. Or if I didn’t complete a task I started because I had to tend to one of my son’s needs, I would obsess about it until I was finally able to get it done. I just figured it was me adjusting to having a baby in the house again and my routine being thrown off.

The Turning Point

Then one night, I put my son to bed, like every other night, and he went to sleep. All of a sudden, about an hour later, he started crying. No big deal, babies cry sometimes. Well, for me it was a big deal. I called my husband, who was working late, hysterical. It was a rambling of emotions of, “Why is he crying?” “He should be asleep!”

My husband, unsure of what to do since he was over an hour away, finally said to me, “Maybe you should really think about talking to someone about this.” It was a topic of conversation that was danced around for a few weeks because he could see me struggling with things that I really shouldn’t be struggling with (like getting a chore done from start to finish).

A Little Background

I had a brother who passed away from Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Since his disease is a genetic one, I had a simple blood test when I was a child (and before my husband and I started having children) to see if I was a carrier of the disease, which I’m not. So that means my children did not inherit the risk of developing the disease, which was a huge relief for my family.

When my son was born we were informed he had two minor birth “defects.” He was born with a hemangioma on the back of his left thigh, and he was also born with hypospadias. His pediatrician told us that the hemangioma would clear by his fourth birthday. We were also referred to a urologist for his hypospadias repair, which required surgery when he was six months old.

Getting Help

I was lucky enough to have a trusted friend recommend a therapist I could talk to. My therapy started every week when my son was around three months old. What I discovered was that I thought I was having anxiety about not completing a chore or finishing a task, but it really went a lot deeper than that.

Through therapy, I realized that my anxiety had nothing to do with a chore that needed to be completed or keeping my routine the same. The root of my anxiety was my son’s health. The symptoms of my anxiety were the physical reactions I had when I couldn’t complete something, but the cause of those symptoms was me dealing with all these fears that I didn’t even know I consciously had. I was scared my son would develop my brother’s illness. Even though rationally we know that’s not possible – but that’s the whole point of anxiety – it’s not rational.

Coming Out of It

I saw a significant improvement in my anxiety after my son’s surgery. Before my brother’s diagnosis, he had to have surgery to put tubes in his ears. He had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, which is common in children who have DMD. Subconsciously, I was afraid my son would have the same reaction and somehow that would seal his fate. My son came through his surgery fine with no adverse reactions.

It was only a few months after his surgery that I realized I was holding my breath for those first seven months of my son’s life. I associated my son’s congenital disabilities with my brother’s illness – that they were somehow parallel. They’re not. My brother and my son are not the same person.

I now know that whenever my son falls for no reason or he isn’t running as fast as he usually does, I just need to close my eyes, take a breath, and remember that he’s healthy (and he’ll be back to jumping off of our furniture again any second).