Falling in Love, Again

In a frosty cement hospital in Dharamsala, India, a dermatologist scribbled out a prescription for the acne that had scarred my dewy, newlywed face. He also wrote out a diagnosis for polycystic ovarian syndrome, explaining in detailed diagrams the possible cause of my acne, unwanted hair and perpetual size-twelve figure. Casually, he said, “You will most likely have infertility issues in the future.” I nodded plaintively, since his prognosis solved all the hormonal problems I’ve struggled with for over 28 years. I wasn’t interested in having children anytime soon. My plans included spending the first six months of marriage playing for the first time in my adult life. That meant dance lessons, experimental cooking and traveling with my husband. I would also continue to work at an e-commerce company as an attorney, working on projects remotely, and traveling back and forth when needed. There were exams to study for and take. Having kids was an afterthought.

Later that day, after the check-up with the dermatologist, my sister-in-law and I went downstairs to the crowded government hospital lab for an ultrasound of my abdomen. I lay down on the ultrasound table, my bladder full to allow easy viewing of my ovaries with the machine. They wanted to see if there were any cysts. The lab technician conducted the ultrasound and asked if I was expecting. I was amused at such an incredible thought. Of course I was not pregnant. We had been married for less than a month and were visiting my in-laws in the northern part of India. My husband and I had recently completed a fantastic honeymoon in the Maldives, feeding rays in the bluest water I’ve ever seen. Oh, and we used protection. Surely the machine was out of order, the technician inexperienced or my uterus atypical.

Taking the ultrasound photographs with us, my sister-in-law (who was giddy at the prospect of a niece or nephew) and I met with an obstetrician, who took one look at the black and white uterus and determined I was not pregnant. A urine test result was negative. Reassured, I forgot about it. After two days, my sister-in-law, an ophthalmologist, convinced me that I should take another pregnancy test in the morning, when the fluids are more concentrated.

Venu Sareen

Standing in the cold bathroom, holding up a bridal trousseau nightgown hem in one hand and the result stick in the other, I read that it was positive. My sister-in-law’s husband, also a doctor, confirmed the results when I showed him, offering me a congratulatory handshake. I couldn’t believe it; this was too much to bear. For the rest of the day, I remained in bed, comforter over my head, crying and settled on the fact that life as we knew it was officially over. I was probably the only person in the world who went in for an acne checkup and came out pregnant.

I selfishly yearned for a miscarriage. More tests confirmed that I did not have polycystic ovarian syndrome, which was good to hear, but it did not give me any satisfaction because I did not want to be pregnant. Finally, we returned to the States and settled into newlywed life. To make things worse, the nine months of pregnancy were physically the most challenging part of my life. I had every symptom in the book, which did not make me a glowing lady with child that you so often see in the media.

Baby Om arrived in late August, and I began motherhood. Om was born with clubbed feet, a genetic condition that results in the baby’s legs being held in plaster casts for the first few months and then a metal brace until he turns 4. Although it was a solvable problem, it took up a lot of time, and I couldn’t snuggle with my baby without feeling the itch of the casts or the harsh scrape of the metal brace. Also, no one tells you how difficult breastfeeding is or how miserable you may feel during the challenging first few months. I was secretly angry at both my mom and mother-in-law. Why didn’t they work with me on breastfeeding? Why didn’t they warn me about what to expect? Instead, my self-esteem went downhill, as I was 30 pounds heavier, the baby didn’t latch on and my lower back hurt permanently. I sank into a partial postpartum depression, and worried myself sick over imagined scenarios that would take too long to explain on this page. I did not seek medical help because I felt, like most women, that I could handle this myself. I had other help: my mother-in-law was staying with us for six months. However, I learned that although having help is nice, you need to get out of the house and try to find people with similar interests as you. You need to start straightening your hair and applying makeup, just as you did in the pre-baby days. You need to exercise and eat protein. You need to nurture the relationship with your husband, who works until 8 PM every day. You need to do anything that gives you the semblance of pre-baby life.

It wasn’t until Om turned six months old that I finally felt normal again and my hormones felt in check. But another, more important event occurred: I fell in love with my child. Before six months, I took care of Om with a worried anxiety in my heart, more out of duty than out of affection. After six months, my mother-in-law left and I was left to take care of him by myself for the first time. I loved the way he began to interact with me. He was (and still is) a happy baby, who shared a great sense of humor with me. He started sleeping through the night, which resulted in a happy Momma in the mornings. Amazingly, the anxiety left my heart as did the milk in my breasts because I had stopped attempting to breast feed at four months. I fell head over heels in love with my gorgeous, giggly child. And I changed from just a newlywed to a newlywed Mom.

Venu Sareen lives in Sammamish, Washington and is enjoying being a mom to a giggly one-year-old boy. She is an attorney and is taking a couple years off to spend time with her baby and pursue further studies.