September 25 is a profoundly emotional day for me. It marks my amazing husband’s birthday, and three years ago, while just seven weeks pregnant, we found ourselves in a clinic in Tokyo, overwhelmed with joy as we heard the precious sound of our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. That day was filled with celebration; we exchanged knowing smiles while stealthily swapping full for empty drinks at his birthday party, hesitant to reveal our exciting news before reaching the 12-week mark. However, hearing that heartbeat ignited a desire in me to call home the next day and share our happiness with my family.
But the morning of that call shattered my world. Around 4 a.m., I received the news that my mother had passed away, discovered by my grandfather on the floor of her bedroom. As I made my way to the airport, I learned she had died from a gunshot wound to the heart. Crumpled in the airport shuttle, my heart was irreparably shattered. Later, after a long flight home, I was informed that police had found a note by her bedside, leading them to rule her death a suicide.
If she had known a grandchild was on the way, would that have changed her mind? If I had answered her Skype calls the night of the party, could I have talked her down? Our last conversation had been strained, with me rushing off to finish the cake.
Throughout her life, my mother battled depression, often displaying manic behaviors that left me questioning whether she had bipolar disorder. She was a formidable woman, deeply passionate about family and faith, and approached life with flair. She often enjoyed sharing her views on relationships, famously advising my friends that every woman should have three types of men in her life: one for intellectual stimulation, one for emotional support, and one for physical pleasure.
In 2006, a workplace accident led to a brain stem injury that gradually diminished her physical abilities. Despite her plucky spirit, she fought relentlessly against her corporate employer in a lawsuit that consumed her last eight years, draining her spirit and finances.
In the wake of her death, I focused on my baby and my health, acutely aware of studies linking stress to miscarriage. I knew I needed to confront my grief while also being cautious of the potential for postpartum depression, especially given my family’s history of mental illness.
In Tokyo, I kept the circumstances of my mother’s passing largely to myself. Most assumed her long illness was the cause of her death, and in a way, they were right. The journey of giving birth abroad comes with numerous challenges, particularly the cultural and language barriers, as well as the absence of a solid support system. While other new moms discussed their mothers’ anticipated visits, I found myself wanting to vanish during those conversations.
The thought of sharing the painful truth left me paralyzed—fearful that it might push me over the edge and jeopardize my baby. I was also weighed down by guilt and shame for not being there to prevent her death. A year after her injury, I had moved abroad to be with my now-husband. My mother had always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, which led to infrequent visits home while we stayed connected through phone calls. As an only child, I was often unaware of her struggles, which she tried to hide from me.
Now that I’m a mother myself, my perspective has shifted. I realize how selfish I was, caught up in my ambitions and the whirlwind of life as an expatriate. The selflessness that parenthood demands has made me mourn her absence even more deeply. I wish she could witness the changes in me and share this journey of motherhood from a different perspective. I am angry that she didn’t stay to be part of this new chapter.
In one of our last conversations, she expressed stress about finances, and I suggested she use some of the money my grandparents had recently inherited. She refused, believing that the money was “for the baby,” unaware that I was pregnant at the time. My mother felt she was a burden to those around her and thought that ending her life would alleviate our struggles. This is the devastating message of mental illness, but the harsh reality is that her suicide was a selfish act that forever scars those left behind.
Every day, I feel her absence. I have since welcomed a second child, a daughter named after both my mother and my grandmother, who passed away shortly after my son was born. At least my grandmother got to see her first great-grandchild on Skype before she passed away. I can only imagine the depths of grief she experienced that year, losing her firstborn daughter to suicide.
Those early months with my son were particularly challenging. I had countless questions about my mother’s experiences with me as a baby—everything from breastfeeding to my milestones. Sadly, my father couldn’t provide those answers either. I learned that this is often the case with fathers, despite their best efforts. My husband proudly tells people our son walked at eight months, even though it was actually ten and a half.
As I grappled with my own feelings post-baby, I sought to understand what led my mother to her breaking point. After speaking with her doctors, friends, and family, and sifting through mountains of paperwork, I never uncovered a single reason for her actions. She had mastered the art of masking her pain, burdened by shame and pride that prevented her from seeking help.
Reflecting on my own mental health journey, I recognize I experienced some degree of postpartum depression, which is common. I made efforts to connect with friends, attend church, and join support groups. Isolation breeds hopelessness, which can lead to tragic outcomes.
Many new moms feel isolated, and my heart aches for those who have faced postpartum suicide. The statistics are alarming; suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. We need to address this issue. It’s crucial to maintain open dialogues with new moms about their mental health, never to dismiss feelings of depression, and to seek help for ourselves and our loved ones sooner rather than later. I will continue to speak openly about my mother’s choice and educate my children on our family’s history with mental illness. I refuse to feel ashamed.
I keep her chat profile open in my email, and her status quote—though now ironic—serves as a daily reminder: “Living and loving life to the fullest.”
If you want to learn more about family planning, including home insemination options, consider checking out this artificial insemination kit or visit NHS for excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination. For more insights on mental health, look at this article.
In summary, the tragic loss of my mother to suicide continues to shape my life and experiences as a parent. It’s essential to address the stigma surrounding mental illness and create a supportive environment for new mothers. By openly discussing these challenges, we can foster understanding and connection.