September 25 is a day packed with emotions for me. It’s my amazing partner’s birthday. Three years ago on this day, when I was just seven weeks pregnant, we sat in a clinic in our city of Tokyo, overwhelmed with joy as we heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. It was a day of quiet celebration; we exchanged knowing glances while sneaking sips of non-alcoholic beer at his birthday party, not yet ready to share the news with anyone. I wanted to wait until the 12-week mark before announcing my pregnancy, but that beautiful sound of my baby’s heart changed everything. I planned to call my family the next day to share the good news.
However, around 4 a.m. that morning, my world shattered. I received a call that would alter the course of my life forever. My mother had passed away, discovered on her bedroom floor by my grandfather. On the way to the airport, I learned the horrifying details: she had died from a gunshot wound to the heart. As I crumpled in the airport shuttle, my heart felt as if it fractured with the news. Later, after a grueling 13-hour flight back home, I was informed that the police had found a note beside her bed, ruling her death a suicide.
Would knowing that she would soon become a grandmother have changed her mind? If I had only answered her Skype calls the night of the birthday party, could I have talked her down? Our last conversation had been strained, as I rushed off the phone to finish preparations for the celebration.
Throughout her life, my mother battled depression, showing signs of manic behavior that led me to suspect she might have bipolar disorder. She was a vibrant force, deeply passionate about family and faith. She lived life to the fullest, embodying the essence of a Southern belle, captivating everyone around her. Over cocktails, she would share her philosophy on love, insisting that every woman needed three men in her life: one for intellect, one for the soul, and one for physical pleasure.
In 2006, a workplace accident resulted in a brain stem injury that gradually diminished her physical capabilities. Despite her tenacity, she spent the last eight years of her life embroiled in a lawsuit against a formidable corporate employer, a fight that drained her spirit and resources.
In the weeks and months following her death, I tried to prioritize my health and the baby. With just five weeks left in my first trimester, I was acutely aware of studies linking stress to miscarriage. Yet, I knew I needed to confront my grief, especially since my family history included instances of mental illness. I had lost family members to suicide, which heightened my awareness of the risk I faced.
I didn’t share the details of my mom’s passing with many people in Tokyo. They knew she had been unwell for some time, and most assumed it was her illness that took her life. In a way, they were correct.
Navigating motherhood abroad presented its own set of challenges, especially with cultural and language barriers, compounded by a lack of a solid support system. While my new mom friends discussed their mothers’ plans to visit after childbirth, I found myself wanting to retreat during those conversations.
I felt a heavy guilt for not being there to prevent her death. After moving abroad in pursuit of my partner, my mother always encouraged me to chase my dreams. Our annual visits were filled with phone calls, but I was blind to the extent of her struggles, which she often hid to protect me from worry.
Now that I’m a mother, I see things through a new lens. I was so wrapped up in my ambitions and life as an expatriate that I failed to recognize her pain. It saddens me that she won’t witness the changes in me brought about by motherhood. I yearn for the chance to care for her as she did for me and to share this unique journey together. It feels like a chapter left unwritten.
In one of our last conversations, she stressed over finances, and I suggested she use some money from my grandparents’ estate. She refused, saying it was “for the baby,” completely unaware that I was pregnant at the time. My mother believed her death would relieve the burden she felt she had become, a tragic misconception often perpetuated by mental illness. Her choice to end her life was a deeply selfish act, leaving an indelible mark on those of us still here.
I think of her every day. I welcomed a second child recently, a girl 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 her passing. I grieve not only for my mother but also for my grandmother, who must have faced unimaginable sorrow. Losing a daughter to suicide is a pain that seems unbearable.
The early months with my son were fraught with questions and no answers: How did breastfeeding go for my mom? Was I a good sleeper? When did I crawl or walk? Unfortunately, my father couldn’t provide those insights either. My husband often boasts that our son walked at eight months, though in reality, it was closer to ten and a half.
As I reflected on those turbulent months, I desperately searched for what might have pushed her over the edge. After conversations with her doctors and friends, scouring through mountains of paperwork and medical records, and even accessing her emails and phone, I found no single reason. She was skilled at masking her pain from the world, her shame and pride preventing her from seeking help.
I now recognize that I experienced some level of postpartum depression, which is entirely normal. However, I made an effort to connect with friends, attend church, and join groups. Isolation breeds hopelessness, which can have tragic consequences.
Many new mothers face similar feelings of isolation, and it breaks my heart to hear stories of postpartum suicide. Suicide ranks as the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S., and that needs to change. We must engage new moms in conversations about their feelings, take depression seriously, and seek help for ourselves and those we care about. For my part, I will openly discuss my mother’s struggles and educate my children about our family history with mental illness. There is no shame in this.
I still keep her chat profile open in my Gmail, and her status quote, though bittersweet, serves as a constant reminder: “Living and loving life to the fullest.” If you or someone you know is grappling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out for help and support.
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In conclusion, the journey of motherhood is filled with challenges and joys, and navigating it with the weight of loss is an experience that shapes us in profound ways.