IN THE SPOTLIGHT
Postnatal
Depression
Busi Mahlaba’s story
Busi Mahlaba is the current Executive
Manager of New Business Development for
Jhb City Parks and Zoo. Former positions Busi
has held include TV presenter for the
women’s talk show Motswako on SABC 2,
Editor of True Love Magazine, Market
Development Manager of Media24 Women’s
Magazines division, consultant for The UCT
Unilever Institute of Strategic Marketing and
owner of an Image Studio that focused on
image strategies for corporates and
high-profile clientele. This is Busi’s story.
Most of my early thirties were spent trying to
get pregnant. But first the doctors had to try to
sort out my endometriosis, which was the
severe, blood-in-all-the-wrong-places type. I
went through the most invasive treatments
trying to scrape clear my womb, and get my
ovaries functioning, not to mention all the
hormones, injections, scans and blood tests
endured every month.
At a certain point my gynae Dr C sat me and my
partner P down and as gently as he could he
explained that he had done all he could but it
was time to accept that a pregnancy was never
going to happen. He suggested the adoption
route. Once I got my head around that I was
actually excited about adopting but soon found
out that while married serial killers were
welcome to adopt, if you didn’t have that
all-important ring on your finger you didn’t
stand a chance. Every door was slammed in my
face. P and I started to accept our fate.
I returned from a trip to Mozambique with the
mother of all bladder infections and what I
thought was malaria. I’ve never felt sicker. The
doctor was confused by my blood test readings
and insisted I see the gynae that morning. Dr
C agreed to see me straight away. His reaction
to the bloods was even more alarming and he
quickly insisted we do an ultrasound. His jaw
literally dropped. There was “something” there.
“Some – THING?” But he knew that it was
medically impossible for it to be a baby. He
thought there was some kind of machine
malfunction and asked me to come back that
day at 14:00, which I did. Same reading. So he
asked me to come back at 17:00, which I did.
Now there was no doubt, I was 13 weeks
pregnant. As Dr C stared in disbelief at the
ultrasound I called up P and asked if he was
sitting down.
I told him I was pregnant but he kept asking me
to repeat what I had said: “I don’t understand,”
he kept saying. Then he asked me, “Do you know
where Marie Stopes is?” Now it was my turn to
keep repeating, “I don’t understand. ”And I still
don’t. After so many years of desperately trying
for a baby here it is, and now he wants me to get
rid of it! “We can’t do this,” he kept saying.” We’ve
already accepted that we aren’t going down that
road and are just going to enjoy life with
complete freedom. We don’t want a baby now.”
He wanted to rush to Morningside Clinic not to
see this miracle shadow on the ultrasound, but
to drive me straight to an abortion clinic.
I dumped him that day and I went straight into
hyper-organisation mode, which I’m really good
at, to find myself a new place to live closer to
my mother. I knew I was going to need her help
but I wasn’t going to go all the way with her
moving in with me – though this is the African
custom. So I found this little complex down the
road from her, which was perfect. There was no
way I could carry on editing once I was a mother,
so I told my bosses I needed to wrap things up.
Thankfully, they didn’t want to lose me so they
brought me into the publisher’s office with much
more flexible hours once the baby was born.
At no stage did I allow myself to get excited
about this pregnancy. No one had any idea how
my womb and one functioning fallopian tube
had managed to create a pregnancy to start with
and I knew there would be no second chances.
I was petrified to sneeze, and preoccupied with
terror at what kind of a state the baby would
be born in. I carried till 33 weeks but not one of
them was spent in the easy-going, all-powerful
pregnant woman state, giggling about bizarre
cravings, comparing baby bumps or playing the
name game with other yummy mummies.
But she did make it, my miracle arrived – Warona
Otsile! But it was no happy ending. It was
actually just the beginning of the nightmare
called PND. Between the sleepless nights – and
days – a colicky, reflux baby who projectile
vomited at so much as a “boo”, and Sana – an
overbearing nurse who tried everything in her
power to force me to subject a newborn to toxic
baths full of herbs, potions and traditional
medicines – I was cracking up.