The grim reality of motherhood

There is a certain pleasure, an indescribable satisfaction that, as a writer, I can only get from getting into the flow. It requires immersion, which demands time. Representation Pic/istock

I saw a comic the other day that made me chuckle. A new mom opens her apartment door, newborn in one arm, another kid peering out next to her. The visitor - the grim reaper. "Relax, I'm just here for your career!" he says. I laughed, not a wholesome ‘this-is-hilarious' laugh, rather the laugh of morbid disbelief. The illustrator succinctly captured the deepest, rawest, most disturbing reality of motherhood in the twenty-first century. Obviously, this comic was drawn by a woman, and I'm hitting myself on the head for not having archived it, because I'm unable to find it now. It's among my many research oversights; part of the malaise of being forced to underperform as a home-office-going mother.

My difficulties with productivity have been compounded by my recent diagnosis of postpartum Hashimoto's thyroiditis - a chronic autoimmune disease that many women find themselves with after having given birth. In short, my body decided that my thyroid gland was an enemy and attacked it. Now, I need to take a certain milligram of the hormone it would have otherwise produced in order to keep my body and its metabolism in working order. It's annoying, because I need to take blood tests every three months to measure TSH levels. For the rest of my life, I need to medicate myself every morning on an empty stomach and wait for a 30-minute interval before I can eat. On weekends, I've been prescribed a slightly higher dosage. For a long time, I was sure I had no symptoms, but then I read that the fatigue I have been experiencing of late could be attributed to the disease. Speaking to the editor of the German edition of my upcoming book - a mother now navigating menopause who has also had the disease for many years - I wondered whether the fatigue is a symptom or simply the consequence of parenting amid the absence of a robust support system. I'm not gutted about my diagnosis, because among the larger array of chronic diseases, this is perhaps the better one to have. It's easier to manage and I'm privileged to be living in a place where the chronic nature of the condition means I don't have to pay for the medication or for my visits to the endocrinologist, or for the blood tests. Still, it's hard not to read this disease as the grim reaper who has come for my career. Where before, I would try to slink into a book around 8.30 pm, when both kids were asleep, now I sit on the sofa, unable to even enjoy a second of leisure. There's a tiredness that runs through my bones that I'm still learning to shake off.

It's no mean feat to stay visible as a mother when the world insists on shackling you, throttling your voice by making it impossible for you to find the time to sit still and think. I was speaking to a friend and work colleague, also an art critic and mother to two boys, both about two years older than mine. Both of us no longer have time to visit art shows. If we do, we don't have the luxury of giving the work the faculties of attention it demands. This has obviously meant that we cannot perform as art critics, and our livelihoods can no longer be dependent on us flexing the muscles that made our perspectives vital and valid. Instead, we work quietly as editors, improving upon other people's texts. Editing requires attentiveness, too, but it isn't as intellectually demanding as writing something from scratch. It's ironic, because for the first time, there is no dearth of publications that would be happy to have me contribute, but I simply cannot find the time to visit a show and then to review it. It feels like a cruel joke, because I spent so many years seeing art but struggling to find avenues to write about my witness.

I don't condone productivity culture. I actively resist the notion that our self-worth should, in any way, be tied to our ability to create or produce. But there is a certain pleasure, an indescribable satisfaction that, as a writer, I can only get from getting into the flow… It requires immersion, which demands time. One needs to be able to sit with a set of ideas, then knead them like dough, play with their textures, their possibilities, roll them out, undo and remake and rebuild, then set aside for a duration before returning to them. This is a summary of what making art involves, at least for me. You have to let the world in, then allow it to metabolise and become part of your body before it becomes precipitate, like sweat. This labour is unlike any other. Sometimes I rue the inability to mess around with my sentences, re-order, re-think, re-calibrate. I have such an exciting idea for my next book, but I wonder if I'll ever get around to writing it or if, by the time I begin, the grim reaper will have gorged on my aching bones. Only time will tell.

Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She posts @rosad1985 on Instagram
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