I am on airplanes a lot for work, and sometimes (when there are no good episodes of J&K+8, Baby Story, 30 Minute Meals on) I get incredibly bored and write letters or things like this. Catharsis.
I knew there was a problem when I would close my eyes and see blood dripping from my wrists. I didn’t want to do it, would never do it, but couldn’t stop visualizing the mutilation of my body. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I really didn’t want to live anymore. Not if life was going to be like this. The depression I faced following the birth of my son was bone deep. I could feel it dragging me beneath its murky waters—I was drowning.
My husband, James, and I planned our pregnancy the way I plan most things in life—meticulously. I found out I was pregnant after 4 months of “temping and charting” while on our last-hurrah trip to Mexico. We were scared, excited, and delighted. I tackled pregnancy with fervor—reading every pregnancy book I could get my hands on. I knew about every possible pregnancy-related symptom or ailment. Each week I would excitedly read the next chapter for the corresponding week I was pregnant and document my belly in pictures. My pregnancy itself was relatively uneventful featuring the usual weight gain and morning sickness. My due date came and went without the arrival of our son.
My doctor decided to induce when I was a week overdue. We arrived at the hospital the morning of March 25, 2006 and I was already contracting on my own. The first indication of things to come was when the nurse strapped the fetal heart monitor to my giant belly. There was this muffled sound unlike any of the fetal heart sounds I had heard before. The nurses tried to cover the alarm on her face as she repositioned the monitor. Thankfully, the monitor started to pick up a normal heart rate. She explained that it was possible the baby had rolled over onto the umbilical cord causing his heart rate to drop. She also cautioned me that he might not tolerate contractions well. The nurses hooked me up to an IV drip of Pitocin which brought contractions on hard and heavy. By the afternoon, I was tearfully moaning through each contraction and requested an epidural. The epidural brought sweet relief and I was able to watch Friends on DVD with my husband. Midway through the episode where Rachel gives birth to her daughter, a team of nurses and doctors came running into my room. As they flipped me on my side and administered oxygen, they explained that my son’s heart rate was dropping again and we needed to get him out soon. The doctor checked my cervix and deemed that I was 9 centimeters. After “stretching” me to 10 centimeters, I began to push. The epidural made it difficult to effectively push because I couldn’t feel much below my belly button. Progress was stalled because my son was facing the wrong direction, and there was a part of my cervix in the way. After two hours of exhausting work, the attending physician told me that we could try the vacuum but if it didn’t work, a c-section was the only way. The vacuum didn’t work. I immediately started to cry because I was terrified of having surgery (my first surgery) and extremely disappointed. As they wheeled me to the operating room, I avoided the eyes of my waiting family members. The obstetrician wanted to start surgery immediately because my son wasn’t doing well. The spinal the anesthesiologist gave me didn’t start to work right away, so the doctors decided to put me under with general anesthesia. My husband was escorted out of the room. The last I remember is the doctor telling me to breathe in deeply and finding it difficult because I was crying so hard.
Some time later I woke up confused and tired, and still tearful because my husband and I both missed the birth of our son. The nurses brought me my son the way you would bring a child a Christmas present. Everyone expected me to be so excited, but I could barely open my eyes. He was beautiful, but I felt zero connection to this little stranger everyone kept calling my son.
As the drugs cleared from my system and reality set in, I grew more and more despondent. My mother and mother-in-law both say that they saw the differences in my attitude immediately. But I think we all just chalked it up to a trying experience and recovering from surgery. I can barely remember the days in the hospital, I was in such a fog. If my son cried, I would panic that his crying would make people catch on that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.
After a few days, I had to leave the hospital, the safety net that I felt was keeping me and our new family afloat. I was in considerable pain still from my surgery, so simple things like getting in and out of a car and up and down stairs was unbelievably hard. I did not want visitors. I did not want to make phone calls. My usually outgoing personality was suppressed, because I knew that either I would have to lie and say everything was ok, or tell people the truth, which would horrify them.
Every morning I woke up to this tiny creature stirring next to me, squawking to be fed, and my heart would fill with dread. I had to face another day. I would cry to my husband, “Do you think it will be like this forever?” I couldn’t bear to think that I had to make it through another day filled with pain, breastfeeding, poop, and ridiculous fatigue.
As things got worse, I started to apologize to my husband, for dragging him into this mess and begging him not to leave me. Don’t get me wrong, he couldn’t have been more supportive. I was just projecting my thoughts on to him—figuring that if I wanted out this bad, imagine what he must be feeling having to take care of me and an infant!
I was afraid to leave the house with my son. I was terrified that he would start to cry and that I wouldn’t be able to comfort him. The thoughts would send me into a panic. Additionally, I started to feel like the house was smothering me and had to open all the windows.
Around the fourth week postpartum, I started to realize that if I didn’t get help soon, I would not make it much longer. I remember one conversation with my mother-in-law where she said, “I know you are having a hard time, but are getting to enjoy it all?” I broke down crying, embarrassed by my answer, “No. I am not enjoying any part of this.”
Eventually, I spoke with a post partum support coordinator at my hospital who listened to my tearful confessions and pushed me to talk to my OB doctor. I called the office and told the frontline nurses what I was experiencing. The nurse said, “Oh, honey. That’s the baby blues. It is very normal. Call us if you are still feeling bad in two weeks.” I called my mother sobbing that I wouldn’t make it another two weeks. After my mother and the postpartum support coordinator both called the office, I got to make an appointment with my OB, as well as a psychiatrist. I immediately got on Prozac. Just doing something about the depression seemed to help.
The fog started to lift slowly. It seems like such a cliché thing to say, but it is exactly how it felt. I felt clearer, I started to smile and laugh again. I began to return phone calls. Most importantly, I started to enjoy my son, Evan. His smiles made me smile.
Now two years later, I still poke at the memories gingerly like you would a wound to see if it still hurts. I have a healthy and happy boy who keeps me happily busy. I want to encourage others to seek help if they are feeling more than the “baby blues.” You are the best judge of what is normal and abnormal for you. Sometimes you have to push your doctors and nurses to hear you. Be your own advocate.
