This is the story of my brief, yet terrifying, struggle with post-partum depression, a condition that is often misunderstood by those who never suffered it. In sharing this story, I hope to put a human face to this disorder to help people better understand what it is, and that it can happen to anyone. I also hope that any women who are pregnant now or who just delivered their babies can learn from my experience, and if they recognize the signs in themselves, can become empowered to seek help and support as soon as they can.
After Birth
Five and a half months ago, I was laying in a hospital bed watching a screen where my contractions were monitored in jumping black lines that skidded slowly across a white grid, nervously shooting up into jagged mountains of pain only to slowly come back down every minute or two. I laughed, noting how I would never know the contractions were happening had it not been for that monitor as I made a last-minute decision to get the epidural when the nurse convinced me I didn't do enough research and that the medication I would receive wouldn't affect my daughter, who's heart rate beat across its own white grid in a comforting red line. Despite the rhythmic pounding of the walls of her womb-home closing in around her, she remained as calm and steady as I had.
My mother, father, and of course fiance were all in the room to welcome Evelyn into the world. My dad was sitting on a couch as far from the action as possible; JM was next to me holding my hand and peeking down once in a while. My mom, however, was situated where she could get the best view, and when she started skipping in place and threw her hands up to her face, I knew that she could see the baby. She commented several times on how happy she was that she was allowed to experience the birth of her first grandchild, and Oh! Look! I can see her black hair!
It took four fruitless hours of pushing before the doctor brought in the vacuum. She explained to me that I could push for several more hours and still make no progress, as Evie's head was tilted to a point that made it nearly impossible for her to get through the pelvic bone. I cried when she explained to me that if the vacuum didn't work, I'd have to have an emergency Cesarean section. I was determined that it wouldn't come to that, and with the help of the vacuum, we delivered a healthy, gorgeous child into this world.
For two weeks, my mom stayed with JM, Evie and myself to spend as much time with her new granddaughter as possible, as well as wait on me hand and foot as I laid in bed nursing, unable to move thanks to all the stitching and subsequent swelling I endured. The post-partum period was extremely scary for me, worse than anything I experienced during my pregnancy and birth: I was afraid to use the bathroom, afraid to shower, afraid to walk down the stairs. I was in so much pain, and I was light-headed.
My emotions were on a roller coaster as well from the massive change in hormones. One minute, I was absolutely elated to be holding my daughter in my arms; the next, I realized how exhausted I was and I'd catch a glimpse of the Japanese tsunami on the news and think of all the people who won't hold their daughters or granddaughters anymore and I would bawl.
It's normal to experience emotional highs and lows as your body regulates itself and you settle into the new role of mother. It's one of the most life-changing experiences a person can go through, and coming to terms with an entirely new purpose in life takes a little time. They call this period the "baby blues," and most women can expect to feel it.
I stopped crying over everything within two weeks. I instead filled my days nursing my daughter in her rocking chair, nervously checking over her and counting diapers and calling the pediatrician's office every other day with questions as I discovered new things. "Is her soft spot supposed to sink in this much? I think she might have thrush. Can I bring her in to weigh her so I know she's getting enough to eat?" Every time she cried, I'd try to nurse her. I was absolutely terrified that we weren't doing it right, that she was always hungry. Feeding her, worrying about feeding her, became my life.
Within two months, I was having panic attacks. I didn't leave the rocking chair hardly ever, even to feed myself. The effort would cause me to hyperventilate, so Evelyn and I sat in that chair all day and watched television. She didn't realize anything was wrong, as she was asleep most of the time, a luxury I myself rarely got. You can imagine how boring it was being a shut-in; soon, I lost interest in nearly everything as my life was a continual loop of tossing and turning at night, not eating, rocking my daughter and nursing her while worrying the entire time.
One Monday night when my daughter was just barely three months old, I knew something was wrong.
Not Just the Baby Blues
My fiance and I were sleeping in separate rooms, as I had decided to keep Evie in our bedroom in a co-sleeper attached to the bed. She woke up every two to three hours, and he needed more sleep than that to be able to function at his job. So, he slept in the guest bedroom where he could unwind watching some TV as I caught a little sleep here and there between fits of the baby's wakefulness.
I walked in to that guest room at 4:30 a.m., feeling like a ghost. I hovered in the doorway watching him sleep for a little while, hoping he'd wake up on his own as if by some miracle. When he didn't, I lurched into the dark room, illuminated by a small blue light on his laptop, and placed my hand on his shoulder. I changed my mind and walked away, but returned within minutes and sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook him awake.
"I think there's something wrong with me," I said as my eyes welled up with tears.
To be continued...
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