There is no shame in asking for help

This week's Phenomenal Mom has asked to remain anonymous.  What I can tell you is that she is a wonderful mother, and I admire her courage and strength to speak out about Post-Partum Depression (PPD).  It is a very really illness, but many studies find that moms don't get help because of the stigma.  When I read her story, I got the chills because many of her words felt as though they were my own.  Thank you to this old friend of mine for bringing this into the light and giving hope and knowledge to so many. 

          When our first son was born, I was completely overjoyed. I had immediate overwhelming unconditional love for him. My husband (boyfriend at the time) and I knew right away, we wanted to have another child. We wanted our children to be close in age so they would play well together. After our son reached his first birthday, baby fever started to set in. We got pregnant for the second time when our oldest was 14 months old.

Sadly, the pregnancy lasted only 7 weeks. We were devastated, and decided to try again as soon as the doctor gave us the o.k. We were blessed with another positive pregnancy test on our first try! This time, I was very guarded, though. I was scared to death that something bad was going to happen. Everyday felt like an eternity and I literally felt like I was just waiting for the bleeding to start. And it did. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t bright red like I had experienced before, but it was there. I remember walking out of the bathroom and being too afraid to tell my husband. I’m not sure why. It was almost like if I didn’t say anything, maybe it wasn’t really happening. I don’t know. I called my doctor right away the next morning and had some blood work done. Thankfully, an ultrasound revealed a healthy little peanut with a very strong heartbeat. What I actually had was a very small sub chronic hemorrhage, which the doctor assured me was very common and, in my case, not a cause for concern.

For the first time in months, I felt like I could start to relax a little. I didn’t really let my guard down completely until I reached my second trimester, though. After that, I was in baby heaven. I snapped pictures of my growing belly every week. I started planning the nursery and obsessed over every single baby name website or book I could get my hands on. Physically and emotionally I felt amazing. My energy level was sky high. With my first pregnancy I had felt huge and tired most of the time, but this time it was different. I felt like superwoman. Even chasing around a one year old all day long didn’t slow me down. It was a wonderful pregnancy. I loved every minute of carrying my second son. I loved being pregnant again. I loved the feeling of having a little life growing inside me. I loved every kick, every roll, and every episode of baby hiccups. Even in the last weeks of my pregnancy as the painful contractions started to set in and my son felt like he was literally going to fall out because I was carrying him so low, my energy remained high.

About a week before my son was born, I remember looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, marveling at how low my belly was hanging and thinking about how much I was going to miss being pregnant, when a weird thought popped into my head, “What if I don’t want another baby?” “What if I’m not ready?” I felt a little bit of panic starting in my chest. I stood there for a moment and then shook my head and told myself I was just getting a little bit of cold feet. People have those kinds of thoughts all the time before big life changing events. I was just being human.

The day for my scheduled c-section finally arrived. Two days before my 25^th birthday, our second son came into the world. The c-section went smoothly and there were no physical complications with me or the baby. But, something odd happened emotionally when they held my new baby boy up over the curtain. I did not feel overwhelming joy and love. I did not feel anything really. I think my first thought was something like, wow, he is really small. They immediately took him over and weighed and measured him and let my husband cut the cord. I remember my husband walking over to the operating table with our boy in his arms and looking at him all wrapped like a little burrito. There he was, finally out of my stomach and in the world where I could see him. He didn’t look at all how I had pictured him. I closed my eyes. My husband went to the nursery with the baby while they finished sewing me up. They wheeled me into the recovery room and I laid there all alone barely able to move anything but my head because I was still really numb from the spinal. After what seemed like forever, my husband came back into the room with the baby. Finally, I got to hold him. This would be my big moment. He smelled like I remembered a new baby smelling and his little body felt warm against me. Still, I didn’t feel that overwhelming love. I didn’t say that out loud, of course. I just went through the motions and tried to focus on recovering from my surgery. I figured once I was able to feel a little less like I had just been operated on, I would be able to bond with him.

The day of my birthday a lot of people came up to the hospital to wish me happy birthday and to see the baby. It started off as a really great day. But as the day wore on, I started to feel really overwhelmed with all the people there. I didn’t like my oldest son sitting up on the bed with me. He made me so nervous with all the IV’s and I kept envisioning him pouncing on my freshly cut belly. I remember asking my mom to get him off the bed. It was just too stressful. The new baby was constantly crying as well.  The only things that seemed to console him were milk and running water. I just remember standing by the running faucet for as long as I could until my incision started hurting and I’d need to sit down again.

The morning before we were released from the hospital, my husband came into the room with some very bad news. Our insurance company had denied our claim. It seems they had some kind of hidden rider in our policy that stated they wouldn’t pay for c-sections. We were going to be responsible for over $20,000 in hospital bills out of our own pockets. The hospital wouldn’t even give us a self-pay discount. We were screwed. We thought we had already paid for the delivery months prior. Our OBGYN had billed us what they said would be our portion of the delivery and we paid it right away. How could this be happening? It was like a bad dream. I felt incredibly guilty. My husband was in a total panic and spent hours in the billing department and on the phone with our insurance company screaming his head off. We had been screwed over by some dip shit insurance agent, and I felt like it was entirely my fault. I felt so ripped off. We should have been spending the day snuggling our newborn son, oowing and aahing over his tiny hands and feet. Instead, I felt like a failure. I spent that whole evening crying. No, crying doesn’t even begin to describe it. I sobbed. The nurse came in to give me some paperwork, and I couldn’t even hold it together long enough to ask her to leave. I felt such a deep sadness. I didn’t sleep well that night and in the morning when the nurse came in to start our discharge paperwork, I was in a total blur of sadness and fatigue. I just wanted to go home and sleep.

The first few weeks at home were rough. My oldest son was so angry with me for having to spend so much time with the new baby. He had never acted negatively towards me before, and in my weakened emotional state, it took a huge toll on me. I cried constantly. I felt so guilty for bringing another child into our home. Once, again, I felt like a failure and was completely consumed with guilt. I felt like I needed to do whatever I could to make my oldest son feel loved again. So, I threw myself into frenzy. I tried to make everything go back to “normal.” I ignored repeated warnings from both my doctors and nurses to avoid picking up my oldest son. I didn’t care. I couldn’t have him thinking I didn’t love him anymore! I pushed myself to the limit both physically and emotionally on a daily basis. By the time my six week check-up came around, I was a complete wreck. Pain was radiating from my incision, and my back was killing me. I don’t know who cried more, me or my colicky newborn. But, when my doctor asked me how I was feeling, I lied and said “great!” I was way too ashamed to admit that I wasn’t. I was afraid of looking like a failure. I was also too afraid to admit that I hadn’t been taking it easy physically either. In fact, I lied on those mommy post-partum quizzes that they give new mothers at the pediatrician’s office.  You know, they ones where they ask if you’ve been feeling sad, overwhelmed, depressed, anxious? I should have answered with an overwhelming “HELL YES!” I should have told those doctors the truth. I wish I had.

I look back now and think about how my story could have been so different if I would have gotten help right away. I knew something wasn’t right. Everyone around me knew something wasn’t right. It was like the person I used to be had vanished, and all that was left was a shell of the old me. I was so consumed with guilt and sadness and so plagued with anxiety that I could barely function on a daily basis. It took every ounce of energy in my body to get out of bed in the morning. I started fantasizing about running away. I just felt like I was in a black hole with no way of getting out. Eventually, my fantasizing shifted from running away, to giving my youngest child up for adoption. That’s when I knew I was really starting to lose my grip on reality. I knew I needed help, I was just too afraid to accept it.

Things went on like this for almost 6 months. I kept waiting to feel normal again. I tried so hard to “get over” my depression. I tried taking vitamins, getting massages, going to a chiropractor, “thinking” positively. Nothing seemed to help. My depression only got worse. The final straw came on a trip to Omaha with my family. I desperately wanted to get away. My house had started to feel like a prison. I just needed to get out. I thought maybe a change of scenery for a few days might help me. That was the longest night I have ever experienced. I spent the entire night lying in bed, trying to stop myself from jumping out of the window of the hotel room. I thought my family had suffered enough and that if I was gone, they could be happy again. I just wanted to end the suffering for everyone. Thank God I was strong enough to realize that those thoughts were irrational. I went to the doctor as soon as we got back into town and I begged for help.

The doctor prescribed me a low dose of an anti-depressant medication. I was terrified to take it, but I knew that not taking it would be worse than any side effect the medication may have. Within a couple weeks, the anxiety started lifting. I was able to read my children their bedtime stories, and actually pay attention to the words on the page, rather than the thoughts racing through my brain. Relief was starting to set it. A light was shining at the end of that black hole. After a few months, I was starting to feel like the fog had cleared. I was able to think logical, rational thoughts. I started feeling a bond with my new baby that I hadn’t felt before. It was like a switch had been flipped, and I was back.

It took several months for me to make a full recovery. Post-partum depression had ripped through my family like a tsunami and we had one hell of a mess to clean up. My husband and I are very committed to our marriage, though, and have worked hard to pick up the broken pieces and put our family back together again. The journey was not easy, and there were definitely times when neither one of us thought we were going to make it. But I can happily report that our marriage is stronger than ever. I feel like our commitment to each other and to our children was tested and that we passed with flying colors. We survived.

Since going through the hellish journey of post-partum depression, I have decided to speak out about my experience. I want to make other women aware of the signs/symptoms so that they can get help early and avoid months of unnecessary suffering. I also want them to know that there is NO SHAME in asking for help, and admitting that you are struggling. Hormones are so powerful, and they go through so many crazy changes after giving birth. It is not our fault. Some women just need a little extra help balancing things out. It is a completely treatable disease, but one that does require medical attention. I truly believe that if I can help one person to avoid the pain and suffering that I went through, then it would not have been in vain. There is another side of the post-partum period that people don’t like talking about. Well, I’m talking! If you or someone you know has recently given birth and is showing some of the early signs and symptoms of PPD, make sure their doctor is aware. PPD can occur anytime within the first year of giving birth. Please don’t suffer in silence. Reach out for help. It’s there waiting. You CAN and WILL be yourself again.