I am fond of February, though, because it contains the birthdays of two of my favorite guys. The first, writer, Charles Dickens, was born on Friday, Feb. 7, 1812, and the 2nd, named after the first, is my son, Charlie. Charlie might have been born on Feb. 7, too, but my demigod obstetrician, Dr. James Bendell, didn’t do surgery on Thursdays. As it was, Charlie was born on Friday, Feb. 8, 2008. Tom and I had always wanted four children and the fifth was a surprise blessing!
An experienced mother, I anticipated Charlie’s pregnancy and birth to be like my others. I’d be uncomfortable but as soon as he was out, I’d be fine. When I got home from the hospital, though, anxiety, extreme tearfulness, and an inability to sleep when Charlie slept viciously kicked my door down. Within one week, I was in an ER sobbing that I was, “drowning in fear,” and that on the way to the hospital, I’d had a sudden, severe urge to jump out of our car and into traffic. I had a happy, stable marriage, wonderful children, I loved motherhood, Charlie was an easy baby and my life was going very well. What was happening?
The ER physician said I had postpartum depression, due primarily to drastic hormonal changes. My first thought was, “Great, give me some Paxil and that book by Brooke Shields.” He did neither, but instead, handed me prescription for “nerve pills,” and sent me home. When I did obtain an antidepressant, the immediate side effects made my jitters worse and the, “nerve pills,” could be addictive so I stopped taking both, foolishly convinced that I could manage.
The days blurred. I grew abysmally tired. I longed to sleep but at night, a scurrying fear would begin inside me, like ants tunneling below ground. I couldn’t articulate it, but I was now imbued with an irrational belief, that I would stop breathing if I lay down on my bed. Because I was educated enough to comprehend that not sleeping was dangerous, I resorted to Oprah-ish remedies like prayer and chamomile tea. I tried tricking myself to sleep with queer rituals; propping pillows, leaving lights on. I even asked Tom to stay awake and watch over me. Neither of us realized these were symptoms of how ill I was becoming.
In addition, I held Charlie. I fed, changed, kissed and soothed him when he cried. I forced a smile and soldiered on for the sake of my other children, but inside, I felt nothing, like I’d been replaced by a frenetic machine and Charlie was a sweet baby who belonged to someone else. I could recall his birth but he didn’t feel like my son. This is the cruelest stroke. Postpartum depression robs mother and child of the bonding and attachment they need.
While I am fortunate that I never had a thought or image of harming Charlie, I was appalled at the prospect. My ordeal finally ended with an exhaustive collapse and several days of hospitalized rest. My full recovery, however, which included a team of fantastic professionals, medication, talk therapy, extensive reading and support from family and friends, required a full year. I have two masters degrees, have worked in mental health and I adore my children. If postpartum depression can happen to me, it can happen to any mother.
What remains imperative is a vigilant public awareness that postpartum depression is a real, medical condition that requires medical treatment. It affects the entire family. We’ve all heard about Andrea Yates and the ghastly results of her postpartum psychosis, but according to the CDC, as much as 12 percent of all women experience some form of moderate depression during the first year after a birth and the numbers could be as high as 20 percent. There is a wide spectrum of symptoms that range in severity but even Congress has gotten involved recently by approving funding for more research and treatment options.
If you are or know a new mother who appears to be struggling, please, please seek medical help. Postpartum depression is absolutely treatable with proper care.
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