babyfruit: the (mis)adventures of mommyhood

When it hit me, it hit hard

This is something I posted on Maya's Mom a little while ago, but it just seemed like something I wanted to post here because it sums up what I've been through in recent months. But I'm doing good today. Yes, real good.

When It Hit Me, It Hit Hard

I ended up with knock down drag out post partum depression around 4 months but even before that, there were signs.

Maybe the time I threw a dirty plate from the dinner table up in the air because I was so angry could have been a clue. Or when I screamed at my husband to "give me the baby, you can't keep her from me!" then ran through the house slamming doors and cursing at him to leave me alone. Or the time I ran from the house screaming with the car keys, thinking I'd drive away (where? somewhere, anywhere) and he had to chase after me, wrap his arms around me tightly, lead me back into the house.

When it hit hard, it wasn't depression in the way I had thought about depression. I wasn't sad. I was angry. I was seething. I was absolutely furious. Everything set me off. In my mind, as long as I didn't want to hurt my baby, then I would be okay. But I didn't think twice about wanting to hurt myself.

When it looked like I was going to be put on anti-depressants, I couldn't go there. I had heard too many stories about people who went on them and then committed suicide and knowing how sensitive I am to anything I put into my body, I feared that they'd send me over the edge.

So I turned to a naturopath and in one 2 hour visit, she pinpointed exactly what I needed. She said that the hormone imbalance I was feeling included large amounts of adrenaline and epinephrine pumping into my system sending me into "fight or flight" mode. This definitely explained my state of constant panic. The only way I could describe it was that I was screaming inside, constantly.

She gave me supplements to help my adrenal glands to not overproduce adrenaline and an amino acid to spray under my tongue when I would start to feel panicky. Within a few days, I felt...as normal as one can feel after having a life changing and body changing event happen at age 41 (having a baby, of course).

I can't say normal because I'm not who I was before baby. I'm another person, totally changed, and half the time I'm not sure who I am. I've seen a therapist a few times to explore this aspect of motherhood. Nobody told me I would lose my identity and have an identity crisis that would only add to my PPD.

In the 2 months since I started getting treatments for my PPD, I haven't any out of control, irrational outbursts. And I'm not screaming inside. When I feel something creeping in, I spray the amino acid under my tongue a few times and then take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I have only had to do that one time in the last 3 weeks.

I still don't know who I am, although when I went to a friend's birthday party last month with my husband and baby, we had to wear name tags. I put my name, then under it, I wrote "NG's Mom." After the party, I stuck it on the inside of my coat and it is still there, a little worn around the edges, but there to remind me at least who I am in part. I need that reminder.

September 11

I posted a brief photo essay of pictures from New York City on Travelgirl.com that I took a month after September 11th, 2001 and then a year later.

You can check them out here.

ESSAY: By Saturday

this is an essay I wrote and submitted to my
favorite literary magazine THE SUN. and
don't know if they'll accept it but thought I'd
share it here.

SATURDAY NIGHT

By Saturday, the bleeding hadn't stopped and the cramping had become more intense. Only two days before, my midwife told me that there was nothing to worry about, that even though she could not hear a heartbeat at nine weeks, it was not cause for alarm. She blamed it on my uterus, saying it was tilted back, away from the monitor. I believed her.

By now, G. and I were on the road, exploring towns, contemplating our next move. By lunchtime, I could barely walk, shuffling like I was a thousand years old and ready to crumble into pieces on the ground. By late afternoon, I quietly suggested that G. take me to the hospital.

At the next town, we pulled into the emergency room parking lot and made our way slowly inside, the setting sun glinting gold off the automatic doors as they opened with a low hiss. We were brought into an examination room, and before I knew it, a needle with a tube attached was being forced into my hand.

"Talk to me," I said to G. but he just looked at me. "Talk to me. How come when I need you to talk, you don't say a word?" I turned to the nurse. "This is a guy who talks to everyone about everything. I always joke that he could have a meaningful conversation with a doorknob. And now look at him."

My eyes pleaded with his, desperately begging to hear his voice to distract me from the needles, but he was silent.

Fluids were pumped into me, blood drawn out. Then a doctor examined me as I lay back, whimpering, trying not to cry out. He held forceps in his hand and in an instant, pulled something from me.

"This is part of the baby, do you want to see it?" he asked, holding something up to G. who stared numbly. This is part of the baby. Did he really just say that?

A few hours later, we left the hospital and drove to a nearby hotel. We ordered room service and ate dinner in front of the television, like any typical Saturday night.