I don't want to drag this story out unnecessarily, a la
"Breaking Dawn" Parts 1 and 2 (Twihards will appreciate that
reference...yeah, I'm a dork). But I decided to divide the bed rest portion
into two posts, partly because if I didn't it would be one giant "War and
Peace"-length post and partly because my time on bed rest really did seem
like two different chapters.
I went on bed rest near the end of May, almost one year ago to the day, which
is hard to believe! After the experience I described in the previous post
regarding that one terrifying night when John was gone, I decided I needed
people to spend the night with me on the nights when John was away and people
to come over during the day to help with things like meals and cleaning and
taking care of our dog, Bauer. (Anyone who knows Bauer knows he is quite the
handful!)
Forever in
debt
I'm going to take a break from the story here to share one of the many lessons
I learned during this whole experience. Being strong, being tough, is really
important to me. One of my biggest frustrations during all my health crises has
been that my mind has set standards for myself that my body has simply been
unable to achieve. For someone who's a big believer in mind over matter, that's
a hard pill to swallow. And I know the fact that I'm doing this blog might lead
you to believe otherwise, but typically I'm a very private person when it comes
to sharing my problems, mainly because I'm embarrassed by my weakness, and I
have a difficult time trusting people in general.
But at that point I had no choice. If I was going to follow the doctor's
orders, and really listen to what my body was telling me instead of trying to
ignore it and push forward like I usually do, then I would be putting my baby
in jeopardy. And that was too high a price to pay for my maintaining my pride.
I don't have any family in town, so I was forced to reach out and ask for help
from friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. The response I received was
overwhelming, and incredibly humbling.
Caleb and I will always owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the people who
stepped up and helped out. You all know who you are. The friends who, despite
having busy lives of their own, came over and stayed the night with me, brought
meals, cleaned the house, and stopped by just to keep me company. The people
who sent encouraging voice mails, texts and emails. The countless others who
continually lifted us up in prayer.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case it also took a village
to gestate one. God used this experience to shatter my illusion of
self-sufficiency, and to show me the incredible power in sharing my problems
with others and asking them for help. The risk involved in making myself
vulnerable was worth the grace I received in return.
At 24 weeks, shortly before I went
on bed rest.
Now back to the story. The first half of my bed rest, while
in some ways scarier than the second half because the stakes were higher, was
also less eventful, so I had a fairly predictable routine. I would sleep in my
bed, then get up in the morning and move to the living room couch to spend the
day there. I could get up to take a shower, go to the bathroom, eat dinner, and
occasionally grab something from the fridge, but that was basically it. I could
read books for a bit, but since I had to lay on my sides instead of on my back,
it got pretty tiring holding up a book on my side. And I couldn't watch the TV
because it was downstairs. So the iPhone became my lifeline (and no, Apple
didn't pay me to say that). I surfed the internet, read comforting Bible
verses, played Sudoku, and sometimes texted or talked to people.
I know to some this doesn't sound too bad, and in comparison to a lot of other
things a person can endure, like cancer or paralysis or starvation, it isn't.
But please don't ever say to someone on bed rest, "Enjoy your
vacation!" as I heard several times. Bed rest isn't rest. It's prison. And
it takes a heavy physical, mental, and emotional toll.
For instance, after the first few weeks, my legs started hurting pretty badly,
so I had to go get an ultrasound to make sure I wasn't developing a blood clot,
which can happen when you're immobile for long periods. Thankfully I didn't
have a clot, but I instead found out the pain was likely the result of my
muscles atrophying. Awesome.
The contractions were also starting to shorten my cervix further, so the doctor
put me on an anti-contraction medicine called Procardia. I didn't want to be on
any drugs during the pregnancy (heck, I wasn't even drinking caffeine), but I
had to choose which was worse, being on a drug that so far had shown minimal to
no side effects on babies, or risk having a baby born prematurely. So I chose
the drug. It made me lightheaded and dizzy and caused my heart to race. And of
course, I also developed the rare side effect of excessive gum inflammation.
But fortunately a family friend of ours is a periodontist and gave me a mouth
wash to help keep my gums from getting too swollen. So in short, Procardia sucked.
But it was a necessary evil in my eyes.
First (of
many) ER trips
I was supposed to have a baby shower in my hometown in June, but I obviously
wasn't able to make it there, so my mom and sister still threw me the shower
and Skyped me in. It wasn't the same as being there, but it was still fun.
Later that day, though, I started developing symptoms of a urinary tract
infection. Since it was a Saturday, I called the doctor on call, and he said I
should probably come in to L&D so they could run a test since UTI's can
worsen preterm labor. I waited for a while because I really didn't want to go
to the ER if I didn't need to, but the symptoms got worse so around 11 p.m.
John and I went in. It was the first of many ER visits I would make.
The test turned out negative, which was good (I discovered after Caleb was born
why I had so many problems with my bladder during the pregnancy, but that's
another story). The doctor on call wasn't my doctor, so I had to get him up to
speed on my case. After he heard everything, he asked if I would be open to
having a cervical ultrasound done while I was there. See, apparently there are
two schools of thought on predicting preterm labor. One is to rely on the FFN
test. The other is to look at cervical length. This doctor had studied
underneath one of the doctors who pioneered the use of cervical length as a
preterm labor predictor, and he said that while the FFN is a good indicator of
the short term likelihood of preterm labor, cervical length is a better long
term indicator.
The ultrasound confirmed that my cervix was shortening. The doctor said that at
the length it was at that point, statistics showed that it was extremely
unlikely I would make it to full term, and I would probably deliver before 35
weeks. At least that was better than my current 27 weeks, though still not the
news I wanted to hear. But then the doctor told me something that I would take
to heart for the rest of my pregnancy. He took my hand and said that I was
doing everything I could to take care of my baby, and the rest was beyond my
control, so I should just take one day at a time and be thankful for every day
that I was still pregnant.
John, my parents, and others had already told me that same thing, but for some
reason that advice really sank in at that moment. It's a good thing it did,
because you see, the bed had become my mental battlefield, and every minute I
laid on it, I faced a choice--savor the blessing of the moment or succumb to
overwhelming fear. I had plenty of legitimate reasons to be afraid, as I knew
full well what would happen to Caleb if he was born that early. If he lived
(which despite the fact that he was past the point of viability was in no way a
guarantee), he could live with devastating physical and mental
disabilities--cerebral palsy, chronic lung problems, brain impairment, and
developmental delays, to name just a few. But rather than focusing on the fear,
I fought to focus on the positive. Some days I was more successful at this than
others. But every morning, I woke up just thanking God that I was still
pregnant, still had another day with my baby safe inside my belly.
Me and Caleb on the couch at 29
weeks
I knew the doctor was right when he said the situation was
ultimately out of my control, but it was still very hard for me to accept. I
wouldn't call myself a controlling person, but I like to have control--not over
others, but over myself, if that makes sense (must go hand-in-hand with those
aforementioned trust issues). During my various health crises, I had experienced
several crises of faith as well. But after each period of doubt and anger and
soul searching, I had come back to three bedrock beliefs that I knew to be
true. I believed in God. I believed He was a good God. And I believed He held
me in His hand. And so I would come to a point of acceptance that God was
ultimately in control of each situation, and placed my trust in Him to work all
things out for good in the end.
But with this situation God was taking it a giant step further. Because this
time, He wasn't just asking me to trust Him with my fate, He was asking me to
trust Him with my child's. And that was another matter entirely. So with that I
began a struggle that I now realize will likely continue until the day I die.
The struggle to release Caleb from my clenched fist, place him in God's hands,
and trust that He loves my son even more than I do and will take better care of
him than I ever could. So, yeah, not really a lesson I've learned, but a lesson
I'm learning.
Fridays and
FFN Days
Every Friday, John and I would celebrate reaching another week in the pregnancy
by him getting us takeout from my favorite restaurants. Along with a nice meal,
each Friday brought a little bit more relief, even though I knew we were
nowhere out of the woods yet.
Aside from Fridays, the other days that I lived for were the doctor
appointments, every two weeks, when I went in for another FFN test. I would go
home afterward and anxiously await the call from my doctor telling me whether
it was positive or negative. And each time, he would call and say, "Well,
congratulations, you've bought yourself at least another two weeks!"
People have asked me how I was able to emotionally handle those weeks on bed
rest, particularly the early ones when the stakes were the highest. And
honestly, I think it was a combination of the FFN's and God's protection. The
FFN's gave me some measure of short-term assurance, and God somehow gave me
enough peace to keep me from completely freaking out about the situation, which
was important because I needed to maintain a calm environment for Caleb.
But then wouldn't you know, after six weeks on bed rest, things took a giant
turn for the worse and the safety net provided by the FFN was removed in a way
nobody, not even my doctor, expected. So that's where I will pick up next time.
Thirty-one weeks pregnant, when we entered the most difficult and most
unbelievable period yet in that roller coaster of a pregnancy.
In the mean time, here are a couple songs I played on repeat. (John told me to
emphasize the word "repeat" when I talk about these songs at the end
of every post, as I played them all so many times they started driving him
insane). The first, "Everything is Yours," by Audrey Assad, really
spoke to my need to trust in God's sovereignty. The second,
"Faithful," by Steven Curtis Chapman, encouraged me to trust in the
Lord's faithfulness, whatever the outcome. Chapman penned the song, and in fact
that entire album, after the tragic death of his daughter, so his lyrics
carried even more weight and authenticity for me.
"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." -- Psalms 30:5
As
I begin this final chapter of the blog, I first want to thank all of
you who have taken the time to read "Caleb’s Story," and to offer your
encouragement. I went into journalism and public relations because I
love hearing and sharing people's stories. Everyone has an interesting
and important story to tell, if you listen long enough and ask the right
questions. But while I've been privileged to share some very special
stories over the years, Caleb's is the most dear to my heart.
You
could have picked me apart over some of the things I’ve shared in this
blog, yet you’ve been nothing but supportive and kind. The postpartum
posts were particularly difficult to write, and the minute I hit
“publish” I wondered if I had made a mistake. So I was blown away by
your overwhelmingly positive responses, and I’ve been so encouraged by
the postpartum stories you've shared with me in return.
Before I describe the road back from postpartum depression, I want to emphasize that this was my
journey. In sharing my story I’m not suggesting that if you're
suffering from PPD you should do what I did. I'm including specifics in
case they're helpful to you, but mainly I just want you to know that you
aren’t alone, that hope and healing exist for you, and that even though
it might seem like things are never going to get better, this chapter
in your life will not last forever. You will see the sunlight again.
1-800-Help!
And now to finish the story! As
usual, this post turned out super long (believe it or not I ended up
cutting a good portion of what I had originally written). But I have
covered so much ground in this blog that there were a lot of loose ends
to tie up and topics to address. I tried to do it as succinctly as I
could, while still covering all my bases. So the first part will talk
about the return from PPD and the second part will bring you up to speed
on where we are today.
I ended my Postpartum Depression post
at the moment I picked up the phone to call my doctor and tell him what
was going on. I talked to the nurse, who said he was out of the office
but that she would leave him a message. Before I hung up she told me
that if things got worse I needed to call her back right away.
To
my surprise, my doctor called me back later that night (see, this is
another reason he’s the best OB/GYN in the world, although I also think
doctors probably take this kind of thing more seriously nowadays because
they don’t want to see their patients on the evening news). I
immediately started sobbing on the phone as I told him my symptoms. I
asked him what was wrong with me and why I wasn’t handling all of this
as well as all other women do. Then he said, “I don’t know about that. I
see a lot of women, Emily, and you’d be surprised how many feel the way
you’re feeling.”
He said that part of the problem was
exhaustion and pointed out that sleep deprivation is used as a torture
technique in some countries. He said even women who aren't depressed
start feeling a little nuts after a few weeks with a newborn. He also
said a lot of what I was experiencing was pretty natural considering all
that I had been through. I told him I didn’t want to go on medication
unless absolutely necessary, and he suggested I see a counselor before
he prescribed anything to see if that would help. He ended the
conversation assuring me it was going to be okay. I hung up, less than
convinced.
I had seen a counselor before when I was experiencing all the health problems I told you about in my Prologue post,
and I had found talking with her to be very beneficial. I’m an internal
processor, meaning I think through things a lot before I talk about
them. This wouldn't be a problem except most of the time I never
actually end up talking about anything. Instead I stuff and stuff and
stuff all the thoughts and emotions down until they become too much to
hold inside, and then I explode. So putting myself in a position where I
am forced to talk to an objective third party about my problems really
helps me process them in a healthier way. Unfortunately the counselor I had seen before had since
moved out of state, but I called her former practice and asked if there
was anyone there who could help me with these issues. The receptionist
said they did have someone who treated postpartum depression and
scheduled me an appointment for the following week.
Seeing a shrink
As I pulled out of the
driveway the morning of the appointment, I realized it was the first
time I had left the house for days. I felt a thrill of freedom as I
drove down the street and looked at the bright blue sky overhead. In
that moment, it seemed as if the world was my oyster. I stopped at
Starbucks to get myself a decaf mocha (I was still stubbornly refusing
to drink caffeine because I didn’t think Caleb needed any more help
staying awake at night), and even getting myself that cup of coffee,
which once had been so routine, felt like a huge luxury.
After I
arrived at the counselor’s office and got settled on the couch, I began
the conversation by telling her I didn’t want to go on medication
unless absolutely necessary. My aversion wasn’t due to any philosophical
issues with anti-depressants, but because I had been on one before to
try to treat my fibromyalgia (that particular drug had a dual use). The
medicine didn’t help my fibromyalgia so I went off of it, and then
suffered horrendous withdrawal symptoms. I didn’t want to risk that
happening again if I could help it. The last thing my crazy a$% needed
was more craziness.
The counselor said we might not need to go
down the medication road, and suggested that for the time being we just
talk about things. As she started asking questions and I started
talking, I realized most of my thoughts revolved around the
breastfeeding troubles we were having. I was obsessed with making
nursing work, and that obsession was clouding my vision on everything
else and causing me to lose sight of the big picture.
I wasn’t
ready to give up on nursing at that point, but she helped me realize
that a child needs much more from his mother than just breast milk.
There were a lot of other issues we would unpack in the sessions to
come, but we addressed the nursing hang-ups first because there were so
many emotions and feelings of inadequacy wrapped up in them and they
were exacerbating the disconnect I felt between Caleb and myself.
So
before I left that first day, the counselor gave me a homework
assignment to do before my next session. She told me to write down the
characteristics that marked the kind of mother I wanted to be, and the
characteristics of the kind of man I wanted Caleb to become. She then
wanted me to evaluate how many of those qualities had to do with me
being able to give him breast milk. This exercise proved hugely helpful.
By thinking about and writing down my goals and dreams for Caleb and
myself, I could see my role as a mother beyond just breastfeeding. It
seems so obvious now, but back then it was a big epiphany.
At
our next appointment the counselor asked how the nursing was going and I
told her I was still trying to make it work and just didn’t know how
much longer I could keep up my insane feeding schedule. She suggested I
set a goal for how long I wanted to continue trying. I didn’t need to
stick with that goal if I decided once I reached it that I wanted to
continue, but at least setting a goal would help me focus on an end
point to the situation.
She also suggested I meet with the
psychiatric nurse practitioner in her office, just to talk about whether
medication might help. A couple months later I ended up seeing that
nurse practitioner and talking about my options. She went through the
different depression and anxiety meds that were safe to take while
breastfeeding and prescribed one in case I decided to try it. But she
also talked about other things I could do that have shown to help
postpartum depression. She suggested I take vitamin D and a stress
B-complex vitamin, as well as fish oil or flaxseed oil supplements.
I
never ended up taking the depression/anxiety medicine she prescribed,
because the vitamins and other things I did ended up helping me enough
that I didn’t need to go that route. Plus, I think my hormones just got
the time they needed to get back into balance. But believe me, if the
situation hadn’t improved, I would have just said "yes" to drugs. I know
several people who have needed to take medicine to help deal with their
PPD/PPA and once they have gotten dialed into the right drug and the
right dosage, it has proven extremely effective for them.
The first turning point
The counseling
certainly was a huge help, but the first big turning point for me came
one day while I was rocking Caleb to sleep in my arms. I don’t know why,
maybe in that moment my hormones started to sort themselves out or
something, but as we rocked slowly back and forth in his dimly lit room
one afternoon, I felt the ice around my heart begin to thaw. This is so
cheesy, but the only way I can describe it is that it felt like that
scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas when the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes. Minutes before I had felt cold and lifeless and
empty, and suddenly a sea of emotion flooded through me, filling all the
cracked, dry riverbeds in my heart. I held Caleb closer and kissed his
soft, pillowy little cheeks while the tears cascaded down mine. Something
in me changed forever that afternoon. It was the experience I should
have had when he was born, but for whatever reason had been delayed
until that moment. The connection I had felt with such certainty when I
was pregnant was back and it was stronger than ever.
Things
didn’t immediately get better after that. My days still remained mostly
cloudy for several months and I still had moments when I felt like I
couldn’t go on. But at least I could feel my heart strings vibrating
again, and that was enough to keep me going.
My heart, now laying on top of my chest
What's love got to do with it?
Before I go on I want to share how postpartum
depression gave me a deeper appreciation for what I believe to be the true meaning of love. And it’s a point I want to make
clear so there’s no misunderstanding. Even in those dark days when I
couldn’t feel a connection to Caleb, I still loved him. You see to me, love is most purely expressed through commitment, not emotion. To borrow a definition from Grace-Based Parenting,
a book John and I recently read -- “Love is the commitment of my will
to another's needs and best interests, regardless of the cost.”
Don't get me wrong, the feelings I have for Caleb are all-consuming and still
surprise me with their intensity. Being his mommy has brought me indescribable happiness and
so many magical moments I will cherish forever. Feeling his arms wrapped
tightly around my neck as he covers my face in slobbery, open-mouthed
kisses. Smelling vanilla and oatmeal
soap on his velvety skin after a bath. Hearing his squeals of laughter as he steals the ball and runs away from
our long-suffering Labrador. Seeing the sheer delight on his face as
he tips his head back to look at the ceiling spinning above him while we
dance and twirl around the living room.
These are the romantic moments that add so many vibrant
colors to the beautiful picture of love motherhood creates. But when
you step back and look at the entire
painting, you see it’s the shadows that most clearly define the light.
The tears born from sheer exhaustion, the sigh at the sight of another
mess to clean up, the hands covered in poop from a nuclear diaper
blowout. These are the brush strokes that add the most texture and depth
to the portrait of a mother’s love.
It is a love that wages
unrelenting war on self-centeredness I didn't know I had. A love that
both fills and empties me. A love that lights up my life even as its refining heat
burns painfully through all my impurities.
A love that will forever bind my
heart to Caleb's.
And to his daddy's.
I've talked throughout this blog about the many ways John
has loved and supported me: through the health problems, the pregnancy,
the delivery, and the PPD. And I can't proceed with the rest of this
final chapter before first saying that none of what I'm sharing here,
NONE of it, would have been possible without him.
I've always
known the measure of the man I married, but the events of the past
couple years have brought out further depths of John's character and his
unconditional love for me. And seeing how hands-on and doting he is with
Caleb has made me fall in love with him all over again and enabled me to appreciate
another layer of who he is as a person.
That appreciation runs
even deeper when I remember that John had a terrible example in the dad
department. His own father was physically and verbally abusive and
wielded the Bible as a weapon in an attempt to
manipulate and control the family. Yet thanks to the love of a wise
mother and the hand of God on his life, John never lost faith, and he
never gave into the temptation to wallow in bitterness or to continue
the damaging cycle with his own wife and son.
Instead,
John maintains the most incredible work ethic I've ever seen and he
continually looks for ways he can be a better husband and father. He is
the kind of man who still opens the car door for me eight years after
our first date (and yeah, I'm the kind of woman who digs that sort of
thing), who brings home flowers "just because," who frequently took the
midnight shift when Caleb was a baby so I could pump and go back to
sleep, and who delights in being the one to give Caleb baths, put him
into his PJ's, and tuck him into his crib at night.
I
thank God every day for this man of mine, and the events of the past
year have also helped me better appreciate what it means for us to love
each other. To quote a line from a poem I came across recently, “Romance is dancing in
the moonlight, gazing deep into desired eyes, but love is saying, ‘You’re
tired, honey, I’ll get up this time."
Having a baby changes a relationship. Raising our son together has
bonded us in a special and unique way, and it also has put our marriage
under incredible stress at times. While we still don't fight all that
often, we have had more arguments in the past year than the previous
seven combined. And whereas in the past we could devote all our time and
attention to each other, now the majority of that attention is devoted
to Caleb (as it should be).
Similarly to how it took me some
time to settle into my role as mom, it also has taken us time to settle
into this new parenting dimension of our relationship. We are still very
well matched, but if we aren't careful, our marriage can quickly
devolve into a mere custodial arrangement in which our communication
revolves around trading tasks and talking about things like poop color
and consistency. It requires work to keep this from happening, and we've
had to work harder on our marriage than ever before.
A real break through came when we read, How Full Is
Your Bucket, which showed us how helpful it is when we focus on
positives instead of negatives with each other. We're also realizing the
importance of carving out time to spend together as husband and wife,
not just mom and dad.
So thanks to a lot of communication, prayer, and
self-sacrifice, we've never loved each other more, or better, than we do now.
Okay, guys, enough with the mushy stuff!
Chalet Des 'Rents
Okay, well enough with this lovey dovey crap, right? Let's get back to
the story. After that afternoon in the rocking chair, the second big
turning point came when we visited my parents in late October. Caleb was
just shy of two months old and since John needed to take a business
trip near my parents’ for several days, we decided Caleb and I would
travel over with him and stay at their house while he was working in the
neighboring city. The thought of traveling across the state with a
newborn was daunting, but the prospect of having my mom’s help was plenty enough
incentive to make the trip.
Staying at my parents’ brought the respite I desperately
needed. Becoming a parent myself has given me an even deeper level of respect
and appreciation for my own parents, and I can’t tell you how nice it
felt to have my mom take care of both me and Caleb in the old, familiar
comforts of my childhood home. She cooked meals, watched Caleb while I
pumped so I wasn’t stressed about getting those darn things in, and even
got up with him all through night so I could just pump and go back to
bed.
It’s amazing what a night or two of better sleep can do for a person’s spirits.
When
my parents said goodbye to us at the airport, my dad handed me a note
of encouragement, as he often does, and with a big hug and a cheery
smile said, “Sweet ol’ Emmie, everything will be okay,” as he also often
does. Then as my mom reached out to hug me, I couldn't hold
it in anymore and started to cry, so scared to go back home and reenter
the nightmare I’d been living. As I stood there, a frightened and
unsure new mom holding her infant son, my own mother held me and
whispered over and over in my ear, “You can do this, Emily, you can do
this.”
My parents’ unwavering belief in me has always been a
crucial guiding influence on my life. I wasn’t convinced their
confidence would prove well-founded this time around. But thanks to the rest and help I
received at Chalet Des Mom and Dad, at least my tank wasn’t running on
empty anymore.
Putting on my oxygen mask
I continued to see
the counselor occasionally over the next few months and we worked
through a variety of issues…too many to chronicle here. But I will
mention one thing we talked about because I suspect a lot of moms can
relate to it. It’s called “the oxygen mask theory.”
See, I
thought being a good mom meant completely sacrificing my own needs all
the time, but in explaining the oxygen mask theory the counselor helped
me realize that I wasn’t going to be able to take care of Caleb if I
wasn’t taking care of myself, too. There’s a reason the flight attendant
tells you that in case of emergency you need to put your oxygen mask on
first before you attend to your child. This goes against every instinct
you have as a parent, but it makes sense. If you’re unconscious or
dead, you’re not going to be able to help your child. Or anyone else for
that matter.
Around this time I also started reading What Every Mom Needs,
a book my mom had given me when I was back home. I don't know if every
mom needs the things it talks about or not, but I certainly do. And
reading it both validated the needs I had been trying to ignore and
supplied me with some practical ways to meet them.
Once I
accepted the oxygen mask idea, my counselor and I discussed specific
ways I could go about getting “Emily” back. She told me that to help
with the feeling of being trapped I should try to take Caleb outside
every day, even if only for a few minutes. (Funny how even a walk to the
mailbox can feel like a mini-vacation when you’ve been cooped up inside
for so long.) She also encouraged me to create small goals for myself
and then concentrate on them one at a time, in order of importance. This
exercise helped me focus on the future and on concrete steps I could
take to address my problems. Separating them out also helped make my
situation seem a little less overwhelming and hopeless.
And so I
think I will follow that model to explain the rest of the recovery
process. All my issues were so wrapped up in each other that it’s hard
to draw clean lines between them, but it’s easiest to explain each one
separately. So, here we go!
Cornered in the nursing mother's room
Nursing
was my biggest priority at that time, so it was the one I concentrated
on first. Since I shared the rest of the breastfeeding story in the Postpartum Part Two post
I won't rehash it here. For those who didn't read it, I'll make a long
story short and just say that nursing never ended up working out for us
so I kept pumping to get Caleb breast milk until he was seven months
old.
After I published that post about our nursing struggles, I
got to thinking that I might have unintentionally canonized myself as
the patron saint of pumping. So I want to clarify that I pumped that
long for reasons and under circumstances that were my own and it doesn't
mean that anyone else in that situation should do the same.
And
while it might be true that in the end I don't regret what I did, if I
were shooting completely straight with you I'd admit that pumping also
fed into some of my biggest weaknesses--fear, pride, and perfectionism. I
was afraid that if Caleb didn't get breast milk he wouldn't be as
healthy. I was proud of the fact that I could tell all the Judgy
McJudgersons that I was still getting him breast milk. And I was
determined to do it perfectly, pumping for every. single. feed, come
hell or high water.
Pumping, for all its merits, cost me
precious, irretrievable moments bonding with my son. And the stress I
allowed myself to feel over it ruined some of the moments we did have
together.
And that part of the pumping saga will always make me sad.
Okay,
so now that I've gotten that off my chest (is that a pun?), one thing I
didn't mention in the breastfeeding post was something I wanted to
share here, because I think it's applicable to more moms than just those
who haven't been able to nurse. It's the story of the time I received
grace in a place I least expected it…the nursing mother’s room at
church.
One Sunday late that October, we made it to church for
the first time since I had gone on bed rest. The loud music during
worship time scared Caleb and he started crying so I took him out to the
foyer, where one of the greeters said, “If you need it, there’s a
nursing mother’s room right down the hall.” He was trying to help, but
the last place in the world I wanted to be was in was a room full of
women nursing their babies. I could already envision the shocked and
judgmental glances they would shoot my direction when I got out Caleb’s
bottle and started feeding him Satan’s Milk.
But I did need a
private place to settle Caleb down, so I swallowed my pride, sought out
the mother’s room, and was relieved to find it empty. After rocking
Caleb to calm him down I started preparing his bottle, and wouldn’t you
know, in that moment the music leader’s wife walked in with her son, who
was the same age as Caleb. She sat down in the rocking chair facing me
and barely had enough time to put on her cute little nursing cover
before her baby latched on and went to town. I tried to avert my eyes
from the scene in front of me, so foreign to my own experience, and to
ignore the sharp, familiar stabs of jealousy.
We got to
talking, and I, feeling like I needed to justify why I was feeding my
kid with a bottle, told her the Cliff's Notes version of our nursing
struggles. I don’t think she could quite get her head around the fact
that a child wasn’t able to nurse, but God bless her she didn’t
immediately start preaching to me about the sins of formula. Instead she
looked at me with complete conviction and said, “Just remember, Emily,
that God made you to be Caleb’s mama, no one else.”
Her
softly spoken words sank down deep, hitting the doubt and insecurity
that lay at the very heart of my grief over not being able to nurse and
applying the balm those wounds had desperately needed. That morning in my least favorite room of the church, I suddenly remembered that I believed in a God who doesn’t make
mistakes. The breastfeeding problems, the PPD, the whole kit and caboodle, had all been under His control. So despite all my second-guessing, no one was better suited for
the role of Caleb’s mother because the God of the universe had
handpicked me for the honor. And yeah, I wasn’t perfect. So what? Caleb was everything I wanted, and I was the mom he needed.
In talking about the road
back from PPD, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank all the family,
friends and co-workers who helped me in those first few months with
Caleb. Not only did they make it possible for me to continue pumping as
long as I did, they also very likely kept me out of the nut house.
One
of the things I value most in people and in relationships is
authenticity, so I'm incredibly grateful to have friends who keep it
real with me. They are friends who, when I revealed the mess my life had
become, showed up with a broom and a hug. They are people who, despite
their own busy lives, brought meals, watched Caleb so I could pump and
sleep and sometimes actually take a shower, and even spent the night
with us when John was away since that’s when the anxiety attacks got so
much worse. One friend even traveled across the state to spend the week
with us when John had to take a longer trip. Other friends and family
members who couldn’t be with us physically sent over encouraging texts
and emails and sent up a boatload of prayers. The list goes on and on.
There’s
a reason they say it takes a village to raise a child. And I'm grateful
I learned early on how valuable it is to have a good support network as
a parent.
Counting my blessings
While
we’re on the subject of gratefulness, I will add that gratitude made a
big difference in battling my postpartum depression. I’m not saying that
thankfulness is the cure for PPD or that being grateful took away all
my problems. But it did give me a different way of looking at them as
well as something else to focus on besides them. It gave me the invaluable gift of perspective.
Living
in America, where we devote a good deal of resources to building and
maintaining our comfortable lifestyles, I often forget that
Jesus didn't promise me life would be easy. In fact, He promised it
would be hard. So instead of expecting that life should be a breeze and
then feeling uniquely afflicted when it's not, I'm learning to accept
that hard times will come. And as a result, hopefully I will eventually
become less resentful and unsettled when they do. Meanwhile,
as I started obsessing less over our nursing failure, I remembered just
how many things we had to thank God for. Against all odds and by the
skin of our teeth, Caleb had been born full term. He immediately entered
a loving home with parents who could care and provide for him. I have a
loving husband, a supportive family, and incredible friends.
For
most of the world’s women and children, this is not the case. Last
October, right in the thick of my depression, a documentary based on one
of my favorite books, Half the Sky, premiered on PBS. I watched
it in very short increments, but even seeing snippets of those women's
stories helped me start putting things back in their proper perspective.
True, times had been tough for me lately, but at least I had
the necessary resources to deal with my problems. And at least those
problems didn’t include things like sex trafficking, slavery, maternal
mortality, and gender-based violence…the kinds of horrors daily endured
by so many women and girls around the globe.
Then things got more personal after my sister-in-law and her husband returned from Kenya, where they visited an orphanage, Gates of Hope,
that the whole Proffitt family supports. As I looked at pictures and
videos of the children, full of so much joy in the face of such
incredible hardship, and heard that they were eager to know how we were
doing, well I was just blown away. These kids in Kenya had been thinking
about and praying for me, far more than I had been thinking about and praying for them lately, and their faith and compassion both humbled and inspired me. So
then I also started considering the plight of people in my own city.
All the women and children who were suffering from abuse, poverty,
health issues, and myriad other crises, and who didn’t have as many
options or places to turn for help as I did. I don't mean to
invalidate my own or anyone else’s suffering. There's a facet to pain
that can’t be quantified or compared and we all face problems that are
real and legitimate. I’m just saying that when I’m hurting it’s easy to
turn inward and forget the world around me, which really only leads to
loneliness and despair. So when I instead turn outward, I find my pain
has given me better eyes to see the pain around me, a deeper empathy for
those who are suffering, and a stronger resolve to do something about
it.
A few of the beautiful Gates of Hope children
My hips don't lie
In
my postpartum post I also mentioned the problems I was having with my
pelvis. At my six-week postpartum appointment I told my doctor about
these continence problems and pelvic pain, and he said if those problems
persisted much longer I would need to see a urologist. I didn’t want to
go on drugs or have surgery to try to fix these problems unless
absolutely necessary, so I started trolling the internet for answers
(what did we all do before Google, anyway?). Through that research I
learned about pelvic floor rehab and its postnatal applications.
By
the time November rolled around the problems weren’t improving so I did
some more searching and found that one of the main hospitals in town
had a Continence Center that was run by physical therapists who
specialized in pelvic floor rehab. I called my doctor, who made the
necessary referral, and then scheduled an appointment. Making time for
weekly physical therapy sessions on the other end of town was the last
thing I wanted to do, but I also knew that I couldn't keep peeing my
pants as often as my kid was. I had to put on my oxygen mask. After
her initial exam, the therapist pulled out a model of a woman’s pelvis
to help explain what was going on. It was like that “Don’t Do Drugs”
commercial with the egg in the frying pan. She said, “Here’s a normal
pelvis.” Then she stretched the model out and mangled it all up and
said, “This is what carrying your baby that low for so long did to the
muscles, organs and joints in your pelvis.” I didn't know whether to
laugh or cry. But I still don't regret a single second of the time Caleb
was able to stay put in my belly. Over
the next several months the therapist worked with me on a variety of
exercises and pain management techniques. I’ll spare you the gory
details (hey, when has that ever happened?) but suffice to say that
while some things will probably never be completely fixed, physical
therapy did wonders for me.
Now obviously, this stuff is the
height of TMI, but I wanted to share it because I've since talked to
other women who have dealt with some of the same things but have had no
idea this kind of therapy exists. So I know there are those among
you who have been suffering through these issues in silence, and I want
you to know that there's hope, and you might not have to wear Depends
from now until you die!
Looking past the looking glass
"The key to beauty is always to be looking at someone who loves you." -- Julia Roberts
Once
I got my pelvis back on track, I was finally able to start working out
again. In March, I went to the gym for the first time in nearly a year.
While it wasn’t pretty and I didn’t do much, it was a big step toward
feeling like myself again since exercise has always been such a big part
of my life. I’ve only made it to the
gym a few times since then because it’s hard to get there with a baby.
So I've mainly worked out at home when I get the chance, with the help
of a few weights, some 10-minute workout videos I found on YouTube, and
the Tracy Anderson's Post Pregnancy Workout DVD I bought off
Amazon for $10. (Which is awesome, by the way, if you can get past the
celebrity endorsement interview with Gwyneth Paltrow, in which she
insists that "every woman, e-v-e-r-ywoman, can make time to work
out every day." Seriously, Gwyneth, I want to still love you, but you
need to stuff some more kale in your mouth and shut up already.) As
soon as the snow cleared last spring, I also started taking long walks
with Caleb in the stroller. I hate running and I don’t have a jogging
stroller anyway, so they’ve never been more than just walks. But we have
a great time, and Caleb's smiles and laughs provide great motivation as
I push him up our neighborhood's gigantic hill, listening to sweet
pump-up jams like Katy Perry's "Roar." While
I have regained a lot of my former strength and can now fit into my old
jeans again, I'm not going to sit here and brag that I've gotten my
body back. Because the truth is my clothes will never fit quite the same
way, my once-flat stomach will probably always have a bit of a pooch,
and my skin is very likely going to stay kind of squishy.
And you know what? That's okay.
Thanks to
Caleb, I look at my body differently now. Before the pregnancy I had
somewhat of an antagonistic relationship with it, always pushing it to
go faster during my competitive swimming days and then getting so
frustrated with it during all the chronic health problems. Now I can see, though,
that the value of my body doesn’t depend on how it performs but on the
simple, unchanging fact that it has been made in the image of God. And
its beauty doesn’t hinge on how closely it adheres to standards set by
my time and culture, but on the degree to which it resembles the body of
Jesus, used in the service of others.
I know it sounds trite, but it's true. A blog post I read awhile back, "These Are The Lines Of A Story," really resonated with me because the writer so beautifully expressed what I'm trying to say.
"We
journey from a seed in our mother’s womb until we are planted in the
grave with ever-changing bodies. Time scratches out its passage across
my looks and the looks of all those I love. All our lives, our bodies
manifest evidence of an existence marked by gains and losses. We gain
and lose pounds, muscle, bruises, teeth, and hair. We lose elasticity
and gain wrinkles. We gain scars. Our bodies process and carry our
experiences, not without complaint, but with an unfailing perseverance
that is worthy of both gratitude and honor."
I
still hear the critical inner voices sometimes, but instead of
listening to them I'm working on treating my body with nothing but
respect and gratitude. After all, God
performed a miracle through this busted up jar of clay, and I get to
look that miracle in his bright blue eyes every day. The reflection I
see there, not in the bathroom mirror, is what truly matters to me
now.
The man in my mirror
Snapping the measuring sticks
As I shared in the
postpartum post, another reason I lost my identity when I became a
mother was because I kept trying to wear everyone else's. I felt like I
wasn’t a good mom because I wasn’t this mom or that mom
and I sure as heck was never going to measure up to my idea of the
Perfect Mom. But as I’ve talked to other moms, I’ve realized that none
of us really measures up to the Straw Moms we’ve created in our minds.
So you know what? One day I
lit a match, used all the measuring sticks for kindling, and set fire to
my Straw Mom. And as I watched her burn to the ground, I felt a huge
burden lift off my shoulders. I could finally stop trying to be like
other women and just focus on being the person God made me to be.
Once
again, a couple blog posts really helped me in this area (man am I ever
eating crow for all the times I used to make fun of this whole "mommy
blogger" phenomenon). The first, “Quit Pointing Your Avocado at Me,” basically encourages women to make the Mommy Wars disappear by refusing to participate in them. The second, “Mom Vs. Mom: The War I Didn’t See Coming,”
encourages moms to stop imitating and judging each other and instead
combat our insecurities by embracing our identity as people whom Jesus
loves unconditionally.
Now, I'll admit
that while I'm trying to run my own race, my stubborn competitive streak
still gets the best of me sometimes. I still struggle with sizing up
the progress of my fellow runners and still indulge in occasional pity
parties when it seems they've been given an easier course to run. But
with time, I'm slowly getting better at fixing my gaze straight ahead
and minding my own danged business.
Marching to the beat of a different drum
As
I also shared in the PPD post, another part of my identity crisis
revolved around the fact that before Caleb, a lot of my identity had
been rooted in my sense of accomplishment. As the months passed and
Caleb got older and we all got more sleep, life started feeling less
like one long Groundhog Day. I also got to know Caleb better, which
enabled us to settle into more of a rhythm. (As my mom says, parenting
books can help, but in the end each child writes his or her own book.)
And I also was able to start this
blog and take on some freelance writing jobs, which gave me the
opportunity to use different skills and flex writing muscles that had
begun to atrophy.
While life
feels a lot less like running on a hamster wheel now, I'm still someone
who needs to feel like I'm making a difference, so at times I still
struggle with feeling like I'm not actually accomplishing anything.
Doing and redoing the same things can make it seem like I'm just
spending my days building sandcastles, only to see them get washed away
by every evening tide. But at least now
when I'm in those moments, I can look at the big picture and remember
that in these early years of taking care of Caleb, John and I aren't
building sandcastles. We are laying a foundation. For the love and care our
son receives from us now will affect his physical, mental and emotional
well being for the rest of his life. And
thanks to another blog post I read awhile back, I also now believe that
all the small, seemingly insignificant aspects of child-rearing not
only making a difference to my child, but to God. The post is titled, "On Momotony and Sacred Work,"
but I
think it can speak to anyone who acts as a child's primary caretaker,
not just moms, and it can apply to whatever tasks take up a person's
day, not just childcare.
Thanks to that blogger's wise words I now
see the sacred in simple, everyday tasks, and I find comfort in the
knowledge that the loftiness or lowliness of the particular activity
doesn't matter so much to God as how faithfully I am doing it...and all
the other things He has called me to be and do. And when I
approach life as though even the most mundane activities carry lasting
meaning, I can derive
purpose and even wrest satisfaction out of otherwise mindless activities
like washing bottles and scrubbing out spaghetti stains and trying to
put a diaper on a moving target as he tries to squirm off the changing
table (okay maybe
not that last one, that crap's still straight up annoying.)
And
you know, when all is said and done, this really is a short season of
life. There will be others for John and me to do things like sleep in,
spend more than two minutes on personal grooming, and go on a date
whenever we darn well please. The days
with a baby can be long, but the
weeks and months really do fly by, so I want to savor all these moments
(even the ones that make me want to run screaming out of the house with my hair on fire) while they last.
Because this short, crazy, wonderful season will be gone before
we know it.
And it won't be coming back.
Still a lemon, just less sour
Okay, just one more loop for me to close before I start wrapping up this novella of a post.
In
my prologue, I shared with you about how all the health problems had
left me feeling like a lemon. And in the PPD post, I revealed that the
preterm labor, the difficult delivery, and the postpartum depression had
left me completely broken.
Well, I could wrap this whole thing
up with a nice, neat bow and tell you that I've found the secret to
turning all my lemons into lemonade. But the truth is, in many ways I'm
still a lemon. Because in many ways, I am still broken.
The difference is that I’ve begun to see that brokenness differently.
A
few years ago my mom introduced me to the writings of Joni Earickson
Tada, who was paralyzed in a diving accident as a teenager and has since
become a prolific writer and speaker, particularly on the subjects of
chronic pain and suffering. I have since read two of her books, When God Weeps: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty, and, A Place of Healing, and this year I've been working through one of her daily devotional books, Diamonds in the Dust. She’s become one of my favorite writers, and her words continue to comfort, convict, and inspire me.
On
the subject of brokenness, Joni writes this (and I paraphrase): If you study broken
glass in the sunlight, you can see that it’s full of a thousand
different angles, each one picking up a ray of light and shooting it off
in a hundred different directions. This doesn’t happen with plain
glass, like a jar. The glass has to be broken into many pieces to
reflect that kind of light.
What’s true of shattered glass is
true of a broken life. The breaking process is excruciatingly painful. Quite
often it is ugly. And a life in pieces can seem like it's ruined
forever. But given time and prayer, I’ve found my world shines more
brightly than if the brokenness had never happened. Because when I allow
God’s light to fall upon those dark, broken places, He produces
something truly beautiful. He uses the broken pieces to reflect His
light in a thousand ways I couldn’t before.
As Joni
writes, “The color and dazzle of light sparkle best through things that
are shattered. Your life may be shattered by sorrow, pain, or sin, but
God has in mind a kaleidoscope through which His light can shine more
brilliantly.”
Where are they now?
Okay, enough about me, let’s bring you up to speed on
the real star of this blog! Caleb is now a happy, healthy, highly active
15-month-old, who fills our home with laughter and the constant
pitter-patter of busy little feet. Each stage brings its own joys and
challenges, but he really is at such a fun age right now.
John
and I sometimes joke that we should have named him Samson, because
physically he is the strongest kid we know. That strength serves as a
daily reminder that God sometimes very specifically grants prayers requests,
since our mantra during the pregnancy had been, “Please, Lord, make him
healthy and strong.”
Our strong little Samson
And yet the name “Caleb” still really does suit him
best, because the strongest thing about our son is his heart. He is
highly inquisitive, and he is as sweet as he is strong-willed. He has
the world’s best smile and the most tender, loving spirit. He's the kind
of kid who notices a child crying in the corner of a crowded room and
brings him a shoe (he's crazy about the things), then gives him a hug
and kiss.
This sweetheart of a boy is my most precious gift, and being his mother will forever remain my greatest joy
and highest privilege.
The bed rest days are behind us, but I
still worry about Caleb. I probably always will. Motherhood has brought
healing to my life in many ways, but I will always bear the wound that
comes from having a heart that now walks around outside my body. In
that, I am no different than scores of mothers throughout the ages for
whom each new day brings fresh reasons to weep for someone else's children
and fear for our own.
So even though the anxiety attacks are
thankfully behind me, at times I still feel terrified. John and I are
raising our son in the shadow of Sandy Hook. In an age where bullies,
predators and pornographers can exploit and ensnare him with the click
of a button. In a scary world indeed.
Yet I can't let my concerns over what lies around the corner control me, or Caleb. I have to choose faith over fear. As William Blake once wrote, “He who binds
himself to a joy, does the winged life destroy; but he who kisses the
joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.”
For if my pregnancy with
Caleb taught me anything, it's that I will never be able to completely
protect him from harm. I couldn't even when he lay nestled in my womb,
closer to me than he ever will be again. I can't now, as his eager
little feet begin toddling away from my arms. And I certainly won't be
able to once he sprouts the wings that will carry him away from the
shelter of our home. The other day
that cheesy Michael Bolton song, “Go the Distance,” from the movie, Hercules, came on when I was playing a Disney mix for Caleb. It
immediately made me tear up (admittedly that doesn’t take much these
days) because it brought to mind my own strong little Hercules and my biggest dreams for him.
John and I can’t shield
Caleb from every storm in life, but we can give him some things to help
him overcome the obstacles and finish the race set before him. We can
give him the lasting security that comes from knowing he is loved
unconditionally, by us and by God. We can give him the sense of
significance that comes from knowing his life has meaning and purpose.
And we can give him the strength that comes from being able to rely on a
resilient Hope that can withstand even the most difficult trials. These
are the things my parents and John’s mom imprinted on our hearts, and
the gifts
we want engrave on Caleb's to carry him through life long after we are
gone.
Time to say goodbye
Okay, well it's high time to wrap things up, huh? As I
said in the Prologue, I wrote this blog for a number of reasons. It has
been a valuable tool in helping me process some very tangled thoughts
and emotions. It has been my gift to Caleb, so that he will always have a
record of his earliest days. And it has been my love letter: to
all the people who helped and prayed for us during that time, to the
husband who remains my rock and my puzzle piece, to the precious son
whose incredible life story is only beginning, and to the God who truly
makes all things possible.
But ultimately, I wrote “Caleb’s
Story” because it's a story of hope. Whether you’ve been reading
this in the midst of a health crisis, a scary and difficult pregnancy, a
battle with postpartum depression, or some other trial that has left
you feeling lonely and hopeless, I want you to know that you’re not
alone. And while it might seem like the dark days are here to stay, I truly believe there is a Light more
powerful than any darkness that befalls us.
Weeping may endure for one night or a hundred, but joy will come in the morning.
"The Couch Chronicles"
So in
conclusion, I don’t know where Caleb’s story will
take us next. But I have faith in the One writing it, and I'm so excited
to see the pages unfold. And since the Christmas season is now upon
us, I’ll close with the words of Matthew 1:23, “And they will call
His name Immanuel, which means, ‘God is with us.’”
In keeping with tradition, I will leave you with two songs. The first, “Our Hope Endures,” by Natalie
Grant, has become one of my theme songs in life. The second, “Wedding Day,” by
City Harmonic, is one I heard for the first time several months ago, and
it immediately struck me as the perfect song to use to end this blog as
it tells the larger story of which Caleb, John, and I are just one small
part.
Wow,
it’s crazy to think that the events I’m about to transcribe happened
this time last year, in late August and September. It seems like just
yesterday, and also a lifetime ago. Back when I launched into this blog I
seriously wrestled over whether to write this post. The bulk of this
story has focused on my pregnancy with Caleb, so on one hand it would
make sense to end it with the delivery. But for me, as for many other
women, the effects of the pregnancy lingered long after Caleb was born.
So in that sense, ending the blog with his birth would be telling you a
half-truth instead of the whole story.
It
has taken me a long time to write this chapter, partly because for a
while after I finished the last post I still wasn’t sure if I would go
through with this one. And then after I finally decided to write it and
was nearly done, Blogger decided to crash and delete everything. A
meltdown ensued. Tears shed. Curses uttered (okay, more like yelled).
Wine and chocolate consumed.
But
Blogger issues notwithstanding, this post was just plain a beast to
write because there were so many moving parts to incorporate. That’s why
I decided to write a post within a post. This one will deal with the
postpartum depression (PPD) and anxiety and physical challenges I
experienced, and this "Postpartum Part Two" post
will focus on our struggles with nursing (since I figured not everyone
would be interested in reading about breastfeeding, but I know there are
women out there who, like me, appreciate knowing they aren’t alone in
the battle of the boobs).
The
greater difficulty in writing this part of the story, though, is that
it has required me to go back and relive the darkest period of my life, a
time I had gladly begun to bury in the past. What I'm about to share
with you is intensely personal. Despite the impression you might have
formed from all I've shared up to this point, I'm very much an INFJ and
have the Myers-Briggs test scores to prove it. And I know full well that
by sharing these things with you, I'm opening myself up to speculation,
misunderstanding, and outright judgment.
Yet while
it's extremely difficult to relive the trauma and scary to make public
my most private thoughts and emotions, even more sacred to me are
Caleb's feelings.
I am keenly aware that Caleb will
be able to read this blog someday. In fact, that's one of the biggest
reasons I wrote it, so that one day he would be able to read the full
details of his special story. But I would never want him to read this
post and think that what I experienced in those first few months after
his birth was about him. It was not. It was about me, and about things
that were going haywire with my hormones, not my heart. So Caleb, when
you read this, please know that your mother loves you very much. I
always have, from that first moment in the acupuncturist's office when I
discovered you. And I always, always will.
Now introducing...the light of my life
Now
you might be thinking, "Well if this is such a personal matter, why is
she sharing it at all?" Good question. I'm sharing it because when
weighing all my misgivings against the possibility that reading this
part of the story might help even one person, I decided it was worth
it.
And I'm sharing this part of the story because, in my opinion, not enough of us women do.
Back
when I was battling postpartum depression and anxiety and struggling
with breastfeeding, I felt completely and utterly alone. And yet when I
started sharing my struggles with a few close friends and began reading
the blogs of other moms, I discovered that some of them had gone through
eerily similar experiences. So then my big beef became, "If so many of
us have gone through this, why hasn’t anyone told me about it before?
Why doesn’t anyone talk about it?"
Moms can be
each other’s loudest cheerleaders and harshest critics. We are mothers
in an image-obsessed culture, and I will readily admit that I am as
guilty of feeding into it as anyone. But I have learned over the years
that despite our carefully crafted appearances, we are all fighting a
personal battle of some kind. Sometimes the life that looks most put
together is the one most profoundly falling apart. So while it's true
that nobody likes a Debbie Downer and discretion is the better part of
valor, if we only project the rosy and at times unrealistic side of
motherhood, then we perpetuate a damaging cycle and do each other a
grave disservice.
So I’m talking about it. Because after all my complaining I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t.
Let
me be clear, though, that as it was not my intent to scare people by
sharing all the gory details in the labor and delivery post, this post
isn't meant to frighten new or expecting moms. I don’t want to scare
you. But I also don’t believe in hiding the ugly parts to shelter you
from what "could" happen, because then if it does happen you might be
left unprepared and feeling like you’re the only one experiencing it, as
I did.
Okay then, enough with introduction, am I right? Time to put Sara Bareilles’ “Brave” on repeat and do this thing!
Warning signs
I left off the last post right after I
had delivered Caleb, when he lay nestled on my chest for the first time.
What I didn't mention was that a few moments after I saw the doctor
lift him out of me, one of my first thoughts was, "That's not my baby.
That's John's baby." It was the weirdest thing and to this day I don't
know why that thought went through my head. Maybe it was because even
then it was apparent that Caleb looked a lot like his daddy. But
whatever the reason, my brain could not make the connection that the
baby I had loved and cherished and cradled inside me so long was the
same baby who now was crying and squirming and immediately making his
needs known.
Then in a
flash, the nurses plopped this baby I didn’t recognize on top of my
chest and said what in my still foggy mind was a jumble of phrases that
included "he's hungry," "skin-to-skin contact," and "need to start
nursing right away." When it became apparent that Caleb and I were
struggling with this whole nursing thing (which women are taught to
believe is SO natural) the room became a blur of different strangers
squeezing my boobs this way and that and contorting Caleb in different
positions to try to get him to latch on.
Wait, you want us to do what now exactly?
After several nurses tried to
help, all by offering different and mostly contradictory advice, they
said we'd need to meet with a lactation consultant. Of course, it was a
weekend and she wouldn't be in till Monday. So in the mean time they
said I would need to start pumping to try to make the milk come in
faster. When I pumped that first time, which I quickly discovered was
more art than science, I had no idea that the pump was going to become
my chosen instrument of torture for the next seven months.
Meanwhile,
Caleb was jaundiced and very sleepy. We had to wake him up to try to
get him to nurse, which usually ended up being an hour-long exercise in
futility. Once in a while he would miraculously latch, but within
minutes he would fall asleep or give up. On top of that, I was hurting
so badly from the perineal tear I could barely move, so John had to do
all the diaper changing and tending to Caleb when I wasn't trying to
nurse or do “kangaroo care.”
Even in those first few
days it was obvious to me that John was transitioning into his role as
dad much more smoothly than I was transitioning into mine as mom. He was
happy to change diapers and help me nurse and do anything that needed
to be done. One time I awoke from a nap and looked across the room and
saw him with his shirt off, carefully cradling Caleb against his bare
chest as the nurses had instructed him. I'll never forget his next
words. Still looking down at his infant son he said to me, "Everyone
says he's perfect. I know he's not, but he's everything I want."
Talk
about heart melting! Meanwhile there I was, thinking that everything I
wanted was a new ice pack, some more painkillers, and a big dinner.
Two peas in a pod
By day two, the doctor and
nurses said we were going to have to start giving Caleb some formula
because he hadn't had a bowel movement yet and it was important he start
getting the jaundice flushed out of his system. I DID NOT want to give
him formula. I had always planned to breast feed, and while I knew that
sometimes there was an adjustment period in getting things figured out, I
had assumed that it would work out for us. Both John's mom and mine had
breast fed their children at a time when it was only beginning to come
back into vogue, and my whole life, whenever I pictured myself as a
mother, nursing my baby was a natural and assumed part of the picture.
But I also knew that if we didn't start getting nutrients into Caleb it
would spell trouble, so I agreed to it, thinking this was just a small
bump in the road on our way to breastfeeding bliss. After all, several
of my friends had experienced difficulty in the beginning and had to
give bottles to their babies, and nursing had always worked out for them
in the end. Why would our story end any differently?
Every
feeding period it seemed like a different nurse would come in and try
to help me get the hang of it. One nurse, noticing how gingerly I held
Caleb, said to me, “It seems like you’re terrified of your baby.” The
words shamed me, because she was right. I was terrified. And I felt
completely inadequate for this task suddenly thrust upon me.
After
drinking from the bottle a few times, Caleb's digestive system started
working. On Monday, the lactation consultant came in and met with us.
She talked about the importance of breastfeeding and said that kids who
are breastfed get sick less, have lower rates of obesity (because
apparently the fat in formula goes to their body and the fat in breast
milk goes to their brains), have higher IQ's, are less likely to get
leukemia (and who wants to give their kid cancer?) and are more likely
to find lasting love and create meaningful lives for themselves (just
kidding on that last one).
After she finished
preaching to the choir, she tried to help us nurse. But even she was
flummoxed by the situation. Eventually we were able to get Caleb latched
on, thanks to a nipple shield that my Mom had to run out and buy at
Babies R Us, and while he didn't nurse for very long, it felt like a
small victory. The lactation consultant said, "Stick with it. Ninety
percent of women give up on breastfeeding, but I can tell it's really
important to you, so keep at it." Ninety percent of women give up? I was
shocked at the number. After all, most of my friends were breastfeeding
their children and it had worked just fine for them. So I was 100
percent certain that I wouldn't be among the 90 percent of my fellow
females, who in my mind must not have cared enough or tried hard enough
to make it work.
Meanwhile, I was still struggling to
even get up and walk. One time when John was out of the room and Caleb
started crying, I tried hobbling over to change his diaper. My
“you-know-what” felt like it was going to fall right out of my giant
mesh underwear, and then to make matters worse I suddenly felt the urge
to go the bathroom. But before I could limp over to the toilet, I went.
All over the place. I called the nurse and she came in and helped clean
me up (God bless nurses. Seriously.) Then she told me that a third
degree tear can sometimes cause continence problems…at both ends.
Continence problems? What the @#$%?! What to Expect When You’re Expecting didn’t say to expect this!
That
afternoon as we packed up to leave the hospital I wondered how in the
world I was going to manage all this at home on my own. Thankfully I had
John and my mom, but this whole “being responsible for the life of a
tiny human being while I can barely control my own bodily functions and
can't seem to figure out how to feed him” seemed incredibly daunting.
Are you guys sure you know what you're doing?
From the mountain to the valley
After
we arrived home, I rapidly descended from the mountaintop of my
miraculous pregnancy to the deepest valley I’d ever known. The
suddenness and severity of the fall shocked me. Everyone expected me to
be deliriously happy, and I did, too. But instead I was deliriously
crying all the time. So while during the pregnancy I had felt like
Peter, walking on water, now I felt more like Elijah, drowning in sorrow
just days after my greatest triumph.
If
you’re not familiar with the story, Elijah was a hero of the faith and
one of the most powerful prophets of the Old Testament. He raised a boy
from the dead and caused fire to rain down from the sky in an epic
showdown with the king’s false prophets. And yet instead of rejoicing
after that spectacular victory, Elijah dove into a deep depression. He
walked down from the mountain, found the nearest cave, and cried out to
God in despair, battling serious self-doubt and even contemplating
suicide.
I remember hearing this story in Sunday
School and thinking, “Man, what an idiot!” This guy had just seen God do
truly incredible things and instead of being happy he was wallowing in
self-pity? How was that even possible? What an ingrate!
Yet
as I found myself fighting my own battle with overwhelming doubt and
despair, so soon after seeing my own set of miracles, I began to really
relate with Elijah. It was a very humbling realization. But through it, I
now understand that sometimes the higher the mountain, the deeper the
valley afterward. And sometimes the deadliest enemy we fight is the
enemy within ourselves.
I want to make clear, though,
that in comparing my depression to Elijah’s, I’m not suggesting that
PPD was something within my control or something that I chose. But you
know what? Maybe it wasn’t something Elijah “chose” either. I think it’s
worth noting that when dealing with Elijah’s depression God didn’t
begin by slapping him upside the head and telling him to “snap out of
it.” Instead he gave him time to rest and then came to him in a whisper.
Not a shout.
A pain in the rear
Okay,
but enough of the soapbox, let’s get back to the story. People don’t
talk much about the fact that the pain from the delivery can persist
long after the baby is born. Thankfully while I was pregnant I had read
this both hilarious and informative post, "Happily After Giving Birth -- 10 Things They Don't Tell You," from one of my favorite bloggers, Pregnant Chicken,
so I was somewhat prepared for the post-natal scene, but nothing could
have truly prepared me. The tear was so painful I could barely move, and
let’s not even get into the bathroom situation. I had been taking
painkillers, but the lactation consultants told me they might be making
Caleb sleepier and decreasing my milk supply so I stopped taking them
and relied solely on liver-destroying amounts of ibuprofen, which
weren’t cutting it. (A doula later recommended a natural herbal
painkiller called Arnica Montana, which actually did take the edge off a
bit).
On top of that, the bed rest was still taking
its toll. Caring for a newborn after spending three months in bed was
like going from 0 to 60 in nothing flat. A few days into it my feet and
legs were hurting so badly I wondered what in the world was wrong with
me. And then I remembered, “Oh yeah, I haven’t used them in three
months!”
I talk about all this more in my "Postpartum Part Two" post,
but basically I spent my first weeks with Caleb fighting him to nurse
for an hour, then pumping, then going back to lay in bed because it hurt
so badly to sit up. But I couldn't sleep because I was so distraught
over everything. And then 45 minutes later we started the whole cycle
over again. After spending months in bed during the pregnancy, it felt
like I had just traded one prison for another.
I felt trapped.
John
and my mom fed Caleb his bottles, changed him, and rocked him to sleep.
I would hold him sometimes to do skin-to-skin contact, which helped a
little with the bonding, but then we would try to nurse again, which
consisted of him screaming in frustration over not being able to latch
or not getting out enough milk. So nursing created more of an
antagonistic relationship between us than anything. But breast milk was
really important to me, both for my health and his, so I continued to
pump him milk, which other people then mixed with the hated formula and
fed to him. As a result, I felt like one of those cows you see at the
state fair hooked up to the mechanical pumps, mindlessly pumping and
then retreating back to my stall. Completely disconnected from the
feeding process.
Got Milk?
As the days went on it became
clear that my lower half wasn’t healing correctly, so I went back to my
doctor and he examined the whole unholy mess and discovered one of the
stitches was actually pulling further at the tear rather than mending
it. Once he fixed it I immediately felt a little better. Not, “Hey,
let’s go on a bike ride!” better, but at least I didn’t require
assistance to walk back to the car.
I continued to
have significant problems in my pelvic region and months later ended up
having to go to physical therapy, but I’ll save that part of the story
for the next and final post of the blog.
Suffice to
say for now that my physical injuries, along with my fragile emotional
state, left me completely shattered. I felt unfit to be a mother, and
that conviction, more than all the physical pain, was what really killed
me.
Baby blues
People often refer to PPD as "the baby
blues.” I don’t know why, maybe it’s an effort to take away the
monster’s teeth. Because to me PPD felt much more black than blue. I can
only describe it as hopelessness. And hopelessness feels like being
dead inside. It is the death of your spirit, rather than your body. I
tried fighting the despair, but it was like I was mired in a swamp and
couldn’t untangle myself. I was desperately struggling to tread water,
to keep my head above the surface, but every day the weights shackled
around my ankles grew heavier.
I was drowning.
Not
only did I feel disconnected from Caleb, but I felt he was disconnected
from me. I had always heard about babies only wanting their moms in the
beginning but it seemed like he was content as long as he was being
held and fed by someone. It didn't matter who. If he even recognized I
was his mother, I felt like he didn't care. There was one exception to
that, though, and I will never forget it. One time he was crying and
crying and neither John nor my mom could settle him down, so I climbed
out of bed and went into his room and sat in the rocking chair and the
second my mom handed him to me, he immediately quieted down and relaxed
in my arms. It was the best feeling in the world to think that he
wanted, that he needed, me. I could scarcely believe it, but I
desperately wanted to. Yet the moment passed as quickly as it came, and
the doubt rushed back in to take its place.
The crazy
thing was, even though I felt disconnected from Caleb, I KNEW I loved
him. It’s hard to describe but it’s like my heart is a violin and each
person I love has a string. I knew Caleb had a string because I had felt
it vibrating so strongly during the pregnancy. But the second he was
born, the music stopped, and I didn’t know how to start it up again. In
the blink of an eye I went from feeling inseparable, both physically and
emotionally, from my baby, to feeling like someone had placed him in a
rocket ship and sent him a million miles away.
Sometimes
I thought I could hear a couple of notes playing, though. Hearing
Caleb’s cries twisted something inside me I didn’t know existed. I felt
his pain. And when he’d push his feet against my stomach while I was
holding him, I recognized the movement. They were the kicks I had
cherished during the pregnancy, the signs that my baby was alive and
well. And when I sang “You Are My Sunshine,” to him, the song he always
kicked to in the womb, he would stop whatever he was doing and look
right at me, and I could swear he recognized it. So I was grateful for
these pinpoints of light that would occasionally pierce the dark, but
the darkness remained.
A moment of light in the darkness
I prayed and prayed to God, pleading with Him to
bring back my feelings for my baby and to make nursing work for us. I
had gotten used to Him answering "yes" to our prayers during the
pregnancy so I thought He’d answer "yes" to this one too. But as day
after day went on with no answer, I fell deeper into despair. God was
nowhere to be found.
Have you ever hit rock bottom, only to find, to your horror, that the bottom is giving way?
Everyone kept telling me to hang in there, that it gets better in a few
months. But I didn't have a few months. I didn't have a few days. I was
hanging on by a thread, and the thread was unraveling.
Missing person
In
addition to feeling disconnected from Caleb, I felt disconnected from
myself. A couple weeks after Caleb was born, I remember looking in the
mirror for the first time in days and not recognizing the person staring
back. Her hair was dirty, her eyes were dull, her once athletic body
transformed into a blob of fat and stretched out skin.
I
didn’t know where Emily had gone. Truthfully until that moment I didn’t
realize she had left. Life had become one unending Groundhog Day…feed,
burp, change diaper, freak out about something, do laundry, repeat.
Pregnant Chicken put it best when she described motherhood as “perpetual
motion with a generous layer of guilt and self-doubt spread on top.” I
don’t know what exactly I thought taking care of a newborn would be
like, but it wasn’t this. I mean I knew it would be hard, but it was so.
much. harder. Maybe part of the problem was that during the pregnancy I
fought to stay positive by focusing on all the good things to come, the
precious moments cuddling with my baby and seeing him smile and hearing
him coo (which turns out doesn’t happen for a couple months, who
knew?).
But
really, I don’t think anyone can prepare you for how exhausted you will
feel taking care of a baby. Actually, exhausted is an understatement.
And since I thought that being a good mom meant totally neglecting my
own needs all the time, my tank remained completely empty. But a car
can’t run on empty for long without breaking down.
And I was broken.
I’m
someone who derives a lot of my identity from what I do. I like to set
goals and cross them off the list, map out strategies and see them
through, and receive a pat on the back for a job well done. But taking
care of a baby is more like running on a hamster wheel than in a
marathon, and figuring him out is more like trying to solve a Rubik’s
Cube in the dark than follow directions on a map. And he certainly won’t
pat you on the back for a diaper well changed. So I felt like a duck
out of water, which took me by surprise because I thought I would take
to motherhood like a duck to water.
This “out
of my element” feeling, along with the nursing problems, left me with
zero confidence in my ability as a mother. I was failing at the one
thing I wanted most.
And I hated myself for it.
Snooki envy
The cruelest part of it all was it wasn’t
like I was a teenager or a party girl who wasn’t ready to settle down.
I've had many dreams for my life, but being a mom has always been the
biggest. On top of that, I had prayed so hard for months for Caleb to be
okay. I knew darn well there were people who would kill to be in my
shoes, who were dealing with fertility issues and adoption hang-ups and
sick or disabled kids. And here I was holding the answer to my most
fervent prayers, this sweet, beautiful, perfectly healthy baby, who just
wanted to be held and whose cries were soft like a kitten’s meow.
(Thank God he didn’t have colic, otherwise, I think I really would have
had to punch my one-way ticket to the funny farm.) So seriously, what
the heck was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I shake this overwhelming
sadness?
To make matters
worse, I kept comparing myself to all the other moms I knew and all the
ones I didn’t. I’ve always used a hundred different yardsticks to
measure myself against others. Turns out motherhood is the biggest stick
of them all. And by my estimation, I was never going to measure up.
I
looked at my friends, my Facebook feed, the other women in the doctor’s
office, and all I saw were moms who seemed like they had it all
together and were just so “goo-goo gah-gah” obsessed with their babies.
Heck, even Snookie, who had a baby right around the time I did, was
gunning for “Mother of the Year.” One early morning as I sat pumping at
the kitchen table after another failed nursing attempt I read a magazine
article in which she talked about how she had totally changed and loved
being a mom and wanted a million more kids and oh by the way had lost
all her baby weight already.
Now I know very well
Snooki could have been lying her tanning bed butt off. She could have
merely traded her Cosmo at the club for a flask in her diaper bag. But
regardless, in my fragile state at the time, as she waxed eloquent about
the joys of breastfeeding and her newfound domestic bliss while I sat
crying in the dark attached to a cold, unfeeling breast pump, she might
as well have poured a bucket of salt from her old margarita glasses
directly into my open, gaping wounds.
Jersey Shore no more?
A word to the husbands
Fortunately
the PPD never got to the point where I was in danger of hurting Caleb
or myself. Nonetheless I honestly believed John and Caleb would be
better off without me. Someone, anyone, could take better care of them
than I could, and I felt so badly they were stuck with me as their wife
and mother. Looking back I know that sounds crazy, but I was absolutely
convinced of it at the time. And yet I knew I wasn’t going to do
anything to remedy the situation. I wasn’t going to “end it all” or run
away and abandon my family. So I felt hopeless, because in my mind there
was no solution to the problem.
I was the problem.
A few months after Caleb was born I read this post by a woman who talked about her journey through PPD in her blog, Hysterically Ever After.
The post really spoke to me, especially the part where she talked about
the effects of PPD on her marriage. Like her, I’m grateful to be
married to someone who is committed to giving me all the support I need,
as I am to him. During all this turmoil, I desperately wanted to be the
woman John fell in love with…the girl who was smart and engaging and
warm. But I didn’t know where she went or how to find her, and to be
honest I didn’t have to energy to look.
So if you’re
reading this as the husband of a woman suffering with PPD, I would just
encourage you to be there for her. I know that’s probably a confusing
statement; whenever I say that to John he responds, “Okay, but what does
that mean?” For me at that time, it just meant being patient,
being available to listen, being willing to do what it took to help me
find my way back. Like she says in her post:
“You
can’t be the solution, but you can help her find it…Let her know that
whatever she is going through is okay. Remind her that you will be
there, that you are her rock. Even if she pushes you away, just be
there. She needs you…While she is struggling to find the woman you fell
in love with, you need to be the man she fell in love with.”
Panic at the disco
In addition to depression, I was
also battling intense anxiety and something akin to post-traumatic
stress disorder. All the fears and panic that somehow were held at bay
during the pregnancy came out after Caleb was born. I guess when you
suffer trauma you have to pay your psyche’s piper at some point. There
would be moments I would be holding Caleb and all of a sudden a
flashback from the pregnancy would hit me and I had a hard time calming
down and coming back to the present. Or I would climb into the tub for a
sitz bath to soak my mangled lady parts and would suddenly panic,
remembering those nights when I sat in that same tub and begged God to
take away the contractions.
The
PTSD was a result of my bed rest experience, but the postpartum
anxiety, I discovered, was closely linked with the PPD. While you don’t
hear much about PPD, you hear next to nothing about PPA. Yet if me and
the women I’ve talked to are any indication, it can be more common than
the depression.
I’ve never really dealt with
full-scale anxiety before; I’d had maybe one instance where I had what
could be considered a mild panic attack. But after I had Caleb, I
started having panic attacks nearly daily, especially at night. They
weren’t as bad as I’ve heard they can be. I didn’t think I was having a
heart attack. But I felt like I was constantly being squeezed in a vice,
and when the attacks came my body tensed up, my heart raced, I couldn't
breathe, and my mind started obsessing over irrational fears about
Caleb.
Sleeping peacefully next to me the day before my first major panic attack
The first bad attack was the night before
John left to go out of town for the first time since Caleb was born.
Since he had to stay off the road the last month of the pregnancy, he
had to get back to work the week after Caleb’s birth. Fortunately my mom
was here and my dad was on his way, but the night before John left, as
we were laying in bed while Caleb slept noisily in the bassinet next to
me, I started freaking out big time. How was I going to take care of him
without John there? How was I going to be able to try to nurse without
him helping me? What if something happened to Caleb? What if he stopped
breathing? What if I went somewhere and accidentally left him at the
house?
I don’t know why, maybe it was the result of
how scared I was to be alone during the pregnancy, magnified by my
physical disabilities and the nursing problems that left me feeling
unable to feed my own baby, but the thought of taking Caleb by myself
overwhelmed me. I felt it was too great a responsibility to bear on my
own.
John tried to assure me that things would be
fine, that he hadn’t been much help anyway and I could handle things
without him. But I couldn’t calm down. So I just kept quietly sobbing
there in bed, gripped by anxiety and despair.
I was terrified.
The
next bad attack came the following week, when John’s sister and her
husband were in town and helping me with Caleb while John was gone
again. I was pumping in Caleb’s room that evening when I suddenly had to
go to the bathroom. I didn’t make it there in time. My sister-in-law
took Caleb so I could get cleaned up and then try to take a nap. But
when I climbed in bed I felt the panic rising again. I finally called
out to her and she came in and sat on the bed, holding Caleb while
trying to talk me down from the ledge. She’s a social worker so she’s
familiar with this kind of thing, and after she helped me calm down she
suggested that maybe I call my doctor and tell him what was going on. I
didn’t want to reveal to anyone what I was going through, but I also
knew that if I didn’t get help I was going to end up in the hospital. I
couldn’t keep going on like this.
The next day I
picked up the phone and called my doctor’s office. They say the journey
of a thousand miles begins with a single step. For me it was more like a
crawl. But I was on my way, and although the tunnel turned out to be
very long indeed, I would eventually find my way back to the light.
Brighter days ahead
And that’s where I will leave things for
now (sorry this was such a depresso post; I promise things get better).
In my next and final post of "Caleb's Story," I’ll share my recovery
process and then bring you up to speed with where we are today.
In
the mean time and as usual, here are a couple songs. The first, “New
Song,” by Audrey Assad, was one I listened to a lot during this period
of my life. The second, “Need You Now,” by Plumb, was one I only heard a
few months ago, but I wish I had known about it back then because it so
perfectly describes how I felt at the time.