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DEPENDING ON THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS : Post Partum Depression
"Pull off the road!" my mother shouted.
I
responded with an animal-like wail. I was in agony. My lactating
breasts fought against the attempted strangulation, swelling and
throbbing beneath the tight bandage wrap. It was me against mother
nature. Me against God's plan. Me against everybody.
I gave
birth to my son in June of 2000. Before Marie Osmond came out about
suffering from PPD, before Brooke Shields' authored, Down Came the Rain, and before the cause celeb that followed.
My
son's first week was out of the baby books. He slept, he ate, he
pooped. Nursing was painful as my breasts became accustomed to him
latching on but I produced copious amounts of milk and my freezer had
stock enough for a gaggle of infant guzzlers. On his eighth day, the
day of his bris, something shifted. He became agitated. I became sad
and anxious. I reasoned with myself that it was an exhausting day and
we both needed some rest. I had no idea of the storm that was brewing.
My
son developed colic and didn't stop screaming for five weeks. The
pediatrician nicknamed him "the boy with the strong set of lungs"
because he didn't merely scream, he roared. I tried everything to ease
his discomfort: warm baths, warm compresses, Mylicon, gripe water. I
whittled down my diet to avoid spicy, gas-producing foods and within
days was eating only boiled chicken and rice. He still screamed. He
still writhed in pain. He still had to be held and bounced every minute
of every night and day. I developed breast infections and chronically
clogged milk ducts. I suffered high fevers, applied ice packs, heat
packs, painful self-massage all while continuing to nurse. At one point
I asked my pediatrician about switching to formula and her comment was,
"Wouldn't it be a shame to stop nursing when so many other mothers want
to but can't?" So there I was an exhausted, guilt-ridden, prize-winning
cow.
I became an insomniac. I spent nights telling myself I'd
make up the sleep during the day. I'd spend days telling myself I'd
make up the sleep at night. It was a vicious, anxiety-producing cycle
and after weeks of it my brain began to play tricks on me. One
afternoon, a friend took my baby for a walk down the street. While in
the shower, I heard him scream. I ran out of my room, leaving a trail
of water and suds behind, only to find no one home. The loud, piercing,
signature screams I'd heard in the shower were not real; they were in
my head. Aural impressions embedded in my gray matter. I drove my
daughter to pre-school with my head shrouded in a sleep-deprived fog.
Passing through intersections I'd turn my head slowly and think, "Was
that a stop sign?" My husband and I fought constantly. He did little
and what he did do he did wrong. He worked longer hours. I cried and
pleaded for him to help me. He felt helpless, out of his league,
scared. He used business as an excuse to stay away. When the situation
got really bad he left the country.
Tired of slamming up against
the wall of ineptitude that was my husband and exhausted from trying to
talk my mother's long distance anxieties down, I sought help from
others. Friends did their best to help by buying groceries, paying
visits, and forcing me out of the house, but their best wasn't good
enough. They didn't understand my pain. I didn't understand my pain. I
sought out professionals. I love my OB-GYN but he failed me during this
time. He dismissed my calls for help when I complained of fire burning
in my breasts. I probably didn't push hard enough to be seen,
anticipating and creating yet one more rejection. It seemed as if I was
shouting but no one was listening. I felt abandoned and alone. I wanted
someone to take command, to tell me what to do, to fix me.
I found The Baby Whisperer. A
friend of a friend told me she worked miracles with moms and babies so
I paid her a visit. I exposed her to to my sore, reddened breasts and
my crying boy. She immediately diagnosed me with a breast infection,
instructed me in massage techniques and home remedies. She then leaned
down to my son who was screaming inside his car seat carrier. She
literally whispered to him, talking to him about how she was going to
take off the straps, remove him from his seat, pick him up. He quieted
down, listened, and
