Category Archives: Breastfeeding

Can Kangaroo Care prevent Postpartum Depression?

I’m sharing today’s blog post with you as part of Science & Sensibility and Giving Birth with Confidence’s Blogging Carnival. This year’s theme focuses on “Keeping Mothers and babies together after birth.” In keeping with this theme, I want to focus on the influence Kangaroo Care can have on the prevention/relief of Postpartum Depression. If you’re here from the Carnival, welcome. If you’re a regular reader – enjoy! Either way, thrilled to have you here.

When I first became a mother, I had never heard about Kangaroo Care. My daughter, however, liked to be held next to my chest, resting her head on my bare skin as she slept when she was not nursing. Not officially Kangaroo Care but we made do with what worked. To this day, she still likes to snuggle with me.

Kangaroo Mother Care is when a human mother and her infant snuggle skin to skin with the infant lying prone on mom’s chest. It’s a term coined after the Kangaroo’s close relationship with her little joey who doesn’t come out of mom’s pouch for four months after birth. Instead, joey relies on mom’s warmth, nutrition, and support for his “fourth” trimester. More often than not by those in the birthing realm, the first few months of a human’s life are now called the “fourth” trimester as well. Research has concluded over and over again that Kangaroo Care is invaluable for both human moms and babies as well.

In 2007 a study published in the Oxford Tropical Pediatrics from researchers at the Instituto Materno Infantil in Brazil concluded Kangaroo Mother Care may prove helpful in warding off postpartum depression. Researchers evaluated mothers at the beginning of NICU care and at the end of their Kangaroo Mother Care. NO mother developed depression during their Kangaroo stay. Let me say that again. NO MOTHER developed depression during their Kangaroo stay.

WHO, the World Health Organization, also offers an article regarding Kangaroo Care in the early months of infancy. Their article focuses on the bonding and encouragement of breastfeeding that Kangaroo Care provides. Many of the after-birth procedures and examinations can take place while baby is on Mom’s stomach in the prone position thereby improving chances of maternal and infant bonding.

A new Mother-to-Infant Bonding Scale included in a 2006 study compared the score of the Mother-to-Infant Bonding Scale to Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. Women who scored lower on the MIB Scale scored higher on the EPDS and vice versa.

One of the perks of Kangaroo Care is the increased production of Oxytocin initiated through skin-to-skin contact with an infant. Oxytocin is known as the “cuddle” or “love hormone and may help new mothers ward off severe episodes of Postpartum Depression. This is an extremely compelling reason to encourage hospitals to encourage the practices of rooming in and immediate after birth examinations while baby is on Mom’s tummy or chest. The first few hours of life are extremely important to successful bonding and nursing. If mother and child are separated, the risk of failure for bonding and successful breastfeeding may decrease.

There’s also another personal story proving the very value of Kangaroo Mother Care. Carolyn Isbister, a mom out of Edinburgh, saved her infant’s life with a Kangaroo Cuddle. Her little one had been given up on by doctors. Carolyn cuddled with her infant to say goodbye. She and her husband watched as their daughter’s breathing and heart beats regulated. They watched as she went from grey to pink. Carolyn’s little girl is now healthy and home, thanks to Kangaroo Mother Care.

One of the calmest moments I had in the midst of my own downward spiral was as I sat with Charlotte snuggled up on my chest. We were in the middle of the NICU, beeps and boops all around us. The fragility of life hung heavy in the air. Her many wires, tubes, and other non-baby items draped across me as well. But all that mattered was her soft warm head resting peacefully under my chin, her breath caressing my chest. I wrapped my arms as tightly as I dared around her tiny body and closed my eyes. This was a moment in which I wanted to get lost. I wasn’t experiencing many of those at the time. Time stopped as we stepped out of the NICU and into our own little world for a bit. Even as I type this I can still smell her fresh baby scent and feel the weight of her little body curled up on my chest. It is a moment I will always cherish and never forget. My eye in the midst of a hurricane from hell.

I also felt soothed when I held our first daughter skin-to-skin even though I did not know the technical term for our action at the time. Our son was a natural snuggler as well. With him, I did not experience Postpartum Depression. Our skin to skin contact was not much higher than with the other two but it was much higher than my skin to skin contact with Charlotte. After I had Charlotte I was hospitalized for severe PPD & PP OCD, a very scary time in my life.

If you’re a new mom struggling with bonding with your new infant, please try Kangaroo Mother Care. It’s free, it’s easy (mostly naked baby, mostly topless parent) and it does wonders.

Looking back, I wish I had insisted my children stay with me instead of letting them be sent away. Our second daughter’s absence was a medical necessity but with the other two it was not. Keeping your infant with you, on your skin, and allowing your relationship to develop naturally may just be the ticket you need to help ward off a severe case of Postpartum Depression. Some women may do Kangaroo Care and develop Postpartum Depression despite their dedication to skin to skin contact. If this happens, please know you are not alone. Be sure to ask for a thyroid and anemia levels test when talking with your doctor or midwife. And be sure to reach out for help from a mental health professional if you need it. There’s no shame in going to therapy. None.

Even if you are not feeling up to it now, one day, you will mother with confidence, you may even birth with confidence again. But know there are mothers who have been where you are right now and are willing to hold their hands back for you to cling on to – with confidence they will carry you out of the deep dark place you are now trapped within.

Rabbi Shmuley, Breastfeeding, and Guilt

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Here at My Postpartum Voice, I strive to empower and encourage women to be educate themselves and then move ahead forward filled with confidence in the choices they make for their family.

Of course I have my own set of beliefs which have worked for my family and set of circumstances.

This post is a bit of a deviation from the standard topic but I am so disturbed by this article I feel I must speak up.

I believe in breastfeeding.

But I have also bottlefed.

One of the biggest issues I struggled with while nursing my first daughter was the shift from viewing my breasts as sexual objects to the functionality they now served. It is absolutely amazing that a woman nourishes life from conception until well after birth.

I remember not wanting my husband to touch my breasts while I was nursing.

Today, I read an article at beliefnet.com by Rabbi Shmuley, the host of TLC’s Shalom in the Home.

Beliefnet’s mission is to “help people like you find, and walk, a spiritual path that will bring comfort, hope, clarity, strength, and happiness.”

With said mission in the forefront of my mind, I am appalled they published the article, “Can Breastfeeding Hurt Your Marriage” by Rabbi Shmuley today. Nowhere in this article does he offer one shred of comfort, hope, clarity, strength, OR happiness. Instead, he tears women down, treats them as sexualized playthings and utterly disrespects the directives set forth by his OWN faith in regards to breastfeeding.

According to the good Rabbi, nurturing your marriage is infinitely more important than breastfeeding. Your marriage is more important than protecting your baby from diarrhea, cough, or colds. (The Rabbi’s words, not mine.) He also points out that women should cover up whilst nursing, even in front of their husbands to avoid de-eroticizing the breast. Oh, and that place where the baby came from? A mere birth canal if your husband watches you give birth. Mere? Mere? Only if that’s short for MIRACULOUS, Rabbi Shmuley, because I highly doubt you could do down there what WE sexualized playthings are capable of with our downstairs. Frankly, I’d like to see you give nursing a shot too.

Nowhere in this article does the Rabbi refer to biblical verses which support breastfeeding. Nowhere does he prove his reasoning. This type of article is absolutely reckless and stands to set several mothers up to fail in the already shaky realm of breastfeeding. And for that, Rabbi Shmuley should be ashamed of himself despite his barely there attempt toward the end to support breastfeeding as always being best for the baby. Even then he points out that nursing should always be subordinate to the marriage.

The first example he gives of how breastfeeding ruins a marriage involves a couple in Pennsylvania. The wife held onto an “obsession with breast-feeding well into the child’s eleventh month.”

Ok, Rabbi, Schmuley. Let’s talk about that, shall we? Based on the Old Testament, right?

Moses.

Baby Moses, rescued from the fanatical infantacide of Egyptian Pharoahs, nursed by his own mother as a wet nurse for the Princess (Exodus 2:17), was nursed for close to two years according to Section 1:31 of the Shemmot Rabbah, which is a rabbinic commentary on the book of Exodus. This same resource, Breastfeeding from the Bible by Larry G. Overton, goes on to point out an ancient Babylonian tradition in which babies were nursed until they were three years old.

It also further points out this passage in reference to a woman named Hannah in the book of 1Samuel:

21 When the man Elkanah went up with all his family to offer the annual sacrifice to the LORD and to fulfill his vow, 22 Hannah did not go. She said to her husband, “After the boy is weaned, I will take him and present him before the LORD, and he will live there always.” 23 “Do what seems best to you,” Elkanah her husband told her. “Stay here until you have weaned him; only may the LORD make good his word.” So the woman stayed at home and nursed her son until she had weaned him. 24 After he was weaned, she took the boy with her, young as he was, along with a three-year-old bull, an ephah of flour and a skin of wine, and brought him to the house of the LORD at Shiloh. [1Samuel 1:21-24, NIV]

Correct me if I’m wrong but I would think that an infant would be fit to present to priests at a Tabernacle for lifelong service, thereby implying the child was nursed longer than a mere few months. (According to this same resource, Breastfeeding and the Bible, further reading into 2nd Chronicles reveals this verse: Besides those males from three years old and up who were written in the genealogy, they distributed to everyone who entered the house of the LORD his daily portion for the work of his service, by his division, [2 Chronicles 31:16, NKJV], implying that Samuel, the child from the above passage, would have been at least 3 prior to making said journey to the Tabernacle, having just been weaned)

Another resource, The ILCA Conference Reviewed: The Benefits of Nursing By: Yaelle Frohlich, Posted: 8/24/08, states the following in one of the last few paragraphs:

Breastfeeding is discussed in Jewish texts. Arthur I. Eidelman describes the positive impact of Jewish culture on breastfeeding rates among the orthodox in his article in “Breastfeeding Medicine” Volume 1 Number 1, and notes that the Talmud puts minimum nursing length at two years. Yevamot 12B even discourages a widow from remarrying if she has a baby under 21 months, lest she get pregnant, lose her milk supply and become unable to nourish her existing child. Additionally, according to tradition, biblical figures such as Isaac, Moses and Samuel were also breastfed for two years or more.

Breastfeeding and the Bible ALSO points out the following passage from the Apocrypha, the book of Maccabees specifically:

My son, have pity on me. Remember that I carried you in my womb for nine months and nursed you for three years. I have taken care of you and looked after all your needs up to the present day. [2 Maccabees 7:27, Today’s English Version. Emphasis mine., (Larry G. Overton)]

And yet here Rabbi Shmuley is tearing a woman down for daring to nurse well into the child’s 11th month as he freely admits, “I told the mother that in being so devoted to her son, she had committed the cardinal sin of marriage, which is to put someone else before her spouse, even if that someone is your child.” Wait. It gets better. “Furthermore, I said, her obsession had turned one of her most attractive body parts into a feeding station, an attractive cafeteria rather than a scintillating piece of flesh.”

Say what?

Let’s go there. Yes, let’s.

First and foremost, breasts are functional. Their sexuality is icing on the cake. Again, back to Pharoah and Moses. A wet nurse provided sustenance for little Moses so that he might live. Why? Because breasts are MEANT to feed infants. In fact, it’s the very attitude of the sexualized breast which Shmuley presents which has contributed to the difficulties mothers face today as they nurse in public.

Next up: “If breast-feeding gets in the way of the marriage—if it means that a husband and wife never go out on dates, or that the mother is so tired from always waking up with the baby that she has no energy to ever be intimate with her husband—the child will probably end up worse off, however many colds or bouts with diarrhea he now avoids.” – Rabbi Shmuley

Now, if Mom today had half the amount of help available to her ancient counterparts, she might just be willing to go out on a date with her husband. If her husband or other family members would help with the baby duties at night by changing baby’s diaper and bringing baby to her so that she may get a few extra moments of sleep, she might just feel up to being sexual with her husband. Of course, there’s also the very real fact that Mom just gave birth to a baby from her “mere” birth canal. THAT may have something to do with not wanting to get busy. Just as with any other physical change or “injury”, it takes time to heal from birth. Some women take longer than others, even if they formula feed. I wonder how long it would take Rabbi Shmuley to bounce back after giving birth.

There’s simply no excuse for Rabbi Shmuley’s atrocious article. There’s no scientific basis. No faith basis. Nothing.

As you read the article further, clicking through to the second page, you’re suddenly clued into why Shmuley feels this way.

“When I was a young boy, all I wanted to see was two parents who loved each other. A daily vitamin also would certainly have done me a world of good. But only my parents’ happy marriage could have provided me with peace at my center and the more secure personality I sorely lack. I would take the diarrhea and cough any day over the permanent sense of brokenness that affects children of divorce.”

So if I’m reading this correctly, Rabbi Shmuley seems to think his parents divorced because breastfeeding destroyed their marriage. Wow.

I am SO sorry if that’s the case.

Sorry your mother was not supported in wanting the best for her children.

Sorry your mother was not supported in what YOUR OWN faith states is expected of mothers in sustaining their children.

Sorry you were raised in a broken household in which there truly was no integrity, respect, accountability, or compassion.

I am sorry.

It’s possible to nourish a child and your marriage. There’s a fine line. There ARE decisions to be made, with that I agree whole-heartedly. I made that decision as I pumped exclusively for our second daughter. I had to choose between giving my daughter breastmilk or my relationship with my family and my own mental health. As I drove home with formula, I wept. Openly. But I gave it my all. Had it not come down to it, I would have kept on pumping. Had I had more support, I would have kept on going. I would have given anything to have had an infant like a limb – anything!

Rabbi Shmuley – please. Please heed the words of those within your own faith. Those within the medical community. Those of the mothers struggling to do the best they can for their own families. Words such as those published at beliefnet.com are damaging at best. Do you believe breastfeeding is best? I dare you to prove it. I dare you to support nursing mothers. I dare you to support the family dynamic intended by God from the very start of our existence. I dare you.

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part III

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Welcome to Part III. Today I talk with the doc and get sent to the ER. Not the best day in my life but one of the most helpful by far. Click here to read Part II.

And we’re back at the morning when I wanted to let go.

They say the hardest thing to do is to let go.

Lemme tell you something – that morning, letting go was easy. I was weak, tired, frustrated, confused, and overwhelmed. I had nothing left to do but to let go. So I did.

As I drove myself to the doctor’s office, my mind was blank. I don’t really remember the drive. When I arrived, I went back pretty quickly and shuttled into a little room with a nurse. She asked why I was there. Didn’t I tell you on the phone? Why do I have to repeat myself? It wouldn’t be the last time. I sighed and let the monsters out of the bag. I was too far gone to care about consequences.

I sat in the doctor’s office confessing all of my dark secrets. But it wasn’t me.

No, I floated above myself as this other woman confessed to a multitude of sins that I had not committed. To thoughts I had certainly not had. To horrible things like not bonding with my child and wanting to smother her with a pillow. My mouth moved, sound escaped, but surely it wasn’t my voice uttering these things. I am a good mom. Good mothers do not want to do things like smother their children or abandon them at the hospital. Good mothers can do anything. Good mothers are perfect and kind and… well, like June Cleaver.

My house was a wreck, I slid closer and closer to carrying out these horrific pirhanic like thoughts swimming through my brain, I barely slept, barely kept up with anything anymore. There was no way in hell good mother applied to me.

She spoke slowly and deliberately, asking how long it would take me to get to the local hospital, what route I would take, if I felt I could drive myself.

I asked if I could go home to get some of my things. I needed a breast pump. My breasts were starting to sting they were so full. (It was almost 4:00 p.m. now. I had not pumped since 11:00a.m. and normally pumped every three hours.)

No. You have to go straight to the hospital. Can you do that?

But I need to get my things….

No. Hospital. Now.

Okay. If you say so.

She and I walked quietly to the front of the office where she helped me check out. (Sidenote: I carry that receipt/slip with me in my wallet to this day. It reminds me of how far I have come since then.)

I left and walked to my car. I called my husband to tell him the doctor sent me to the ER. I’d call with an update when I could.

When I arrived at the ER, they were waiting for me. The doctor said she would call ahead. I was triaged and sent back almost immediately.

The ER doc on call came in, sat down and asked me what was going on with me.

I told him. Quietly and calmly.

“I’m here because I do not want to be Andrea Yates. I don’t want to be Andrea Yates. Please, keep me from being Andrea Yates.” I pleaded with him as he sat across from me, legs crossed, arms crossed, yet seemingly warm and open. Relaxed. He stood in a very relaxed position. This made me comfortable.

I remember this ER doc. He kept telling me how much courage it took to seek help. He commended me for my bravery. Shortly after the ER doc left, a nurse came in and a security guard showed up. My belongings were taken away from me to keep them safe. (Translation – to keep ME safe.) I talked openly with a social worker about my situation, my thoughts, everything. I don’t remember what he asked or what I said to him. I do remember asking if I could have a breast pump. It was now nearly 6:00 p.m. I believe. My breasts were moments away from bursting.

The social worker talked with me about hospitalization. I nodded in agreement. I needed help. I needed to rest. He disappeared to make some calls. I wish I had known about Emory at this time. I would have requested to go there. But I didn’t so off to elsewhere I went.

My husband arrived with some of my things including my breast pump which I received permission to take with me. He looked exhausted and scared. I’m sure I looked the same – or worse.

Shortly after he arrived, the transport driver showed up. I asked to go to the rest room and had to be quick about it. I hugged my husband good bye and followed the driver to the van.

I don’t know what time we left the ER. The inky sky swallowed me whole as tiny rays of light beamed down. I missed the sun. I felt even more trapped and alone as the van glided over streets I had driven time and time again prior to this night. Yet tonight the buildings judged me, the stars judged me, and the headlights of the oncoming traffic judged me. They all knew – they all knew why I rode in the back of the medical transport van.

As the driver turned onto the main road away from my town, I took a deep breath. I had no idea what the rest of the night held but I already felt a tremendous sense of relief.

(Read Part IV here)

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part II

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Welcome to Part II. Today I’m sharing how I ended up in Part I. Tomorrow we’ll be at the doc’s office and then the ER. Read that section here.

Our daughter was 56 days old. She had spent just 15 days more at home than in the NICU at that point, having been born with a cleft palate, micrognathia, and glossotopsis. This is known as Pierre Robin Sequence. By the time we got her home, she had endured major surgery, been in a medically induced coma for a week, and had a feeding tube placed. More surgeries would be necessary to close the cleft of both her soft and hard palate. The cleft was complete and bilateral, meaning there was NOTHING up there but a gaping hole.

The day of her jaw surgery, I checked out. Curled up in the sleep room with Linkin Park’s Remix album and wanted to sink deep down into the chair. It was dark there. And safe. Oh so safe.

I cried, no, bawled, my body wracked with tears that I had muscle aches the next day. I wanted to leave her at the hospital. How the hell could this have happened to us? Why us? What the hell was He thinking? I pushed her away from the very beginning. Her cleft destroyed all of my expectations. Birth, breastfeed, go home. All of this in between NICU crap wasn’t in the plans. Formula wasn’t in the plan. abandonment just 30 minutes after a 2 day active labor wasn’t in the plans. My new daughter going to Atlanta without us at less than 24 hours old – SO not in the plans. My mom picking me up at the hospital – not in the plans. Our 23 month old daughter’s life being turned upside down – I felt guilty.

I didn’t take my pre-natal vitamins. Clefts can be a result of poor maternal diet, folic acid specifically. I had severe nausea and wasn’t able to eat most days. SO I didn’t take my vitamins. Ever. Looking back, depression flecked the entire pregnancy. And now this? I would have fared better in a ring with Mike Tyson.

No one told us anything. My mom did research. She got me in touch with an online PRS support group (Thank YOU, Nancy, for all you do to keep us connected.)

The NICU doctors and nurses were great.

I wasn’t.

The night of her birth, I woke up at 10pm to pee. I stood there and brushed my hair for 10 minutes. I didn’t see myself in the mirror. What I saw was a shell. I willed a spark to appear – but none did. Eventually I gave up and went back to bed, lying there, confused, exhausted, worried – slipping in and out of sleep only because physically I needed to collapse into bed!

The next day I yelled at our nurse when she tried to get us to sign consent forms for C to go to Atlanta. But she wasn’t supposed to go until later in the week. What do you mean this AFTERNOON? Where are you taking my baby? Why are we.. you can’t take her. You just can’t. you.just.can’t.

More hustle and bustle. In and out. Charlotte seems to spend the entire day away from me. I spend the entire day away from her. But at one point, I am in the bathroom and she’s in her bassinet in the room. I hear a door open. A man walks in and I freak out. He prays with me and leaves. I’m scared and go to the desk to ask that no one be allowed in the room unless they are on a list I’ve scribbled up. On the list are our parents. No one else, no one else. I am not in the mood for random strangers to stop by. (I think he went to our church)

By that afternoon, we meet the transport team. They seem nice enough. Chris has bought a little lamb to ride in the incubator looking rig with her. She’s healthy, they tell us. Oxygen sats are good, breathing is good, she’s healthy. She’ll be fine. We’ll meet your husband there. We sign the first of a slew of paperwork.

Chris hangs out with me after she leaves and eventually he has to leave too.

I pace in the hospital room when I am alone. Pace, pump, clean, pace, pump, clean.

I am a caged animal blaming myself for my daughter’s issues. I caused this by not taking my prenatal vitamins. This hell is all my fault. I did this to my poor baby girl.

Later that evening, my in-laws swing by with On the Border and my daughter. They stay for a few minutes. It’s painfully uncomfortable, perhaps a misconception on my part. After they leave, I voraciously eat my now cold food as I watch Nothing to Lose, my go to happy movie. It doesn’t work.

By now, Chris is in Atlanta. I call him around 10pm and cry so hard he can’t understand a damned word I’m saying. We hang up and I wail myself to sleep. If I had given birth via c-section, I am sure I would have torn stitches. Again, I wake up to pee in the middle of the night. Again, I stand and brush my hair. But this time I straighten up the already immaculate room as well before going back to bed.

The following morning, one of the OB’s from the practice offers me Prozac. I decline, saying that I want to see how far I can get on my own before I go jumping into meds. I’m stubborn like that. The OB I hated came by to tell me we were doing a great job and everything would be okay. I wanted to believe him.

Later that day, my mother picks me up. We pick up Allison and head home. I collapse. We manage to get a rental breast pump delivered that night (oh sweet relief as my milk has finally started to come in). I double pump in front of my mother using a t-shirt as cover. Eventually I give up on trying to hide the pumps.

That Friday I went to Atlanta to see her in the NICU. I’m heartbroken. I don’t want to be there. We’re not supposed to be there. What do I know about NICU babies? Why am I mother to one? Who the hell approved this script change? I didn’t.

Over the next few days, Chris and I spend some time together at his Uncle’s house as we ferry back and forth to the hospital. We talk about having another baby (see how far gone I was!) and I quietly wish we could leave her a the hospital but don’t tell him this for a couple of weeks.

That first week the feeding team wants to get Charlotte up to speed but she’s not cooperating. So the Plastic Surgeon suggests a jaw distraction which gets the feeding team pissed and puts us in the middle. We go to the garden at the hospital and I cry on Chris’ shoulder.

We decide to go with the surgery. At 9 days, she’s prepped and we leave her for surgery downstairs. I cry – again. His parents are there. I don’t want them to be but he needs support and I’ve chosen to respect that. I get the Mp3 player and disappear into the sleep room. I’m safe there. Very safe and lost in Linkin Park.

She comes back up in a medically induced coma. A machine breathes for her, she’s swollen, shiny, and tiny. But she’s had a good surgery. She made it through.

That afternoon, my husband calls the OB for me. I’m not doing well. We make an appointment for the next day. I made it 9 days, I tell them. I need something. I need help. I want to function because right now, right now I am not.

Right now, I’m brushing my hair, changing my pads, washing my hands, washing my pump parts, and it’s all very routine and necessary but it’s also very comforting. Very very comforting. I use the same bathrooms at the hospital. I use the same sinks at the NICU. I don’t stray outside my comfort zone. I kept to this routine the entire time she was in the hospital. I got edgy if it changed. At all.

Beginning of April I sprain my ankle as I get up from pumping. It’s the day we’re supposed to learn how to place an NG tube so we don’t have to have more surgery for a G-tube. I wrap up my ankle, bag up the ibuprofen and tylenol and go. There’s a grown up hospital across the street if it gets bad, I tell my husband.

I can’t place the NG tube. I officially suck, I tell myself. I suck. She’s angry at me because I suck. I can’t take care of my daughter. What the hell kind of mother am I? She’s my daughter. I should be able to do whatever I need to care for her. But I can’t. And so I have failed. Again.

We decide to go with a g-tube. It’ll be easier for me. I feel guilty for making her go through a surgery because it’ll be easier for me but easier for me means better for her. So that makes it okay, right? Right?

Right.

At 21 days old, she comes home. The ride home we can’t figure out how to get her pump to work. That night we can’t get it to work. I stay up with her because I can sleep the next day. Chris has to go to work. I don’t sleep well. I pump, I feed, I care for our 23 month old daughter and two dogs. A vicious cycle has begun.

Within two weeks, I ask for my meds to be upped. They’re not working. I’m stressed. My thoughts are getting more and more intense. They need to stop. The meds will make them stop. Make them stop. MAKE them stop.

Within three weeks, the thoughts are firing so rapidly at me I wonder if I’m in front of a death squad. I’m disgusted and repulsed. Pillows, visions of death, horrible deep dark secrets slam into me every few minutes. They’re like contractions on speed, really, waves that don’t ever seem to stop.

Within a little over four weeks, I’ve broken down. Irretrievably.

Follow me to Part IV

@karma_D finds her Postpartum Voice

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@karma_D, Lisa, found me via the #PPDChat at Twitter. At this week’s Just Talkin’ Tuesday, she expressed a desire to share her story but said she wasn’t ready to do so on her own blog yet. Lisa wanted somewhere to share her story anonymously in order to help other moms. I offered her a place here at My Postpartum Voice. This is truly what I want this site to be about – the power of sharing our stories to help one another find our own Voice as we journey through recovery.

Lisa’s story is powerful. Her NICU start reminds me of my own postpartum after the birth of my second daughter. It’s a rough start for sure and I hope Lisa finds the same strength as I have as she journeys towards recovery. Please don’t hesitate to send @karma_D some love. And if you’re a mom in need, you can follow me by clicking here. You can also visit Postpartum Support International to find a Coordinator near you. You are not alone, you are not to blame, and you will be well.

I have post partum depression. That might be a shock to friends and family, but no one was more unprepared for it than I was. My pregnancy was incredible. I felt amazing, better than I have in years, both physically and emotionally. I felt strong, hopeful, like a dream a lifetime in the making was finally coming true. Those months were full of planning, anticipation, expectation, all culminating in the beautiful instant my son was born. It was the best moment of my life, euphoric almost in the sudden absence of pain and joy of meeting him.

Within hours of his birth, he was taken to the NICU for breathing difficulty, and so began the downward spiral, full of broken expectations. Instead of bonding with a newborn in the hospital room surrounded by adoring guests, we shuffled back and forth to the NICU to stand around a helpless baby attached tubes and wires.

The night we came home from the hospital without our son was horrible. Pulling into our neighborhood late that night I vividly remember looking out the car window and feeling like I was witnessing life from another person’s body. Reality seemed unrecognizable. We arrived home to flowers and hospital bags dropped off earlier by our parents, mountains of gifts and food cluttering the house. In that moment I couldn’t see this wonderful outpouring for the blessing it was, but instead as anxiety inducing clutter. Exhausted, my husband went to bed but I stayed up and cried. I felt alone, scared, not myself. It was not at all the homecoming I had anticipated.

When we finally did bring our son home a week after his birth, things didn’t get better. Breastfeeding difficulties often left one or both of us in tears. It was not at all the bonding experience I had hoped for. I pushed through because I wanted so desperately to do the right thing, to act like a good mother even if I didn’t feel like one. I was tearful and scared because I didn’t feel like myself, and when I did manage to communicate this to my husband all I could muster was, “It’s so hard.” He did his best to reassure me and I tried to reassure myself it was just “baby blues” and sleep deprivation. I minimized my symptoms to the OB and Pediatrician, who screened me for PPD but didn’t pick it up early on. I tried to will it away and hoped things would get better, and kept acting like everything was fine.

Months went by and it never did get better, and the mood swings actually got worse. One moment I was okay, the next agitated or enraged, then crying and despondent. I yelled a lot, mostly at the dogs or my husband. One afternoon when my son was crying I yelled at him to “SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” The guilt of yelling at him was awful. I believed it was going to be burned in his psyche forever and he’d always think I was crazy. Still not wanting to think the mood swings could be PPD, I blamed it on my IUD. Eventually I did tell my OB about my symptoms (though admittedly I glossed over them again), and she said she “wasn’t getting a good read on (me).” She agreed it could be the IUD but convinced me to give it some more time, and encouraged exercise and DHA supplements. Finally I demanded the IUD removed as I wasn’t getting better, but even then no one diagnosed me with PPD.

I spent 6 months of maternity leave waiting for things to look up. I kept hoping to turn the corner but never did. Instead, the mood swings continued, and intrusive thoughts began. I pictured horrible things happening to me and my baby and felt helpless to prevent them. I often lacked motivation – even the simplest tasks seemed too much to manage. Once I went an entire week without leaving the house because it was just so overwhelming. My mood wasn’t always down. There were lots of times I felt fine, happy even, and capable, but they never lasted long. These moments of calm made me think I was okay. I never wanted to harm myself nor my baby, I got up and dressed every day, and I didn’t really feel like what I believed depression to be, so I never admitted what was happening in my head and never asked for help.

Returning to work was a blessing and a curse. It gave me a much needed break but the guilt was crushing. The mood swings got progressively worse until one night (Valentine’s Day), I got so worked up over my son’s difficulty going to sleep that I exploded. After slamming the door to his nursery I went and hid under the covers, my body buzzing and feeling like I might explode out of my skin. My thoughts raced and I just wanted to go away. I didn’t want to die but I didn’t want to exist either, at least not then. Later that night I had another fit when the baby woke up. My husband asked, “What is wrong with you?” in a tone I’ve never heard from him, one that suggested disgust. That was my rock bottom. I couldn’t hide it anymore. The next day I finally told my husband I thought I had PPD and made an appointment. I saw a different doctor and started treatment.

The improvement has been rapid. I feel hopeful again, motivated, more clear headed. I can reason rather than shutting down. The anger is better, the crying is better. The anxiety still creeps in and I do have setbacks. On those days I just try to survive until tomorrow. I’m learning to recognize triggers and figuring out coping mechanisms – Blair’s STOP has been helpful, as has reading and chatting with other moms who’ve experienced PPD. (At the same time, I feel the need to control what I’m exposed to so I’m careful about following blogs and such and limiting potentially upsetting material.) I’m trying to let go of expectations and enjoy the moment more. My bond with my son is growing and I am starting to appreciate those wonderful Mommy emotions I had hoped to experience immediately. I wear a locket every day and inscribed on the back is “Before I understood your words, I understood your love.” I have an amazing son and I know he understands the bond, too.

I think a lot about what it will be like next time – the “do over” as I call it. In the darkest moments of PPD I swore we would be “one and done” – I couldn’t fathom ever going through this again. Now, I am hopeful. Things will be different. Per my doctor, I’ll likely start meds immediately. I’ll make a strategy for how I’m going to get support, something like a birth plan but for postpartum, and share it with my “team.” I am almost certain I won’t breastfeed. The stress of nursing was a huge trigger, even after all the initial issues as I worried about pumping and supply. I’ll also know I’m not alone. I wish I had believed that months ago.