Category Archives: survivor

Just Talkin Tuesday 07.13.10: Surviving a Bad Day

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Everyone has bad days. But when you’re depressed, a whole bunch of bad days get strung together. Then you start to heal. And then WHAM. A bad day pops up out of nowhere. It’s not quite relapse but it sucks nonetheless. Even those of us who are recovered still have sucky days. We may be recovered but we are far from perfect. Far far far from perfect.

I know typically this is a longer post but frankly, it’s been a rough day here and I’m about to fall asleep. I spent the better part of the morning at the pediatrician and lab with my 6 year old daughter. We’re now waiting to see if she develops a rash to determine a diagnosis. I’m praying the rash doesn’t show up and the symptoms are just an unlucky combination. Somehow I’ve managed to hold it together and I totally credit the hell I went through with Postpartum Depression for allowing me to make it through this day intact. Exhausted, but intact.

I looked forward to sitting down on the couch and just vegging out tonight, listening to some music, and hanging with the ladies over at #PPDChat on Twitter. I needed it tonight.

What are some things you do to help yourself get through a tough day? Have you learned your triggers yet? Are you able to cut it off before it gets going? (If you’re not, that’s okay – everyone is at different stages of recovery!) What gets you to calm down?

Let’s get to just talking ladies!

Graham Crackers and Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part IV

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The part in which the title finally makes sense:

I rested my thin pillow against the cold glass of the medical transport window, snuggled down into the blanket, and dozed off as the wheels of the van propelled me toward the psychiatric hospital 45 minutes away. I kept shivering despite the blanket. Every time I shivered, I woke up. Then I would fall back asleep. Then I’d wake up again. Finally, the van came to a stop. Ahead of us, bright red brake lights glared into the dark, illuminating stark pine trees lining the isolated country roadway.

About that time, the transport driver said something about a traffic jam. She turned the van around to head the other direction. What should have taken us just 45 minutes quickly turned into an hour and a half. During that time I woke up. The driver and I started talking. She was the first non-medical professional with whom I shared everything I had gone through. And you know what she told me? She told me any other mother in my shoes would have been hard pressed to keep it together. I quietly thanked her and pulled the blanket closer as the shivering had started again.

We finally pulled up to the psychiatric hospital. I sat quietly as I waited for the driver to open the door and unbuckle me. (That’s right – I had to wait to be unbuckled. At 29 years old, I had to wait for someone ELSE to unbuckle me. If that’s not humbling…..) She carried my bag and breast pump for me (again, I wasn’t allowed to do so) to the doorway. A security guard met us there and walked us down a long hall to a small room. As the transport driver stood there, the guard went through my bag, checked me over, and went over me with a wand. We then walked down another hallway to the Acute Flight Risk Ward. The driver said goodbye as the nurse from the ward took custody of me.

We sat at a table and filled out paperwork. The nurse asked question after question. I was cold, tired, and shivering. I wanted to sleep. I wanted a warm blanket. My teeth chattered. I sat there and answered best I could. I remember a lot of “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” It was not me that sat there that night. It was someone else – a shell of myself. A shivering shell nonetheless.

As we filled out paperwork, another patient meandered into the main area. She had wild salt and pepper hair, wore a large plaid pattern flannel shirt and sang at the top of her lungs as she shuffled about. My first thought? Dear Lord. Please don’t let her be my roommate. I asked the nurse about private rooms. She told me no, honey, there are no private rooms here. It was right then and there that I knew this meandering woman was my roommate.

We wrapped up paperwork and I asked if I could pump. I was let into the medical supply/clinic room to do so. A nurse checked on me every five minutes (and I thought topless double pumping with a hospital grade pump in front of my mom was embarrassing!) Once I finished, I went to my room.

(An aside here: Lemme tell ya people – the pillows at a psych ward? Wow. They suck. I didn’t know Aunt Jemima made a line of pillows – they were that damned flat.)

My body collapsed into bed and I was out. They did checks almost every hour so I kept waking up. My roommate finally came to bed a few hours after my arrival, bursting into the room with her loud personality and voice to boot. Between the flat pillows, the loud roommate, and checks, I did not get a lot of sleep that first night.

The next morning, at the break of dawn, my roommate prayed to Jesus at the top of her lungs. She was praying for sunshine because if it was cloudy or raining, she wouldn’t be able to go smoke her cigarettes and then He knew what she was like if she couldn’t smoke her cigs. I didn’t want to find out what she was like if she didn’t have her cigs so I prayed – quietly – that she’d get her precious cigs.

I got up after she left the room and went to shower. A long, hot, shower. Except the water wasn’t hot. It was cold. But it still felt relaxing to shower without worrying about having to take care of the kids.

Once I showered, I went and pumped. I had no idea what time it was but asked the nurses to please make sure I pumped at least once every three hours until 10:00p.m. They were pretty good about making sure I kept on schedule.

I had several conversations with the nurse who checked me in. During those conversations, we discussed ideas for taking time for myself. But she also told me I did not have to tell anyone where I had been that weekend. (You see how well I followed THAT advice!) Even then, I knew that didn’t seem right. Why would I hide what was happening to me? Where would I tell people I had been?

After I pumped, I walked out into the common area. There were crayons, paper, a TV, a radio, couches, and a phone. I spent a great deal of time on the phone. I called my parents, Chris, my brothers, just to reassure them that I was okay. Kind of funny – here I am in the psych ward and I’m calling folks to tell them I’m okay.

One of these conversations included my father. He told me in no uncertain terms to not let anyone tell me I’m crazy. With everything we had been through with Charlotte, it was no surprise I had collapsed like I had. It was amazing I hung on as long as I did with no support.

I asked Chris to please bring me a book. The other patients, to be honest, scared the crap out of me. They were angry, blank, scary people. My heart broke for them even in the midst of my own trauma.

We all lined up to go to breakfast. The food sucked. I realized I could get food delivered to me from the cafeteria and stayed away from the cafeteria for the rest of the stay.

A couple of times a day, a snack room was open and available to us. We were to eat the snacks in the main room but I snuck them back to my room. My favorite snack? Milk, Graham crackers, and peanut butter. I had never put peanut butter on graham crackers before but for some reason, I found it comforting. And energizing. I’ve not eaten it since. I can’t bring myself to do so. I know I’m better but I just can’t do graham crackers and peanut butter anymore.

While I was there, my charming roommate and I scored another roommate. This woman came in not talking, almost catatonic. I always asked her if she wanted something to eat when I would go get something for myself. She answered once and I brought her some food. It was the first time she had spoken since arriving. First time she ate anything since she got there too. Later that afternoon, as I woke up from a nap, I heard her talking with one of the nurses. I lay there, still, quiet, bored out of my MIND but knowing that if I moved, she might stop talking. I knew she needed to talk. I knew she needed the help.

Once the nurse left and my roommate went back to sleeping, I stared out my window. I saw Chris arrive. I tried desperately to get his attention but he didn’t see me. I rushed to the phone to try to call him to tell him where my room was but I couldn’t – someone was talking. Out of the entire weekend, the one thing that made me feel the most trapped was that – seeing my husband and not being able to hug him.

While I desperately begged my husband (telepathically of course) to look toward me, the psychiatrist came in to talk with me. I repeated my story, including how I broke down. We agreed a med change might be in order. I had not taken any meds in over 24 hours. That night, I was given a new med and another one the following day before leaving the ward.

My mother had come down again to help Chris with the kids. They wanted to release me in the morning but Chris would not be able to pick me up until that afternoon and I did not want my mom to pick me up from yet another hospital. I wanted it to be Chris. Plus if he came to pick me up, I’d get to stay longer and sleep longer.Sneaky, I know.

After a weekend of solid sleep, relaxation, and time to myself, I was feeling much much better. Definitely not the vacation every new mom day dreams about but hey, it worked for me.

As I sat in the car with Chris on my way home, the sky was grey, the world was bleak, and although I had survived, I could not help but wonder what was ahead of me as we drove home, together, yet so very far apart.

Click here to read Part III

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

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter served with a side of crazy: Part I

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I had planned to post my full story here today. But as I typed, it got long. Really long. I’m at five full typed pages with a few more to go.

(You’ll have to wait until I’m hospitalized for the title to make sense. Just go with it for now!)

In Part I, we’ll work our way from waking up the morning of my hospitalization to later that afternoon when I finally called the doctor’s office.

Tomorrow will offer some background on what led up to the day of hospitalization.

This series is the most brutally honest I’ve ever been with anyone about my experience. Including myself. It feels good. It feels oh so good to get it all out in the open.

As I walked with my family this morning, I thought about this post. And for some reason the movie The Goonies popped into my head. You know the scene when they realize they’re in the wishing well?

Mouth gets pissy and says, “This wish was mine! And it didn’t come true. So I’m taking it back. I’m taking them all back.” Then he disappears under the water as he hunts for his other wishes.

Every mother wishes for a good postpartum experience. Many of us get that wish. Some of us don’t.

This is me. Taking back the power that Postpartum Depression had over me. Taking it ALL back. But I’m keeping my head above the water.

Four years ago this weekend, I visited a mental hospital. Involuntarily. This is how I landed there:

As I stumbled out of our bedroom, I remember looking out the living room window. Blue sky, sunshine, green forest stared back at me. Birds chirped, the dogs glanced at me, I heard our two-year old awake and prayed our almost three-month old was still asleep.

One question repeated over and over in my head.

“What would happen if I let go?” Just let go, they whispered. “You deserve to let go. Let go. Reality is a joke. Just.LET.GO. Let go. Let go. Let.go. let go….let go…..” the soft whispers echoed in my head all day long.

I fed our two-year old breakfast as I pumped. Set up our infant daughter’s tube feeding. Took our two-year old to her room to play. Laid down on her couch. Closed my eyes. Slept through her lifting my arms, dropping them down, begging me to wake up and play.

I did not want to play. I could not play. If I was unconscious, I couldn’t hurt her. If I was unconscious, the voices would shut up. If I was unconscious, visions of smothering them both with pillows would go away. If I was unconscious – no wait, if I was not here……maybe…. maybe…..but how… just.. if I wasn’t here, I couldn’t hurt them.

I dozed as she played. I heard her as she begged me to play with her. Yet there I lay, paralyzed, my mind miles and miles away, locked in a deep dark closet somewhere, refusing to come out just like obstinate toddler.

Our infant daughter’s Kangaroo pump alarm sounded. After a few minutes, I finally stumbled into her room to turn it off and disconnect her. Back to the kitchen to make lunch for our two-year old. I think it was a PB&J.

Let go. Jump. Take a deep breath and fall. The hardest part is just letting go. Let go, they whispered. Over and over and over and over and over……

I clearly saw myself with a pillow, hands tightly gripping either side. If I just made them go away, the voices would go away. The pillow would solve everything. I could just make them go away. Then I’d let go and everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. Everything. Would. Be. Okay. It’d be okay.

I put our two year old down for a nap and started another tube feeding for our infant daughter. I hadn’t pumped since 10:45 a.m. It was pushing 1:00 p.m. I didn’t want to pump. Why should I?

She’s asleep now, they both are. It’d be so easy. So easy.

My thin strand of reality shredding, I turned to the voices. They started to push me toward the brink of the canyon. I didn’t have much fight left inside. Home alone, it would be so easy. The monsters were gaining ground. Their battering ram tediously close to knocking down the last door I had shored up against them, I went to our bedroom and closed the door, disgusted with myself.

Our bed saved my children.

I lay down, curled up in the middle with the phone. I clutched it as a stranded sailor clutches a life ring. Tightly, refusing to give it up even as I rocked back and forth, staring past the squirrels scrambling up and down 200-year-old oak tree swaying softly outside our bedroom window.

As the tears began to slide down my face, my breath shallow and my chest felt tight, I dialed my husband at work.

“You have to come home.” I choked the words out.

“Why?”

“You have to come home.”

“I can’t just leave work for no reason. Why?”

“I’m not doing well. You have to come home. I need you to call the doctor for me.”

“I can’t leave work. Why can’t you call the doctor?”

I gasped for air. The one person I felt safe in reaching out to was shooting me down. I needed help. I needed… I needed…

“Because I just can’t. I can’t… I…. “ burst into tears.

“Call them and let me know what they say, okay?” his voice was slightly softer.

“But I… “ argh. I hung up on him. I had tried to call the doctor’s office for the past four days, dammit. Yet somehow today had to be the day I made it happen. The day I had no strength left in any corner of my mind. Yeh.

I dialed the doctor’s office. And hung up.

I dialed again. Hung up.

I dialed again. Hung up.

Dialed. Ring. Ring…..ring… automation. Press 0.

Hang up. Dammit.

And now my husband was calling me back as I tried again. Ring…ring. Automation.

PRESS 0, dammit, said the only sane part of me. Press it! Say something when they answer. SAY something.

“Hello, this is Dr. X’s office. How can we help you?”

“I… I… I need help. My name is Lauren Hale and I’m not okay. I need help.”

It felt good and so horribly wrong all at the same time.

(Click here to read Part II.)