TRACY'S STORY
My battle with postpartum mood disorders began almost instantly after I gave birth to my now three year old daughter, Alexa. I knew within an hour that something wasn’t quite right. The best way to describe it is that I wanted to jump out of my skin. I was shaking and “racing” non-stop and I could not eat a thing. My OB’s response was “huh, it doesn’t usually happen this quickly.” She gave me Prozac and left. I didn’t see her again. My symptoms did not get better and the next four days were like living in hell.
I thought that getting home from the hospital would make me feel better, but unfortunately it did not. I would rock back and forth in my bed while staring bug-eyed at a blank TV screen. I would run out of the house at 4am to walk around the block and try to get some of the energy out of my bones. Many times I told my husband that I just wished a bus would come along and hit me. I could go on and on, but I won’t. I will say that finding help was unfortunately a very large part of the battle. My husband and mother ran into brick walls everywhere they turned. No one seemed to know where to refer me, not even at the maternity ward. After days of searching, through a very long, out-of-town grapevine, we were put in touch with the state coordinator for Postpartum Support International. Finally, help! I set up an appointment (or I should say my husband set up an appointment?) for me with a therapist and a psychiatrist. In the meantime, I went to the ER and was diagnosed with severe anxiety and given Xanax. It helped.
My battle continued for eleven months. Please don’t let this scare you as it is different for everyone. Mine was like a roller coaster ride. I’d be feeling okay, kind of like my old self, and then all of a sudden I’d plunge into hopelessness and dread. I tried many, many medications. Some worked, some didn’t. What did work was seeing a therapist, attending a support group, and refusing to give up. I felt like a guinea pig with all of the medications I tried but I knew that “this one” might be the right one. Finally it was. I can also not say enough about my support group. Having the support and encouragement of other mothers going through the postpartum battle, no matter how similar or different, made me feel safe, validated, and hopeful. I was told by my support group facilitator on one of my most hopeless days that she had never seen anyone not beat this thing and I’ll admit that part of me didn’t believe her, but a bigger part of me held that close to my heart and I repeated it to myself many, many times.
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CARLA'S STORY
After the birth of my first child, I felt like I finally found what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I was supposed to be a mom.
When Ethan was about 4 months old I began to have problems breathing accompanied by chest pains. I was concerned that something was wrong with my health. I went to the hospital numerous times thinking I was having a heart attack. I had numerous tests done and they all came back normal. My breathing problems and chest pains disappeared and shortly after that I found out I was pregnant with my daughter.
I was about 3 months pregnant when the terrorist attacks happened on September 11th. My husband is in the military and I became obsessed with thoughts of what could happen to him and our family. Then, during one of our prenatal visits we found out that Emma may have downs syndrome. We started seeing a perinatologist and after further tests, we found that she did not have downs but it seemed every visit led to another possible health concern she may have. This was a very stressful time for my husband and me. Emma’s delivery was not an easy one and ultimately we could have lost her. Fortunately, she was born strong and very healthy.
When Emma was a few weeks old I started to experience shortness of breath, rapid heart rate and chest pains. I also started having lower abdominal pain. Again, I went through numerous tests. With each test, I was convinced the doctors would find some sort of terminal illness. I would lie in bed at night and just pray for morning to come. I was afraid to sleep because I was convinced I would die in my sleep. When I would allow myself to fall asleep, I would shoot out of bed thinking my heart had stopped and I was having a heart attack. I started to have severe headaches at the base of my head. I would also get numbness and tingling around my mouth, into my shoulders, arms and hands. I was sent from doctor to doctor. I went through 3 physical therapists, a chiropractor, a neurologist, and numerous tests. Again, nothing was ever diagnosed medically. But, I was convinced I was dying and the doctors just missed my illness. Then the symptoms disappeared about as quickly as they had started. Shortly after the symptoms stopped, I found out I was pregnant.
In my third trimester I started to obsess about absolutely everything. How were we going to afford a third baby? How were we going to set up the bedrooms? Who would sleep where? What kind of mini van is the best? I measured and remeasured all the bedrooms to figure out how we would make it work. I was very aware of Owen’s every movement or lack there of. If I didn’t feel him move I would worry incessantly. I do believe these thoughts and emotions had a lot to do with what could have happened with Emma.
Owen was born healthy. I felt great and was very happy. That night, my heart started racing, I had chest pains, racing heart rate and problems breathing. I was exhausted but could not sleep. I didn’t tell anyone about how I was feeling. I went home and could not sit still for more than 10 minutes. At 11 days old Owen spiked a fever and he was admitted to Children’s Hospital. He was there for 3 days being observed and tested for spinal meningitis. I am a crier and a worrier by nature. The whole time he was there, I was numb. I did not shed a tear. The numbness and tingling returned, so did the rapid heart rate, problems breathing and chest pain. This time it was far more intense than before. I could not focus on anything. The older two children would be playing at my feet and talking to me and I wouldn’t answer them or even be able to repeat what they had just said.
When Owen was 4 weeks old I was driving down I-70 and my peripheral vision started going black and the other symptoms started again; the numbness, tingling, and racing heart. I went to see my family practice doctor and after an evaluation he prepared my husband and me for MS. He scheduled a MRI. I was convinced they would find an inoperable brain tumor and that I was dying. I was obsessed with the thought of dying. I would drill my 4 year old son over and over about what to do if I fell and he couldn’t wake me up. I started to write instructions for my husband what to do after I was gone. I became very detached from my older two children. I wanted someone to come and pick them up and take care of them. I felt that they would be better off with anyone other than me. I believed when I got the test results back and they were normal, I would start to feel better. Unfortunately, my thoughts and physical symptoms became far more intense. I could not concentrate on anything. I kept telling my husband that I was going to pack up the baby and go away. One morning, I was struggling with the overwhelming desire to pack things for the baby and leave. I was going to leave the older two by themselves until their dad came home. I was able to call a friend to talk to her about what I was experiencing. She really encouraged me to see my OB and within a half hour she came and took my older children home with her.
My OB immediately put me on an antidepressant. My physical symptoms became worse and I had additional physical side effects from the meds as well. I started to check out of my life more and more. One morning my husband was supposed to go fishing. He tried to wake me up over and over. Finally, he was able to get me up to take a shower. I did not open my eyes throughout the whole shower. I got out, wrapped myself in a towel and immediately lay down on the bathroom floor. My husband came in and propped me up. He left the room and I curled up in the fetal position in the doorway. My daughter came in my room and was crying because she didn’t want her daddy to leave. She was inches from my face and I did nothing. In my head I wanted to give her a hug and talk to her, but physically I could not do it. After numerous phone calls, my husband took me to the ER. I had a full psych consult and was described as vegetative. I was prescribed new meds and sent home.
The next few weeks were beyond anything I could have imagined. I finally had a diagnosis and it was finally explained that the physical symptoms I was experiencing were classic panic attacks. But, the sound of my children’s laughter would send me into panic attacks. I had a very low tolerance for noise and I would, at times, crawl under the blankets and cover my head with pillows praying they would stop. That spiraled into intense guilt and shame. What kind of mother hates the sound of their own child’s laughter?
I was still convinced that the doctors did not look at all the possibilities and missed a terminal illness. I would sit in the bathroom for hours, completely loosing track of time. I would pull my hair and shout, “Get out, just get out.” These shouts were not to anyone, they were to my thoughts. These attacks would exhaust me and I would go back to bed and sleep for hours. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t watch TV because I was afraid I would see a movie where the mom was dead or dying. When my baby would cry in the night, I would go into a full blown panic attack. The only thing I felt I could do well was curl in a ball and sleep.
Luckily during this time I had incredible family support and my husband was absolutely amazing. They really stepped in and took care of me and the children. This in turn created more guilt and feelings of inadequacy.
After about 2 months I really started to feel like I had a grip on my life and that I started to have control again. I still was experiencing more bad days than good, but at least I was having good days. My emotions were definitely up and down for several months after that. I was seeing a psychiatrist for my meds but had a fear of counseling and chose to never go. I was encouraged by numerous people to go to a support group and talk to other women. I finally agreed to go, with reluctance. After the first meeting I thought I did't belong in a support group. My husband really encouraged me to return and give it another try. It was the best decision I made. I found so much comfort and strength from the other women. I always marveled at what they were able to accomplish and how far they had come. I honestly don’t think I would be where I am today without the support of the group. I don’t think I can say enough about what it was like to say something that I felt was so off the wall and have 5 other heads nod in understanding. I learned that I truly was not alone.
Unfortunately, there were hundreds of women just like me thinking similar thoughts, having similar experiences. I learned that I was doing the best that I could in my situation and that was OK. Why should I feel guilty or ashamed about an illness? I wouldn’t feel guilty if I had the stomach flu. I wouldn’t feel ashamed if I had a head cold, nor would I blame myself for getting the sniffles. This was an illness. Nothing I did could have caused this. It was very empowering to finally be able to feel like I was in control of the situation.
Owen is now three years old and it is hard to look back at what I went through. But, I went through it all and I survived. I am able to talk about it, usually through tears, but I am no longer ashamed, or embarrassed. Occasionally I still have guilt about what I put my children through. But, I also realize that I am a much stronger person and I am far more aware of who I am as a person than I ever have been.
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A SPOUSE'S STORY
It is hard to believe how fast time has gone by, it didn’t always seem that way. I would like to be able to say that we made it through and I was always strong and supportive, but the truth is that PPD takes a toll on everyone.
While I’ll share some of the details of our experience, I can assure you that yours will be different. What’s likely to be the same are the feelings of frustration and at times anger over a situation that you can’t control and at times simply can’t understand. What helped me was knowing that I loved my wife and that no matter how difficult it was for me at times, what she was experiencing was real. It was both mentally and physically painful and that she needed me now more than anytime in her life.
When we first came to realize that she was suffering from PPD, she was lying in a ball on the floor and couldn’t get up, it was chaotic. We didn’t know who to call, what to do or where to go. After things settled down a little, meaning we actually knew what was happening and I had a little time to process things I decided to take the one-day-at-a-time approach. Because of the mental and physical toll that PPD takes on a mom, you may end up feeling a little bit like a single parent. By the time I came home from work Carla was done for the night. That may have been the hardest part for me, it’s not like a cold that goes away in a week or two, it’s a long journey down a very uncertain path. Over the next year I really didn’t get a lot of down time. It was work, come home and take care of the family, go to bed then get up the next day and start the process over again. I really had to make a conscious effort to make the most of what quiet time I had. That meant really relaxing after everyone else went to bed. Taking time to recharge my batteries, even if was only an hour or two a day.
Like most things in our lives they do get better and so did my wife. I think that we learned a lot, not only about PPD but about how to deal with stress and things that impact our perception about how things are supposed to work. Don’t get me wrong, I am still very far from being a perfect anything, but I do think that my wife and I are stronger and healthier because of our experiences.
In hind sight our battle with PPD started after our first child. My wife started having chest pains and breathing problems. She was ultimately diagnosed with asthma. The physical effects that she was experienced subsided over time. Looking back I can’t remember how long it took for Carla to get back to “normal”.
Things really became interesting after the birth of our second child. I vaguely recall what I would consider undue worry and concern immediately after the baby was born. The most significant issues that I was aware of started when Emma was between six months and a year old, possibly earlier but the times are starting to meld together. I have to say that I think that’s a good thing. To me it means that I have put those times in the past. Carla started experiencing significant and unexplained pain. It started with a lot of pain around her shoulders, neck and head. We tried everything from seeing her primary care physician to massage therapy, chiropractic care, neurologists, and acupuncture, nothing was working. Nothing relieved the symptoms.
After Owen, our third child, was born it became very apparent that something was wrong. Carla obsessively worried about accidents and possibly dying. The hardest part for me was that I did not know what do when she expressed those concerns. I knew they were real to her but not normal and not healthy for any of us. Around two to three weeks after Owen’s birth I went upstairs and found Carla lying on the floor, unable to get up. Fortunately for me my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, both having medical backgrounds, were staying with us, so I had someone to talk to and get guidance. That is where the journey to get Carla healthy really began. At least now we knew what we were dealing with.
It was a long and at times frustrating road to get her healthy. The biggest issue was not knowing where to turn for help. Her OB started by prescribing some anti-depressants. They weren’t the ones that worked for Carla but it was a start. The next big step was going to the emergency room. That had its impact on us as well. I think that it’s difficult to tell a stranger that you have a mental health problem. They ask a lot of questions that can make someone feel very vulnerable. Still it was a step in the right direction. While all this was happening the most frustrating thing for me was finding the right person to help my wife. She was hurting and there was nothing I could do to help her. That’s a bitter pill for someone who has a “fix it” mentality. I also became angry with the mental health community as I knew it at the time. I called ten psychiatrists, left messages and did not get a call back from a single one. I still find that morally and professionally unacceptable. We searched on the web for help with postpartum depression in Colorado and found no resource that she could call for guidance, again very frustrating.
Ultimately the real healing began when we found out about a support group from a friend of a friend. The Kempe Center had a postpartum depression support group. That is where Carla could share her story and had access to the resources that she really needed. To me the most critical resources were providers that specialized in postpartum depression and other mothers who also went through PPD and could share their experiences. It was a life saver for our family.
Now three years later it seems hard to believe what my wife and I had to endure.
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A HUSBAND'S STORY
As a first-time father, the birth of our daughter Alexa was a time of joy coupled with anxiety. While my wife Tracy and I were so very excited, we were rapidly entering the world of parenthood with confidence and fear. Unfortunately, our entrée into parenthood was viciously interrupted with the immediate onset of postpartum depression beginning within hours of the birth.
While we didn’t diagnose the problem until days later, it was clear to Tracy and me that something was wrong. After Alexa was born, Tracy was irritable, nauseous, incredibly frustrated with attempting to nurse and tired. However, these weren’t the areas of concern. She just didn’t feel right and experienced a racing heartbeat, tingling and an uneasiness that she had never felt before. The hospital staff said that she would be fine and believed her symptoms were consistent with becoming a new mother.
Tracy’s family had flown in from Chicago to be with us for the birth. There’s nothing more important to Tracy than her family, yet she didn’t want to be near anybody. Friends called to congratulate us and she wouldn’t speak with them.
Tracy’s mother and I brought Alexa to the hospital for her jaundice checkup and took the opportunity to ask the maternity ward staff if they had any information or contacts regarding postpartum psychological issues. The staff had no information, no contacts and no suggestions.
It was the first weekend and Tracy was not doing well. She couldn’t sleep and was experiencing severe anxiety. She said she just couldn’t stop thinking. Each minute was like an hour of mental anguish. Imagine your mind running non-stop and you can’t shut down. One specific moment forever etched in my memory was when I opened our bedroom door and turned on the light to see Tracy sitting straight up on our bed, eyes as wide open as possible looking as though her mind was going a million miles a minute. I don’t know how long she had been sitting there in the dark with those blank eyes and neither did she.
Tracy’s family and I realized the situation was not getting better and we needed to find a medical professional to evaluate her and alleviate her problems. We called the hospital again – no luck. We called her OB-GYN, who’s only response was “huh, postpartum depression doesn’t usually happen that fast.” We started searching the internet and calling other moms we knew. Finally, we found somebody that had some information and here’s how we connected with her…
Tracy Sister-in-law Sister Friend Friend
It shouldn’t have been this hard.
We were directed to a national organization which listed medical professionals with experience treating postpartum depression. After suffering through the weekend, Monday couldn’t come fast enough for us to reach out to these professionals. Luckily we were able to reach a psychiatrist and a licensed clinical social worker.
During all of this, I was also responsible for caring for our newborn daughter. Learning how to feed her, change diapers, bathe her and take care of night feedings. Tracy tried to participate, but was full of resentment. She partially blamed Alexa for what was happening to her. These thoughts made her feel even worse – she then directed the anger at herself and cried “how could any mother not want her baby?”
Tracy first had phone consultations with the professionals we found. We were directed to take her to the emergency room so that she could get a prescription until she could see her new doctor for a face-to-face consultation. She was also told to immediately stop trying to nurse. Her hormones needed to be leveled off.
Her doctors/advisors recommended that she take walks. She was incapable of making decisions for herself and we had to convince her, sometimes by yelling at her, to get outside and take a walk. These walks made her feel better.
Tracy started seeing the doctors and therapists in their offices and she came away with some hope that she would get better and they could help her along the way. The unfortunate part was that nobody knew when she would get better. Although these folks were confident, neither Tracy nor I were fully confident this was not a permanent issue, which scared the hell out of us.
Tracy began taking a cocktail of medications. However, nothing seemed to get her back to any state of normalcy. She might be better for some period of time, but the anxiety attacks kept coming and we could neither prevent them nor stop them once they started.
Unfortunately, it quickly came time for Tracy’s family to leave and for me to go back to work. I’ve probably never been more unsettled than when I had to leave Tracy at home with just her and the baby. Tracy had said on multiple occasions that she did have thoughts of wanting to be dead so that she didn’t have to feel this way. The doctors and therapists were aware of this but were comfortable that she wasn’t suicidal nor a threat to the baby because she never thought of how she would kill herself and said over and over she would never hurt Alexa. Unfortunately, this was the only solace I was given and it wasn’t much.
Tracy was still struggling day-to-day and I had concerns about her ability to care for Alexa. So, we found daytime help. The lady that came to help us ended up helping both Alexa and Tracy. She was an angel. Though again, this was another additional but necessary expense.
Tracy found a group of moms dealing with postpartum depression. These free sessions were facilitated by several women with significant postpartum experience. These sessions helped Tracy so much because she was able to finally realize that others were experiencing the same issues. Probably the most valuable pieces of information were that (1) there was nothing she did or didn’t do that brought this on and (2) the facilitators swore that they had seen many, many women suffer from this and every single one of them eventually came out of it.
Although Tracy improved, we weren’t out of the woods yet. I don’t know the exact timing; it was probably several months after Alexa was born, Tracy got really bad. She couldn’t “escape her thoughts” and said again and again, I want to be dead. After speaking with her doctor and therapists over the telephone, she finally made the decision that she needed to go to the psychiatric ward because she thought she might hurt herself.
As she went down to the ward, she began crying “what did I do?” I couldn’t look at her because I knew that I had nothing but fear showing on my face. Taking her into a ward where I had no control was the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do.
As a result of her extensive medical consultations, she learned that she had “no tolerance for stress.” Tracy was encouraged to participate in re-training herself to deal with decision-making. Basically, she was re-learning things most people naturally develop when they’re a child.
Tracy’s condition improved very slowly and, to this day, I’m not sure if it was time or the drug therapy that contributed to the improvement. I believe that the majority, if not all, of her improvement was a result of the passage of time.
Almost 9 months after Alexa was born, we noticed Tracy was better. There were more good days than bad. By the time Alexa turned one, Tracy had recovered.
In hindsight, I’m not sure there’s anything else we could have done differently. We reacted as fast as we could and as best as possible. Now, we’re great and we’re trying to help others find the best help as soon as possible.
Through the ordeal, I experienced about every emotion possible. For better or for worse here are the lowlights of this experience:
It’s appalling that none of the “specialists” including the OB/GYN and the entire maternity ward staff provided any help or any direction.
I’m a fix-it person and an action-oriented person. It was incredibly difficult for me to finally accept that this was something that had to run its course. We didn’t create the situation and we couldn’t cure it. I relegated myself to assuming that it was going to suck for one year. If it was a problem after a year, I knew something would have to change but thankfully it was no longer problem.
I attended various doctor, therapist and group sessions with Tracy and it seemed to help her immensely.
I was supposed to be one of two new parents raising our daughter. Instead, I felt like a single parent with two children – my daughter Alexa and my wife Tracy.
It’s tough to deal with a terrible situation when you can’t direct your anger at anybody because there’s no one to blame.
This ordeal is like a tattoo; it’s permanent and continues to influence our lives in good ways and bad ways. We’ve survived and we’re stronger because of it, but wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.
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A GRANDMOTHER’S STORY
October 6, 2004 was the beginning of a new journey for everyone in our family. If asked before the journey began, I would certainly have admitted to the belief that the road we were about to travel was one we all could have lived without. Two and one half years later I admit to more knowledge regarding post partum depression, but the path to that knowledge has been anything but pleasant.
The one major adjustment to my thinking was in previously believing that medical science and medical practitioners would always be able to help average, intelligent people in time of need.
When my granddaughter was born in Denver in October, 2004, my daughter was immediately thrown into what we now know was acute postpartum depression. Her doctor said, "This is so unusual, it does not usually begin for a few days." "Here is one Prozac tablet. You will just have to go home and find someone to help. This is just not something I know about." She then left the room and we were all left to wonder what happened next. What were we supposed to do now? It was a true nightmare.
When Tracy got home from the hospital she handed her daughter to me and said, "You take care of her. I don't want to. I am going to bed." That was the beginning. Tracy began endless pacing from room to room. She told us she was churning inside. She could not sleep even though she spent so much time in bed. We tried to get her to eat anything that appealed to her so that she could retain some strength. We tried to get her to take walks outside to alleviate the anxiety. She did try to eat and she was very willing to keep walking outside but nothing helped. Thus began an endless series of pacing, outside walks and unending conversations. She was enough in control of her thoughts at that time to know that she must do something to help herself but did not know what to do. What she did know was that she did not want to be near her daughter. We did not push her to do so.
We were so far from home, we knew no one to turn to for help in Denver. My son-in-law was trying so hard to do whatever it took to help, but he also did not know where to turn. To say we were out of our league was an understatement. Tracy’s father and I made countless phone calls, to no avail. My son-in-law and I took Alexa back to the hospital twice to be checked for jaundice and even at the hospital no one was able to give us the name of anyone that could help. Each morning we asked the administrators, nurses, random doctors and even secretaries to just find some sort of list so we would know where to begin. We got NOWHERE. It was as if we were asking a question in a foreign language.
Finally, 2 days later, through my daughter-in-law's sister's friend in Los Angeles (isn't that some sort of bad joke?) we were able to be put in touch with a therapist in Denver that could see Tracy the following Tuesday. This therapist worked along with a psychiatrist dealing with postpartum, and so our journey was finally to begin. Tracy was very receptive upon hearing that we were finally able to connect with a mental health professional. It did give her some hope but her anxiety was still way beyond an acceptable level.
The days from Friday until Tuesday were like a long bad dream. None of us knew what to do to help Tracy and we were all terrified. We would not leave Tracy or the baby for even one minute. At my age I thought I knew a great deal about this illness from what I have read and from what I had learned in my extended family. Needless to say, I knew nothing, and there was no one around to help us learn. There was just this great fear and a sick feeling that we were all so helpless. It is this great feeling of helplessness that lingers to this day. It is not a feeling easily forgotten; especially when it comes to your child, no matter how old that child is.
When we finally found a doctor that was willing to help immediately (Sunday), I was told that we had to take Tracy to the ER. This lovely man said that he would not prescribe any medication without my daughter being evaluated by a doctor in the emergency room. She actually was willing to talk to this doctor and he explained the same thing to her. She said she would do anything so that she could start feeling better. We then went to the first of many evaluations. At least we had begun.
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