Lady sings the blues
I haven't read Brooke Shields' book about her whirl with postpartum depression. Don't need to. I, and my sainted Hubby, lived through it. Twice.
The first thing I need to tell you about it is: It's real.
The first thing I need to tell you about it is: It's real.
When I had Firstborn Son in December 2001, his birth was a dream fulfilled. Hubby and I had been married 3 years and had just bought a house, we were both gainfully employed (me in a writing job I loved) and baby had the kindness to be born only after we had everything ready at home. I even had all the Christmas presents bought and wrapped by the first of the month, the house decorated for Christmas.
His birth was without its hardships of course, major of all was severe morning sickness (hyperemesis gravidarum) and an induced, 19-hour labor. But Joseph was perfect (7 lbs. 8 oz., 19 1/2 inches), the much -wished for baby everyone rejoiced about.
The first days I wandered around tired but euphoric. Maternal instinct is natural, but it isn't automatic. I learned that early on. But what surprised me was that I could fall prey to postpartum depression, henceforth known as PPD.
The first episode came three weeks about Firstborn Son's birth. I had just finished a long, hot shower (a miracle!) and aside from cringing at the pink floral number I was wearing (hey, I was nursing and nothing else fit in the boobs department) I felt pretty good. My brother-in-law and his wife were downstairs visiting and I could hear them chatting with Hubby, who was holding baby Joseph, pride making his face literally shine.
Then I couldn't catch my breath. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, I was till high about being able to shower. I walked down the stairs and quickly told Hubby, "Hey, can we go out for a walk or something?" and I was actually WRINGING MY HANDS!
That was the first.
I had several more anxiety attacks after that, usually around 6 p.m. and always coming as a stealthy creepiness, becoming a fullblown hyperventilating, pacing kind of panic, dissolving in tears and lasting about 10 minutes. In those 10 minutes I would feel caught up within the walls of the house, unable to hold baby Joseph, trying to breath and convincing myself I wasn't going crazy.
"Hormones," all my mom friends said. "Nonsense," Mom intoned. "Nobody in my generation did this."
The epiphany was ALL my friends had gone through it, but never mentioned it, most because it truly was just the "baby blues" that lasted one, three days or at most, a couple of weeks. One friend burst into tears when her husband suggested she was fat. Another cried in the shower for days after having her son.
But my attacks wasn't a depression, it was panic. And it lasted all of four months, interminable when I think of it. My OB pooh-poohed my first call, but her midwife-partner didn't. She gave me the number to a mental health hotline and I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.
That was breaking a wall right there. No one talked about problems like this, especially in Asian cultures. You took care of your own problems. Being in therapy was a sign of weakness, of being a baby. Well, wah wah wah.
Tomorrow, we'll see about that.
His birth was without its hardships of course, major of all was severe morning sickness (hyperemesis gravidarum) and an induced, 19-hour labor. But Joseph was perfect (7 lbs. 8 oz., 19 1/2 inches), the much -wished for baby everyone rejoiced about.
The first days I wandered around tired but euphoric. Maternal instinct is natural, but it isn't automatic. I learned that early on. But what surprised me was that I could fall prey to postpartum depression, henceforth known as PPD.
The first episode came three weeks about Firstborn Son's birth. I had just finished a long, hot shower (a miracle!) and aside from cringing at the pink floral number I was wearing (hey, I was nursing and nothing else fit in the boobs department) I felt pretty good. My brother-in-law and his wife were downstairs visiting and I could hear them chatting with Hubby, who was holding baby Joseph, pride making his face literally shine.
Then I couldn't catch my breath. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, I was till high about being able to shower. I walked down the stairs and quickly told Hubby, "Hey, can we go out for a walk or something?" and I was actually WRINGING MY HANDS!
That was the first.
I had several more anxiety attacks after that, usually around 6 p.m. and always coming as a stealthy creepiness, becoming a fullblown hyperventilating, pacing kind of panic, dissolving in tears and lasting about 10 minutes. In those 10 minutes I would feel caught up within the walls of the house, unable to hold baby Joseph, trying to breath and convincing myself I wasn't going crazy.
"Hormones," all my mom friends said. "Nonsense," Mom intoned. "Nobody in my generation did this."
The epiphany was ALL my friends had gone through it, but never mentioned it, most because it truly was just the "baby blues" that lasted one, three days or at most, a couple of weeks. One friend burst into tears when her husband suggested she was fat. Another cried in the shower for days after having her son.
But my attacks wasn't a depression, it was panic. And it lasted all of four months, interminable when I think of it. My OB pooh-poohed my first call, but her midwife-partner didn't. She gave me the number to a mental health hotline and I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.
That was breaking a wall right there. No one talked about problems like this, especially in Asian cultures. You took care of your own problems. Being in therapy was a sign of weakness, of being a baby. Well, wah wah wah.
Tomorrow, we'll see about that.
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