THE DOCTOR WHO SAVED ME

When I first met the doctor who would deliver my baby and walk me through some of the worst moments of my life I thought she was unapproachable, lacking in bedside manners, abrupt and superior. My prenatal care was done through a practice rather than by just one doctor or midwife. It meant that I saw all of the doctors only once or twice, and of all the doctors I had met, I absolutely did not want her in the delivery room. I found her to be rude, I felt like she ignored A., and talked down to me. When I found out she was the doctor on call when I went into labor I took a deep breath and said to myself "It doesn't matter, she's only here to catch the baby, just focus on the nurses." And in spite of my first impressions, I quickly realized that she was probably the best person to have walked into the delivery room early that morning.

She was encouraging right from the start and no matter what issue I have going into her office - whether it's a silly first-time-mom concern about the color of my baby's poop (yes, while there is more to that story, I'm ashamed to say I am that mom) or a much more real concern about my baby's lips turning blue, or about my depression - she always listens and takes everything seriously and checks everything thoroughly and never makes me feel stupid. She even called me two days after N. was born to see how I was doing. I'm guessing that's not typical.

She's also the one that made me realize just how serious my depression was. I remember worrying for days leading up to my appointment that she wouldn't take me seriously. That was always a huge worry for me: I felt that I might be blowing things out of proportion and someone was going to tell me that every mom feels this way, I would just have to deal with it. Turns out I was very much under-blowing. I explained that I was tired all the time, that I couldn't focus, that I would get frustrated, angry even, and be totally unable to cope. I told her that I'd been very close to hurting my daughter, and that I thought about suicide. After she consulted with the psychiatrist on call and pulled some strings to get me an appointment (I was later informed by the psychiatrist that I was "one of the lucky ones who gets to see a psychiatrist in three days"... somehow I didn't really feel lucky) she sat down with A. and I to discuss how to keep me and Baby safe. And suddenly I was exposed to the gravity of the situation. She told us I was not to be alone, ever, and certainly not alone with Little Nae. In fact, she even suggested that I was not to be up wandering the house while A. was sleeping. It was like being hit over the head with a baseball bat and sucker-punched in the stomach all at the same time.

I am a danger to my daughter.

It hit me hard and fast.

And it hurt.

But she didn't leave it at that. The three of us worked out a solution for the following week, and she wrote Adam a note so that he could take some time off. And as I cried in her office she told me "It's not your fault, we'll get you through this. You aren't a bad mother, I've never seen anything to make me think that you wouldn't do everything you could for your daughter. We just need to get this sorted out so that you can enjoy being a mom."

Today we talked about the medications and how they were working, I told her I wasn't interested in going off of them any time soon. The depression  has been awful for me, and I don't want to go back to that all-consuming darkness ever again. She agreed and told me that people with just a "little depression" (implying that mine was definitely not "little") should typically stay on the medication for six to nine months. She told me that I might want to consider staying on the Cipralex through my next pregnancy and postpartum period. I hadn't expected that, so we'll have to see how things go. While we were talking about the severity of my PPD here's what she said about depression, and I think it was very well put: "People think depression is just all in a person's head, but it's not. It's a chemical and hormonal thing. It takes over your life, it's all-consuming. There's nothing you can do, it just pulls you deeper and deeper."

So to anyone who might be going through PPD or other forms of depression, find a doctor who will listen to you, advocate for you, and truly care about your healing. It makes such a big difference.

One last thing... my doctor has a funny little quirk: She loves shoes... today she was wearing cute shimmery red heels with ribbon laced through them. I love it!

Packing Frenzy

We're packing today. I hate packing. For so many reasons, I absolutely despise packing. I don't like leaving a place I've gotten comfortable in. I hate saying goodbye. The finality of putting everything in bags and boxes is incredibly stressful. The list of things to do before leaving is always endless, never all ticked off, always of utmost importance.

And it drives me crazy when all my stuff gets jumbled together.

All the clean things touch the not-so-clean things, and the not-so-clean things touch the not-so-dirty things and the dirty things, and everything gets squished together into boxes and suitcases. Then the boxes and bags get dragged all over the floor, then outside, and then touch each other in the car, and whoever is packing handles it all and then touches door knobs and handles and shoes and hand bags and maybe even the baby's car seat, or the baby....

I do my best to keep on top of it all. I pack the 'dirty' stuff on its own, in disposable bags that can be thrown away at the other end. I arm myself with Ziploc bags: everything 'very clean' goes into its own Ziploc. But I don't have enough Ziplocs for all the 'just clean' stuff, so that ends up touching the 'not-so-clean' stuff. My frustrated mind accuses and whirrs excitedly: when I unpack, I probably won't wash my hands between touching the outsides of the plastic bags and taking the 'very clean' items out... or at least, I shouldn't.

And no matter how quickly I zip around the house or how frantically I talk and explain what can't touch what, or even how fast I do or don't wash my hands between all the categories of 'clean' and 'not-so-clean,' there is no way I will preempt every possible packing/touching faux-pas that my poor husband will, very innocently, make.

And that, my friends, is why I hate packing. 

I Am Slowly Going Crazy....

I just re-read that title... I should be offended at myself! ;) It's just that I've had that song in my head all day. If you aren't familiar, it's a little Sharon, Lois and Bram song from my childhood:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pygwaX2VNzQ

Now you have it in your head! You're welcome.

It's one of those days... My precious, darling, baby girl did not get the memo. She did not get the memo that it was the end of daylight savings time (C'mon, Kiddo, an extra hour of sleep would have been wonderful!) She also did not get the memo that it would be a snow day. We got 30+ cm of snow (that's about 12 inches for you Americans) here since yesterday, and it's still falling (although much less now). So taking her outside is pretty well out of the question. Our stroller is pretty amazing, but I'm not sure that even it would manage in that amount of snow. 

So little miss ball of energy has been unstoppable today! She managed to break a glass bowl put nicely out of her reach, dump a glass of water all over her lunch, the solution to which required putting her safely on the floor, where she proceeded to spread her sticky-icky hands all over my freshly washed floor. And then she learned to climb!

So we moved on to sorting Mom's recipes... yeah- that didn't last very long either:

Now she's napping and I just finished shoveling those 30 cm of snow off our sidewalk. Today I am grateful we do not have a driveway! That was the wettest, heaviest snow I have ever shoveled, I think.

Okay, so the point of this post wasn't just to share cute pictures of my daughter and a silly song. The point is that - while the day isn't over and it is possible I'll melt into a ball of anxiety later this evening (that still happens)- I'm functioning at a high enough level to deal with N.'s antics and I have the energy to shovel all that snow. My cheeks are pink, my arms are sore, but my heart is glad in my Lord!

Gentle, Gentle

We always tell our babies "Gentle, gentle."

Deep breath.

Please be gentle.

We want this to help others, so we have to let it go.

Maybe the worst tragedy of struggling with battles like these would be if NOTHING good ever came of it. Knowing our God, we are certain that will not be the case (Romans 8:28). Hopefully this blog will be part of the good.

Christie here: I've been thinking about letting this blog go for a while now. I've let the net out slowly, first with A. then J., then the rest of my family. It seems as though the general consensus is that I should make this public. I'm shaking a little bit inside, but I know how much something like this - support from someone going through the same situations- would have helped me, so here I go.  If you can only read a little bit here are three posts I think would sum up what I've been going through for the last several months. These are my most vulnerable posts. Gentle, gentle.

1) The Why
2) Yet another breaking point
3) Ambivalence

J: My battle was never really a secret: the panic attacks were too obvious, the constant terror too clearly etched on my face and in my body language. I discovered that more people understood than I expected, and that it doesn't help myself or anyone else to keep my struggles secret. I didn't tell everyone, but if someone asked how I was doing, I was honest about it. Many people were helpful. Some were not. Many had been through something similar, and recognized the look on my face, the tension in my body. Others did not understand, but tried to understand, and offered their help. I was tremendously blessed. I want to pass some of that blessing along to others, and hope to do that through this blog.

My introductory post is here:

1)It's Me, Not OCD

And although it's a bit long, if you want to know how my brain works on OCD, the following would be the best post to read:

2) Fish and Fear

Also, take a look at our All about us page for a little more information on who we are and a quick summary of what our journeys have been like.

Blessings from both of us!

Fish and Fear

I've been writing a lot lately about victorious living. I'd definitely prefer to write about the good stuff, but honesty demands a fuller picture. This is a rather long post. If you are at all curious about the way my mind works, or what it's like to live with OCD, or rather, to live getting over OCD, this is my attempt to give you a deeper look. I also touch on ERP (Exposure Response Prevention), the treatment that has allowed me to get past some of the fear-paralysis. But if you aren't interested, or if you're too busy just now for a long read, I'm not a bit offended. So, with that caveat, here goes:

A few days ago, I decided to face one of my fears and cook up some fish. Yes, fish--the stuff the Japanese and Dutch and Swedes and Norwegians all eat raw. I'm horrified of anything raw; don't ask me why: I know that ultimately, the fear is irrational, but irrational or not, I'll still find reasons, and writing about them only solidifies them for me. I’m also aware of the risk that someone else with contamination OCD might be reading this, and would not need more reasons to be afraid of stuff! (Having said that, if you are in the worst throes of contamination OCD, and you aren't supposed to even be on the internet right now, please don't read this. Contamination OCD is notorious for piggy-backing on anyone else’s hint of a suggestion of a fear).

Anyway, I took on the fish challenge. I'd had quite a bit of success taking on challenges in the kitchen: dealing with raw veggies, cooking potatoes, eggs, ground beef, steak. This ERP (Exposure Response Prevention) isn't easy and doesn't change things quickly, but with lots of practice, I've been seeing changes in my levels of anxiety.

Here, just a quick explanation of ERP (Exposure Response Prevention). Basically, the idea is that actions determine belief. If I act like I'm terrified of something, I'll believe that it really is dangerous. It's strange, I think I always assumed it was the opposite: that beliefs determined actions. But I've discovered lately how very potent the causal connection is between action and belief. The more I clean and avoid things "just in case" it could possibly cause disease, the more completely certain I become that it will. So instead, ERP is me forcing myself to face the fears, do the dreaded, and practice living AS THOUGH I believed that these things are not, in fact, dangerous.

The goal with ERP is to stay with the feared object or activity until anxiety decreases to a manageable level. For me, this never happens in a single cooking session, so I will have to re-visit fish probably a dozen or more times before it stops causing me horrendous anxiety. That's life with ERP.

The practice session was brutal, and I have to admit, I did not do very good ERP. First, I spent hours on the internet trying to ensure that the type of fish my dad had bought was in the lowest mercury category (seeking assurance on the internet is one of the worst of my obsessions). At the time, I don't think I really realized I was seeking assurance again, but once I had visited about a dozen sites that all said opposite things about my fish, it finally clicked that I was doing it again. So I got my hubby to take over. He found one reliable site, and confirmed that this fish would be fine. ERP-wise, I probably shouldn't have even checked. What's one little meal of fish slightly higher in mercury than the lowest possible…? But sometimes ERP has to go in stages....

Anyway, once I'd determined that this fish was actually going to get cooked, I had to thaw it. The package said to thaw it in the fridge for 4-6 hours. Typical for my OCD, I had to follow the directions exactly, so I put the frozen fish in the fridge precisely 6 hours before I wanted to get it into the oven.

Well, 6 hours later it wasn't anywhere close to thawed. My mom pointed out that she always thaws fish on the counter, but of course I couldn't, because the package said to thaw in the fridge! There it is: OCD is all about RULES.

Since it was frozen, I had to handle it to break it up. It would only be the second time I'd touched raw meat since before the OCD flared. I took a deep breath, turned the tap on BEFORE I got my hands fishy, and got it over with. A few minutes later, after I'd dried my hands, put the fish in the oven, adjusted my apron, and gone on to chopping vegetables, the panicked thought hit: "Did I really wash my hands? Or did I do it well enough? And even if I did, what if some germs from the fish splashed up onto my arms while I was washing my hands...?" This kind of thing is perfectly run-of-the-mill for my brain on OCD. And it is exhausting, agonizing. But I've learned that the only way to deal with it is to at least pretend to ignore it. So I kept chopping vegetables. But I was crying and shaking, and there were no onions in sight. I wept through the rest of the meal prep, but I kept going. I dreaded the time when I'd have to pick up my baby, wondering if there was nasty toxic fish juice all over myself, but I didn't run for the shower. I just kept cooking and crying. Then the fear turned a slight corner: what if I do run for the shower? I've done all this ERP work, and I am so close to breaking down, quitting, changing all the towels and aprons in sight, and going to have a shower. But if I do, all this hard work and anxiety would be for nothing. But if I don't, I'll be even more anxious.... But if I do, this won't ever get any better.... And on and on....

By the time supper was supposed to be finished, I was exhausted and as tense as a bad sewing machine, and the fish still wasn't cooked. It was in the oven, sitting in a liter or so of liquid from thawing. At this point, I got offers of help from several directions: my mom, my dad, my hubby. But I couldn't even answer; my mind was frozen as the fish had been. When I get anxious, I can't think, I can't talk, I can't even comprehend what people are saying to me. So I just kept going as best I could. My mom suggested pouring the liquid off the fish so that it would cook faster, but I was terrified, certain that there was no way I could do that without splashing raw fish juice everywhere. So my mom did that for me.

Dinner was finally on the table, and my little lily had to be picked up. I did it, somehow, and even nursed her after supper without changing my clothes. That was a couple weeks ago, and she did not get sick!

But I haven't tried cooking fish again.

Eggs, laundry, a newly crawling baby, packing, PMS, and a road trip would be enough challenges for the next little while....