TTC (Curious?)

Figgered you might be, whether you know what the abbreviation means or not. At least I was. Out of curiosity recently, I clicked on a “TTC Vlog” that came up in my YouTube feed. I soon learned, as some of you are about to learn (unless I was the last ignorant one), that “TTC” stands for “Trying to Conceive.”

Anyone out there feel a bit surprised? embarrased? uncomfortable about the notion of the TTC vlog? I did. My initial thought was: wow people, we are dying for community! Why else would anyone be willing to put out there for the entire world to see, analyze, maybe even laugh about, every detail of their personal uncertain attempt at conception?

Aside from my embarrassed surprise, this is a subject that brings up a heavy load of emotions. So I decided, perhaps against general caution, to address the topic on this blog.

No, this is not my TTC blog. I’m not telling, one way or another, so don’t get any ideas or start any speculative rumors! But I know that for many who are trying, TTC can be a source of almost unbearable heartache--because I’ve experienced it.

I must qualify that we did not try very long for lily-girl. I know many have tried much longer without the blessing we received, comparatively quickly. For those of you who cry out for a child that never comes, for those who have experienced a miscarriage, maybe multiple miscarriages, I cannot hope to say anything here that will ease your burden. But I believe the very least I can do is acknowledge it. Detailing my experience, brief and easy as it was compared to yours, may shed some light on the depth of your pain.

My story involves less waiting and less grief than many, but waiting and grief nonetheless. It involves a suspected--never confirmed--miscarriage, and years of mourning before the comfort of a pregnancy. Once we decided to try for a pregnancy, I cannot describe my waiting each month as impatient; it was rather more like desperate. Several months in a row I experienced pregnancy symptoms like breast tenderness, fatigue and nausea, and missing my normally clockwork period by a week and a half or more. Once when my period started nearly two weeks late, I was so convinced that I was pregnant that I went to the emergency room thinking I was having a miscarriage. I was beyond embarrassed when the doctor walked in and said, “So, you aren’t actually pregnant…”. I later learned these could have been symptoms of phantom pregnancy, or pseudocyesis. Yup, it’s a thing. Sometimes it lasts a few weeks. Rarely, the symptoms of pregnancy continue and progress a full 9 months, occasionally years, without a baby being present. Christie knew a woman who grew a belly, went into labor, and came back from the hospital without a baby, because there never had been one.

I felt like my body had turned traitor. It was teasing me, raising my hopes to dash them the harder. I felt like I went through the wringer every month. I felt like I grieved the loss of a baby every month.

Some of you may think my reaction melodramatic. I rather agree! I felt humiliated that I was so naive as to let my own body keep fooling me, embarrassed by my sheer desperation to have a child. But no matter how much I tried to teach my heart to feel differently, it remained unteachable, at least for the time. And all of the ache and desperation I’ve just described explains a lot about how I later experienced pregnancy, how on edge I was, how febrile, how anxious to get it just right.

I think we need to recognize that pregnancy and childbearing are fraught with emotion from before the very beginning. Waiting, more waiting, expectation, disappointment. Hoping and trying not to hope. It’s no wonder perinatal mental illnesses are so common. We’re raw and tender from the wringer.

When I was a teenager and young adult, my mom used to tell me, “Your reactions are valid. Your feelings are just as right as anyone else’s”. I never believed her. Generally, my own gut reflexes caused me either embarrassment or anger. Here was more evidence of my reflex-incompetence: this preposterous desperation and grief over trying to conceive. There was no good reason to feel so miserable, just as there was no reason for my body to feel and act pregnant.

When I later discovered that someone had given the experience a name (pseudocyesis/ phantom pregnancy), that someone else’s brain and body had joined forces to humiliate her, the realization that I was not alone loosened the grip at my gut.

The mental illnesses common in pregnancy range beyond postpartum depression, but we don’t hear about them. For example, you may be surprised to hear that anxiety disorders are actually more common than depression in the perinatal period, and mood disorders of all kinds are about as common during pregnancy as during the postpartum period. In particular, PTSD affects about 3 percent of pregnant women, and about 20 percent of women with OCD say their symptoms began in pregnancy (I got these stats from a wonderful resource called The Pregnancy and Postpartum Anxiety Workbook, by Wiegartz and Gyoerkoe, pp. 114 and 150). Because no one talks about them, pseudocyesis, OCD, PTSD and panic disorders ambush us, and at a time in our lives when we are most vulnerable. This is one of the main reasons for this blog. If we start talking more about perinatal mood disorders, if mental illness in general is no longer shrouded in secrecy and confusion, then we can hope to take out some of the shock and sting of shame. More women will have the courage to seek treatment. Fewer will believe they are alone. Above all dear readers, I want you to know that should you find your gut going through a wringer-washer of pain and guilt and shame, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Understanding my vulnerability helped disprove my original mortified assumption that no other brain had ever reacted as melodramatically as mine.  And then at least I was fighting a better-known giant. At least I knew the giant had been fought and beaten before. And now hopefully, so do you.

the new sock game

Well, I am back to writing after a long hiatus. This has been a terrible spring for illness! Our family has had a continuous string of colds and flus for the past couple of months. Taking care of a sick toddler and husband, and feeling under the weather myself has left me little time or energy to write. So that’s my excuse. I’m back now, and really hoping you’ll stick with me!

A ton of ideas for this blog have come up for me, so I’m not sure where to start. I’ve decided to start small and tell you about one of the tougher struggles I had recently. I’ve been doing well for the most part, but there are still plenty of battles in my brain. OK to be completely honest, even at this stage of recovery some days are just a matter of getting through a moment at a time, weathering a storm of worries that hurl themselves at my consciousness from various sides. It isn’t possible to explain to someone who has not dealt with OCD what it is like to live with an obsessive-compulsive brain--even a recovering one. It’s a lot of work. What looks to others like the simplest decision could be a major conundrum, an agonizing wrestling match in the brain of someone suffering from OCD. So, in an attempt to help you see through the eyes of another….

Lily-girl and I--as a team (haha)--started a new job recently. A friend of mine went back to work after her second maternity leave, and needed someone flexible to babysit on a casual schedule. So, a few times a month I take my "co-worker" over to their place, and get to watch three babies instead of one. I love it! My friends’ kids are perfect little angels (pretty well), and so full of zest for life. They are great companions for my lonely only, and the extra cash doesn’t hurt. Still, it is my first job post-partum and post-OCD-recovery, and I am encountering some unique challenges. Like when someone else’s child sticks her hand in my mouth. Or when navigating someone else’s kitchen, I think I’m reaching for a jar of peanut butter for a quick snack and find it is full of vegetable peelings for the compost (Aaargh! One of my absolute worst fears, by the way).

The particular day I am remembering was the warmest day of the spring thus far, so the babies played outside for most of the morning and got filthy in the sandbox. I didn’t think it would bother me so much, but it did. Don’t ask me why: I’m trying not to get into details in case someone with OCD reads this blog! Suffice it to say that I was experiencing unreasonably high levels of anxiety for the rest of the day. I was particularly worried about lily-girl’s sandy socks, which I intended to change when we got home, but forgot. She and her Daddy decided this was the day to invent a new game with those socks, and they were playing it on our unmade bed, right on the surfaces I would later lay my face on. Of course I wanted to change the sheets, and wondered if that would really be unreasonable. But I didn’t have time for such a major endeavor (our only other set of sheets is rather too small for our bed) and besides, I knew Jem would be annoyed and say that I was giving in to the OCD. I decided instead to flip the pillow over and sleep between the top sheet and blanket.

Some of you may think this story is funny. Some may recognize the pain of the dilemma. Some may have no idea what I am talking about! Whatever your reaction, I just hope you recognize that it is hard. I can't know if I made the “right” decision--should I have pushed myself more to face the fear? Or was I actually too nonchalant about a real danger? There is so much self-doubt involved in navigating life with OCD.

But you know what I am discovering? There is grace. There is grace when I make mistakes (whether real or imagined)--like forgetting to change my daughter’s socks, or not washing my hands “perfectly” every time. And there is grace for where I am in dealing with OCD. There is grace for not making the “right” decision all of the time. There is grace for not being completely "recovered" (whatever that would mean!) There is enough grace, even for me.

Watch Your Mouth!

Recently I was telling my hubby about a new friend who’d confided in me that her mother is bipolar. Well, I said it that way, “her mother is bipolar,” but then suddenly remembered that this is not at all what she said. She said: “My mom has bipolar disorder.” Now I’ve always been big on choosing words carefully, especially as it relates to the issue of mental illness, but it never occurred to me until that day that my grammar could be contributing to the stigma surrounding mental illness.

For example, I often catch myself saying “O, I’m so OCD.” I confess, “I used to be anorexic.” I’ve heard others say, “My son is ADD” or “My daughter is bipolar.”

Could you imagine if we talked about other illnesses in this way? Imagine saying, “He is hepatitis,” or “I have a friend who is epilepsy” or even “My daughter is a cough”! I’m sure most people would say I’ve descended to the level of the ridiculous here.

We do use descriptors like “diabetic” or “myopic” with this structure; i.e. “She is diabetic”. Even then however we wouldn’t dream of saying that someone is diabetes. There is no such constraint against using “OCD” as a noun in an equative sentence like “She is OCD.” “Bipolar” is a little bit ambiguous from a linguistic perspective (sorry for getting linguistic-y on you. Well, not too sorry): in a sentence like “She is bipolar,” the word “bipolar” could be either an adjective (descriptor) or a noun, but I’m guessing from the way I’ve heard other mental disorders named in equative sentences, that most people are using it as a noun, like “diabetes” or “influenza”.

Even as an adjective though, using disease words to describe people is only done in very specific circumstances, and very rarely. The idea of saying about a person that “she is cancerous” makes my stomach turn! How do we get away with it with mental illnesses that are just as horrific and terminal?

No matter how we may try to justify ourselves, the way we talk does influence the way we think. No, language does not control or define our worldview. But it has its effect. Let’s not equate persons with diseases.

I’m just sayin’. Watch your mouth. I’ll be watching mine.

(If you want to read more about identity and fighting the person and disease equation, read my first post, here.)

Why oh why

Writing last week’s post on resolutions got me thinking, “Why would anyone need/ want to read my resolutions?”

Well, for the same reason you would want to read any of my blog posts: because they're brilliant, of course! No actually, this blog is about fostering mental health, and one of the skills that contributes to mental health is being able to set and work towards goals (resolutions), and celebrate achievements. If you read my last post, you know I’m not talking stereotypical New Year’s resolutions that begin with great intentions, no way of measuring success, and a sense of failure before you’ve turned the January page on your calendar. I’m talking SMART goals, with a huge measure of grace for yourself when (not if) you fall off the bandwagon periodically. Those kinds of goals will give you purpose and a sense of accomplishment as you take each measurable step. Several of the resolutions I chose for myself also had to do with practices that will strengthen my mental health--and could do the same for yours too.

But setting and working towards goals is just one of a set of skills that I’ve learned are critical to recovery and maintaining mental health. In some of my posts this year, I’ll be talking about those skills, and the “workouts” I’ve used to strengthen myself in these areas. The process of recovery is so complex, and different for everyone, but I do think it can be helpful to hear what it was like for someone else--I know I so appreciated hearing from a friend of mine who struggled with OCD in her first pregnancy, and survived--fully recovered!

I thought this would be a good time to review the purpose of this blog and my plans for this year's entries. I know I have not been a regular blogger, but one of my resolutions is to write more, and I intend for this blog to be a large part of that writing.

First I'll just review the purpose of this blog. Please note that while I have consulted Christie on this post, I do not claim to speak for her. You can read about Christie's original intent for the blog in this post, and you'll find we are on a very similar page. I'm sure both of our intents have changed a little over time though, which is why I thought I'd post about the whys again. Since Christie now has TWO lovely girls--see her post here!--you will likely be hearing from me a little more often than from her.

Here are my reasons for writing this blog:

-Finding my voice. I love writing, and I want to learn to write better.

-Helping myself. Writing helps me process and retain what I learn. I’ve learned so much through the process of recovery, and I sure don’t want to forget it--it came at quite a cost!

-Helping you. I want you to know that if you or a loved one are going through a struggle with mental illness, you are not alone. I hope you can learn the easy way a little of what I’ve learned the hard way. And I want you to know that if you have any questions, or just want to talk, I'm here.

By the way, a little note about the comment section. It is available, but we have chosen to screen comments before they get published. This gives us a chance to go over them and delete ones that we deem unhelpful. We decided to do this while we were both still in very fragile emotional states, so that Christie could read the comments on my posts before I did and vice-versa, in case there was anything that could be really upsetting. We'll keep it that way now because it gives you the chance to ask questions or comment privately. Just let us know in the comment that you want to keep it private, and we can respond without publishing your comment. You may need to give us an e-mail address or some way to respond to you if you don't want us to answer in a public comment or blog post!

Now on to what I plan to write about this year. As I said, I’ll be talking about my recovery process, and skills I’ve learned that should be useful for anyone. But I’m also planning to touch on a wide variety of subjects pertaining to mental health. I’ve read a few books on the subject along the way, so I’ll do some book reviews for you. I have a post started on the language we use to talk about mental illnesses, and what that says about our attitude towards them. And I have a germ of an idea (whoops, no pun intended that time) for a series on what OCD has taught me--not what I’ve learned by recovering, but what OCD itself has taught me.

One of the issues surrounding mental illness that fascinates me most is a bit theological, but I hope some of you might appreciate reading about my musings on the relation between sin and sickness. A lot of mental illnesses lead to actions and attitudes that many Christians would label as “sinful.” But is it sin if you have a mental illness? Does a person need to repent for having a mental illness? (Sneak peak and reassurance: I think the answer is no, but...) Stay tuned!

Although not directly related to perinatal mental health, I’ll probably find a way to slip in some posts about passions I’ve recently discovered that are putting purpose back into my life post-depression: fair trade, minimalism, fostering community, and cloth diapering! Who would have thought someone with OCD would end up cloth diapering her toddler? ;-) Let me say right away however, I will not be arguing for these passions to be everyone’s passions--or way of life. I know they aren’t for everyone. But I do want to remove false barriers to them, like ones that used to be up in my own life.

Through it all, there will be stories and pictures from my daily life, quotations from other authors I’ve been reading, songs, and maybe a few poems. I’ve found grace to be a major theme in my life, and I expect it will be a dominant theme in these posts.

If any of this sounds interesting to you, please stop by again soon; I’ll be posting. And if you have any questions at all, or topics you would like me to address, please leave a comment here on the blog or on my Facebook page. Thanks so much for reading, friends!

"Let me tell you a secret..."

"I hereby resolve"--J

It’s a new year, it’s a new day!

I’ve been thinking a lot about New Year’s resolutions lately--please don’t groan. I know everyone else and their dog and their dog’s nephew’s cousin (do dogs have cousins and nephews? I guess they must) are writing about New Year’s resolutions. I realize New Year's resolutions are extremely cliché. I know that if you’ve made any of your own in some previous, more idealistic life, you’ve inevitably been frustrated and depressed by the whole thing. And then of course there’s the stereotypical New Year’s resolution like “I’m gonna get fit,” which turns out to be un-measurable and unachievable (let’s go back to grade 10 CALM class, or whatever they called that ‘life skills’ class at your school: a goal must be specific and measurable, etc. etc.--remember SMART?) Even if your goals are “SMART,” you’ll often go through periods of failure and frustration because, guess what, you’re human!

No resolution should be sold without batteries of grace: if at first you don’t succeed, forgive, forgive, forgive yourself. It’s a simple concept, but very hard to actually practice for those of us with a tendency to perfectionism and negative thinking. You know that grace you give your best friend, when she is late again, or does that really annoying thing with her napkin? You turn a blind eye or you gently tease, but mainly you forgive. Kindness. Patience. Give that to yourself. I’m learning that failure isn’t a reason to punish myself, rather, it’s a chance to re-evaluate what I am doing and my priorities. Sometimes, I need to change something about my time management or efficiency in order to get it done. Sometimes, it’s the priority I’ve placed that might need to be down-shifted a little, if only for a time.

Resolutions help me focus on the big picture. I am a detail-oriented person; I tend to get  sidetracked by details and forget the whole point  for the details in the first place. “Can’t see the forest for the trees” type thing. Doing research projects in school, I would spend weeks “researching,” aka. chasing bunny trails through mountainous stacks of books. I’d find myself with just a day--or night--left to actually write the paper, and with nothing but bunny trails that didn’t fit with the path I’d initially chosen for my paper. So I developed a strategy to keep myself from getting “lost in the forest,” so to speak. I would set my alarm for thirty minutes or so while I was researching, and when the alarm went off, I’d take a few minutes to stand up, stretch, get some air into my head, and remind myself of my goals for the paper. If I didn’t set my alarm, I’d come up with all sorts of excuses for why I couldn’t stop at the half hour, or I would ignore the clock, or just lose track of time. I had to force myself to get out of detail-mode for a minute and review the big picture.

One important note, however. Resolutions themselves are not the big picture. After reviewing the big picture, I think about all the itty-bitty steps I need to take to get there, and then go after that first itty, bitty step. That’s a resolution--resolving to take the first step. And I’m talking itty-bitty baby steps here, people. You can always make a bigger goal later, once you’ve managed the first step.

I realize some people think resolutions shouldn’t be relegated to one day of the year only, and I agree. I’m not saying to make goals only on New Year’s day. But New Year’s is just a great, logical, albeit arbitrary time to “set your alarm,” take a break, take some time to think about the big picture, and make some real, SMART goals!

Here are a few of mine:

I hereby resolve:

that when I wake up in the morning dreading the day and wishing I didn’t have to get out of my lovely warm, safe bed (OK, so I’m NOT a morning person), I will set my mind instead on the possibilities the day offers for God to provide abundant life;

that I will mindfully enjoy what I am given in life, just for the sake of enjoyment, knowing that it is for enjoyment that God has given it. Once a day I will taste, smell, look at, listen to or just snuggle something or someone I love, just for the pure enjoyment of it, mindfully paying attention to the gratitude that wells up in my heart (or doesn’t--I know it won’t always, and that’s OK too.)

When my mind leaps to assume blame (whether my own or others’), I will slow down and tell myself: “Don’t assume bad intentions.” It’s pretty rare that the intentions are really bad, and easier to forgive when I assume the best.

I will use my "alarm" principle monthly, weekly, daily, even hourly on bad days(!), either by setting an actual alarm or a calendar appointment, e-mail reminder, weekly routine, etc. I will take 5, 10, 15 minutes to review goals and priorities, and keep the Main Thing the Main Thing.

to simplify my life by getting rid of useless and un-beautiful objects, activities and thoughts. I will start by taking--or just setting aside--one bag of stuff to a thrift store once every week.

to just write, every day if possible, and not care if it comes out wrong sometimes. That’s what editing is for!

that when--not if--I fail in the above, I will serve myself a heaping helping of grace. Help yourself, too.

"Mommy, It's Just a Joke!"

My mother suffered from depression when I was younger. As she was recovering she developed what we fondly referred to as her "Prozac Laugh." One of us kids would say something that was apparently actually not funny, based on the lack of laughter produced. We would roll our eyes and say "Mommy, it's just a joke!" at which point she would burst into this completely fake laugh. Soon enough though, the fake laugh turned into real, tear-producing, unstoppable laughter. Little Miss Em's birth story is a bit like that kind of a joke: Really not funny at the beginning, but then you force yourself to smile, maybe chuckle a little bit, because the alternative is to cry. I did cry. Actually, I cried a lot. When I look back now though, I do kind of have to laugh... It' just the absurdity of it all; of one complication piling up on top of the previous one.

Miss Em was due the day after my birthday, which I thought was great - A. was born on his mother's birthday and I thought it would be so cool to share my birthday with my daughter. So part of me was hoping beyond all hope that she would be born on my birthday (although at about 37 weeks I quit caring so much, and after several false-starts just wanted her to arrive as soon as possible). Anyway, my birthday came and went with no baby... well, that's not quite true: A friend and coworker of mine had the audacity to deliver her baby on MY birthday. Oh my word was I upset. And I mean pregnancy-hormone-overload upset. My poor mother and husband must have thought I'd lost my mind. I mean, really, does it matter that much? It doesn't. Not now, anyway, but that day I thought it was absolutely unfair, as though someone was making this big ol' joke at my expense. To make matters worse this baby weighed 7lbs15oz. There was a running joke between my husband and I that 7lbs15oz was the heaviest baby I ever wanted to deliver. Nae had already beat that (8lbs6oz), and I'd been told by both the ultrasound tech and my doctor that it seemed as though I was going to have a very large baby. And of course with a history of severe tearing, each ounce gained was further confirmation that I would tear again.

I went into labour at about 0630 on my due date, February 21st. Nae, now just over two years old, was a such a sweetheart. She'd stroke my face and mimic me through contractions, shaking her head and blowing on the exercise ball I was using for comfort.

We headed to the hospital at around 1430. It's a little weird delivering your baby at the same hospital at which you work, but like I told A., from admission to discharge we had the Dream-Team. My coworkers were all excellent - as I knew they would be - and it made me proud to work there.

Let me pause for a moment and tell you all about the wonders of Entonox, also known as "laughing gas" or "gas and air" (if you've ever watched Call the Midwife). One of the nurses told me I had the "cutest" reaction to Entonox she'd ever seen. Now, having worked with laboring women, I haven't seen this particular form of pain management work particularly well. Most women don't even try it, opting for Fentanyl or the lovely epidural, and those who do try it often come to a point where they look like they are going to throw the mask across the room in frustration. I had tried it with Nae, although to be fair I put it over my face through half a contraction. It dried out my mouth and then I too, felt like throwing the thing across the room. J. had told me I had to give it at least 3 contractions before I decided if it was worth it. After the first contraction I felt funny and dizzy, again ready to give up on the stuff. The sharp edge of the pain was lessened somewhat during the second contraction, and then by the third contraction I was having an almost out-of-body experience: I could feel the pain, I knew it was there, but it was as if I was separated from it somehow. My mind was very clear, my thought process perfect, and my body almost animalistic but relaxed. At one point I heard myself scream - heard myself, because I'm pretty sure I was thinking about something completely different when I heard it- and said to my nurse "I think you should know that that scream wasn't me, that was my body." This made her laugh, which made me a little annoyed because she clearly hadn't understood me. I am going through transition, I thought, although why I didn't just say that I don't know. A few contractions later I told her "I'm pushing."
She replied "Okay, don't push yet, let me get the doctor."
To which I replied "You don't understand, I didn't say I feel like pushing, I said I am pushing."

Forty minutes later, give or take, my baby was in my arms. Beautiful and lovely and 10lbs8oz. That is not a typo. She was flipping 10lbs8oz! Another joke that didn't make me laugh, because it meant that I tore (badly) again. But I didn't just tear, I also had a mediolateral episiotomy that was meant to save my scar, but didn't for 2 reasons. Reason 1: She was flipping 10lbs8oz. Reason 2: She decided to present with her forehead. A baby is supposed to present with the back of the head, the occiput. This gives us moms the smallest diameter of the baby's head to deliver. Occasionally, a baby will present in different ways, for example with the back of the head but be lying spine-to-spine with mom, known as occiput-posterior (OP) or colloquially as sunny-side up. This means moms have a somewhat larger diameter to deliver which can be somewhat more difficult, and can even halt labor progress, leading to a necessary C-section. Nae presented this way, which might have contributed to my first tear. Miss Em was also lying this way (spine to spine) except that she also decided it would be great fun if she stretched out her neck so that, instead of presenting with the back of her head, she presented with her forehead. A forehead presentation is not supposed to be vaginally deliverable (ha-ha) unless the baby is premature, and therefore tiny, or mom has an abnormally large pelvis. Not sure if I have an abnormally large pelvis, but I know Em wasn't tiny! It was also probably made possible because she was lying spine to spine with me, meaning she didn't have to stretch her neck out quite as much. Still presenting with her forehead, but with a smaller diameter to go through my pelvis. Or maybe my physician was able to manually flex her head far enough to make delivery possible. But honestly, between my history of tearing, a hypertonic pelvic floor (I'll talk about that some other time, maybe), as well as the size and presentation of my baby, tearing was more of an inevitability than a possibility. Fortunately, I had a wonderful medical team, yet again. And this time I didn't have to go through the torture and pain of the hour-long repair. I didn't have to hear the comments made by the doctors and nurses, or listen to a list of dos and don'ts that lasted the length of my repair. This time they put me under general anesthesia in the operating room... and I slept.

I stayed an extra day in the hospital because my hemoglobin dropped significantly and had to receive 2 units of blood. And as A. and I were getting ready to go home we learned that my mother had come down with a stomach bug. Our town was a cesspool for one of the worst gastroenteritis outbreaks I have personally witnessed. It affected almost every house in the town and flattened its victims for several days to weeks... And my mom got it. So there I was, torn, in pain, with low hemoglobin, unable to lift my toddler, without much help from either my mother or my husband. A. actually had to return to Red Deer for work the day after I got home from the hospital. He had called multiple times to make sure he was needed, but they never responded. He went grudgingly only to find out that they didn't need him. That's right: did not need him! Not funny. I bawled the day he left: I was in so much pain, I couldn't manage Nae at all, and my poor mother was so sick. I bawled when he got back, too, because I was so exhausted. A dear and wonderful friend stepped in and took Nae twice that week to help me cope and heal. But they were such difficult first few days. I was terrified Miss Em or myself would get the dreaded bug and I couldn't imagine either. I couldn't imagine my 3 day old infant struggling to stay hydrated. I couldn't imagine going through the force of vomiting and the fear of tearing my stitches. I didn't use the upstairs bathroom. In spite of the pain, I climbed down to use the one downstairs. My mother disinfected everything she touched constantly, but I still feared doorknobs, towels, taps, anything she might have touched. She didn't hold Miss Em for the first 4 days we were home.

Neither Miss Em nor I got that gastro-bug, but just when I thought things might start getting better my pain increased significantly. I couldn't even get out of bed. Then I started to feel faint when I did try to move from room to room. I filled a prescription for Tramacet, which helped with the pain, but made an appointment with the doctor anyway. I had a double infection- yeast and bacterial. I developed a fever that afternoon, but the antibiotics started kicking in pretty quick so I only had to suffer through the fever for five or six hours. But then, like I said, the antibiotics kicked in. I had been prescribed Clavulin twice daily for 7 days. I took 2 doses before complete misery began. I won't go into graphic detail, but a possible side effect of Clavulin is severe diarrhea.  Don't think for a minute that this is a minor side effect - For three days I ate nothing. I drank very little. Everything that I put into my mouth caused an almost immediate and frantic race to the bathroom. I was completely depleted. My milk supply all but vanished. People, there were adult-sized diapers involved (and yes, I know that's not what a nurse is supposed to call them). My thought process also started to deteriorate. There was a moment before we knew for sure it was a reaction to the Clavulin that I thought I had contracted that dreaded stomach flu, and in that moment I got just a taste of what J. goes through every day. I saw the transmission of germs everywhere - from my hands to my hair, my face, back to my hands after I'd already washed them, my hands to Em. My feet to the bed, the bed to Em. My hands to the doorknob, the doorknob to A. or my mom, or Nae, and them to Em. Everything ended at Em. My poor, darling, barely two week-old, Em. I refused to touch her, I washed and washed. And I heard my mother say "You need to trust me. If I tell you you're clean enough, you're clean enough. You have to nurse Em. She won't get sick." It was what she had said to J. over and over. It was some kind of strange episode of the Twilight Zone, where I got to experience what my sister goes through all the time. Because I immediately saw the parallel, I knew what I had to do. I had to not let the fear get the better of me. I had to nurse Em, or I never would again. I had to make sure I didn't wash my hands for the fourth time, or I might never stop. I never thought I had the personality for OCD. In fact most people would probably agree that my personality is more or less anti-OCD (You should see my sock drawer... or any drawer... You should see the inside of my brain- obsessive-compulsive is just not in my nature). In those moments though, the fears J. experiences daily became very real to me.  J, you are amazing and strong. You battle thoughts like those everyday, multiple times a day and still face them, even conquer them. It is absolutely amazing. If I didn't think you were rather heroic before, I certainly do now.

That is more or less the story of the first weeks of Little Miss Em's life. Things did start to improve from there, although healing was slow, and pain as well as the narcotic-induced haziness and sleepiness were prominent parts of my life for the first several weeks after her birth. There's much more to it, to be sure. Nae's reaction to her new baby sister was priceless. My mental state, as fragile as it was, seemed more optimistic than with Nae. And there were beautiful late night cuddles and the difficult adjustments to life as a family of 4. But I'll save those stories for later, for now, I'll go make my late night rounds to my girls' rooms and give them both one more kiss goodnight.

And On We March...

It has been over a year since I updated this blog. I've wanted to a few times, but the urge to write that was present during the height of my depression had waned. Like I said in one of my earliest posts, I'm not much of a writer, I don't write when the urge- the impulse- isn't there. I guess the urge is back, but this time I'm hoping my entries will be much different. Before, I wrote in an effort to make sense of my illness and to find peace and healing. This time I want to be able to share victories. Go back and read this post and while you do, listen to the lyrics of the song I transcribed in that post. Because, guess what?

I've reached the top of my mountain. I've gained a victory on this battleground because of God's grace

Perhaps it is presumptuous to say that. It's entirely possible that I'll struggle with PPMD again this time, but already I'm seeing differences, and "God, You are faithful."


... And in case you didn't hear, or didn't figure it out, I am now the mother of two beautiful girls...

"Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful" Hebrews 10:23