post-partum anxiety and self-denial

As I've mentioned before, S was hospitalized soon after he was born. The time at the hospital was stressful but more bearable in some ways than the second return to home, because at least then, I had a legitimate reason for not doing anything.

Ready for Home-->Take 2

The transition to motherhood felt like it was delayed for three weeks after S's birth. (Almost as if he was born on his due date). More sleep-deprived than ever, we were relieved to finally be in the comfort of our own home. I would have to make my own meals and clean up after myself again, but at least I would have a full-sized bed and I wouldn't be woken by nurses or beeping machines that needed to be "flushed." S would be right by our bed in his little bassinet and I would be able to redouble my efforts to nurse him (as it was still very painful) without worrying about flashing a nurse.

Though S was a fairly easy baby--in the sense that he usually cried for a reason I could attend to and would stop crying when I met those needs--I was still operating at high stress levels. What had kept me alert and ready to go at the hospital fed a voracious beast at home. I was in survival mode during peacetime.

I remember how hard it was for me to leave the room the days before he would watch for me. He would be contentedly lying on the ground and my stomach would grumble. I would think, "Well, I could go eat something, but what if he starts to cry?" After 30 or so minutes of putting it off, I would feel the burn of my stomach acid working to digest non-existent food, and I would finally run to the kitchen, grab a granola bar and a glass of milk, and hurry back over. I was so relieved every time I  saw him right where I left him, alive and happy. Hunger abated and baby safe, my anxiety would then subside for the next little while. Going to the bathroom was a similar routine and it was easier to refrain since my I had room in my abdomen for a bladder as a non-pregnant person. I didn't watch TV (for fear of S becoming too familiar with the TV), I tried to not look at my phone (for similar reasons), and I didn't want to read (for fear that S would think I was ignoring him). He had literally all of my attention.

The doctor told us to not bring him to Walmart or church until he was three months old and we were more than happy to keep him safe. The downside was that I was stuck home and worried about every visitor. I had to actively stop myself from asking people if they had gotten their flu shot. I tortured myself with articles of infants/young children dying from catching diseases from children who were not vaccinated and very nearly went on a pro-vaccinations social media campaign. (I still fill strongly about getting vaccines, but I'm a little less obsessed than I was.) I determined we would never go anywhere populated until S was at least a year old and had most his vaccines.

Besides the fear of S catching another deadly disease, I was afraid of every other pathway to death. I had this unshakable sense of foreboding whenever I picked my husband up from his school five minutes away. We would into a car accident, and if not a car accident something else would shatter our lives. I had this strong belief that God had mercifully given us S for only a few more months but would take him away soon. Was today the day? He was like an overdue book and I would pray, "Just a little longer."  

Imagine living like this for months. I didn't even have the excuse of a demanding baby, but I acted like I did. It's hard to explain it when the storm has passed, but I do remember wishing I could just get away. My husband would get home and I would hand him the baby and eat a double serving of dinner (or make dinner and THEN eat a bit more than two servings), take a shower, sequester myself in the corner of the living room, and just stare at my phone and push away the guilt. He was more than happy to take over and it was always nice to hear his excitement in the other room. I would borrow that energy to keep me motivated for the next day.

At night, I would often dream of being a single student with no responsibilities only to be woken in the middle of the night by S's cries. When I didn't dream of escape, I dreamt of death--usually baby or husband dying. The song You are My Sunshine made me cry every time I sang the line, "Please don't take my sunshine away," and I eventually decided to sing other lullabies. I cried to my husband about feeling trapped and he didn't get it. Of course he didn't get it; he was gone the whole day! I even tried talking to other stay-at-home-moms about it, and while most were very understanding and empathetic, their understanding of "feeling trapped" seemed different than what I was experiencing.

Around the time that S was 3 months old, I went in to my doctor for mastitis. He asked me a few questions about life and some of my stress leaked out of my eyeballs. I was given a post-partum depression screener and I was prescribed Zoloft for post-partum anxiety.

The best way to describe my experience with taking this drug would be to compare it to turning down the volume. Prior to taking Zoloft, it was almost like someone was shouting warnings all the time in my brain (Brain: "Don't put him down there! Something might happen!" "I have a bad feeling, you should leave soon!" "We should double wash his bottles--it's not safe!"). With the Zoloft, it was like the red alert sirens suddenly became background noise, and because it was in the background, I could ignore it or be more critical of these thoughts (Critical thoughts: "Whoah, that was random. Not listening to that "warning.") I felt suddenly normal again. I started to notice the little things I used to notice like the way the breeze would shift the tree branches outside the window. I would hear the firetrucks or police sirens and ignore them as they sped down the street, my heart rate fluttering initially but keeping a normal pace otherwise.  The neighborhood went back to being predictable and boring as it should be, and I was free. Well, freer. It still took me a while to test my prison (in my mind) and get out of the cage, but I could get up and do things without feeling unbearably anxious about my son's life. Life got better.

I started using more of the skills I had learned as a therapist to manage those automatic thoughts to cope with my anxiety. With the anxiety in the background, I realized that there was something else lurking there beside the anxiety: I had embraced a new schema of self-denial. Somehow I had reasoned that a good mother lives a life of self-denial and had never questioned it. While good parents inevitably deny themselves of many things, I had taken for granted that moms just give up any sense of self. My anxiety about not leaving my child to take bathroom breaks was simply a more compelling reason to adopt this new schema--the self-denying mother.

Is that crazy?

The realization hit me one day when I was playing my keyboard beside my baby. While I had gotten the keyboard out to get back into my interests, I was dutifully teaching him cause and effect and also hoping to inspire him to like music. I enjoyed this exercise--his excited interruptions, slapping the keys--but as soon as he lost interest, I thought, "Well that was enough for today." I hadn't even got to playing any music for myself even though I had a window of opportunity. Now even my hobby belonged solely to my baby and his learning experience.

I guess you could describe it as a mental shift. While I still engaged in my interests and hobbies, they were framed in terms of his benefit. Why was I practicing my guitar? Not for my own pleasure, but for his learning and growth. Why was I exercising? Not to be a happy human--to be an energetic mom. Activities that did not benefit my baby in some way were harder to find time for. (I should clarify: doing things for the benefit of your child is always a good motivator even if it an activity you love in and of itself, but that should never engulf your self-motivated passion/interest. For those tending toward self-effacing, think of it like this: What would you rather have (a) a passionate teacher who gets excited about the material and nearly forgets the student while teaching, or (b) a teacher who is focused on just teaching and is more interested in thoroughness than interest. I know the former is more inspiring.)

I would hazard to guess that my experience is not unique, though maybe less extreme than I'm describing. I have felt a thread of this in the culture of my church. I grew up hearing this refrain of "sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice," and it was almost never paired with "enjoy, grow, thrive." The conversation has since changed and I hear more and more about taking care of the individual inside the mother (imagine that, a mother who is also an individual) and I eat it up. Despite the shift, there was a poisonous belief that I had let take root.

I think it's also partly my own mother's selfless example. I often felt like she had let go of her interests and passions to be a mother, and while I knew she loved us (more than herself), I often felt like she was giving up too much and unhappy for it. It's no wonder that I dreaded having children one day. Though excited to have unlimited access to a cute baby, I bore my child with the expectation to give up a part of my identity, and what a sad, unnecessary sacrifice. Luckily, it was short-lived. I pruned in the garden of my brain, my schema, and took an honest look at myself. I needed all of me to be a good mom, let alone a happy human.

It took me a while to not feel guilty about having a mind that was not singly devoted to my baby. It also took me a while to work through my anxiety. I still have moments where that feeling of foreboding comes but I try to not let it upstage other thoughts. I really should have seen a therapist for some help with that, but I did make some progress. I eventually got to this point where I put all my housekeeping stress to the side and delved into projects--Coursera, painting a new dresser, decorating S's room, planning out a children's picture book, etc. The house was a mess for a couple weeks, but I don't regret it even a little. I'm still working on all those projects and I'm much more motivated about completing them since they're all already started.

It probably sounds like I was just miserable those first few months. I can't say I was completely miserable, just not fully living. (Though, I've heard that's not uncommon with how sleep-deprived you are when they're that little.) The trapped feeling I had mostly came from my mind--both the anxiety and that spirit of denial. I did have plenty of joy in the midst of my mind prison and all the deprivation. 

A bit about S...

From the beginning, S was very curious about his body and his surroundings. I remember him staring at his hands and observing his fingers move (much like an alien inhabiting a new body). He would also notice tiny objects or minute details that were close by and gently brush his fingers against those things before developing the grab-everything-in-sight reflex. He may have lacked the fine motor skills, but he was so patient about trying to manipulate those little fingers. Even after his vision expanded, he would still stare at those hands. His hands became something of a safe haven for him; when the environment overstimulated him, he would go back to staring at them. I love that image of him staring down at his hands, large cheeks bulging, and his little fingers slowly moving or touching the object of his attention. (As a rule, I always interrupt his focus and smoosh his face with a kis--at least 10 kisses).

S has also always been determined. He usually won't get discouraged when there are obstacles in his way and has learned how to ask for assistance from me. When S was younger than 6 months old, he was oblivious to our interference of his objectives (e.g., rolling off the bed, taking away our phones from his reach) and so it was easy to continually jump in the way. He got really good at finding alternate routes and we had to get creative. Nowadays he can see right through our sabotage and he will give us a talking to for interfering.

S is a very social baby. In role-playing terms, that kid has high charisma. He has always smiled easy, he loves copying noises (and knows how to make 5 different types of raspberries), he can lure us back to his crib by making false excited high pitched noises, and he has the best fake laugh ever. He knows how to charm anybody who passes the grocery cart by smiling, tilting his head, and babbling in the most adorable, cliche way.  

 I call this one "Distressed"

I laugh every time I watch this.

Where we learned he liked raspberries

 It is always a good idea to put babies in pumpkins.

 

Motherhood: Chapter 1 - Welcome to your new home, the hospital

Have you ever noticed how baby talk is sometimes used a means to talk to others indirectly? Like, instead of asking the parent of a clearly pre-verbal infant how old they are, an adult will ask the baby and wait for the parent to respond. I guess it serves the purpose of interacting with the baby and parent at the same time but it's a weird dynamic for a first-time mom. "Oh sorry, were you talking to me? I was confused because you seemed to not be making eye contact with me at all." I do this indirect communication as well, but less as a means of connecting with baby and parent at the same time, and more as a means of explaining that I'm a good mom.  

As my baby is crying and fussing more than normal with onlookers:  

"Someone didn't get his morning nap!" 

My baby smells and I'm getting judgmental stares: 

"Do you need your diaper changed? Well, thank goodness we're almost home. It's too bad we used our last diaper. It's amazing how many diapers you can go through in one trip!" *Elbowing spouse* "I told you we should have packed more." 

Tired baby crying in the mother's lounge as I try to rock him to sleep: 

Me: "You're not hungry." 

I notice another mother feeding her baby and realize that I might sound like I'm withholding.  

Me again: "I'd feed you but I know you'd just use me as a pacifier and we're trying to discourage that..."  

He continues to cry and I eye the other mom.  

"I wish you'd take a pacifier." 

His crying gets louder.  

"Okay, I guess just this once."  

Angry child will not latch until his grievances are heard. Other mother pointedly looks away.

SO... motherhood. It's a big change. I meant to write about this months ago and to keep adding my thoughts as I learned more, but it's hard to do much with this guy. I guess I'll start at the beginning...

Just to protect our identities, I will refer to my husband as "Husband" periodically and our baby as "Baby."

Labor was hard.

Skipping forward...

When we came home from the hospital that first night, I realized that our house was my baby's first home. I stepped through the front door and saw everything with new eyes. I showed him our kitchen to the right (advising him to not look down at the ugly linoleum floor), I showed him the living room (describing how much nicer it was now--he should have seen it a week ago!), I showed him the bathroom ("Yep, we'll need to baby-proof this room."), then I showed him his room ("And this, my child, is all yours."). And then I got tired, cuz let's be real, I just delivered a baby. I sat down on his rocking chair, excited to be finally using it with my baby in my arms, and feeling like an old-timey mom. As I rocked him, something clicked in my mind that this new addition to our house was going to change it in a big way. 

I know I'm being repetitive here, but bear with me: this home and all my future homes would not belong to just me and my spouse, it was the baby's home as well. That previous "our," which included Husband and me, would now include Baby in reference to our home, car, family, etc. My husband and my simple, happy relationship dynamic would drastically change with this tiny, warm little squish in my arms. And I really liked how things were. My mind had previously categorized my relationship with my baby as separate from my relationship with my husband, but now things were overlapping. It would never be the same.

Overwhelmed with this feeling of loss, I wept. I felt so stupid for not making this connection before and wishing--well, what? That I had relished my previous lifestyle more than I had? That I had more of it? That I had waited to have the baby?

While we hadn't planned on having Baby when we did, we were planning on having kids and it really wasn't a terrible time to start (since we want more than one).

But I suddenly felt not ready, and I couldn't do anything about it.

I looked at his cute little face and I felt terrible for feeling not ready, and I then felt ashamed for not being happy. And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. (And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed of feeling ashamed because I should know better as a therapist. I'm only half-kidding.)

I related my thoughts to my husband and he tried to reassure me that things were not all that different and that we'd be okay. He set up some Chinese takeout on our bed and got his computer to play Netflix as I placed a sleeping baby in his bassinet.

Then the baby woke up.

The next week was a blur--I was asleep, I was awake, I was cleaning my house, I was gingerly washing myself, I was gingerly sitting down, I was gingerly applying this vasoline-like substance to my breast parts (okay, I'll say it, "NIPPLES. I have nipples. Breastfeeding sucks!"... (pun intended)) Oh my gosh, so much gingerly. So much ow. People focus on labor and don't mention to post-partum pain.

Beyond the pain and anxiety, there was also a lot of holding this delicate adorable thing who sounded like a creaking floorboard.

Anywho, after a week of this, I started to form a routine in my head and gathered enough confidence to implement it despite my utter exhaustion. Then I noticed my baby wasn't acting like himself. His cries sounded more feeble, he didn't want to eat, he wouldn't open his eyes, he would cry as if in pain whenever I tried put him down, he grimaced throughout the day, and he had a slight fever.

I still remember the feeling of terror I repressed as I held him. I thought to myself, "It's okay. He's just colicky. I just ate something weird." And then breathing deeply and reminding myself that no one was about to die. "Oh my goodness, why does your mind even jump to something like that? You are so ridiculous sometimes!" I laughed to myself about my silly anxiety. CUT TO: image of heart thumping out of control.

As the day progressed, he continued to refuse to eat (both breastmilk and formula) and he felt warmer to me. I checked his temperature and it was something like 99 F. Nothing crazy, but still... I wondered if God was trying to teach me a lesson: "You were crying about not feeling ready? Well let me give you something real to cry about."

Silly thought, really. I know our Heavenly Father does not bully us (or talk like my dad). I guess I sometimes fear there's a mean side to God even though I've had ample evidence to the contrary.

Husband wasn't too concerned. We had just gone to the doctor and Baby had already gained back his birth weight. The pediatrician had told us that we did not need to take him in unless his temperature was above 100.4 F.

My husband was finally was able to get Baby to eat later that evening but he was still fussy sleeping (a form of sleeping that is also fussy). My husband had gone back to bed and though the baby hadn't woken me up for his next feeding, I couldn't sleep. I took his temperature again and it was 100.2 F.  I went through the same worries in my mind and then tried to shut them down.

"Should I just drive to Walmart and get some Tylenol?"

I nearly got in the car but decided that I would rather be worried with my baby then worried away, and I wasn't bringing him with me to Walmart. Not knowing what else to do apart from driving to the ER, I woke my husband and asked him to give the baby a blessing. He blessed Baby in a mumbled voice (I noted some repeated phrases and tried not to laugh) and then he immediately went back to sleep. The baby slept on as well.

I stayed awake for an hour debating on if I should wake Husband again and demand that we go to the ER. It was 1:00 AM and I was extremely tired. Was I worrying for nothing? It's just so hard to know if I can trust my worries when (1) I worry too much already and (2) I'm oh so sleep-deprived. And I would have hated to needlessly add to our already crazy high sleep debt when my husband had school in the morning. He had already missed a week of school. Plus he had midterm in a week and still hadn't studied for it (with all his new parenting shinanigans).

I checked Baby's temperature again and it had gone up to 101.1 F. He had breached the threshold.

Breathing deeply, I prayed to know if we should go. I didn't want to start this motherhood thing with midnight scares and unnecessary lost sleep. I got no answer. Angrily, I prayed again, voicing my concerns and my need to know in just this instance what to do.

In the silence, I held my little boy and told God in a prayer, "You know what? I don't care if this is unnecessary. We're going." And with that, I felt this small feeling of clarity in the back of my mind and something else that felt like loving approval.

My husband did not object to my decision or my insistence that he accompany me and we rushed to the ER around the same time in the morning that we had rushed to the ER just 9 days ago.

Baby's temperature continued to rise and he continued to fussy sleep. We waited for hours as medical personnel came in and out doing various tests and he would not eat that entire time. (At the 6 hour mark I eventually forced his mouth open and inserted a syringe to feed him formula.) His cries started to sound less and less familiar. I looked away as they inserted IV's into his foot and he shrieked in pain. Unable to hold back the tears, I continued to look away as my husband held our child's arms and sang soothingly in his ear as medical professional worked around him. The baby responded with calmer cries.

I was a mess.

When we were finally seen by the pediatrician (and moved to the pediatric ward), he told us that it was most likely just a virus--all the tests were coming back negative and the baby was acting more normal now that his temperature had gone down with the Tylenol. The doctor asked us to sign a release form to allow him to do one last test to check if Baby was all clean. This test was a spinal tap. I was given a document of all the possible horrific side effects. He then told us we would need to stay in the hospital for 48 hours just to monitor everything regardless of his test results. I kicked myself for not just getting the dang Tylenol.

At this point, I was more tired than I had been after giving birth, I was feeling a lot less worried for Baby's health, and I was eager to go back home. I looked at this stupid document and thought, "What if I don't want to risk it?" I'd never gone against medical advice before, but I entertained the thought for a good while. My child had been through enough for one day, and the doctor had as good as told me he just had a virus.

I asked again why this was necessary and he explained that we needed to rule everything out and that he would do this for his own child even if he hated doing the procedure. He again explained that it would likely come back negative but it was best to be safe with infants this young.

That argument that he would do the same for his own kid persuaded me. Well, why not one more test? We're gonna be here for 48 more hours anyway.

While we waited, Husband contacted some understanding professors, and I remembered that we had friends from our ward that were bringing us dinner and would not find us home that night. I texted a brief message about our situation and thanked them for their generosity. They texted back right away wondering if they could bring food to the hospital and also if we would like another priesthood bearer to come give the baby a blessing. I said yes to both. What nice people!

Hours later as my husband and I sat chatting about our new experiences of being parents and this awful one-night scare, the pediatrician returned. I knew immediately that he was about to give us bad news. He trembled as he told us that our baby had meningitis. (Cue sweet nurse to give me a hug.)

We talked about options for his care--a children's hospital would be best for this kind of thing--he didn't know if it was bacterial or viral--bacterial is worse--no, we hadn't had many visitors this past week besides my in-laws--if it was bacterial, he most likely contracted it from me since I tested positive for group B strep--this was rare--it was good we came in when we did--he doesn't seem to show any clear sign of meningitis so there probably wasn't severe damage done to his brain yet-- he was already being treated with two types of antibiotics and those were working against the infection if it was indeed bacterial--they had the best researchers at the children's hospital and they would take care of him--he would send his own kid to the one in St. Louis--they would likely send an ambulance or a helicopter--we could be at the hospital for 14 days if it was bacterial--

"So where would you like us to transfer him?"

"Well, if St. Louis is the best, let's go there." Husband nodded.

They left to gather paperwork for us to sign for his transfer to the St. Louis Children's Hospital.

I remember looking at my husband, surprised at his calmness. I told him that meningitis was a deadly disease and tried to impress upon him the seriousness of this information. I told him that the baby could die.

He responded that if it was his time to go, then it was his time. It was unfortunate but there was nothing we could do about it so why worry?

WHAT??

Who was this person?

Didn't he care?!

Blessedly, my therapist skills started to kick in and I sensed the shock under his flat affect. I was able to reign in my own emotions and be fully present. I don't remember what I said or did but soon we were both weeping. We prayed together and asked for the baby to be okay and for peace. After the prayer, I couldn't stop crying. 

Our friends from the ward arrived soon after the bad news and breakdown. The baby received a blessing, my husband received a blessing, and I received a blessing as well. The blessings were specific about the outcome: everything would be okay and the baby would fully recover. I was so happy to know in absolute terms that he would be okay, and I felt the peace and hope that I was promised in my blessing.

It made all the difference to have that knowledge the next couple weeks as stress mounted so that I could enjoy my baby rather than say goodbye every time I held him. I remember people asking after me and feeling like I ought to pretend to be more distressed. I didn't want people to think I didn't care or that I was pulling the same fake calm thing my husband had done prior to our blessings; I was just legitimately happy. Well, super uncomfortable and sad that our baby was distressed, but happy. (And occasionally allowing myself to entertain really sad possibilities and subsequently not okay for a free minutes.) But I was really okay. Our baby was going to be okay, and nothing else mattered.

to be continued... probably