Luck of the Draw?

January 24, 2011 by ·

I’ve often wondered how someone like me who really has nothing to complain about can end up with postpartum depression. Luck of the draw? Or genetics, or hormones, or whatever. It happened. Is happening. It’s a legitimate illness and most days I accept it even if I don’t always understand it.

But then I read stories that are so heartbreaking a little piece of me thinks, again, that I just need to suck it up.

Over the weekend I came across Finding My New Normal – one woman’s painfully honest story of having a stillborn child at 36 weeks following years of infertility. I can’t imagine.

Through following a trail of blogs tonight I found this post on transplanted thoughts. Holding your 7-month-old son as he takes his last breath? Almost unbearably awful. I can’t imagine.

When Connor was really small, I participated in an online community of pregnant and new moms. Through several weeks I followed one woman’s story, from her finding out through testing that her baby would have a birth defect to her daughter being born and their endless trips to the hospital. The baby was better. And then she wasn’t. She was better again, and then worse, and then really bad. Finally, none of the things they did were working and she couldn’t breathe. They had to keep her throat open with a tube, but the tube meant they couldn’t feed her properly. One surgery and then another, but in the end it came down to feeding or breathing. And those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

They made a decision. They took her out of the hospital and to the beach. They showed her the ocean. They held her and talked to her and soaked in every bit of her small being one last time. And then they took the tube out and let her go.

When this was happening, she let us know this is what they planned to do. It was awful to read, especially because none of us could do anything for her except hold her virtual hand. And when it was done, she came back to let us know. The community rallied around and a day or so later, at a specified time, we all lit a candle for this small child who had left the world far too early, and for her parents who had to carry on without her.

I lit a candle and cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. What an absolutely horrible thing to have happen.

So what on Earth is my problem? So my child doesn’t sleep well. Eventually he will. Right? (Right?!) So he had to be bounced all the time when he was small so he didn’t scream. And he was heavy. But hey! I lost all my baby weight and then some. I could have had a baby who slept and played happily and rarely fussed. Luck of the draw, I guess.

Compared to other stories, none of that matters. He’s alive. He’s healthy. He’s beautiful. And I love him with all my heart. My heavy heart. For tonight I will be grateful for all I have and send loving thoughts to those moms who aren’t so lucky.

Filed Under: Letters to Connor ·

Meet Me Monday

January 24, 2011 by ·

A couple of very lovely bloggers  I have come across in the last few weeks – Katie and Miranda –  are doing For the Love…of Blogging this week. Since I’m such a nerdy joiner I thought I’d play along. Plus this whole mommy blogging thing is new to me so I will probably learn a few things along the way.

Today is “Meet Me Monday” so if you came over from For the Love…of Blogging, here’s a bit about me.

I’m Robin and this is my second blog. Well, technically it’s my third blog but I can’t remember the URL for my first blog from years ago and I think I only ever got 3 posts into it. My other blog is the work me – it’s about internal communications and I started it mostly to have a space to write just for me, and that seemed like the most logical topic. As you can see if you clicked that link, I don’t update it a lot. I think it’s because there’s too much pressure to seem smart.

Then a few months ago I came across The Momoir Project and started to suspect maybe my story was more about being a mom. This is odd, since being a mom hasn’t been a fabulous success for me. Don’t get me wrong – I love my kid. Being a mom is just way, way, way harder than I thought it would be.

I kept my story to myself for a long time. I finally admitted I wasn’t doing so well, to myself and a couple of others, and started trying to find a solution. One of the things I’m really good at, though, is denial. You ever need help with denial? I’m your man. Er, woman. So I didn’t really follow the right path in getting help. (Blah, blah, blah – you can read more about that here.)

Ultimately my story is about having a baby, ending up with postpartum depression and losing whole pieces of myself in the process. I have found a few of those pieces by sucking it up, admitting I have a problem, taking medication and trying to find an appropriate balance to the exercise/chocolate-inhalation equation. I still have a few more pieces to find. Some of them are probably under the couch with bits of Lego and dried Playdoh. Some of them probably aren’t coming back, and I’m trying to reconcile myself to that.

But so many of the pieces of me are coming back through this blog and the community of women I’ve met since starting it. It’s like a whole new world to me. And this blog is only three weeks old!

I don’t know where this blog is going. I don’t want it to be a total downer. I also don’t want it to be all about PPD, necessarily, but for right now that’s what my story is. What I do want this blog to be is honest. Some days that’s hard, because people I know read it. But on those days I hit “publish” and pretend they don’t.

So far there’s only one thing I want to write about and haven’t. Probably won’t, at least not for quite a while. The rest of this is true to me. I know it is because when I look at the little tags on the right the three biggest words are “admissions,” “meltdown” and “routine,” which is pretty much what my life has been like for the past 2 1/2 years.

And that’s me.

Filed Under: Writing ·

The Last Sunday

January 23, 2011 by ·

In May 2009 my husband and I traded places. I went back to work after 11 months of mat leave and he started his new career as a stay-at-home dad. We were both pretty happy about it: he really wanted to stay at home (and I really didn’t). I was really ready to go back to work. This was largely because I found it incredibly hard to just be a mom all day.

I went back to work hoping – expecting – that all the things I found hard about being a mom would disappear. That didn’t happen but it was still a better balance for me.

And then there Sunday.

My husband is a graphic designer. He quit his full-time job to stay at home with Connor but the deal we made is that he would do freelance work two days a week. My parents take Connor on Thursdays so Rich can work. He also works on Sundays, which means I’m on mom duty.

This one day a week is so hard for me. So hard. I honestly don’t know what it is. It doesn’t matter whether I get to sleep in or not. It doesn’t matter if we have an activity planned or not, although if we have something scheduled for the morning I tend to last much longer before losing it. Sundays just…suck.

I used to find Sundays almost unbearable. Now they’re better, although I still start to get anxious around mid-afternoon on Fridays just knowing the weekend is coming and I’m about to be more mom than not. After a family-filled Saturday, Sunday alone with a 2-year-old is almost more than I can take.

I’ve tried a bunch of different strategies to deal with this, but it’s just not working. Lately I’ve been trying to be honest, with myself and others, about what I need help with. Today when my husband asked me how I was doing, I fessed up.

“I don’t think the Sunday routine is working for me.”

His response, bless his heart, was not, “No shit.” Instead he suggested what I have been thinking – that he work Saturdays instead. He can get up and take Connor to his Saturday morning class and I can sleep a bit. Then he can start working after they get home around 10. It’s not a magic solution to any of my issues. Nothing is. But at least this time I was able to admit that I need help finding something that works better.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Secret Mommyhood Confession Saturday

January 22, 2011 by ·

My husband is a stay-at-home dad. I know, right? We’re so lucky. Lucky that he wants to do this (and I don’t). Lucky that we can make it work. Lucky that we don’t have to do the crazy getting-everyone-out-the-door routine every morning to get two adults to work and a 2 1/2 year old to daycare.

Instead, I get up in the morning and have some quiet time with the kid. He and his dad goof around in the bedroom while I have a shower and get ready for work. When it’s time to go, I get a hug from a small boy who’s playing happily at home in his pj’s (or naked, as is more often the case lately), ready for whatever fun activities his dad has in store for the two of them. It makes the mornings generally quite lovely.

But there’s a down side to this arrangement. In our family, a stay-at-home dad and a working mom means I get up with the kid on weekdays. Nine times out of 10, that’s earlier than I’d have to get up. Sometimes it’s 6 a.m. and, with a kid who doesn’t sleep well, 6 a.m. is really freaking early.

It means I go to work at a busy job and then come home and go right back into mom mode. I get an enthusiastic greeting at the door from a very excited, very jumpy dog and a toddler who’s heading into the time of day more often associated with meltdowns than magical moments. Some days I love this – the running, jumping, “Hi Mama!” show of love from both of them. Some days it’s overwhelming.

Yes, my husband makes dinner. And does dishes. But here’s the thing: I’m an introvert at heart. Pre-baby, we’d both come home and have a little bit of time to decompress before dinner. I don’t get that anymore. I get a tag-along while I get changed. A very sweet boy who wants me to dive right into playing on the floor with him, even if that’s the last thing I feel like doing right when I walk in the door.

As well, I like to putter. There’s something about tidying the kitchen that makes me feel sane. It seems silly to complain about an arrangement that means I have a husband who tidies the house at the end of the day, but some days I would really rather do that than play with Playdoh.

The SAHD arrangement also means I do bedtime during the week, which involves giving a bath to a kid who likes to splash water EVERYWHERE and trying to brush the teeth of a child who would rather smear me with toothpaste than sit still for a few minutes so I can clean his teeth. It involves trying to convince a headstrong two-year-old that it’s okay to get into his bed, okay to go to sleep, and okay to do all of this without his mother having to sit in the room for God knows how long. Either that, or plop him in there and listen to the screaming.

Yes, the stories and cuddles are awesome. Yes, seeing my active little boy looking like a baby again asleep in his bed is wonderful. But at the 14-hour mark, it takes a lot of patience I often don’t have.

You see, if my husband worked too, some of this would be easier. I wouldn’t have to do all of the kid stuff every night. I’d get to come home and putter sometimes. I’d be a little bit less mom and a little bit more me.

And that’s my secret mommyhood confession.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With:

Fate Calling

January 20, 2011 by ·

When I started this blog almost three weeks ago, the idea was that I would be able to talk about what I’ve done to get past postpartum depression, both to reflect on that experience and to help others. I was feeling pretty good – had that new-year/new-attitude/new-motivation thing going on. I envisioned plastering something like this up here:

Postpartum Progress

Turns out my badge looks more like this:

Photobucket

I had a rough week last week. A little bit of a roller-coaster with some ups and some downs. It’s made me think a lot this week about where I am on this journey. No, not think. Wonder. If “wonder” can be read as “desperately looking for meaning in all this.”

One of my problems is that it feels as though what I call my coping skills, though I’m sure there’s a more clinical term, have disappeared through all this. I’m able to do some of the right things – exercise, eat well (mostly), try to get sleep when I need it, sometimes ask for help. I’m just not able to think the right things.

My mom has a piece about attitude on her fridge. I gave it to her 13 (14?) years ago. I thought it was insightful but, to her, it’s become almost like a compass, a way to ensure you’re going in the right direction. That same piece of paper has been on her fridge all this time, and she has frequently quoted it back to me when talking about situations where she thinks someone has lost that resource – their attitude. It came up the other day and a little part of my brain turned off the conversation and thought about my attitude. Realized I have chosen not to choose my attitude about this experience. That same part of my brain also, in a fit of spite, whispered, “I don’t care. I can’t do it.”

I’ve been waiting, for so long, for this problem to just go away.

This idea that I have to take control of my attitude, my perception, the language I use to describe my experience and my reactions to it has been darting in and out of my consciousness lately. It’s always there, but I haven’t been willing to acknowledge it.

“Go away,” I think. “I’m waiting for an easier solution.”

But it didn’t go away.

This morning I read Lauren’s post about giving thanks for things no one would normally be thankful for – accidents, addiction, postpartum depression, unemployment, grief. Her thankfulness is founded on faith – gratitude to God for what He has given her. That faith is not my particular foundation, but I can appreciate how powerful that is, and how genuine are the thanks that result. I totally get it.

I’m a fatalist by nature. Not in a we-have-no-control-everything-is-predestined kind of way, just in that I think everything happens for a reason.

I’ve lived a pretty blessed life. I’ve had a lot of stability and many wonderful opportunities. I have people to love, and who love me back. I really can’t complain. And yet, in some ways, that’s what makes this whole thing harder. I don’t understand why this happened. I don’t understand how I got here.

That whole “you’re not given what you can’t handle” thing never really rung true for me and it feels laughable to me now, because I can’t say I feel like I’ve handled the last 2 1/2 years very well.

What I do believe is that everything happens for a reason, and there’s a lesson in everything. My Type A personality doesn’t really like it when I can’t figure out the lesson (and trust me, there are times when I’ve analyzed something to death to figure out what I’m supposed to learn from it). I don’t know what the lesson in this experience is, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to specifically identify it.

Maybe it’s more of an opportunity than a lesson. A chance to discover I can get through it and am strong enough to be open to sharing my experience in order to help others. I’m already doing that, but to keep doing it – in a way that allows me to move forward instead of this becoming a woe-is-me blog – I have to be willing to spin it the right way in my own head. And while I can’t yet say “I survived” I’m coming around to the idea that it’s okay for this blog to be more about the here and now, and the ups and downs. For it to be about how I’m surviving.

I will survive. And you can too.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:
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