Pregnancy, Babies, and Depression: My Birth Stories

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Motherhood is an ever-changing thing.  Once you feel like you’ve finally mastered something, everything changes and it’s like you’re back at square one.  I am the type of person that doesn’t handle change well.  So, motherhood has posed several challenges for me to improve myself.  My oldest is three and I am proud to say that becoming his mother has helped me become more patient, kind, compassionate, less judgmental, and more flexible.  But for all the things I’ve learned throughout motherhood so far, I am still often hesitant to believe what other mothers will say- “Every pregnancy is different”, “No two kids are exactly the same”, “What works for one kid may not work for the other”, etc.  I’m not entirely sure where this distrust stems from.  Regardless, they are all true.

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“Every pregnancy is different.”

I would look at women that said this to me, desperately trying not to roll my eyes, and think, “How is that even logical?  It’s the same process, same body, and same parents.  What could make them be so different?!”  Well, as I already mentioned, it’s true (at least it was for me).

My First Pregnancy

My pregnancy with my first son was uneventful.  I gained 39 lbs., my whole body swelled to the point where I had to buy bigger shoes, and by the end of the day, my feet more resembled a lump of clay than actual feet.  I had the usual complaints, but everything was mild.

Unlike most first-timers, Rocco came almost a week early.  The contractions felt like nothing more than period cramps up until 5cm, at which point I got an epidural.  After 19 hours of labor and 4 hours of pushing, he was finally born.  All in all, I considered it an easy pregnancy and typical birth.  After two days in the hospital, the three of us went home as a family.

Before I had kids, I was never much of a baby person.  Even as a little girl, I wasn’t interested in holding, playing with, or even owning a baby doll.  To say the least, I had limited infant experience.  I was nervous, but Rocco was an easy baby.  I can only remember one time that he cried inconsolably and that was it.  Aside from the immediate baby blues, and my nervousness of being a new mother, I was doing pretty good.  I felt like I handled the lack of sleep, the unknown of motherhood, and being home from work.  I took the screening tests for postpartum depression (PPD) at every appointment, but my score was always on the border of having PPD.

One pediatrician said to me, “Well, your numbers are borderline, but you’re here, you’re dressed nice, and your makeup’s done.  You don’t look depressed to me.”

Um, thank you?  Somewhat taken aback, I wondered why my physical appearance was so significant in diagnosing a mental health disorder.  But if I was considered bad enough, wouldn’t it show up on the tests?  Well, not exactly.

Diagnosed with Postpartum Depression

Months later, retrospective analysis made it clear that I had suffered mild PPD.  I was constantly worrying that Rocco wasn’t breathing, worrying that he was crying but I didn’t hear him so I needed to go check on him, worrying that every sound he made might mean he was choking, that going out in public was a horrible idea because he would breathe in all the germs in the air and get sick, and worrying that everything I did could somehow damage him.

It took me a while to feel confident and like I was doing a good job as a mother.  I felt like I had room for improvement, of course, but I was handling the necessities while working in some “extras.”  I felt like I’d figured out the key to parenting…”Do your best and protect them from the bad things in the world, and you will be a great mom.”  I had finally overcome my fear of being such a terrible mother and was truly enjoying motherhood.

              

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My Second Pregnancy

We decided around the time Rocco was 18 months that we were going to start trying for a second baby.  All our friends told us how much longer it took them to get pregnant the second time, so we figured within about 6 months we would be pregnant.  Those 6 months would give me enough time to come around to the idea of having another baby.  I worried that a second child would make Rocco’s life worse by causing him to feel unloved, since we naturally couldn’t give him the same amount of attention as before.  I was truly mourning the loss of it being just Rocco and I during the days.

Of course, I didn’t get those 6 months, and we got pregnant the first month.  I immediately started to panic.  My hyper-controlling side was flipping out because this was NOT HAPPENING ACCORDING TO PLAN!  I had so many things to work through in my head, and now in only 9 months!

My second pregnancy was difficult.  Physically, I had terrible morning sickness, fatigue, insomnia, and physical discomfort.  Mentally, I resented my baby because he was making me sick.  I spent a lot of time sick in bed away from Rocco.  It already felt like our time together was running out, and the new baby was ALREADY stealing time from him.  I felt like I wasn’t bonding with him, and couldn’t wait for the pregnancy to be over.  By 39 weeks I couldn’t imagine going another week, let alone another day.  I delivered 5 days early after 15 hours of labor and 3 pushes.  He was finally here and now I could start bonding with him, loving him, and finding a place for him in our lives.  You would think after so many times where things didn’t go as planned, that I would stop putting expectations on things.  But, no.

Meeting Declan

My son was placed on my chest- he wasn’t crying and was blue. I knew this kind of thing happened and that it wasn’t uncommon, so I calmly tried to pat his butt in hopes to get him to cry, breathe, and pinken up. After a few tries, the nurse stepped in and said she would take him to the bed, clean him up, and get all his vital signs. They gave him oxygen, but felt an hour in the NICU on oxygen and he would be fine. I wasn’t overly worried yet, mostly just sad. This moment we had waited so long for, meeting our son, had literally been whisked away. There we sat in a labor and delivery room with no baby, waiting.

The Waiting…

After three long hours of waiting and not seeing our son, the nurses told that a NICU physician would be coming to in soon to discuss our son with us.  He explained that he believed our son had contracted a virus during pregnancy that had attacked his lungs and heart, comprising their function and ability to quickly adapt to breathing after birth. His heart was functioning at diminished capacity due to the lack of oxygen from the lungs. He told us our son was “a very sick boy.” They had started him on antiviral medication in hopes to kill the virus if one was present, gave him heart medication to improve his heart function, and put him on a ventilator because he couldn’t breathe on his own. He had an umbilical catheter to make blood draws easier, but this meant sacrificing holding him. We wouldn’t be able to hold our baby.  What had started out as such a happy day, had quickly turned into my worst nightmare.

I knew I wasn’t being told the true gravity of our situation.  My baby was in the NICU dying, fighting for his life.  All I could think was, “Please Lord, don’t let him die having never known what it means be loved.”

The NICU: Our Home Away From Home

We were able to go and see him that night. He wasn’t awake because they had him on pain medication. He looked big, puffy, taped with wires and tubes, but mostly helpless. How was this tiny, helpless baby going to be strong enough to fight for his own life? They told us to talk to him, that we could touch him; so, I did, but mostly, I cried. I cried because I was afraid- afraid my son was going to die, afraid he would never know love, afraid he would never know the pleasure to taste food, afraid he would never know the warmth and safety of home, or the comfort of being held. I cried because I was sad. My son had known nothing of world but loneliness and pain. It seemed so unfair that this was his beginning, but even worse if it was his end.

                                       

Over the next days I spent hours sitting touching Declan’s hands, caressing his head, trying not to let him hear me cry.  I sang to him and talked to him.  I tried to provide as much comfort for him as I was able.  I had also resolved within myself that I needed to be strong for my family, I needed to hold it together for us to survive this.  The days Declan spent in the NICU were a blur of driving back and forth from home to the NICU over and over again.  I was preparing myself for the worst, I was preparing for my son to die.

God Granted Us A Miracle

I know based on what I saw, on the conversations I had with the physicians afterward, that the only hope for my son was a miracle.  And a miracle is what God gave us.  After 6 days, I was finally able to hold my son.  2 days later he was off the ventilator and onto c-pap.  Another 2 days later he no longer needed oxygen, and another 2 days after that he was able to have his ng tube removed and eat by mouth.  Our son made a miraculous recovery with no lingering adverse effects- both his heart and lungs are normal.  After 15 days in the NICU, we brought our son home.

                                                        

Settling In At Home

I was a jumble of emotions- nervous, happy, relieved, cautious, undeserving, guilty, and tired.  The days that followed were supposed to be amazing.  My son was miraculously healed and now we were all home together as a family, what more could I want?  But despite what it should’ve been, it was the beginning of a difficult time for me.

In retrospect, I think some of the challenges I faced were the direct result of Declan’s NICU stay.  The uncertainty of his condition created the possibility that I may not bring my son home.  I had to some extent guarded myself against the pain that would come from that loss.  But now he was here, and I felt like he was an intruder in my home.  A stranger.  We didn’t know him, and he didn’t really have a place in our family yet.  What dynamics was he going to change?  Would he take Rocco’s place?  I felt that if I liked and accepted Declan, that I was betraying Rocco.  So, I tried to take care of Rocco as much as I could so he wouldn’t be jealous or feel neglected.

The only alone time I had with Declan was at night.  I would lay him next to me in bed, and watch him sleep, hoping this would be enough for me to bond with him.  I watched as other people around me, my mother, husband, and mother-in-law, all had seemingly better connections with my son than I did.  I told the doctors that I wasn’t bonding with him.  They kept telling me to give it time, that it wasn’t going to be the same as with your first baby.  But all I could think was that the time was limited.  How long can a mother not bond with a baby before it starts to adversely affect him?  I felt guilt that I didn’t feel that same bond and joy I had with Rocco.  And shouldn’t I feel it more strongly since his existence was a miracle?  I struggled with overwhelming guilt that I couldn’t protect my son from this terrible virus.  This was the foundation of my belief on how to be a good mother and now if I couldn’t protect them, what was I good for? And so I started to sink.

                                                             

Spiraling Downward

Over the next month I struggled to stay treading water.  Then my husband lost his job.  The uncertainty of not knowing when he would get another job, calculating how long we could survive off the severance and our savings was surreal, and now we had not only one but two young children to raise.  I couldn’t help but panic.  I would lay in bed and worry.

The first job opportunity was shortly after he lost his job and it was a relocation to another state.  There were so many unknowns and so many considerations.  Do we wait for a better job, or just take the first one available?  Are we ready to pack up with a newborn and leave everything to start over in another city?  Did we even have any other option?

The month of December was a blur.  Jason was finishing out his old job through the end of the year, while applying for and interviewing for other positions.  We were both stressed out of our minds and oh yeah, since we had a newborn, no one was sleeping through night.  Ultimately, he found a job and was planned to start work in February.

In early January a close family friend from Michigan that was like a grandparent to me passed away.  It hit me hard.  I just felt like I should’ve gone to see him one last time, then maybe I could’ve said goodbye, reminded him how much I loved him.

Rock Bottom

Though I probably didn’t need all the additional factors to have been diagnosed with postpartum depression, they only made my symptoms more severe.  During the months that followed, there were days I struggled to get out of bed.  I felt like there was no point in living, that if I died my family would be fine, better off even, without me.  Sometimes the numbness or the guilt just made me want to die, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with these feelings anymore.  I felt like a terrible mother on so many levels.  I wasn’t spending time with Rocco and I wasn’t bonding with Declan.  At my lowest points, I had just lost the will to live.

Finding My Way Back

“And she loved a little boy very, very much- even more than she loved herself.”

Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree.

Between counseling, medication, my family’s support, and prayers, I slowly worked my way back to being me.  Declan is 11 months old now.  The depression doesn’t consume me now, it only seems to flare up from time to time.  The anxiety will probably always be there, because, well, that’s just me.  In some ways, I wish I could end this by saying how perfect my life is and how I’m always happy and loving life, but the reality is that’s just not true.  I chose the name for my blog because it encompasses who I am and who I strive to be.  I am imperfect and wouldn’t be real if I wasn’t.