Moms helping moms find hope in Middle Tennessee
I Believe in the Gift of Love
Growing up, I remember knowing I had an older brother who was given up for adoption at birth. Most of my childhood was spent daydreaming about the day we would meet, our family being complete and making promises that I would find him one day. Whenever there was an empty seat at a holiday dinner, I made sure I sat next to the open spot and pretended that he was sitting next to me.
When I was eighteen I was living in a basement apartment in New York City. It was New Years Eve and I was getting ready to take the L train to Times Square to ring in the new year when I heard the ringing of a different sort. It was my telephone. I was on my way out so I was tempted not to answer, but for some reason I felt a nudge from inside the pit of my stomach that told me I should.
“Hello?” All I could hear was sobbing on the other end of the phone, so again I asked, “Hello? Who is this?”
“Marcie, it’s mom. Your brother, he called.”
“Misha? What happened? Is he ok?”
“Not Misha, your older brother – Steve. The one who was adopted. He found us and he found his dad, too!”
I couldn’t believe that my year was ending with such incredible news! My dream had finally come true! After talking to my mom for a few minutes, I scratched down Steve’s phone number and called him right away. I was in amazement that I was actually talking to my brother! Before the night was out my brother and I had plans to meet at my mom’s house in San Diego just over a month later.
A week before our planned reunion, the phone rang again. The voice on the other end informed me that my brother had walked in on his girlfriend being brutally assaulted and killed the rapist who was attacking his girlfriend. Our first time seeing each other was at Tehachape State Prison, where Steve spent the next nine years for justifiable manslaughter. Although I was able to see the face I had been longing to meet for close to two decades, it was distorted by the scratched and slightly yellowed bullet proof glass. His voice sounded less recognizable than our previous phone calls since the only way we could hear each other was by using the cold, hard black receivers which had a slight hum and static that sometimes made it hard to understand each other. Thirty minutes after we sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a voice interrupted our conversation telling us our time was up. As we placed our hands against the glass in amazement of finally being “together”, we said our goodbye’s.
“Love ya, sis!”
“Love ya, bro!”
Our deep sibling bond pulled me back to San Diego. My brother needed me closer, so I moved home and made the six hour round trip drive for bi-monthly thirty minute visits. After all, my brother had pulled me through so many tough times in my life. With nothing more than a hope of meeting and hugging him he helped me get through a life full of hardships, bullies and just about anything else a young girl might need her big brother for.
In addition to our visits, my brother would call when he could. Every time I picked up the phone and heard the automated voice tell me to press one to talk to the federal prisoner or two to never get a call from the facility again, it made my entire week. Fifteen to twenty minutes were about as long as we were usually allowed to talk with a few extra minutes being allowed for holidays. Just as when I would visit him in person, a voice would come on to let us know it was time to say our goodbyes. Every phone call ended with the same six words:
“Love ya, sis!”
“Love ya, bro!”
In May of 2005 my brother was released from prison. We were finally about to meet and hug and live happily ever after the way other brothers and sisters do. For some reason, though, God had other plans. Shortly after my brother was released from prison, he was kissing his wife goodbye through the car window when several undercover police officers jumped out of unmarked vans that had been strategically parked in his alley. We think my brother may have been spooked and accidentally hit the gas pedal. Before he knew it, he had been shot in the back of the head. When I called the investigating officer at the Sheriff’s department I was told, “Although it appears your brother did nothing wrong, the police felt justified in the shooting in the situation they thought they were in at the time.” I was in shock that he was once again Steve was paying the price for doing nothing wrong.
Four days later, Steve was taken off life support and his organs donated. I took solace in the fact that his last words to me were the same as they had been since our very first conversation. At his visitation I wept and took his pale, cold hand in mine for the first and last time. There was a puffiness about him that made him slightly larger than life, just as he had always been to me. A strange sensation came over me as I reluctantly released his tear soaked hand. Steve was smiling down on me from heaven, giving me the hug I had been longing for. “Love ya, bro!” was all I mustered through my tears as I sat down.
November 24, 2006 I was wheeled into my hospital room at UCSD Medical Center. My husband Eric and our son Elijah were waiting anxiously as I returned from surgery. The nurse walked in with our new bundle of joy and delicately placed our minutes old son on my chest. I held him close and introduced him to his big brother. Elijah, meet your baby brother Steven.
“I love you baby brother,” was all he said as he looked lovingly into Steven’s eyes.
Since my brother’s death I have never let more than a few hours pass without telling people close to me that I love them. I am sure my boys are going to be tired of it as they get older, but I want them to be able to have the same peace when I am gone that the last words they heard me say were that I loved them. If I give no other gift in life, I want people to know they are loved.
If there was ever a time for prayer it’s now…
Saturday my friends Tim and Tiffany Brown were hiking with their 3 boys at Fall Creek Falls. They were below the waterfall when a six foot boulder came loose and landed on their two year old son Caleb’s head. He is at a hospital in Chattanooga right now. His skull is fractured and his brain is swollen. The surgeons are afraid to operate on him until the swelling in his brain goes down, probably another 48 hours or so. IF Caleb survives (the docs aren’t even attempting a prognosis at this point) he WILL have brain damage. The boulder struck the back of his head in the area that controls his motor functions. When I got the update call this afternoon I lost it when my friend said, “We don’t know what to ask people to pray for. We don’t know if we should pray for God to take him home so he can be at peace and the family can begin to heal or wheather we should pray for him to live.” That statement right there speaks volumes about the graveness of Caleb’s condition. I am still completely in shock, especially since I spent time with him at Sunday School when his daddy would preach. We used to joke because every time Tim would be our guest speaker I got “stuck” in Sunday School. (I have a special bond with the Brown’s because I was the first person to meet them when they came to hear another speaker and Tiffany and I would talk til the doors were closing while our kiddos ran around the sanctuary). So please pray however your heart leads you.
The Horror Movie
I could practically hear the movie reel clicking away in my head as the horror show played over and over. I’d seen movies that terrified me before, but this one left me completely paralyzed and wondering why I was the star. It seemed as though no matter where I went in my house scenes from this horror movie played vividly. First it was the bathroom. I would be on my knees, leaning over a full tub with the water running over the edge. Bubbles would rise to the surface, and I would feel sheer terror as I realized I was drowning my own baby. I stopped giving my two month old son baths out of fear that I would act out these terrible movies that were invading my sanity. I am sure that at the time everyone thought I was being selfish for refusing to give him baths, but there was no way I was going to allow anything to happen to my child. I was too afraid to speak the reason out loud. I would have rather them thought that I was wrapped up in myself than for them to realize that I was crazy and able to harm my child.
Next it was the living room. We had a large wooden entertainment center with glass doors on either side. It took up our entire living room wall and up until the movies I thought it was one of the most beautiful pieces of furniture I’d ever seen. But now when I would pass it, the motion picture would play, and I would see myself holding Jacob, trying to calm him down. He would be screaming, turning red and nothing I did would quiet him. I would then throw him as hard as I could through the entertainment center door, glass shattering and silence following. I dared tell no one about these “movies” that constantly tormented me. I was sure that I would be locked up forever and never see my family again.
Weeks went by and more of the movies began to haunt me. I had no place of solace. I loved my children, and I wanted nothing more than the best for them. I had to break my silence. I was at one of my appointments with the therapist I had been seeing for postpartum depression. I had conveniently convinced myself that the only thing I was seeing her for was to get my sleeping back on track. It seemed as though at every appointment she would ask me if I had thoughts of hurting my baby. I felt like somehow she knew what was going on even though I would never admit it. I constantly lied and told her no; however almost every minute of my day had been consumed with the horrifying images of hurting my own baby. I finally had the courage to tell her that I had in fact been seeing images of harming Jacob. I gathered my strength by telling myself that if it was going to be me or my children, they deserved the better life. To my surprise she told me it was fairly common and not a cause for hospitalization, since I knew the thoughts were wrong and had no intentions of acting on the things I was seeing. She explained to me that I in fact had postpartum obsessive compulsive disorder which, although scary for the person going through, it was very different from psychosis. If I had been psychotic than I would have believed the images I was seeing.
Several weeks after I confided my deep, dark secret to my therapist I was home alone with Jacob. I was tired, and had not slept more than an hour a night in weeks. My husband was at work, and my older son was at school. It was just Jacob, me and that entertainment center that had been haunting me. Jacob was crying and completely inconsolable. I was pacing around my living room rocking him in my arms, completely exhausted both emotionally and physically. Then it hit. The movie started playing with no warning. Only this time it was different. This time I could feel adrenalin rushing through my shoulders and down my arms. I was completely numb inside and knew that I was losing my mind. In my head I carried out the horrible act. I could hear the sounds of glass shattering but Jacob was still in my arms crying.
I ran into my bedroom, laid him in his crib and returned to the living room. I sat on the loveseat in a semi-catatonic state unable to cry or to feel anything except complete and total terror. I could barely breathe. When my lungs started working properly again I called and left a message for my therapist. I told her exactly what had happened. She called me back quickly and had her consulting psychiatrist call as well.
“Do you feel safe?” she would ask.
“Do you think you are safe around Jacob until your next appointment?”
I was slow to answer. I really had no idea.
“I think so,” I finally said.
I received calls every few minutes for at least an hour. I was so weary, so out of it and felt so guilty that I wished I was dead. After Jacob fell asleep I laid down in my bed, put the covers over my head and even though I couldn’t sleep I dreamed that I was falling asleep forever.
I heard my husband pull into the driveway. I couldn’t let him find out about the horrible monster I had become. I turned off my phone so he wouldn’t hear it ring and start asking questions. I pulled my covers back over my head and continued my daydream.
As time went by I faintly heard my husband rustling through the mail and going about his day. Suddenly those normal sounds in my house were disrupted by a powerful knock on the front door. He answered. As the door opened I heard the crackling of walkie-talkies and knew exactly what was going on. My therapist had finally come to the same conclusion I had long ago and decided I was completely crazy and needed to be taken away for the sake of society.
“We received a call that a woman was about to throw her baby through a window,”
rumbled a rough voice over the sound of walkie-talkies.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong house,” my husband insisted.
“Do you know a Marcie and Jacob Ramirez?” asked the voice.
“We need to see them both right now.”
My husband came to wake me up. I was curled up in a ball with the blankets shielding me from the reality that was beginning to take place. I was completely numb, wishing more than ever that I could have escaped this life that was taunting me. I was so weak from exhaustion and so emotionally spent that I couldn’t walk without my husband holding me up. I leaned on him to keep my balance and was barely able to open my eyes. There were two male police officers from the San Diego Psychological Evaluation Response Team, better known as PERT. They stood in the doorway with the sun shining around them like a halo. A peace fell over me as I saw what I felt were my angels who were about to take me out of this torment that I called motherhood. One of the officers asked me if I had taken anything or if I was just out of it. I hadn’t taken anything although I’d spent many hours over the past several weeks holding my prescription sleeping pills, wishing I had the courage to swallow the entire bottle. After all, my family would be better off without me and my craziness. I answered every question honestly, wishing desperately that each would be the last. A fog clouded every thought. My speech was slow and slurred as I toppled over from exhaustion during the evaluation. My husband was my rock, standing beside me with his arms around me and holding me up until I could regain my balance. The only real feeling I had during my interview with the police was severe agitation at the fact that they thought I was going to throw Jacob out the window. After all, it was the entertainment center that had been haunting me all these months, not the window. After about fifteen minutes, as I waited for the officers to reach for their hand cuffs, I heard one of them tell my husband that he was not allowed to leave me alone with our baby until I was deemed safe by a medical professional. They then told him that if he hadn’t been there when they arrived that they would have taken Jacob. They then turned to me, and instead of taking me away they made me promise to be more open about my feelings.
Everything came out into the open that day. I was never labeled crazy, even though over the next several months I was hospitalized three different times. Healing was a long, slow process but once I opened up I was able to tap into the incredible friends and family who wrapped their arms around me until I was able to be alone with Jacob again. I was eventually able to escape the horror movie and become the person I am today. Shortly after my last release from “West Wing Psych,” I promised myself that I would be completely transparent from then on. All my demons had come out into the open and had nowhere to hide so I was able to heal. Although I have had moments of insecurity I have never reneged on that promise. It was the best thing I could have ever done for myself and for my family. The moment I realized I would be ok was about six months after this incident. My friend looked at me with tears rolling down her face and said,
“I’ve got my friend back! I never thought I’d get my friend back!”
Susan Stone stopped by!
Thanks for stopping by, Susan! You are always so eloquent when you talk about this. Thanks for all your passion, dedication and hard work. Here’s what Susan had to say…
Yes, it is wonderful that the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act which includes The MOTHERS Act AND the Mikulski Amendment (both PPD initiatives) have passed the Senate. But it’s not over yet ladies and gentlemen! We still need your signatures on the petition! During the negotiation phase now underway, legislators frequently view the petition to see Who from their state supports these critical bills. So Please.. if you haven’t yet done so.. send me an email at susanstonelcsw@aol.com with your name, state and permission to be listed on the petition. You can see the listings at http://www.perinatalpro.com/ppdlegislation.html
MOTHERS Act Passes Senate!
The MOTHERS Act has passed the senate! Thanks to everyone for signing the petition! Our hard work paid off. If you haven’t signed the petition yet or if you want to read more about the bill including updates on the passage click on the perinatalpro link on my blogroll. Woo Hoo!!!!!
Eric Bowling
October 31, 1977 - December 26, 2009
Have you ever had one of those people in your life who are so special that you thank God every day for their friendship? I had one who I met in my first week of college back in the mid nineties. We became instant friends and enjoyed many great times together.
Eventually our lives took different paths. I got married (ironically to someone else named Eric), started a family and in May of 2008 moved to Tennessee. He on the other hand put his love and dedication into school and hosting the Harry Potter panel at Comic Con. Still we kept in touch. It was one of those friendships that travels beyond the miles and survived the different paths we ended up taking.
Eric was an amazing writer. He graduated summa cum laude from UCSD with special honors in theater for his playwriting. He was pursuing his Masters degree at SDSU. More than that, though he was one of those people who cared so much about his friends that their passion would become his.
When I had my second battle with Postpartum OCD and came out wanting to help other families, Eric asked if he could turn my story into a play. He also offered to edit any ramblings I had on the subject. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders in this pursuit and to that I am eternally grateful.
On December 26, 2009 he unexpectedly lost a battle with Valley Fever.
One of the things I’m most thankful for is that I have no regrets other than the fact I moved away and hadn’t seen him in over a year. Of course it’s not like we didn’t keep in touch. Emails, chat and phone conversations were a fairly regular thing. In the last email I received from him on Christmas Eve he was upbeat, hopeful of getting better and eager to return to school. No one knows exactly what happened over the next two days. I guess the good Lord just had bigger plans for him.
Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. – Dr. Seuss
Letter to the Editor
Back in November I was reading the Rutherford Parent Magazine and came across an article entitled “10 Things Your Newborn Will Teach You.” While I pretty much agreed with most of the article, I had a HUGE issue with #10:
Parenthood is the most life-changing and affirming experience you can have. Your newborn will teach you the miraculous meaning of life, the boundless power of never-ending and total love and the incredible strength of the parent-child bond. This little being will depend on you so completely and confidently that you’ll be motivated to do great things. (And little things, like cleaning poop and not even minding it). Once you are a parent, it’s forever. You will never be the same again.
Now if you’re reading my blog, this was most likely not the case for you. In fact it is not the case for approximately one in seven new moms. Anyway, to make a long story short I wrote a letter to the editor which was published in this (January 2010) publication of the Rutherford Parent, Nashville Parent, Williamson Parent and who know what other Parent magazines.
If I get a chance I will scan it and post it here but until then you can read it on page 12 of Rutherford Parent. (I don’t know what the other magazine pages are)
Now here’s the deal…I’ve been asking the Middle Tennessee Parent magazines to run a full blown article on Postpartum Mood Disorders for over a year. Someone suggested that maybe if other moms show an interest in my letter that they may do an article on the not so perfect side of being a new parent. So if you’d like to see more on the subject why not write a letter to Susan, the editor in chief letting her know. susan@daycommail.com Couldn’t hurt, right?
Postpartum Depression Screening Saved My Life
Postpartum Depression Screening saved my life. Period. There can be no argument or debate. If I hadn’t been screened by my OB I would be dead. There is a good chance my son would be dead too. I am living proof that screening saves lives.
When Jacob was born I felt nothing. No happiness, no sadness…just emptiness. I put on a good show, though and no one was wiser. No one knew that I wasn’t happy. No one knew that the reason I asked my husband to give Jacob his baths was because every time I passed by the bathroom images popped in my head of drowning him. No one knew…and no one was ever going to know. What kind of mother would think about harming her child? I didn’t want to hurt him. I certainly didn’t want to kill him…but I didn’t know how to talk about it.
How does a woman…a strong, successful woman tell her husband that she wants to hurt her baby? How does she tell him that she is afraid of a 5 1/2 pound precious little being? I couldn’t. I wanted to tell my OB, after all postpartum depression had been talked about at every prenatal visit and in the hospital before discharge. It was obviously something they saw needed to be discussed. What if they took my baby? I couldn’t let that happen. Or could I? Maybe my life could go back to normal if I didn’t have this thing robbing me of my sanity anymore.
My chance came at my six week postnatal OB exam. As with every single visit from my first prenatal until now I filled out the Edinburgh PPD screening…I marked the highest number on everything except having thoughts of hurting myself or the baby. I was still too nervous to be honest about that. I had my exam and the OB talked to me, asking how I was feeling and adjusting. I told him I was tired and stressed but left it at that. He asked if I felt safe at home and I told him I did. He left and I got dressed.
Before I could leave he knocked on the door and sat himself down. He had just seen the results of my screening. He had this look in his eyes like he wanted to make everything better. I had never seen so much compassion as I had seen in his face at that moment. He took time and talked to me, really talked to me. He told me that there was a therapist on staff who could see me in just over an hour and asked me if I would please stay and talk to her. The head nurse came in too. She told me how important it was for me to get help and made me promise I would get some lunch and come back. I did. I talked to the therapist being very careful as to what to say and not to say. My guard was very much up.
I started seeing her weekly and she would always ask if I had thoughts of hurting my child. She would tell me that it was common and very treatable. After several weeks I finally opened up and told her about the images I was having. I did not tell anyone else.
I continued to see her weekly but the images were getting more intense and even though in my head I did not want to act on what I was seeing it got to a point where physiologically I could feel the muscles in my arms start to react. I was afraid that I would throw him against the wall or drown him or put him in the dish washer. I put Jacob in his crib, closed the door and sat in my living room. I was unable to cry. I just sat there terrified and feeling like a complete failure as a mother.
I finally got up the courage to call my therapist. We talked on the phone several times and the psychiatrist she worked with called me too. She asked if I felt safe until our next appointment (which was the day after next) and I told her I thought so but I really wasn’t so sure. My husband came home. OH CRAP! He didn’t know about any of this. He knew I’d been seeing someone about the fact that I wasn’t sleeping but that’s it! What would happen when they called back and my husband was there? I couldn’t let him find out. He would divorce me for sure and I would never see my kids again! I turned off my phone.
Jacob was asleep so I laid down in my bed and pretended to be asleep too. I imagined myself not being there or having to deal with this. My family deserved better than I could give them. They would be better off without me. A little while later I heard a loud knock on the front door. I knew deep down who it was. My heart sank and I just wanted to run. Instead I pretended to be asleep and imagined I was dead. I heard my husband answer the door. Then I heard what I had feared most. I heard the sound of walkie-talkies and a loud voice that said “we just got a call that a woman was about to throw her baby out the window.”
My husband insisted they had the wrong house until they mentioned Jacob and me by name. I heard them talk for a few minutes before the police officer insisted on Jacob and I coming out of the bedroom. My husband came in to get me and I just laid there. I wanted to be dead. I did not want to go out there and face my demon. The police would take Jacob, I would go to jail for the rest of my life and my husband would leave me and never let me see my family again. My husband practically had to carry me out to the living room. I stood there, barely able to keep my balance and barely able to keep my eyes open. The police evaluated me. They asked if I had taken anything or if I was just out of it. I told them I was out of it. I waited for them to take me to jail. Instead they sat and talked with us. They told my husband what to watch for. Made him promise not to leave me alone with the baby and made me promise to be more open about how I was feeling to my husband. They were wonderful and supportive and understanding. There was absolutely no judgment at all. Not by the police, not by my husband. I found out later that the police in San Diego had a PERT (psychological emergency response team) team who were specially trained to deal with situations that involved mental illness.
I turned on my phone again after the police left and had several messages from my therapist and the psychiatrist. A few minutes later my phone rang and it was my therapist. My husband talked to her and we all decided it would be best if he went to my appointment with me. My husband and I went to my appointment and after talking for a few minutes it was suggested I go to the hospital. I had never been so afraid in my life, not even when the police were at my door. My therapist told me that the goal was to keep both Jacob and I safe. After a lot of tears I finally agreed. The hospital was right across the street so my husband and therapist walked me over. Both of them stayed with me all afternoon until I was finally taken back to my room.
The hospital was a scary place. No one knew a thing about PPD. I had to go to classes on how to control my schizophrenia which I didn’t have but since many others had it I had to tag along. I was definitely in the wrong place. Everyone knew it. I wanted to leave. My therapist tried to get me out but since I had admitted to being suicidal and hadn’t eaten since I had arrived two days prior they told her that if I tried to leave against medical advice they would put me on a 5150 psychiatric hold. I was stuck there. My mission was to get out, so I put on a show. Everyone knew I was lying but since I was saying I was better and I was eating they eventually had to let me go.
Two weeks went by. My husband could no longer work. I would not go near the baby except to nurse and I would no longer leave my bedroom. I had to have all the blinds closed and the lights off. I wouldn’t eat. I wouldn’t get out of bed. I barely slept. I probably slept a total of 10 hours and ate maybe 1000 calories total over the next two weeks. My intention was to disappear. I don’t know how many times I held pills in my hand. Sometimes I even put them in my mouth. I tried to get my husband to buy razors telling him I needed them for something but he conveniently “forgot” them every time he went to the store. I visualized shooting myself in the head. I didn’t want anyone to be able to save me. I wanted to save my baby and the only way that would happen was if I killed myself. There must have been some part of me that wanted to live, though because I still made it to my appointments with my therapist.
I ended up in the hospital a second time. This time it was a hospital that was supposedly more suited for PPD patients but now my therapist didn’t have privileges so I wasn’t able to see her like I had been able to at the other hospital. When I met with the doctor there he said that I would have to start in the locked unit given my situation. I was in a private room. I did everything I could to make myself comfortable. I’d always been somewhat of a germaphobe but now I was in a full blown OCD cleaning spree. I scrubbed every nook and cranny of the room with my toothbrush including the ceiling, underside of the desk, chair and bed. After about 6 hours of sanitizing my space the nurse came in and told me I was being moved to share a room with another woman. The fear threw me into what I heard them say was a semi-catatonic state. I stayed at the sink in the dining hall scrubbing my hands in the hottest water available until the nurses literally pulled me off about 30 minutes later. I stood at the door of my new room all night unable to bring myself to step inside. When the nurse asked me why I wouldn’t go in, I told her it was not sanitary. Another nurse promptly came up behind her and whispered that nothing would be clean enough for me.
Bright and early the next morning the doctor showed up and moved me to the open unit after asking me all kinds of questions about my fear of germs. I think he knew that there was no chance of healing for me in that area of the hospital so even though I was moved to the open unit I still noticed “Close Watch” written in bold red letters on my chart and “CW” posted at every nurses station next to my name. I spent several weeks there trying like crazy to get better. I went to every class, every therapy session and ate every meal. My goal was simple. I wanted to be safe around my family. I didn’t care if I was happy. I just wanted to be safe. I would look at my four year old when he would visit me and feel so guilty that the only way he could see his mommy was to visit her in a mental hospital. Thankfully he was none the wiser. The hospital looked more like a rec room.
I was finally released and went home only to start going down hill again. The images came back and the fear of leaving my bed was just as bad as before. Why couldn’t I give my family a normal mom? A normal wife? Once again I wanted to die. I started going to a support group. There were other moms who were also dealing with PPD. It was so comforting to hear other moms say that they weren’t happy either. Not that I would wish PPD on anyone but at least I was not alone. I still wouldn’t be alone with Jacob, though so I was the only mom there without a baby. I actually looked forward to going every week. Even with the support group, therapy, alternative treatments (light therapy, walking, nutrition, etc) and medication I was still not getting better. I was sinking again and I was sinking fast.
I ended up in the hospital for the third and final time. There was an option that had been discussed before that my husband and I had always decided was not what we wanted. It was ECT (better known as shock therapy). I hadn’t gone into the hospital for that purpose but after seeing the drastic change in other patients (I literally saw it bring a young woman out of a catatonic state) and doing a lot of research we decided to try it. At this point we were willing to try anything. I had several rounds of ECT, each time getting better. I was not perfect by any means but something about the ECT “reset” my brain and allowed me to go for longer and longer periods of time without the images and without wanting to kill myself. After several more weeks in the hospital and the ECT treatments I was finally able to go home.
My therapist had arranged for my family and I to have a postpartum doula when I was released. She cooked us dinner, checked in to see how I was doing, and made a point to see how my husband was too! But most importantly she helped me bond with my baby and helped me not to be so afraid of him. She was such a blessing. My Postpartum OCD had been so consuming for my family that it was necessary to have someone from the outside come into our craziness and help bring us back to normal. I was finally getting better. I eventually had my first outing with Jacob. I took him to my support group. It was a 15 minute car ride then I’d be with people again. I know it made everyone’s day to see him. Jacob was a pint sized celebrity. He reminded us all that with help we could recover from PPD. It was a huge step for me to take him that day but I did.
I slowly started taking him other places such as to my therapy appointments and my friend’s house. I remember when I took Jacob to see my friend she burst into tears and said “I’ve got my friend back! I never thought I would get my friend back!” That was the moment when I knew without a doubt that I was on the road to recovery. I owe my life to so many people…my therapists, doctors, my amazingly wonderful and supportive husband, my doula, my support group, the day care that took Jacob in bro bono so my husband could somewhat keep his sanity, my family, my friends, my church, the PERT team and more than anyone my boys who reminded me every day why I was fighting to stay alive. I love all of them and could never repay them for everything I put them through. If it hadn’t been for the screening my OB had done I would never have gotten the treatment I so desperately needed. I most likely would have committed suicide and I very possibly would have taken Jacob with me.
I have lived what the MOTHER’s Act is trying to provide. Educated professionals who worked with me to provide the best treatment for my individual situation. I had an entire community that wrapped it’s arms around me and held me during the darkest part of my life so that I could be the wife and mother I am today. Did I enjoy going through it? Absolutely not. Am I thankful for it? I am thankful with every ounce of my being. I am a much stronger person than I ever dreamed possible. My family has a bond that only going through tragedy together can bring. I have a new sense of compassion for families dealing with postpartum issues and mental illness in general. I realized that each and every one of us is only one chemical, one trauma, one injury away from losing our sanity. I grew as a wife, mother and person.
I hate to think of what would have happened if I had lived in a community where I was told PPD was a myth or the Baby Blues. PPD is real and it is common. Most of all it is treatable. We must stop turning a blind eye to Postpartum Depression. As a society we must realize that it is the number one complication of pregnancy and act accordingly. We need education and we need to figure out what we can do about it. No woman should have to go through this alone and no woman should be called a cry baby when she tries to talk to her doctor. Moms deserve better than that. Babies deserve better than that. Families deserve better than that. The MOTHER’s Act strives to provide these things. It is not a ploy to push medication. It is an Act of caring, compassion and understanding. It is Act that will provide the research to allow ALL treatment options to be explored. It is an Act that will heal families, not tear them apart. I implore you to read the MOTHER’s Act then email your support to Susan Stone. You will be a hero to families everywhere. (the act can be read at www.perinatalpro.com)
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