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)
