Who's Got P.P.D.? (Guess what? Not me!!)

Waiting to see the shrink with mommy.

I've never been shy about the fact that I suffered from postpartum depression after Benjamin was born. In fact, I remember my openness about what I was going through scared some people off. Here's what a typical exchange between another new mom and myself sounded like:
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Other New Mom: Hi! How old's your baby?

Me: Six weeks old.

O.N.M.: Awwww, mine's also about six weeks old.

Me: So it's pretty tough, huh?

O.N.M.: What do you mean?

Me: The whole new motherhood thing. I mean, doesn't it suck right now?

O.N.M.: Uh... No. I mean the lack of sleep is tough, but I'm really enjoying it! I just love being a mom, and I adore my baby. Isn't it just great?

Me: Not really. I'm having a hard time. I mean, my baby's ok. But several times a day, I feel gripped with the near-uncontrollable urge to put him in an oven and then cut my wrists under warm running water. Unless I'm not at home. Then I feel the urge to throw him off my balcony and then swallow the vicodin left over from my c-section. Unless I'm not in a tall building, in which I case I feel the urge to drive us off the freeway overpass. Yeah, I'm not sure I'm cut out for this whole motherhood thing. I mean, I've like totally trapped myself for the next 18 years, ya know? And I'm kinda panicking about it. But I'm glad you stopped to talk to me, because I was just contemplating whether or not to bolt into oncoming traffic-- Wait, where did you go?

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Ok, so maybe I wouldn't say that last bit out loud, but it would be what was going through my head. In those first months, I hated being a mother, and I thought I'd made a mistake. It wasn't that I didn't love Benjamin. I was just torn apart by the incredible, intense, and violent sadness that was postpartum depression. At first I thought I was just going through the same baby blues that every new mom goes through, but after having to repeatedly call friends or my husband to rush home so that I wouldn't be left alone to do something horrible to myself or to Benjamin, I realized that I needed help. And help I got! Meds and a good shrink went a long way towards straightening things out. For the most part. I mean, I'm still crazy, but in that goofy, lovable (I think) kind of way and not in that scary, someone-distract-her-while-I-get-her-children-to-safety kind of way.

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When I found out I was pregnant for the second time, I was terrified that PPD would strike again. More than varicose veins, morning sickness, or recovering from another c-section, the spectre of being depressed like I was the first time filled me with dread. Well, I am thrilled to say that it's been eight months since Calliope was born, and so far, so good! I can say with complete sincerity that I have really enjoyed these last eight months. Sure, being a mom of two is exhausting and has its trying moments, but for the most part, I am loving it. I love watching Calliope grow each day. I love watching Benjamin grow into his role as an older brother. I sometimes feel guilty that I wasn't the same contented, cheerful mom for Benjamin that I have been for Calliope. But then I see what a happy and vibrant little boy he's turned out to be, and I wonder if it really mattered that much.

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I'm not sure exactly why I wasn't depressed this time. I think one reason why is because I already knew what to expect. Although having a second baby added more work to the load, it didn't completely throw me for a loop like it did the first time. Also, I was already in the care of an awesome shrink. For privacy reasons, I'll call her Dr. Shrink. And finally, I stayed on my meds throughout my pregnancy and delivery. Well, I did have to stop taking the meds my first trimester, and that went alright, except for the fact that I was a total bitch to my husband. Sorry about that, Vince.
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Aw, crap, I'm venturing into the overly emotional, weepy blog territory I promised I'd never visit. It seems like this is what happens every time I talk about PPD. Time to lighten it up!

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Can anyone tell me why it is that every shrink's office (and yes, I have been in quite a few) has the New Yorker in its waiting room? Every. Single. One. Isn't it enough that the patients in there are people who already have issues? Do we have to also feel stupid for not understanding those damn political cartoons?
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I'd ask Dr. Shrink, but she'd probably say something shrink-y like, "Hmmm. Let's talk about how the New Yorker, when rolled up, reminds you of a cigar which is actually a penis, which is actually the root of all your fears." Just kidding! Shrink sessions are only like that in the movies. Our sessions are completely different, but I can't give you details. Patient-shrink confidentiality, you know. ;)

Who's Got P.P.D.? (Yeah, You Know Me)

I was prepared for many of the agonies of childbirth and childrearing. I knew that recovering from a cesarean would be no walk in the park (because I would probably be unable to walk) and that breastfeeding had the potential to be a chafing, bloody ordeal. I knew that sleepless nights would become part of the routine and the daily routine would become, well... no routine whatsoever. These agonies I knew to expect and prepare for, but the greatest agony of all took me by surprise.

My OB had mentioned postpartum depression at our first prenatal appointment. My prior knowledge of PPD consisted of a vague recollection that it was a factor in why Brooke Shields and Tom Cruise were no longer BFFs. A few mom friends had also eluded to the "baby blues." Baby blues my ass. PPD baby blew me out of the water.

I was sitting on my bed the first time I really felt it. I heard Benjamin cry, and I was unexpectedly seized by a tightness in my neck and chest, after which I found myself having trouble taking a breath or swallowing. Suddenly, I was racked with hysterical sobs and a bizarre fear of my baby. I was unable to articulate to my husband exactly what had happened, but it kept happening. That first week, I noticed it seemed to occur at around 2:00 in the afternoon, regardless of what I was doing or where I was. So in an effort to inject the situation with some humour, I told myself that I had a standing date with PPD. He (yes, I decided PPD had to be a man) kept our date for a few days, but then he started to show up unannounced at other times. Or, he would stand me up for a few days, I'd be left wondering when he'd call again, and then he'd booty call me several times in a row. I felt like I was back in high school waiting for some asshole to call me.

I know logically that PPD is due to hormonal shifts, personal history, and sleep deprivation. I'm also aware that Benjamin's rather rocky introduction into this world probably aggravated matters. His week in the NICU followed by an unexpected transfusion several weeks later left us worried sick and exhausted. Still, no amount of logic and reasoning changed the fact that I felt a compulsion to crawl out of my skin several times a day. What has helped is having a good support system - a loving husband, an attentive mother, informed doctors, and a bevy of concerned friends who refuse to act surprised when I call them in tears and tell them I fear I'm going to jump off of my balcony. And the great news is that it has been getting better. I feel like the Dow Jones - severely up on day, crashing down the next. Only unlike the Dow Jones, the general trend has been a good one.

Oh, God, this is turning into one of those weepy, maudlin blogs in which the writer regales her readers with boring stories about personal strife, huh? Time to segue into something else...

Check out how my month-old baby is already dancing! Here he is working out his best Bob Fosse moves. All he needs is some fishnet and a top hat. I'm happy to report that Benjamin is doing really well. The little booger has already put on 2 lbs in his first month, which surely must be one reason why he has enough energy to party every night from 9 pm to 4 am.

Also on a lighter note, can I just tell you that breastmilk is the most incredible stuff in the world?! It seems to magically fix everything it touches. Benjamin's got a stuffy nose? No problem! Just squirt some breastmilk up in there, and all is well! Baby acne? It's a snap! Splash some of that magic stuff onto his face, and the zits practically disappear! I even offered to squirt some onto my friend Jen's face when she complained her chin was breaking out, but she politely declined my offer. Well, let it be known that the offer still stands for you, Jen, and also for Deb, Yvonne, Lisa, Grace, Jeanne, Cynthia, Tara, Kyong, Nancy, Jess, Bernadette, Mom, Adele, Leslie, and any of the other wonderful women who have kept me sane this past month. Consider it my way of repaying each of you for keeping me off of my balcony with my feet firmly on the ground.

And Then There Were Four (Well... Sort Of)

Vince's eyebrows shoot up in alarm as he educates himself on the finer points of childbirth and labor.

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Back in May when we were preparing to move into our new home, Vince and I realized Oliver might get lonely spending each day by himself in such a big place. To combat potential pug depression, we came up with the perfect solution - we decided to have a baby! When we excitedly told Oliver that he could expect his new playmate to arrive next February or March, his reaction was lukewarm to say the least. For one thing, he tried to chew up the positive pregnancy test we showed him. We assured him that no matter how adorable the new baby might be, he would still be Numero Uno in our hearts, but to no avail. The pug was inconsolable. Below, you can see him sulking in every corner of the house.

Just as I was beginning to worry that Oliver might one day eat his adversary in a jealousy-induced fit of rage, something funny happened. Implausible as it seemed, he began exhibiting signs of Couvade Syndrome, AKA Sympathetic Pregnancy. This phenomenon - by which expectant fathers experience pregnancy symptoms such as nausea or weight gain - can be brought on by anxiety, guilt, identification with the fetus (huh?), or jealousy. Vince had a little tummyache and some blemishes, but that was it. To be honest, I was rather miffed he wasn't sympathizing more. If I was miserable, my hormone-addled mind reasoned that he should be just as miserable for putting me in this state. The pug, on the other hand, seemed to be over-sympathizing. One morning when I was on the brink of throwing up, I found that Oliver had beaten me to the punch and already puked on the floor. In the evenings, I would struggle to stay awake long enough to drive home, only to find that Oliver was already passed out cold in his bed. But the strangest thing was that when I started breaking out in pregnancy pimples, a big, shiny zit showed up on Oliver's face, too (see Fig. A, below). At that point, I stopped worrying about his jealousy and started worrying about him. He'd been matching me symptom for symptom so far, and I feared what might happen once I began ballooning. Do pugs even retain water? Or maybe I was missing the big picture - why is my pug's Couvade surpassing my husband's? Isn't that a bad sign? Well, I suppose that as long as the hubby exhibits some sympathy pregnancy symptoms, I shouldn't worry. Even though I'd be secretly delighted to witness sympathy bloating, I'd take a sympathy footrub. Or later, some sympathy diaper-changing.

Fig. A: Oliver's Couvade zit.