Monthly Archive for August, 2007

Earplugs

Published
by
twinutero
on August 20, 2007
in Coping
. 1 Comment

I have an impressive assortment, like a medicalized collection of earrings. Two miniature orange traffic cones stand on the bedside table. A box of spongy yellow cylinders wait in the top drawer. Individually-packaged pairs, relics from past airline flights, are scattered throughout the house. I even have custom earplugs, for my ears only, made of expensive, rock-hard plastic.

And just as some women (not me) never leave the house without their earrings, I never sleep without my earplugs. There’s little logic. It’s pure ritual.

Donning my earplugs marks a transition from mommy-in-action to mommy-unconscious. The creaking house, the whining cat, the neighbour’s air-con, and, yes, the snoozing children – gone from my temporal lobe.

I’m not listening! I can’t hear you!

I am, of course, and I can. Earplugs don’t really work. They muffle little ticks and snores but they don’t negate a wakeful, needy toddler. That’s fine because, as always, I’m awake for my wakeful, needy toddlers.

Symbolically, however, earplugs are a tiny, squishy segue to peace. They help me to relax. They create a boundary between me and my responsibilities – a temporary, illusory, and not terribly enlightened boundary, but a strangely satisfying one nonetheless.

I can’t go on, I’ll go on (Part 2)

Published
by
twinutero
on August 20, 2007
in Coping and Guilt
. 2 Comments

It wasn’t that I denied postpartum depression. After my discouraging attempts to contact the helpline and clinic, I simply dropped the idea that I might be ill and began to believe that I was just having a difficult time.

But there were other warnings that, in retrospect, I might have heeded. A traumatic postpartum period was one. Crushing sleep deprivation was another. I’ve already written about our sleep trials which, I’m sorry to report, continue to this day. The first couple of months after the twins were born however, were bordering on torturous.

I remember getting up with the kids one morning and slumping into the armchair in the living room. I immediately fell asleep. Only for a second; just long enough for Thomas, then about seventeen months old, to climb to standing on a dining room chair. I woke to see him grinning at me, then I fell back to sleep – again just for a second. That was the only time I drifted off while “on duty”. Most of the time I just felt nauseous for lack of sleep, and occasionally, while doing errands, it wondered if I was truly fit to drive.

I have since learned that depression and sleep deprivation are co-conspirators. It’s very hard to get the better of depression without sleep, yet it’s very hard to sleep with two new babies and an active toddler.

And then there was my behavior. Throwing my dinner across the living room was the most impetuous outburst. There were many other anomalies, however, most of which can be summarized as “losing myself”. My parents and husband often urged me to get out of the house. Alex and Jon were born in early December. That month seemed particularly dark and slushy, and was followed by a frigid January. We hadn’t yet bought our double stroller so getting outside with the kids seemed a monumental undertaking. Strangely, getting out alone was equally monumental. I simply didn’t know where to go, or what to do.

One afternoon my parents successfully coaxed me out the door. I wasn’t on a mission; there was no agenda other than to spend time away from the babies and on my own. I can now think of a dozen places I would go, given that opportunity. Then, however, I felt completely dissociated from life outside the house, outside my kids. There was nothing there that engaged me or even involved me. I drove aimlessly around the city for an hour and came home.

None of this struck me as particularly odd – at least not until it culminated in the now infamous flying-dinner. The morning after the chicken was scrapped from the wall, I called my doctor. She saw me immediately. Without hesitation she recommended medication, and without hesitation I accepted. Perhaps under other circumstances I would have insisted on therapy rather than pharmaceuticals. But I was scared. I had three little boys at home depending on me.

So I started on Zoloft. It’s one of the older SSRIs and the one most often prescribed for breastfeeding mothers. It takes several weeks to kick in and the effects, at least for me, are gradual and subtle. I knew I had reached a turning point when (it seems so trivial now) I walked a few blocks to stationery shop, browsed for a while, and bought a new journal. Not that wandering and consumerism are signs of mental health, it was that I did this purely for enjoyment. I walked because it felt good, and I bought the journal because I liked the flowers on the front cover. I did something for me. At the time, it was liberating, even bold.

Looking back on that day, I realize that the world – the world with my kids – has since opened again. There are still challenging times (Thomas didn’t learn the words Jesus Christ at Sunday school) but the flat gray has lifted and life is now shockingly vivid.

To be continued….

I can’t go on, I’ll go on. (Part 1)

Published
by
twinutero
on August 2, 2007
in Coping and Guilt
. 3 Comments

I’m not a big Samuel Beckett fan, but he did have a way of capturing resignation – and resolve. Many times, especially during the six months after the twins were born, I have thought: I simply can’t go on. Then, after napping or crying or walking or slamming a few doors, I have always resolved to go on.

It sounds dramatic, but it’s accurate. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression when Alex and Jon were four months old. I haven’t yet written about it because the memories are painful, embarrassing and confusing. Also, I’m not over it; I’m medicated. That too is difficult for me to admit and talk about. But here goes….

Thanks in part to Brooke Shields and many bloggers, it has become somewhat fashionable to write about postpartum depression. So much the better because I am sure many more women suffer from it than are diagnosed. There are now graphic posters in maternity wards, doctor’s offices and even on the side of city buses. I was well aware of PPD before Thomas was born, and anticipating the added strain of two more babies, I was on alert when the twins were born. Still, it took four months for me to realise that I wasn’t myself and needed help.

That realisation hit me one evening as a full plate of pineapple chicken hit the living room wall. I had hurled it from across the room. The kids were in bed, thankfully. How could I explain to them why Mommy was throwing her food? I couldn’t explain it to anyone. But it was good to have something – even a plate of pineapple chicken – fully under my control because everything else seemed beyond me. I felt gnawed at, picked apart by the formidable responsibility of caring for three children under two years old, nurturing a marriage that was also under two years old, accepting the ailing health of my mother, appreciating the superhuman help of my father - and holding onto something of myself. Everyone needed part of me and no one, myself included, was happy with the part they got.

It was not a permanent state. There were days when feelings of competence and self-confidence edged out those of absolute inadequacy. Well, there were parts of days. I never doubted my fortune and never lost the exquisite love for my family. I never got that low. But I can see, now, that it is possible and even that small glimpse is truly terrifying.

It shouldn’t have taken me so long to recognize PPD. In retrospect, the triggers and symptoms were obvious.

Trauma during or after birth has been linked to postpartum depression and giving birth to the twins was not straight-forward, as is often the case for multiple births. I was induced at almost thirty-nine weeks. Jon was delivered with amazing ease. Alex however, dug in his heels. He was breech and the doctors used all their might and ingenuity to turn him. After an hour, he was delivered by Cesarean while Jon, who I had barely seen, was in the NICU.

They were both healthy. I was worse off. The birth wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t traumatic. The pain that followed, the hospital stays, the failure of doctors to diagnose a problem, the nights without my babies, the tests and drugs – that was traumatic. By the time I was ready to leave the hospital for good, I had, at the urging of several nurses, seen a social worker and a psychiatrist. They asked if I was depressed. They asked my husband if I was depressed. We both said no – and believed it – and went home.

Over the next few weeks, my confidence in this self-diagnosis foundered. I took steps. I called a helpline. They said, basically, if you aren’t thinking of killing yourself or someone else, you’ve called the wrong number. Okay…. A few days later I called a clinic at the hospital where I had given birth. This number and option was given to me by the social worker. I left my name and number – and they never called back. A depressive asking for help is almost oxymoronic. It takes a major power surge, strong and fleeting, to reach out. Acknowledgement is vital.

So I let it go.