Getting pregnant with our son was not easy. We tried on our own for one year before seeking the help of a fertility specialist. Our journey continued on for an additional nine months there progressing from oral fertility medications to injectable fertility medications and artificial insemination. We were thrilled and shocked when that pregnancy test finally came back positive. Our dreams were coming true - we were finally going to be parents.
My pregnancy was mostly uneventful. No morning sickness. No food cravings or aversions. Our little boy was growing perfectly and we were eager to meet him. My water broke at 2:30am on Tuesday, May 26, 2015 and we packed ourselves up and headed over to Virtua Voorhees, excited that the time had finally come for us to welcome our baby to the world. My labor and delivery were uncomplicated and in hind sight went very quickly. I opted to get an epidural to help me cope with the pain. After pushing for just seven minutes our sweet little Benjamin Robert entered the world! He was perfect, the sweetest little face, the picture of God’s grace and blessing to us. And yet, something deep within me began to stir. I felt completely uneasy, anxious and plain unhappy. These feelings scared me and I was too afraid to mention them to my husband. I completed the postpartum depression screening that is routinely handed out in the hospitals and noted right away how severely depressed I felt. I was terrified to be alone with my son. Each time he squeaked, coughed, changed his breathing pattern, sighed, my insides would squirm. I felt like the worst Mom, no the worst person in the world! What new Mom looks at their baby and feels emptiness, loneliness, sadness instead of joy, intense first sight love and complete happiness?
Sadly, we dropped through the cracks at the hospital. There were 28 babies born the day my son was born. The staff was over-worked and my postpartum depression screening test was never followed up with. I was discharged from the hospital on Friday, May 29, 2015 and no one knew just how frightened and depressed I felt.
Life with a newborn is hard. As a first time Mom nothing can prepare you for just how much work this new little person brings along with them. My worsening depression meant that I was not sleeping well at all - even when I had the opportunity. My little boy was not interested in breastfeeding and each attempt to fill his little belly left me feeling desperately anxious about him and more guilty than ever about the failure of a mom I was cracking up to be. I began to pump and bottle feed. Breastmilk was best right? Maybe I should try one more phone call to the support group for breastfeeding or perhaps i should consider the offers of stored breastmilk from friends? Instead of these offers and suggestions encouraging me, they fueled my guilty Mom syndrome and confirmed to me that ANYONE else could do a far, far better job of taking care of my son than I was doing. I confessed my feelings to my husband who was surprised but responded in faith and grace. I had wanted a baby for as long as I could remember and had been so excited throughout my pregnancy. The way I was feeling now had come out of the blue, for both of us. I shared my feelings and thoughts with my Mom and mother in law. I called my OB in tears and explained how horrible I felt. He called in a prescription of Zoloft but warned that it would take six weeks for the medication to start working and for the depression to begin lifting. He also suggested that I follow up with a counsellor who dealt with post part depression. I called her multiple times to make an appointment but didn’t hear back from her for ten days. I did not hear back from my OB again either.
By the time my son was two weeks old, I was barely functioning at all. My husband had been unable to return to work - I couldn’t fathom him being gone all day long. I remember crying all the time. I remember sitting in the corner of my living room, pumping for the umpteenth time, feeling like a cow, as my mother in law and husband fed and bonded with my baby. My mother in law spent almost every night sleeping on our couch at our house. I would call her in tears, hoping she would come over for the night, but afraid to impose on her. Of course she never felt that way, and always came at the drop of a hat. I remember repeating over and over to my family members that I needed help. I needed someone to talk to. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. The postpartum depression counsellor finally called me back and we scheduled an appointment for Monday, June 15, 2015. I was so excited and relieved to finally have an outlet, to have someone to talk to, and to be able to get the help I so desperately needed. Sadly, the hour long meeting consisted of taking intake notes. I left with no concrete ways to fight how I was feeling. All I remember the counsellor saying was that I should not be alone with Ben if I did not feel comfortable being alone with him. My husband was supposed to return to work the next day and I was supposed to be home alone with him. I had finally built up a small amount of confidence to do just that, but hearing the counsellor’s recommendations dashed any hope I felt. Needless to say, my day alone with Ben did not go well. I was so anxious the whole time. I must have fed him fifteen times in two hours. I ended the day sitting next to the MamaRoo crying desperately along with my son.
I did not improve over the next few days. By Friday, June 19, 2015 I was convinced that between my husband and mother-in-law, Ben didn’t need me at all. I really was not doing a thing for him. And I felt that my depression and anxiety was a burden to those around me. I was so entangled in my own thoughts and feelings and no amount of outside perspective seemed to be doing me any good. By Friday evening, I was having suicidal thoughts. I confessed my thoughts to my husband and he immediately reached out to the postpartum counsellor we had had an initial consult with earlier that week. She strongly recommended that we visit the crisis center at Kennedy Hospital - just a short drive from our house. My mother-in-law came to take Ben and all his supplies to her house for the night. It was heart wrenching watching my little three week old leave. I cried in a way I have never cried before as he was secured in my mother in law’s car. Things were desperately hard, but I wanted to be around for my baby. I wanted to take care of him. I just needed some help getting there. I felt a small amount of hope growing… perhaps this consult at Kennedy hospital would jump start some healing for me. Oh how wrong I was!! It’s hard to believe but things quickly went from bad to worse!
After being checked in through the Emergency Room and explaining that I had severe depression, frightening thoughts and wanted help we were ushered to an internal waiting room between two wards of the hospital. It was about 7:30pm. We had brought nothing along with us as our counsellor had said we would be meeting with a hospital counsellor for evaluation and help. We didn’t expect to be there long. Someone came in with some green scrubs and told me to go down the hall to a bathroom and change there. The scrubs were to alert everyone on staff that I was a psychiatric patient. I was devastated to say the least. Hours went by. We had no dedicated nurse and when I asked for a drink of water from a nurse passing by, he told me he would find someone to help us. No one ever came. Finally, I met with the hospital counsellor. She observed and listened as I told her how I had been feeling over the past two and a half weeks and how I had tried to reach out for help so many times. She asked me if I had medication in the house. I told her yes - i was on synthroid for my hypothyroidism and had recently been prescribed Zoloft for my depression. She asked me where Ben was and I told her we had arranged for him to spend the night with my mother in law. She asked me if I was having any scary thoughts and I told her yes. She met with Rob and asked him similar questions - then we were ushered back to the waiting room. By 11pm, I was exhausted and my breasts were full - i was ready to just go home. Clearly, we weren’t going to receive any help here. Rob ran home to grab my pump and some clean clothes so that I could at least feel more comfortable. Finally, at midnight, my hospital counsellor appeared and told me that I needed to spend two or three days at a mental institute. She felt it would be best for me and asked if I had any plans for the weekend. This came as a slap to the face. I needed someone to talk to about how to cope, what strategies we could use that might help us. Instead their advice was to separate me from my baby, who I had barely bonded with, and my husband, who I couldn’t let go to work most days. Of course, I refused and asked if I could possibly spend a night or two under evaluation at Kennedy where my husband and baby could be with me. The answer was no. Either I voluntarily decided to go to The Hampton Hospital via ambulance, or she would have me involuntarily taken to The Hampton Hospital via ambulance. She warned me that if i chose the involuntary route, I would have little say over my care once at the new facility. I was dumbfounded. I had no say in what I felt was best for me. My husband and my newborn son were not even considered throughout this process. How had I ended up here with this road before me? I just needed some guidance, encouragement, support. Surely things couldn’t get any worse…. wrong again!!
At 2am we were finally shown to a room on the psychiatric ward. It was terrifying to say the least. I tried to doze off as a man down the hall screamed at and attacked his nurse. Another man repeatedly ripped his IV out. I finally dropped off into a troubled sleep with my poor husband slumped over in a chair next to me. Thirty minutes later we were awakened by two ladies in our room. They explained that they were from DYFS and were there because we had neglected our son. They asked for details about where he was staying and who he was staying with. They assured us that we had nothing to worry about and left. My head was reeling - I couldn’t process anything that was happening around me. This was like a nightmare - surely I would wake up soon.
At 7am, I was loaded up in an ambulance. I watched my husband crying through the ambulance windows before I was driven away. I texted him throughout the 40 minute trip and let him know when I had arrived. Upon my arrival at Hampton Hospital, my phone was taken from me and locked away for the duration of my stay. I was shown to the duel diagnosis floor (where patient suffer from depression and another issue like anxiety, schizophrenia, paranoia, etc.). I sat at one of five round wooden tables. The old linoleum floor was once white and showed years of traffic. Everything about the place screamed old, horror movie. There were at least 20 other people there, some came up to talk with me almost immediately. Over the course of the next few hours I learned many things about how life at Hampton Hospital would go:
- Chances are, I would not just be here for two or three days as initially stated. I would stay as long as my insurance was willing to pay for me to stay. Typically that was about a week, depending on how well I did following the program put in place. There were no doctors or social workers available for me to talk to on the weekend so at the very least I would be there until Monday
- I would not be able to leave the ‘ward’ for meals. Instead, my meals would be brought to me and I’d eat at one of the round tables until I earned the privilege to go downstairs to the cafeteria.
- We were allowed to be outside three times a day for twenty minutes at a time. If you smoked cigarettes you were encouraged to sit in the center of the building enclosed outdoor area. If you did not smoke you could sit around the perimeter or choose to walk the perimeter. There was one small tree and a patch of grass surrounded by a concrete walkway and three story buildings.
- I was strongly encouraged to follow the program. Attend all the group meetings and try to participate in them. Never sit in your room or sleep in. This would be seen as isolating yourself and that would go down as a black mark in your file. During free time I should always try to sit out at the round tables and talk to others or color the provided coloring pages. I spent many hours every day coloring.
I drank this all in and determined to be as attentive and involved as possible so that I could get out of this place ASAP. I was shown to my room later that day and tried to take in my surroundings and new home for the unforeseeable future. Two single wooden beds with very thin mattresses that were as hard as rocks stood against one wall. One small window looked out on a cornfield; my only view of the outside world. Each bed had a set of shelves next to it… but the top shelf was slanted to look more like a writing desk. The attached bathroom that I would share with my roommate felt like something one might see in a jail. The toilet was specially made so that no part of it could be broken to use as an aid to harm oneself. The mirror was a rusty, faded piece of metal that really only showed a blurry outline of yourself. The shower had no rails in it, again to minimize tools to harm oneself or others. The shower curtain was not attached with hooks for the same reason. Somehow I managed to stay awake for the whole day that Saturday. I finally collapsed into my hard bed at 7pm and quickly fell asleep. I was awakened a short time later by a lady on staff there. My husband had dropped off some clothes and other toiletries for me to use during my stay, per my request, and the lady methodically went through each item of my clothing asking if she could cut the cords out of my pants and off of my sweatshirts. I never received my razor or other toiletry supplies my husband had brought for me. Instead i had to use what was provided. I was allowed to shave once every three days and had to sign the razor out and walk back to my room with it and a handful of shaving cream. A staff member would sit just outside the door to make sure I was not using the razor to harm myself. In addition, a staff member would make rounds to put eyes on everyone every fifteen minutes. That meant a bright flashlight in your face throughout the night, a staff member (male or female) checking on you while you showered, and a staff member (male or female) checking on you while you pumped breastmilk to store. I started to attend the group meetings as soon as possible and felt so sad by the things i heard there. As a Christian, it was basically all self help, self serving stuff. 'If your husband doesn’t make you happy, leave….' 'Take care of yourself first - stop worrying about everyone else.' 'Be selfish.’ ‘Abort that unwanted baby’. It was very hard to listen to and even more difficult to participate in. I learned to put on a happy face and hide how I truly felt. I learned to spout off the right answers and appear as though their methods and advice were helping me. I basically learned to play the game hoping that my good behavior would be a ticket out by Monday. Sadly, that was not to be. I finally met with the doctor on staff on Monday morning. I told her that I really just wanted to feel better and get back home to my family as soon as possible. She said she would get me the best and fastest treatment possible - tomorrow I would meet with someone about ECT treatment and would begin it later that afternoon. The next morning I had my initial consult with the new doctor and asked what the medicine did and how often I would take it, etc. I was speechless to find out that ECT treatment was actually electric shock therapy. I would spend most of the day hooked up to electrodes, getting shocked - this would rewire my brain and I’d forget all my short term memories. I was scheduled to begin this treatment later that day and would receive at least three more days of treatment before I’d notice a difference. As you can imagine, I refused that treatment and backpedaled out of the situation as fast as possible. That was definitely not how I wished to be treated. I had a case of postpartum depression, not a severe psychiatric problem. For the duration of my stay I was not prescribed any other medication. I continued with my Zoloft only.
I also tried to continue pumping at the hospital but because my pump had the attached piping, it was considered dangerous for me to have since I was on a suicide watch ward. I was only allowed to pump twice a day and my milk supply dropped. Half way through my stay there, my husband and I decided to stop giving Ben my breastmilk anyway, as the Zoloft and synthroid could be transferred to him through my milk.
Some days on the ward were quiet, others were frightening. Calls would often come across the loudspeaker as patients in other wards required immediate attention as they were endangering themselves and/or others - they would page ‘Dr Strong’. Patients on my ward would talk to themselves and have loud arguments with people who weren’t there. Others would seek me out to talk about conspiracy theories they truly believed in. I did make a few friends - one other mom who was also struggling with postpartum was a huge help and comfort to me.
I was able to have visitors three times a week for an hour at a time - and Ben was not allowed to be present at all. I missed my husband’s first birthday as a dad, my son’s one month milestone and photo and my husband's first father’s day. During visits, my husband and family were not allowed to show me pictures or videos of my son - cell phones were not allowed at all.
Finally, after staying at Hampton Hospital for seven nights I was released to go home. My discharge paperwork said that my reason for discharge was ‘routine' (basically my insurance ran out so I was therefore cured). While there I witnessed so many people being discharged who begged not to be released as they still didn’t feel they were ready. They were still released and would show up hours later, readmitted through a local hospital.
I tried to return home and continue on as a new Mom but it became clear very quickly that my stay at Hampton Hospital had done nothing to cure my depression and anxiety. On top of that, we now had a DYFS case to deal with. While I was in the hospital, my husband had moved in with his parents and was taking care of our son there. He met with the DYFS worker once while there and they checked the whole house, making sure we had electricity, air conditioning and food for Ben. Once I was discharged they let me know that I would not be able to be alone with Ben. I would need to be under 24/7 supervision of my mother-in-law. She had to take a leave of absence from her job and we officially moved in with them so that we could appease the DYFS workers. My case worker would come once a month to check on Ben’s well being, as well as the supplies in the house. She would talk separately with me, and my husband and mother-in-law. Hampton Hospital had suggested I follow up with their counseling services three mornings a week, and since DYFS was involved, it became a mandate that I had to follow through with. So three mornings every week, I left my one month old son to sit in group discussions and learn more self help, self serving techniques. My Zoloft did finally kick in and by late July, early August I began to feel somewhat normal again. I continued following up with the Hampton Counseling services until my insurance would no longer pay for that - then I was discharged from the program. In addition I had to undergo a parenting analysis meeting with DYFS at the Camden headquarters where I had to answer multiple choice questions to see if I was a fit mother. i also had to have my Zoloft prescription transferred to a psychiatrist for monitoring. At our first meeting he told me he’d never overseen someone on such a low dose of a basic medication for a common problem. Each consequent meeting was less than 5 minutes long but cost us $100.
After months in the DYFS system, jumping through the various hoops they set up for us, my case worker announced that our case was being closed in September of 2015. I still did not feel ready to function on my own at our home and we stayed with my husband’s parent’s until February of 2016. This experience has left deep scars that I carry to this day. I was terrified to take my son to the hospital when he hurt his arm at six or seven months old… what if they thought I had hurt him? (Turns out he had nursemaid elbow - a fairly common occurrence and easy fix) As I am three months pregnant now, I can’t help but wonder how the future will play out after our second little miracle is born.
So, why do I share all of this?
Having gone through this experience, my heart aches for Moms who suffer with postpartum depression. Sadly, there really is no course of action to truly help a Mom and a family struggling with ppd. While my experience was probably extreme, its what most Mom’s who struggle with depression fear to some degree. I wonder how many Mom’s and families suffer in silence, fearing what others may think or do, or if their children will be separated from them, etc? I am so thankful for my family, who rallied around me and did whatever was needed to help me get through the toughest season of my life. I am extremely grateful for my husband who stepped in as a first time Dad and completely took over caring for our son while extending grace, love and mercy to me in my depression and anxiety. God used this experience to strengthen my relationship with my mother in law; I love her so much and can not express enough how grateful I am for her. God also showed me that when we are at our very weakest and feel that our grasp on Him is slipping, He will never let go of His precious child. He sustained me through this trial. My love for Him has deepened significantly.
Do you have a friend/ daughter/ wife struggling with postpartum? Are you wondering how to help them? Unfortunately, there’s no one size fits all treatment. I’ve spoken to a few moms who have struggled and every one has mentioned a different thing that would have been most helpful for them. For me: I needed time away from my son and time for my Zoloft to kick in. For another Mom: she preferred to take care of her son on her own but appreciated help with household chores. For another Mom: she needed someone to talk to who had gone through the same experience to feel hopeful and encouraged.
I came up with three general tips for the postpartum Mama in your life:
ACCEPT: Accept Mom right where she is. Don’t tell her to just try harder, don’t offer suggestions unless they’re asked for. Don’t try to fix the problem (especially hard for husband’s). This can be a challenging step for everyone involved but letting Mom know that you see her where she is and get it, will help her to feel validated and heard. Like someone gets it.
PRAY & GET HELP: I was so far ‘gone’ in my depression and anxiety that I felt very far away from God. But I knew others were praying for me and really loved the times that my husband prayed for me. I had no idea what to ask God for or what to say, so having my husband intercede on my behalf was huge. Hearing him pray calmed my soul. Secondly, I highly recommend talking to either your OB or GP. But pray before you do - and don’t let Mom go on her own. Be careful what you share with doctors. I highly recommend getting on Zoloft or some sort of depression medication. You don’t need to suffer in silence… and taking medication doesn’t make you weak or a failure. Since the meds take a while to work, getting on them sooner rather than later is best. Remind Mom that she will get better. My mother-in-law would tell me this at least three times a day. I didn’t believe her… but I hoped she was right. It helped to hear that I was normal and would get better.
SERVE: This one can be tricky. It might take a while to figure out exactly what will serve mom best. Each experience is different. Mom may not even know what she needs. But stick close to her - keep asking and observe. You might notice that a messy house or piled up laundry stresses your Mom. Or you might notice that Mom needs a nap but can’t leave the baby (this was me). Mom might just need company, a listening ear.
I pray that this post helps someone. Speak up and get the help you need. Don’t suffer alone - you don’t have to feel this way! I came across this foundation on Facebook some time after we moved back home. I reached out to them and really loved their thoughts and hopes of helping Mom’s and families. Sadly they are based out in Pittsburgh. I pray that foundations like these spring up and that the care for Mom’s out there becomes truly helpful.
Please feel free to share your thoughts and your own experiences. You never know who may be helped.
