In the early days and weeks after the birth of my first child, my despair and fear came in wave after endless wave, as if I had an angry sea in my head: always turbulent, with a great darkness swelling, cresting, and crashing, washing over my entire self and then slowly receding, depleting me, but never for long before the swelling, cresting, and crashing would begin all over again.
It was ironic, really. When my older son was born in October 2000, we could not have welcomed a baby into a more mature, loving situation. My husband and I were 31 years old and committed to each other; we were highly educated, financially stable homeowners, surrounded by the support of extended family on both sides. The pregnancy was planned and desired. Moreover, I was able to take four months of maternity leave, and thereafter return to a two-day-per-week consulting position, working from home one day, with my mother baby-sitting the other. I faced none of the complex anxieties that challenge so many new mothers.
But after a six-day hospital stay that had begun with emergency labor induction, followed by 36 hours of labor, and ending with a C-section when I'd dilated no more than six centimeters, I came home with a colicky baby who screamed whenever I tried to feed him by breast or bottle, or tried to put him down. He only ever slept in someone's arms or in his swing. All the while, my body was adjusting to no longer being pregnant, and I was not nursing on any routine schedule that would help regulate hormone levels. I was ragged, terrified, and humiliated. I couldn't understand my child's cries, and, most heartbreakingly, I couldn't make anything better for him.
And so I felt no delight when I heard his voice, only resentment that there was never a second of quiet. I felt no warmth when I held him, only a desperate desire to be able to put him down, for a few minutes, anyway. My voice didn't soothe him, and my touch didn't comfort him. I was at a loss to understand what was so lovely about this whole motherhood thing, anyway. My baby and I were trapped in a grim cycle, with his pain making my pain worse, and mine making his worse.
I didn't know who to ask for help. Of course, normal healthy Angela would know what to do, but postpartum, depressed Angela could only feel shame at being such an awful mother, at failing where billions of women had succeeded. I also knew there was nothing I could do to make the baby feel better, other than administer gas drops, hold him, and "keep trying." So I figured, what right did I have to feel better, when he couldn't? The most I asked was for my mother and mother-in-law, once a month each, to sleep over and wake up with the baby so I could sleep through the night.
One full night of sleep every four weeks, of course, did nothing to really help me or my son. But as time rolled on and I "kept trying," I finally did figure out that I should be feeding him in an upright position, to relieve his reflux, and that I should pump my milk rather than nurse. Once my son was no longer always hungry and no longer always in pain, we both began to sleep better. At the same time, my hormone levels began to return to normal, as I got on a regular breast-pumping schedule and as we hit three months post-childbirth. Finally, I could say that I felt good, mentally and physically, and that I was completely in love with my son. But we had lost something profound in the weeks leading up to that moment, some fundamental, instinctive bonding and primal, unspoken love that a baby is born expecting from his mother. I also fully recognize that the spectrum of postpartum disorders runs to psychosis, and that as horrible as my experience was, for other women and their babies it is exponentially worse, even deadly.
In that case, why, in the hospital, could I avail myself of the services of a lactation consultant but not of a mental health professional to discuss PPD? Why did my OB/GYN stop by my room every day to check my Cesarean stitches but not my state of mind? During my pregnancy, my husband and I had to take six birthing and parenting classes in which we practiced putting on diapers and installing car seats but did not discuss maternal care options.
My home state of New Jersey is changing the way new mothers are cared for, thanks to the tireless advocacy of former First Lady Mary Jo Codey, who had suffered postpartum depression after the births of her two children. When her position as First Lady provided the platform to champion a cause, she led the launch of a comprehensive awareness campaign called "Recognizing Postpartum Depression: Speak Up When You're Down," which features TV and radio public service announcements; extensive literature; a 24-hour hotline; and a bilingual website with detailed information and contact referrals for PPD sufferers and their families and doctors. Additionally, in October 2006, the state's Postpartum Depression Screening and Education law took effect, which requires every pregnant woman in New Jersey to be educated about maternal mood disorders before giving birth; the mother of every baby born in the state to be screened for postpartum depression; and all licensed health care professionals who provide pre- and post-natal care to be educated about maternal depression. We are also the first state to commit resources to uninsured new mothers for PPD screenings and treatment. Senator Robert Menendez of New Jersey introduced the federal MOTHERs Act, based on the New Jersey law, to the U.S. Senate in 2006 and again on Mother's Day 2007; it is being deliberated in committee.
Please call your senators and urge them to support Senator Menendez's bill. You will save lives.
