No one puts Baby in the Coroner

No, that wasn't a typo---I meant to type coroner, not corner. It was pun. That's how I roll.

Today's little nugget of unsolicited information is brought to you by the postpartum depression society of the Mid-West. And Brooke Shields.

You've read all the books on postpartum depression. You've read about the baby blues and how you'll feel 'inadequate' and how you'll be over tired and overwhelmed and all that stuff. It's all true, you'll feel all of those emotions with about 4,000 other emotions ranging from euphoria to desperation & dread.

Mine is a common story, but not a very frequently told story. No one wants to talk about how they wanted nothing more than to check into a fancy hotel following the birth of their baby---and never check out.

The first time around, I felt elated, prepared and completely in control. I never once went through a period of time with my first born where I didn't know what I was doing. I felt like I was meant to be a mother and I felt like I stepped flawlessly and gracefully into that role. For Lord's sake, I look back at photos and videos from the first few months of motherhood and I'm wearing makeup, jewelery and heels in the middle of the afternoon. What the F.? Who was I kidding?

Fast forward 3 years and I can barely manage to wash and dry the same load of laundry within the same day. I'll admit it, it got ugly for a while. Not that my second pregnancy wasn't planned. It most certainly was. The truth of the matter was that I felt I owed it to my son to give him a sibling. It truly wasn't that I wanted or needed another child, I felt quite content with one. I just didn't want him to be an only child. Little did I know my two boys would wind up hating each other.... Anyway, back to my second pregnancy. Like an idiot, I took the pregnancy test way too early. I found out I was preggers when I was less than 2 weeks along. I have freakishly strong hormones, apparently. So, this was my quandary. If I'd have just played it cool, I could have had 2 or 3 more weeks of drinking before "technically" finding out. But nooooo, nosy bitch had to find out early. So, there I sat, on the toilet, staring at the pee stick. I wasn't elated, I wasn't surprised, I wasn't anything. Literally, my only thought was, "damn. if I'd have waited until I was actually late, I could have partied over Labor Day weekend"...

As the pregnancy went on, I got more and more depressed. There are so many distinct memories I have of that very dark time. I recall crying to my husband one night about how on earth am I going to read Ben (my oldest) his bedtime stories with a newborn. I don't know why, but it was the mundane things like that which overwhelmed me to no end. I didn't see how other mothers did it. Or why they'd want to. "Great...and how do you expect me to drive Ben to pre-school with a newborn in the car...huh..huh"??? I was so very negative about it all.

During the labor, I was more excited about the epidural than about the actual birth. I kept lying and saying that I could feel the contractions (I couldn't) just so they'd pump me with more meds. By the time I was fully dialated, I was so numb from the waist down, my husband was poking my thighs with a sharp pencil just for fun. Oh, we had ourselves quite a time! I was at 10 cm. for about 3 hours. The nurse kept saying, "do you want to try and push now... he's practically hanging out of you". And I'd say (while admiring my manicure), "No. Not so much. I think I'll wait a tad longer". I wanted to maintain being the patient for as long as I could. I was milking this for all it's worth. I knew once he'd arrived, I'd get tossed to the back burner and he'd take over.

Ok, so by sheer gravity, the child was born. I totally feigned pushing. I made the face and grimaced and everything, but as for using any strawn-th to push my child out---none. I didn't want him out. Plainly said. Finally, I was distracted by a very irritating sound in the room (Lee and I are very sensitive to noise) and I think I went as far as to crinkle my nose and ask "what is that intolerable sound"? The nurse said, "we're suctioning the baby's mouth". Oh. Alright then, carry on. He was out and I didn't even know it (again, the drugs...). So, he was all cute and so forth. I marveled him and wondered how I (me?) could have gotten two of the best looking little boys ever known to man. All that fuss was short lived until the next morning when I got a visit from a social worker.

I'd had my tubes tied immediately following the birth. This was a prearranged thing, not spontaneous. After wanting to kill myself throughout the entire pregnancy, I knew I never wanted to do this again. Plus, I didn't think I had enough love in my heart for more than 2 children. I was still reeling from the vicodin after the surgery when a lovely, motherly figure appeared in the doorway. I knew immediately who she was and why she was there. A few hours after Gabe's birth, I had to fill out a postpartum depression survey. I turned it into my nurse and thought nothing of it until the social worker came. The look on her face was pity, compassion, love, support and comfort. I started bawling as soon as I saw her. She did that thing that women do where they tilt their head to one side, squint and sort of smile at you. Oh, I wanted to crawl into her lap and suck my thumb. My mother had been gone for 2 years at this point and I felt so sorry for myself that I didn't have my mother to share this with me. Again. She was sick with cancer during Ben's pregnancy & birth and now she wasn't even alive for this one. I felt robbed. Anyway, she asked if I remembered taking the survey, I did. She said a score of 10 or more indicated possible depression. I scored a 37. I can laugh about it now, but I vividly recall saying to her. "I'm not going to kill my kids or anything, it's not that kind of postpartum depression....it's just the kind where I don't ever want to leave the hospital...so you don't have to call the authorities or anything". She just smiled that beautiful smile at me. My OB came in later that evening and patted my legs and said, "are you ready to go home tomorrow"??? I started bawling and said, "Hells NO...they make me work at home". He just slowly backed out of the room.

I sat in my wheelchair with Gabe in his carseat, on my lap, in the waiting room. All the other new moms were waiting for their husbands or significant other's to come pick them up to go home. They all looked so anxious and hopeful and excited. I just stared at them, wishing I was anywhere else besides there. The whole way home, my husband kept saying, "here we go....new chapter.... " and all these other cliche things that made me want to kill him. All I wanted to do was cry. Once home, I literally didn't get out my bathrobe for 3 days. My blinds were drawn and I'm sure my neighbors assumed that we had a really ugly baby, based on how reclusive I was. I remember watching Will & Grace that first night at home. Gabe in his bouncy seat, I in my robe. I thought to myself, "Will is so lucky he's gay---he'll never have to deal with all of this". I didn't understand it. I loved babies, I loved everything about babies. Why was I so sad to have another one of my own--a gorgeously healthy baby at that? I knew all about postpartum depression, but I was fairly confident that that was NOT was this was. PPD was an erroneous psychosomatic condition. What I had was real.

I finally called my dearest girlfriend and bawled for the first 20 minutes of the conversation. Just incomprehensible sobbing. She gave me the best advice I've ever received and I firmly believe she saved my life that day. She said, "Listen to me. RUN--don't walk---RUN to your doctor and get on something [anti-depressants] before sundown today". Bada boom, bada bing, 4 hours later, my husband was filling my prescription for zoloft and the rest is history. 3 or 4 days later I was saying, "what was all that business about"??? Not that I didn't fall into my fair share of mild depression every now and again. After all, pills can only help so much.

No doubt about it, this is the hardest, most unappreciated and stressful job I've ever had in my life. Hands down. But, would I trade it for anything in the entire world? Never. I'm honest about motherhood, I don't try to sugar coat it into a Norman Rockwell painting. It is what it is, but at the end of the day, if you can put adults out into the world who are well adjusted, well liked, self sufficient, contributing members of society, than you've done your job and that's what I'm trying to do. But for now, I'm perfectly content hearing strangers comment on my "ridiculously good looking boys".