Falling Apart from the Inside Out

Five months ago I gave birth to our third baby girl (yup, there's been a lot of new babies here at Hippocrates' Housewives). I had often been told that adding number three is the hardest family addition, so I was pretty nervous, but also extremely elated. Somehow I was blessed with yet another "well behaved" baby (I use the quotes because let's be honest, it's impossible for a baby to misbehave). She slept a solid three to four hours between feedings, wasn't colicy, latched well from the get go, and fulfilled all other textbook baby requirements. Not only did my baby come in to this world making things as easy as they possibly can be with a new little one, but her older sisters did great as well! There was no sibling resentment, no potty training or sleeping regressions, no acting out to receive attention, just a whole bunch of love, kisses, cuddling, and playing well on their own.

Things in the home couldn't be doing any better and I was quickly adjusting to life with three kids under the age of four. Sure, it took us longer to get places and we were often running late even later to dance and preschool, but at least we were making it. And okay, so I had over six loads of laundry that were waiting to be folded for a week, but they were clean. Fine, dinner was ordered in or picked-up for the first month (after the two weeks that my mother-in-law was here to cook for me and the meals from friends and neighbors were gone), but my kids were fed. I was handling this pretty dang well. 

Then Dr. Barton hit his two weeks of night float. You know, where he works at the hospital from 6 p.m. to 11:00 a.m., sleeps at the hospital until 5:00 p.m., and then comes home for dinner for thirty minutes before he has to be back to work. We had made it through the first week and while things hadn't been perfect, I was feeling pretty good about what I had accomplished that day. Dr. Barton only had one more night until his weekend off and then we were already half way done with night float. I totally had this in the bag. That was until a few little things all started bubbling up and quickly ended in a large explosion of emotions from both of us. In a huff I put food on the table for my kids, grabbed the baby, turned off my phone, and drove in the peace and quite to pick up some junk food to ease my anger and let things simmer down. I was sure to be home in time for Dr. Barton to not be late for his shift, and again, was feeling pretty okay about the way life was going. I walked in the door cool, collected, and confident. "I called my mom," Dr. Barton said, "she's coming to help you next week."

He did WHAT?!

I was livid. I love my mother-in-law. She is one of the most kind and considerate people I have ever met. She is the first to volunteer when someone is in need and has perfected the art of assessing your needs before you even know that you have them. I actually get along better with my mother-in-law than I do my own mother. However, I was doing FINE! I did not NEED any help. I had everything UNDER CONTROL. And it was infuriating to me that someone, especially Dr. B. would think otherwise. But then she arrived and I realized how wrong I had been. I had been struggling and I didn't even realize it. She provided the help and respite that I needed to get back on my feet. I was okay again.

This was a cycle that happened a few times. Not to the point of the calvary being called into action to save my house and home, but where I would think I was doing well and something extremely minute would cause me to break. I would yet again realize that I wasn't doing as well as I thought I was. One night that hit me particularly hard I had a bit of a revelation; was this the baby blues that I had heard so many people talk about? I wasn't crying at the drop of a hat and I certainly had connected with my baby, so it couldn't possibly be, could it? Then again, when pregnant I don't become overly weepy like so many women do, I become irrationally angry. My kids couldn't so much as ask me a simple question without my annoyance meter starting to rise rapidly. Would my emotions react to baby blues the same way it reacted to pregnancy? It couldn't be. Just days before a friend had told me that I was the mom who always had it together. That couldn't possibly be the

No, what I was dealing with was more than just the blues. I either wasn't sleeping at all (even when baby did) or, even after 11 hours, I wasn't sleeping enough. I didn't feel any resentment towards my baby, but I was experiencing unkind feelings towards my three-year-old for simply wanting to be near me. I finished almost every day with extreme guilt for all the yelling I had done throughout the day and for how mismanaged my home was, yet I couldn't get myself to do anything about it no matter how badly I wanted to. My mind went from feeling sluggish for a week to fidgety the next. I couldn't focus on anything. To be completely honest, there were times my kids went without a meal because I just couldn't make it. My oldest, at three-years-old, was pouring bowls of cereal for her sister and herself because their mommy couldn't do it. According to the PHQ-9 Patient Depression Questionnaire our residency uses to diagnose, I fell into the "moderately severe depression" category. I was surprised, yet at the same time it made so much sense. No one saw how much I was really struggling. Not my friends. Not my Dr. husband. Not even myself. 

What's the point of this post? Partially to say it's okay if you're hurting, I've been there too. Partially as a call to all of us to be more aware of the needs of those who know and love. And partially to maybe help someone who may not yet realize that they're struggling now, as I didn't. It may not come in the traditional way and because of that it might go unnoticed. I suppose the point is whatever you make of this. I guess I needed to say that this was real. I fought, and to a degree am still fighting, postpartum depression.

- Clara B.