I Didn’t Know I Had Postpartum Depression with My First until I Didn’t with My Second

It’s Caesarian Awareness Month, and because I was honoured to receive two c-sections, one for each little gaffer I’ve grown and birthed onto this Earth, I feel compelled to write a bit more about the experience of becoming a mother for the first and the second time.

What I’m hoping in writing this piece is to help another mother or father identify with this story, and feel like it is okay, and very much encouraged, to speak to someone, anyone, about what they are going through.

I did not know I had postpartum depression with my first child until I didn’t with my second.

I have never said that out loud, and I have never said this even to my own family. Today, 7 months after the birth of my second child, I realize that I had suffered in silence for about 3 years, and lied to the healthcare teams in 2013 when they called to check up on how I was feeling as a new mother to my first baby. I didn’t know I was lying to them at the time, but I do now.

How could this happen? Well, for me, in 2013 it was a combination of a lack of knowledge and a lack of experience. Fairly common for a first time parent.

You see, healthcare quality is improved every day. New stories and new experiences come forward and inform the changes and improvements across the community. An example in this context is the motto ‘being a good mother’ in 2013 was translated to “breast is best”. Today, the motto has very thankfully been improved to “fed is best”. This movement came upon the heels of a story covered by the media of a mother who tragically took her own life after “failing” (ugh!) to produce enough breastmilk for her new baby, and, in the throws of PPD, ended her suffering. Sadly, I do not believe she was the only one, however, her widower shared her story, and now we are all wiser from it.

In 2013, I had a very base knowledge of PPD, in that I knew it existed, but not what it really was, and I didn’t know a thing about postpartum anxiety (PPA), or postpartum psychosis (PPP). There are now several other postpartum diagnoses for mental wellness of which the healthcare community is aware, and I would imagine other diagnoses will surface in the future as more stories are shared, and the hive mind becomes cohesive.

So I’m throwing my story in the pile, hoping for some stickiness.

2013 was my first year of parenthood, and the birth of my son came unexpectedly by emergency c-section after 40 hours of labour. My body was exhausted, and I was emotionally drained because I had made my “birth plan”, and I chose ‘Caesarian’ as my worst case scenario; I’d built this up in my mind over 9ish months, and suddenly my worst nightmare was coming true after not sleeping for 2 days. At that point I did not know that I wouldn’t be sleeping for another few months after that exhausting experience. I was fortunate to have a baby who slept. I do believe that from the initial deprivation, I did not recover, and spiralled into a fog of fear, intrusive thoughts, darkness, and despair. For 3 years. And no one knew. Not even me.

The experience of my second pregnancy and birth was very different.

I work in healthcare quality, and gained a breadth of knowledge I did not have in 2013. Also, now that I had experienced the process of birth with my first, I knew that I wanted to schedule my c-section in an attempt to side-step the exhaustion I had experienced from my labour in 2013. It was less important for me and my mental health to attempt to deliver vaginally, and very vital that I slept the night before my son’s arrival. Elected c-section was my choice for my second son, and his birth was so utterly amazing that I do not have the words to express how I felt.

Recovery in hospital after my elected c-section was awesome. I felt like Wolverine, healing in record time, and released home after 2 nights. Obviously I had a very skilled, hand-picked surgeon who caused this miracle to happen, although I do like to buff my knuckles on my shoulder (just a smidgen) to celebrate my body epically pulling through another abdominal slicing.

So, this second baby does not sleep. He is up, even at 7 months, 5-6 times a night, and although I am very tired, I am not exhausted. I’m not afraid of the night like I was in 2013, and I felt connected to this little soul, his first cry in the OR ringing in my ears. A song just for me.

I so wished this for my first, and I am thrilled I had the opportunity to feel elated during my second birth experience. I am so grateful that my eldest is such an amazing human, connecting with me when I was in the darkness, patiently and unknowingly pulling me into the light over the first 3 years of his life. My indigo child. My love.

I did not know. There are others now who may not know.

My hope is, in this month celebrating c-sections and birth, if my story resonates with you, and you see yourself, even a little bit, I hope that you will talk, or write, or sing, or dance, or whatever language feels right — about it. There are resources where you live, and if there aren’t local resources, the internet and social media platforms have support groups that make the world feel smaller and much less lonely.

You are brave, and a wonderful father or mother. The community will support you. Reach out. The light is warm, and our inner child would roll their eyes saying ‘I told you so’, but parenthood is better with the lights on.

Love always,

Your Fumbling Mom — my friends call me Kel

This New Life

Once upon a time, I was an individual in a loving marriage to my perfect man.

Then we got pregnant.

And had a baby boy.

Now, I am a Mom in a loving marriage to my perfect man, and we are a family.

Wait…I’m a Mom?

This is the part that I’m struggling with in this new found life caring for an infant, so I thought I’d talk a bit about what that’s like, and why it’s like that for me. Perhaps you can relate.

Let’s back it up:

My pregnancy was healthy and “normal” (whatever that means), and was everything someone like me would expect when I was expecting: hella’ weight gain, sexy cankles, cravings, night sweats, an obsessive body pillow dependence…the whole nine.

My husband and I decided we wanted to have a home birth (gasp), and try to bring this little life into the world in our home, with a midwife and doula, without the drugs, au natural. We did our research, gathered our birth team, prepped the birth room, and finished all that good wholesome (some would say crunchy) stuff you do when you are turning one of the rooms in your home into a place to push out a football. No big deal. I can do this.

My labour began at 7am on September 23rd normally enough. We went for a walk to Starbucks, had a coffee, worked through the early contractions, walked home, watched a movie, worked through more early contractions, had dinner, had a bath, went to bed. By midnight those early contractions turned into active, punch you in the face, could not sleep through them even though I tried, contractions. We were probably going to meet this baby today.

We laboured and laboured and laboured at home with our doula and midwife. Tried the bath. Tried the shower. Tried the exercise ball. Lunging, walking, sitting, leaning, standing…our prenatal classes came in handy.

Nothing was happening, other than really intense contractions, really close together, no dilation. Wholly frustration! Wholly I haven’t slept since the 22nd! Wholly it’s now 1pm on the 24th!

I wanted to die.

I think I prayed for death at one point. 3 cm dilated. We were expecting an infant 11 days overdue, above the 90th percentile in head size. Football with a watermelon on one end. 3 cm. Not gonna cut it.

It was at this point that I remember my midwife and doula hovering over me as I lay on our bed, my brain and the thoughts accompanying it in another universe while I battled my uterus punching me in the face again, saying softly, “Kelly, I believe this would be a good time to discuss a plan of action. Nothing is happening honey…we want this baby to come out, and we need to figure out how you want that to happen at this stage.”

It was at this point we decided, as a team, to transfer to the hospital. Team Baby grabbing our bags, water broke in the elevator (awesome), waddling out to the car, delirious, heading for Labour and Delivery.

4 contractions in the car and 15 minutes later, I was gripping my husband’s hand through yet another contraction, shuffling passed the coffee shop of hospital on-lookers, to the maternity ward unaware of the intense staring happening on my way there.

We tried a soft epidural for another 4 hours, no progress.

We tried oxytocin for 2 hours after that, no progress, baby in distress.

It was now 8pm on September 24th, and we decided to meet our baby via c-section.

Once the decision to have surgery was finalized, things became hectic quickly.

Oxygen mask put on, the room filled with nurses, students, and doctors. They spoke to each other as they wheeled me into the O.R., strapped my arms down, gave me heavy freezing that felt like ice melting down my back, and ushered my husband away to change into his scrubs. This was the only time during the process when I cried.

The O.R. town cryer announced to the room filled with about 30 people from different medical departments that I was Kelly, allergic to coconut, 41 weeks and 4 days pregnant, and ready for Caesarian. Let’s be honest, I was basically an iodized belly and crotch. Not to worry though, my dignity and sense of embarrassment left me long before this event. This was the only time during the process when I laughed.

Are some of their surgical tools made of coconut?

At 8:21pm on September 24th we met our little big boy. 9 lbs. 2 oz.

Now, to say that our birth plan didn’t exactly go as planned is quite accurate. In fact, I would go as far to say that my labour and our son’s birth went in the exact opposite direction. And this may be where my need to find some kind of sanity begins.

The only way I can describe how I feel or think or understand this new little one who is so much a wonderful part of our lives, is that I know he is my baby, but I do not feel as though I am his Mom.

Perhaps this has something to do with how he and I went through his birth, perhaps not.

All I know is that when I left the hospital with him, it felt as though I had been through enough pain for enough time to cash in my chips at the maternity ward, and they rewarded me with a baby. Like, they have them in stock or something, and this one looked most like me.

I realized through my own reflection that my pregnancy, his birth, and now his presence in our lives are all events that happened and seem completely separate to me. Unrelated.

It doesn’t make me sad, it just is. In fact, I would say, having him in our lives now, I cannot imagine him not being here. If I did cash in my chips at the hospital, and they did reward me with a baby, then I gotta say, I won the friggin’ baby lottery.

And so begins my journey as a new Mom, trying to figure out this little person, how he ticks, what he likes, how he learns, while trying to maintain some kind of identity as his Mom. As myself.

Whoever that may be.

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom