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

Me on Behalf of You

Sometimes one year can feel like a very long time, while in the same instance feel like yesterday 365 days ago.

I think time, when you’re no longer creating it, is probably more like a web with too many starting points to really know where the beginning ends. I suppose this network of ideas and feelings and thoughts would be the most accurate description of what memories might look like.

The very last time I spoke to you on FaceTime you told me a story about when I was little. A memory from my childhood that I had forgotten in the busy life I lead, creating time.

You laughed as you told me how you would automatically say ‘no’ when your children asked you something. You explained that one day you had an epiphany, and decided way back then you would consciously change your response to ‘maybe’, always, until you’d had a chance to think about what was being asked, and what you were required to give.

I was very young when you changed your answer to ‘maybe’, about 4 or 5, and you told me how my sister would send me in to you, as the youngest child, to ask you for the things we wanted. You explained she said I could get a yes from you, when the answer was usually a no. — I like to think it’s because my sister believes I’m more charming, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true.

You would always answer ‘Maybe’, and I would run away excitedly to return to my sister, hiding around the corner, exclaiming you said ‘Maybe!’ because in my young mind, if it wasn’t a ‘No’ well then it simply must be a ‘Yes!’.  You would laugh at my antics, then most often say ‘Yes’ after all of that.

I laughed as you told me that story. Creating memories from a memory, although I didn’t know it at the time.

I went to see you today, in Deep Bay where you are now free, swimming among the waves. You’ve probably been to Hawaii and back, and all around the Gulf Islands in this past year. At least, I hope you have.

I brought your grandson with me to say ‘Hi!’ today. He says that now, in his small, cheerful voice. He also says ‘Bumpa’ for ‘Grandpa’, which I think you would have laughed roariously about. I wish you could see him now, a little boy instead of a baby like he was when you held him for the first, and last, time. I think we would have had a lot to talk about, raising a boy. He has your ears. He also wears your cowboy hat around the house quite comfortably saying “Yee-haw!” as best he can. I like to think that even though he doesn’t remember your visit with him, he still misses you. His Bumpa.

I receive at least one piece of your mail every day, waiting for me, in a tiny mailbox when I get home from work. “Me on behalf of You” is what it normally says. Often from some vendor, tax department, lawyer, notary, accountant. They write about you as though you were a business that I’m now responsible for closing, or liquidating, or collecting, or paying. These people send me a lot of mail about you. I suppose that means you lived a full life, with all the things you weren’t allowed to take with you when you died: whoever is in charge of this dying business didn’t say ‘Maybe’ to the somethings I’m sure we all would want to take with us when we go.

I cried harder last night than I have in a very long time…The kind of crying where you fall asleep smelling cool rain on hot pavement. It felt good to cry because I hadn’t really sobbed about you leaving until then. –“Stiff upper lip!” you would say, and I would keep marching like a good little soldier, afraid to show a chink in my armour. Afraid to feel what someone my age should feel when they lose a parent because vulnerability creates a feeling of weakness in me.

I asked you today, as your grandson and I looked out to you, floating effortlessly in the salty water of the Bay, if I’ll get to see you again some day. You didn’t really answer me, so I guess that makes it a maybe…

Which I’ll choose to take as a Yes.

Love, your daughter,

Fumbling Mom