Emily's Story
Almost immediately after my daughter, Megan, was born, my whole world went dark. When my husband, Jason, later asked me to describe how I felt, 'dark' was the only word that seemed to do the job. The adjectives I found in baby-care books and on websites that talked about postpartum depression ("sad," "hopeless," "isolated") just didn't reach the depth of the unhappiness I was experiencing. Every new mother had days when she could say she wasn't happy, but my emotions were fast approaching a breaking point, and it frightened me. All my life I had wanted to have children, and there I was with a perfectly beautiful baby girl, and I had never been more miserable.

When I tried to identify a reason for my depression, my mind continually fixated on Megan's birth. I remember everything about my labor and delivery. I remember the moment we decided to do a c-section and how I cried out of disappointment. It felt like a failure, even though both my doctor and Jason told me it wasn't. I remember how surreal it felt to be taken away from the delivery room to have my baby. I remember lying in the operating room with so many people who were there because of me but who weren't talking to me. I remember my arms being strapped down and a drape being hung at my chest so I couldn't see my baby's entrance into the world. When Jason finally was allowed in the room, I remember he barely had time to greet me before Megan was born. I stared at the drape as I heard her cry and my doctor told me she was a girl, and I tried to see around people as she was laid in the little bed so she could be checked by the pediatrician. Again, lots of people were talking, but no one was saying anything to me. I remember wondering if this little person really had come from my body. Did she instinctively know who I was, or could she have bonded with anyone who held her tight in those first moments? Jason and I cried, but I knew even then that my tears weren't just those of joy. Something inside me began to ache as a nurse wrapped up Megan and handed her to Jason instead of me. Someone unstrapped one of my arms so I could touch Megan's cheek, and then she and her daddy left for the nursery. Later I was taken to recovery, where I spent half an hour trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I now had a baby. I watched the hands on the clock turn so slowly, counting down the minutes until I could hold my child.

Finally it was time to go back to my room, and as I was wheeled down the hall, I saw my mother-in-law and sister-in-law looking through the nursery window. They called to me, "She's beautiful, Emily! Wait until you see her!" And that's when the darkness fell over me. I remember thinking that I should have been telling them that, that they had no right enjoying my baby's first moments while I was lying completely alone somewhere else in the hospital. My arms ached to hold my daughter, and my heart ached for the precious moments I'd already missed with her.

When I finally was able to hold Megan, she felt like a stranger to me, which was totally unexpected. I'd always heard of mothers making an instant connection with their babies, and I always imagined I'd react the same way, but I felt none of that. I told myself it was because I was so tired and tried to reassure my already worried mind that it didn't matter because Megan was bonding with me. My side of the relationship would come soon, I hoped. I focused my efforts on nursing her, hoping that would lead to some relaxation on my part. She had difficulty latching on properly, though, and I had a hard time holding her comfortably because of of my incision. It was weeks before we worked out all of the kinks. I'm sure all new mothers feel awkward during this adjustment period, but I believe my difficulties were exacerbated by my physical pain and the emotional trauma of the c-section. I couldn't shake my feelings of inadequacy as I reflected on a birth that felt like a failure in my first test of at motherhood.

As the months went by, I slipped deeper and deeper into depression. My husband, having no idea how to handle the situation, told me that my sadness was all in my head and that I just needed to move past it. Making excuses for my unhappiness was easier for him than facing the fact that something unseen slowly was ruining our lives. He couldn't understand how trapped I felt. I spent days in bed, coming to life only to nurse Megan and care for her basic needs. At night I had difficulty sleeping, and I spent hours locked in the bathroom so Jason couldn't hear me cry. I had always expected a baby would be a source of joy for any mother, but seeing her only reminded me of her birth. I still viewed it as a failure. (Wasn't my surgery caused by my "failure to progress"?) It seemed an insurmountable mental obstacle between me and my baby. I found myself trapped in a circle of guilt: I felt guilty for the c-section, for my inability to move past it, and for allowing it to affect my relationship with my daughter and my husband.

I was in a downward spiral, and I had no idea how to get out of it. My emotions got so out of control that I began daydreaming about hurting myself or Megan. It was a few months before I told my husband this was happening, and when I did, he responded in frustration that I just needed to forget the past and get on with my life. He even questioned whether I really had wanted to be a mother in the first place. Hearing such a reaction from the person I loved the most encouraged me to remain silent about the situation. I felt that telling anyone else about my depression would lead to more judgment like Jason's, and I couldn't deal with that. I was ashamed of my feelings and felt guilty for allowing them to consume my thoughts, so I kept quiet.

In retrospect I realize that Jason's quickness to blame me for what I was experiencing stemmed purely from a lack of information. He had never heard of postpartum depression before my difficulties began, and like me, he looked for something to blame. Unfortunately the causes of mental illness aren't always easy to see, so in frustration, Jason blamed me.

I went on medication three times in the next year or so, and it did help clear my mind a little. I remember telling Jason that it was the first time in a while I felt I could see the world in color rather than in the dark haze I mentioned before. Suddenly everything was a little brighter, including my mood, and my enjoyment of my daughter increased as well. Unfortunately, I found myself struggling with some of the side effects of the medication. I felt the financial repercussions as well, as "depression" was now in my medical history and my health insurance costs increased accordingly. The stress this knowledge added eventually made it impossible for me to justify continuing treatment of any kind, so I had to stop. Again, I struggled mostly in solitude. My sadness gradually receded but never entirely went away.

When Megan was going on three, we got pregnant with Colin. In an effort to control anything I could to stave off a repeat of PPD, I focused my energies on ensuring a non-surgical birth. If I began to doubt myself, I closed my eyes and pictured two things: Megan being wheeled away from me in the operating room and an imagined scene of this new baby being laid on me at birth. Each scenario in its own way provided me with the inspiration I needed to focus on the future. I exercised, I ate right and I used visualization. When contractions started, I was ready.

Again, I remember everything about labor and delivery. I remember feeling so calm the whole time I worked through contractions at home. I knew that every one I handled there decreased the likelihood of another c-section. I remember using the birth ball and picturing in my mind my baby moving lower and lower, preparing to be born. I remember looking at the window in the delivery room and promising myself that when I was holding my newborn, I'd have Jason open the drapes so the baby could see the day he was born. I remember the way my heart skipped a few beats when my doctor said I was at nine centimeters and the baby was low and there was only one way he was getting out now. I insisted on having a mirror in the room so I could watch this little life enter the world, and the moment I first saw the crown of the baby's head was one of many I'll never forget. I reached down and touched it, and honestly, in that instant I connected with him. A few more pushes brought out his head, and I could see it past my belly while I still felt his feet inside of me. How many moments like that do you get in life? Finally with one more push he was born, and he immediately was laid on me. As I looked at his perfectly handsome face, I knew even before Jason told me that he was a boy. I felt as though I had known him forever. The bonding was instantaneous.

When all of the clean-up work on me was done, Jason and I got to be alone with Colin for a while. He was so content to lie there in my arms while we talked to him. I finally handed him to his daddy, but it wasn't long before he started squirming and pushing his head toward Jason's chest. Jason put him back in my arms, and I watched in amazement as he found his own way to my breast, latched on perfectly and began to nurse. Almost immediately I felt the relaxation sweep over me. Jason opened the drapes, and I looked out at the gray, drizzly afternoon that was my baby's birthday. There is no way to describe the joy that filled my heart at that moment. I don't think I've stopped smiling since then.

An hour after Colin's birth, I felt great. I asked a nurse if I could take a shower yet, and she raised her eyebrows and questioned whether I really was feeling up to it. Smiling, I assured her I was. In fact, emotionally I felt as though I could run a marathon. A week later, I was back in my daily routine, unhampered by the long physical recovery of surgery. In four months I have not experienced anything like my previous depression. Instead of being dark, my world now is filled with color.

October 14th was a turning point in my life as a mother and as a woman. One of the biggest changes has been in the way I view myself. After Megan's birth, it was weeks before I could bring myself to touch my c-section scar. It represented so much emotional pain and personal disappointment that I didn't want to acknowledge its existence. I hated everything about myself for a long time after she was born. I hated my body for failing me and my mind for letting it happen. I was a woman who was unable to give birth, who had needed her baby to be removed from her own body. Having a successful VBAC has brought me renewed respect for what my body can do. I am so much stronger mentally, and I have confidence I never had before. Colin's birth was the most empowering experience of my life, and I now feel deserving of the happiness and joy that I find does accompany motherhood.

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