This morning while drinking my coffee I came across this article in which a mom was writing about her experience with Post-Partum Depression. I have to admit, I felt a little like I was reading my own story. This post-partum period after giving birth to Lydia has been the only one of my three pregnancies that didn't involve soul-crushing PPD. Thank God. Seriously, praise God. Post-Partum depression is like a monkey who won't get off your back.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother. Not just have a baby because babies are adorable and snuggly and wonderful little creatures, I wanted to be a mom. I never have had any desire to be a career woman, whatever that entails. I wanted to get married, have babies, and stay home to raise them.
I got the married thing done in 2005, and the next year we got the pregnancy thing figured out. :) In 2007, Amelia Jean arrived on the scene. The first few months were rough, physically mostly, as I adjusted to round-the-clock care of this sleepless, constantly eating, demanding little princess. Aside from the sleepless nights, the constant nursing, and my constant eating trying to keep up my calories to produce enough milk for this ravenous beast, things were going fine. I would find myself crying sometimes when she wouldn't stop crying, more out of sleep depravation and frustration than anything. Sometimes they have eaten and been changed and attended to and they still just cry. But as a new first-time mom it was confusing, frustrating, and exhausting.
When Amelia was 6 weeks old, I unfortunately had to return to work. I cried about it for weeks leading up to it. We were in a financial position that demanded I return to work, or you know, not be able to eat or keep the lights on. I was so upset about it though. All I'd ever wanted was to have this baby and be able to stay home and raise her, but unfortunately I was going to have to hand off some of that responsibility to my mom and our wonderful daycare provider. The day arrived when I had to take her to daycare the first time and surprisingly I didn't cry when I dropped her off. To be honest, I think I kind of felt a little relief that I wasn't going to be the one trying to console her when she would inevitably start crying for no reason.
At about 4 months post-partum I changed jobs, and shortly thereafter noticed that suddenly none of my clothes were fitting me anymore. I had lost 30 pounds within two weeks after giving birth, and suddenly when I stepped on the scale, I had gained 30 pounds in a month. I was unable to stay awake past 7:00 pm anymore, even though the baby was sleeping through the night. I could barely stay awake through work, I wasn't really that hungry or eating that much, and I was cold all the time, which was out of the ordinary for me. I called my doctor and asked if she would give me a physical to see what was wrong.
I arrived at her office and explained my symptoms. She noticed my puffy face, my thinning hair, and the bags under my eyes in addition to my other symptoms I listed and immediately sent me for lab work. In less than a week I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism. She sent me to the endocrinologist who looked over the lab results with me.
"As you can see on your lab results, Mrs. Ihle, the normal range for your results should be between 0.25 and 4.0. Your results are at an 84. It's no wonder you feel so awful!"
She put me on a higher dosage of Synthroid and it took about 4 months to get my test results into the normal range. The doctor had told me at my appointment that once we got the test results into the normal range that I should start feeling much better, be able to more easily lose weight, and everything would be wonderful again. That's not exactly what happened.
My test results were finally okay, but I still felt horrible. I could barely drag myself out of bed most mornings. I wanted nothing but to go straight to bed when I got home from a long day at work, but instead I had to care for the baby and try to keep some semblance of order in our home. I felt no connection with the baby, and really couldn't have cared less if John and I were ever intimate again at that point. I just wanted to crawl in bed and be left alone. Everything made me feel anxious, or tired, or stressed, or just plain exhausted. I couldn't have made a decision if you had put a gun to my head. I wanted to run away from this life that I had so desperately wanted all those years.
At my wit's end I called the endocrinologist's office and set up another appointment to discuss things with her. On the way up to her office, I told John that I was desperate for her to help me. I still felt so awful. I blurted out, "If this is how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life, then I'd rather be dead. I can't live like this anymore." I think he was scared for my health and for my life.
The visit with the endocrinologist was awful. We got off on the wrong foot immediately when she walked in and said, "I thought I told you I didn't need to see you for 6 months?" Well, excuse me, you also said that if things weren't improving that I should come back. They're not improving.
She listened to my explanation of how I was feeling and told me that based on my lab work it didn't seem like it was thyroid-related. She told me that she thought I had depression. I left her office furious. The next day I called my primary care doctor who had diagnosed my hypothyroidism and made an appointment with her.
When we met the next week I told her how furious I was over the other doctor's rude treatment of me. She said that she was surprised at the other doctor's rudeness, and that she would be more than happy to manage my medication with me instead. I told her what the doctor had said about the depression, and in a much gentler conversation, she told me that it was possible. She gently asked me how I was feeling, physically and mentally, and determined that maybe we should try starting me on a small dose of anti-depressant. It was 10 months after Amelia had been born at this point, and she told me that since it had been less than a year after Amelia's birth that it was considered to be PPD, not necessarily clinical depression. She gave me a prescription for the lowest dosage of the anti-depressant and asked me to seek out therapy to help me work through things.
I started taking the pills and didn't notice much difference at all for the first month. After much hounding from John, I finally sought out therapy through our workplace assistance plan. They found me a local, Christian-based therapist and I was able to have five free therapy sessions with her. After those five sessions, if we still thought I needed to come back, it would go through my insurance.
My first session was a getting-to-know-you kind of session. We talked about my history, what was going on in my life now, what medicine I was on, etc. She could tell just by talking to me how broken I was at that point. She suggested that I call my doctor and ask her to increase my dosage a little, just to try and give me a better jump start. The difference was amazing.
After five weeks of sessions, and the increase in dosage, I felt like a different person. I had been able to go and honestly talk about my feelings about things in my life and my relationships without fear of judgment, and I had finally found the right dosage for my depression. At our fifth session she told me she didn't think I needed to see her anymore, unless I needed to come back later for a "tune-up," if you will. She told me she could see a huge difference in how I was feeling, and I could too. I no longer felt like the walking dead, and I no longer felt like I wished I was dead. I could finally enjoy being a mother and want to come home and be with my husband and my daughter. I no longer wanted to run away.
I stayed on the anti-depressant until we started weaning me off it in order to conceive again. After Thomas was born, things were fine for a few months again. But then they had to adjust my thyroid medication again and I was back to the hypothyroid-induced PPD. Luckily, this time we knew what to look for and things didn't get out of hand. My doctor told me that if I even remotely thought that I was getting to that place again to call and she would see me right away. At five months post-partum I felt that same walking dead feeling again so I called and we had an appointment and she got me back on the medicine and back on track.
I no longer need the medicine at this point, but I am not opposed to going back on it someday if I need to. I have been on anti-depressants at three points in my life--the two episodes of PPD, and when I went through my divorce 11 years ago. I have experienced situational depression and chemical-imbalance depression. The situational depression was much easier to come out of. The PPD didn't ease up until we got the chemical imbalance fixed. I am just thankful that when I needed it, the medicine and the therapy were there to help me. If they hadn't been, I may not be here today.
If you or a loved one are experiencing PPD, or any other type of depression, don't be afraid to seek help. Depression doesn't mean you are weak.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother. Not just have a baby because babies are adorable and snuggly and wonderful little creatures, I wanted to be a mom. I never have had any desire to be a career woman, whatever that entails. I wanted to get married, have babies, and stay home to raise them.
I got the married thing done in 2005, and the next year we got the pregnancy thing figured out. :) In 2007, Amelia Jean arrived on the scene. The first few months were rough, physically mostly, as I adjusted to round-the-clock care of this sleepless, constantly eating, demanding little princess. Aside from the sleepless nights, the constant nursing, and my constant eating trying to keep up my calories to produce enough milk for this ravenous beast, things were going fine. I would find myself crying sometimes when she wouldn't stop crying, more out of sleep depravation and frustration than anything. Sometimes they have eaten and been changed and attended to and they still just cry. But as a new first-time mom it was confusing, frustrating, and exhausting.
When Amelia was 6 weeks old, I unfortunately had to return to work. I cried about it for weeks leading up to it. We were in a financial position that demanded I return to work, or you know, not be able to eat or keep the lights on. I was so upset about it though. All I'd ever wanted was to have this baby and be able to stay home and raise her, but unfortunately I was going to have to hand off some of that responsibility to my mom and our wonderful daycare provider. The day arrived when I had to take her to daycare the first time and surprisingly I didn't cry when I dropped her off. To be honest, I think I kind of felt a little relief that I wasn't going to be the one trying to console her when she would inevitably start crying for no reason.
At about 4 months post-partum I changed jobs, and shortly thereafter noticed that suddenly none of my clothes were fitting me anymore. I had lost 30 pounds within two weeks after giving birth, and suddenly when I stepped on the scale, I had gained 30 pounds in a month. I was unable to stay awake past 7:00 pm anymore, even though the baby was sleeping through the night. I could barely stay awake through work, I wasn't really that hungry or eating that much, and I was cold all the time, which was out of the ordinary for me. I called my doctor and asked if she would give me a physical to see what was wrong.
I arrived at her office and explained my symptoms. She noticed my puffy face, my thinning hair, and the bags under my eyes in addition to my other symptoms I listed and immediately sent me for lab work. In less than a week I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism. She sent me to the endocrinologist who looked over the lab results with me.
"As you can see on your lab results, Mrs. Ihle, the normal range for your results should be between 0.25 and 4.0. Your results are at an 84. It's no wonder you feel so awful!"
She put me on a higher dosage of Synthroid and it took about 4 months to get my test results into the normal range. The doctor had told me at my appointment that once we got the test results into the normal range that I should start feeling much better, be able to more easily lose weight, and everything would be wonderful again. That's not exactly what happened.
My test results were finally okay, but I still felt horrible. I could barely drag myself out of bed most mornings. I wanted nothing but to go straight to bed when I got home from a long day at work, but instead I had to care for the baby and try to keep some semblance of order in our home. I felt no connection with the baby, and really couldn't have cared less if John and I were ever intimate again at that point. I just wanted to crawl in bed and be left alone. Everything made me feel anxious, or tired, or stressed, or just plain exhausted. I couldn't have made a decision if you had put a gun to my head. I wanted to run away from this life that I had so desperately wanted all those years.
At my wit's end I called the endocrinologist's office and set up another appointment to discuss things with her. On the way up to her office, I told John that I was desperate for her to help me. I still felt so awful. I blurted out, "If this is how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life, then I'd rather be dead. I can't live like this anymore." I think he was scared for my health and for my life.
The visit with the endocrinologist was awful. We got off on the wrong foot immediately when she walked in and said, "I thought I told you I didn't need to see you for 6 months?" Well, excuse me, you also said that if things weren't improving that I should come back. They're not improving.
She listened to my explanation of how I was feeling and told me that based on my lab work it didn't seem like it was thyroid-related. She told me that she thought I had depression. I left her office furious. The next day I called my primary care doctor who had diagnosed my hypothyroidism and made an appointment with her.
When we met the next week I told her how furious I was over the other doctor's rude treatment of me. She said that she was surprised at the other doctor's rudeness, and that she would be more than happy to manage my medication with me instead. I told her what the doctor had said about the depression, and in a much gentler conversation, she told me that it was possible. She gently asked me how I was feeling, physically and mentally, and determined that maybe we should try starting me on a small dose of anti-depressant. It was 10 months after Amelia had been born at this point, and she told me that since it had been less than a year after Amelia's birth that it was considered to be PPD, not necessarily clinical depression. She gave me a prescription for the lowest dosage of the anti-depressant and asked me to seek out therapy to help me work through things.
I started taking the pills and didn't notice much difference at all for the first month. After much hounding from John, I finally sought out therapy through our workplace assistance plan. They found me a local, Christian-based therapist and I was able to have five free therapy sessions with her. After those five sessions, if we still thought I needed to come back, it would go through my insurance.
My first session was a getting-to-know-you kind of session. We talked about my history, what was going on in my life now, what medicine I was on, etc. She could tell just by talking to me how broken I was at that point. She suggested that I call my doctor and ask her to increase my dosage a little, just to try and give me a better jump start. The difference was amazing.
After five weeks of sessions, and the increase in dosage, I felt like a different person. I had been able to go and honestly talk about my feelings about things in my life and my relationships without fear of judgment, and I had finally found the right dosage for my depression. At our fifth session she told me she didn't think I needed to see her anymore, unless I needed to come back later for a "tune-up," if you will. She told me she could see a huge difference in how I was feeling, and I could too. I no longer felt like the walking dead, and I no longer felt like I wished I was dead. I could finally enjoy being a mother and want to come home and be with my husband and my daughter. I no longer wanted to run away.
I stayed on the anti-depressant until we started weaning me off it in order to conceive again. After Thomas was born, things were fine for a few months again. But then they had to adjust my thyroid medication again and I was back to the hypothyroid-induced PPD. Luckily, this time we knew what to look for and things didn't get out of hand. My doctor told me that if I even remotely thought that I was getting to that place again to call and she would see me right away. At five months post-partum I felt that same walking dead feeling again so I called and we had an appointment and she got me back on the medicine and back on track.
I no longer need the medicine at this point, but I am not opposed to going back on it someday if I need to. I have been on anti-depressants at three points in my life--the two episodes of PPD, and when I went through my divorce 11 years ago. I have experienced situational depression and chemical-imbalance depression. The situational depression was much easier to come out of. The PPD didn't ease up until we got the chemical imbalance fixed. I am just thankful that when I needed it, the medicine and the therapy were there to help me. If they hadn't been, I may not be here today.
If you or a loved one are experiencing PPD, or any other type of depression, don't be afraid to seek help. Depression doesn't mean you are weak.
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