Nummies 911

Missing You

I have been absent here in writing, but not in presence. I have thought of you, my readers, often, wishing I could find the words to tell you all that is going on in my life right now, but I just couldn’t. The pain was too great, and even now, is just bearable. It will come, with time, as everything does. The sun rises each day, even when we don’t want it to.

Crazy Club gets a new member

Dooce had her baby.

For certain I have readers that do not read Dooce’s blog, so I’ll give you a little synopsis. Dooce, aka Heather Armstrong, had a baby, went into severe post-partum depression (PPD), was hospitalized, recovered, and went on to write a book about it. She then got pregnant again and had her baby recently. Her first post about her experience with post-partum depression with this baby was June 30, 2009.

It was this post that made me realize, she is just as crazy as the rest of us. But what makes me upset is that she is in the public eye and people are listening to her. I don’t purport to know the extent to which she influences the public, but if you look at the comments, I see a lot of mothers, both new and experienced, following her and lauding her efforts in bringing the dark side of PPD out into the open. Well, that is all fine and well, but as evidenced by her recent comments, she hasn’t learned nearly as much as I would have thought.

She has talked extensively about her medicines and her therapy in the past. But in her recently she says she was experiencing anxiety after her birth and I guess she thought she needed help. Good so far. But did she call her psychiatrist? No, she went and found the doctor who treated her as an inpatient.

“So early last week we called the doctor who treated me in the hospital back in 2004. He does not normally see patients who are not in the hospital, but by some lucky twist of the universe he thought I was someone else, someone whom he owed a favor, and agreed to see me as an outpatient.”

Then she says:

“So we did a lot of talking, and since he's been treating women for this very condition for over 30 years I did a lot of listening and learning. The odds were completely stacked against me, and he said that if I had been gearing up and treating the possibility of this in my third trimester I might have been able to avoid it. But since I didn't it was time to attack it now.”

This last part sent me over the edge. My GOD woman you were hospitalized for severe post-partum depression. The very least you should have right now is a good working relationship with a psychiatrist (and therapist) along with the ongoing prescriptions. Even a mediocre doctor would have been anticipating this and “gearing up!”

Ok, so let’s get this straight, you had a baby, went crazy, were hospitalized, wrote a freaking book about it, but just thought, hey, maybe it won’t happen to me again, so we’ll just wing it and hope for the best. Because that is what is sounds like.

If that is the case, you just joined the ranks of every other depressed, bipolar or schizophrenic who don’t take their meds or see their doctor because they feel fine, right now.

Let me say this. Post-partum depression is serious! If you have ever battled clinical depression in your life (note I said clinical, which is different from being depressed during a life trigger such as the death of loved one, divorce, etc.) then you are a shoe-in for PPD. If you get PPD with your first baby, you are most likely going to experience it with your others, perhaps even more severely. Get HELP! This can be life or death.

Help is out there. There are wonderful sites dedicated to the subject. There are great books out there. There are support groups you can attend. But none of these is a substitute for a relationship with a doctor you trust, who can help you when you are in crisis. If you had cancer, you’d have an oncologist. If you were pregnant, you’d have a midwife or obstetrician. If you have post-partum depression or you are at risk for it, you need a psychiatrist, preferably one who has successfully treated many women before you.

So, congratulations to Dooce and the birth of Marlo, and if she has raised some more eyebrows, I hope it has served as an example of what not to do. Remember, crazy is as crazy does.

Nothing in particular

I’m finding it hard to write lately. I guess you’ve figured that out since you guys are still stopping by and surely saying, "What the hell?"

I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s just too much stuff rumbling around in my head for me to be able to organize it into a neat, well-written, witty blog entry. So instead, you get this.

Weekend before last, I went to Atlanta with Camille and stayed with Anna. We shopped and shopped. We went to the children’s museum, which Camille loved. We tried to sleep in on a rainy morning, but Camille didn’t cooperate. I went to at least four bead shops, a yarn store, Perimeter Mall, and IKEA. I finally figured out why IKEA can sell you anything. They lay out the store like a video game in which you get completely and utterly sucked in and then subsequently lost and distracted. You find yourself shopping for things and rooms you never even dreamed of because they have trapped you in “Work Rooms” when all you really wanted to shop for was “Kitchen Wares.” But isn’t that the cutest desk organizer you ever seen! And by the time I get to check-out, I’ve got to cough up my first born just to get back to my car.

I liked being in Atlanta. I like big cities with endless food and shopping choices. I like seeing the actual store fronts of the catalogs that litter my coffee table. Perhaps it comes from growing up in a very small town, in a time before the internet, during which time, if you needed something the slightest bit eccentric, you were just SOL! If you know me at all, you know that most of what I desire is totally eccentric, so I spent many years frustrated beyond belief. At least now I can order whatever I want off the net, if I can part with the money for the shipping. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from shopping in person for things, which obviously just do not exist. Anna accuses me of trying to stare into being the object for which I am searching. No, it’s just years of practice in not finding it.

I left Camille with Anna on Sunday, knowing that they would both be home on Tuesday evening. So I drove back Sunday night, all by myself. I went to sleep in the house ALL BY MYSELF. I’m trying to think. I know I haven’t spent a night alone since Camille was born, and so this was the first time in over three years that I have been totally alone. It was creepy…for about five minutes, and then it was calming, very calming. I slept, worked, ate, wrote, created and read without being interrupted. I think that is the thing I miss the most, the ability to focus, to finish a task without being interrupted 60 times a minute. When I started nursing school a few years ago, it was popular to get a prescription for Ritalin or something like it so one could focus and study harder. Being curious and of course wanting to do well in school, I tried it. I couldn’t see the difference. I would listen to my study group go on and on about how much better they could focus and stay on task while taking the Ritalin. I am naturally focused, to a fault. When I get something in my head, it takes on a life of its own. It’s hard for me to put it down, whether it’s an idea, a problem, or a task. I remember many days before children that I would walk into a closet or room in the morning and decide right there and then that this needed cleaning and organizing. Fast forward to 10pm that night and I would still be in my pajamas with boxes for Good Will and the trash and a beautifully organized room, however neglected the rest of the days agenda. But then came kids. Children don’t let you do that. I try. Oh, do I try. But instead, I get two minutes into something and lo and behold someone wants something to eat. Eat? You want food? But I’m about to reorganize the gardening tools and fertilizers in the shed. I’ve just pulled everything out! I can’t stop now! But I do, and if I’m lucky, I may get enough time to throw out a couple of things while putting everything back into the shed, still not organized, but now urgently calling me in the middle of the night or shower, nudging me, reminding me of tasks undone. I’ve been a parent for 12 years and I still don’t like that part of it.

Wednesday, I went to see a friend’s new baby. Very sweet! Really enjoyed holding her and feeling that little baby heat that builds up in your arms. She’s such a gentle soul and I felt she was right at home with her new family. Thanks for that gift. I really needed it.

This past weekend was hard. Work was hard, news from family was hard, being without Anna was hard. Feelings keep surfacing and demanding attention. I try to keep a balancing act. It’s one I haven’t perfected yet, despite years of practice. (I think if one has lessons to learn in each life, I’ve been a slow learner this go ‘round as I find myself saying “years of practice” quite often.) One word that keeps coming to mind is compassion. Compassion for myself, when I feel exposed and judged and dissected.  But on the other side is “fight.” Fighting for what is right, fair and what should be. It did help today to watch the movie Double Jeopardy with Ashley Judd. My favorite quote, “I gotta hand it to ya honey, it's just sheer hate driving you on.”

Not enough room

From March 18.

I’m okay now, thanks. I had my first panic attack in several years tonight. It wasn’t precipitated by anything major. I had a good day today. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by anything in particular. I even thought I handled the kids well. I had a good visit with two different friends today. I got some cleaning done. Molly got her school done. All in all a pretty good day. So why tonight? Why now? I really can’t tell you, except that I think our bodies have memories. They have memories of stress, trauma, abandonment, pain, abuse, and mistrust. Of course they also have memories of the good things too. But we tend to process the good with much more efficiency. We tend to hide the pain, and bury it deep, unwittingly storing up toxic waste in such amounts that will eventually reach the haz mat team level. That’s when our bodies tell us, enough is enough, if you don’t clean it up, I will. The worst part for me is that I think 20 years of therapy and high grade pharmaceuticals should be enough, but it isn’t, it’s a life long process, and I hate that. I really hate that.