This is the story of my wife's struggle with postpartum depression. We weren't warned about postpartum depression; here's our story.
Over a year later, and finally being somewhat removed from this situation, this is the first time it felt okay to sit down and write about this. Before I get any further, I want to thank our family and our faithful friends in Bardstown. Especially those at Parkway Baptist Church, who lovingly supported us and helped us through this season of our life. God used them in ways more vital than they might be able to understand. I know we wouldn't have made it through this without them.
January 27th, 2022, is a significant day in our household. It's not one of those days we remember affectionately, like a birthday or anniversary. While there were certainly some positives that came out of that day, all I remember is the overwhelming feelings I had of sadness, grief, and anxiety. All of these emotions were present because it was a day we were hoping to avoid. Knowing it was the last resort, we didn't want to do what we did. As the Lord would have it, we found ourselves at the end of the rope. After months of therapy and waiting, we didn't have other options. It was time.
I still remember that morning. I was sitting in my homeroom, waiting to get the day started for that room full of high school boys. My phone lit up with my wife's contact showing the call. Thoughts like "Not again." and "Already?" ran through my mind before I slid the button to answer. I knew she had been struggling and battling, but what she said next was still radically different than what I was expecting. I still remember her voice on that call. Through her tears, she said, "I need you to take me to the hospital." Having taken her to the doctor the day before, I was hoping to avoid what happened next, but I knew I had to go. I packed up my things, went and told my bosses I had to leave, and drove to pick her up. When she climbed into the passenger seat, I just started driving. That half-hour drive felt more like two hours that morning. It was quiet. No music, no words, just the hum of the car as we were driving down the Bluegrass Parkway. It's hard to find the words to say when you don't know where to begin. I just remember telling her I loved her, and she said the same. We were both scared but knew we were doing the right thing.
It all became real when I pulled into the parking garage at Baptist Hardin. Not knowing how long we'd be there, I remember grabbing a few things out of the car that I thought I might need. When we walked into the waiting room, the lady at the desk asked how she could help; I still remember Maryanna trying to tell her about her depression through the tears. The lady came from behind the desk, hugged her, and told her everything would be ok. She said they would help her, and God would take care of her. She then turned to me and began asking me a list of questions about her medical history, symptoms, etc. I remember her asking if there had been any changes that could have led to this. When I told her that we had a six-month-old son, I was overcome with a sense of guilt and grief. It felt like I was blaming my son for something that wasn't his fault. He didn't choose to be conceived or born, yet the details everyone fails to talk about with that process is why we were standing in the hospital that morning almost six months later. I also felt this guilt because I felt like I was blaming my wife for the struggle she was having when it was entirely out of her control. None of that was true, but we were there, standing in the emergency room with a flood of emotions, just waiting for some sort of relief.
When we finally got a room, they had to assign a hospital worker to sit with us to "make sure she's ok." At least, that's how they phrase it to prevent you from feeling any sort of excess guilt. It really means they don't want you to hurt yourself and need to assign someone to make sure that doesn't happen before the doctor is able to give a diagnosis. After hours in that room with our friend, we were finally given some options. This was the moment any guilt or grief I had turned to frustration and anger.
She could admit herself to the mental health floor, where she would be treated for an average 2-3 days stay. At first, this option seemed appealing. She would get the help she needed and only be about 30 minutes from home. The time span we were given wasn't terribly long, so we could have everything trending in the right direction soon. However, because of residual rules from the COVID-19 pandemic, we wouldn't be able to have any communication until they called for me to pick her up. After finding out those details, we rejected that option.
We could find a third-party facility to treat her and start moving the needle in the right direction. These facilities usually have the best options for family availability and options for maintaining some regularity in the people you see while you're being treated. This was our preference, but all facilities like this in the area were already over capacity. So, we have to try something else.
The last option we were given didn't truly feel like a treatment option. We could go home, put away all sharp objects, medicines, and other items that could enable self-harm, and wait for a referral to a psychiatrist from a physician. Once you get that referral, you wait again to see the psychiatrist, then begin trying to return to "normal life."
We ultimately elected to go with the third option. Not because it was ideal, not even because we really wanted to, but because we felt it was the only realistic option we had.
On the ride home, I was steaming. The words that kept running through my head were something to the effect of "Everyone says if you need help to get it, but when you try to get help, they can't even give it to you." I was infuriated with how broken the system is and how people who aren't experiencing this directly can't begin to understand how serious this problem is. When we finally got home, I did as the doctor said. My bosses were very gracious in allowing me to take the time I needed to help my family. Thankfully, an elder in the church that held our membership is a physician and was able to get us an appointment relatively soon. Had it not been for him and his wife, who had helped us tremendously up to that point, I'm not sure how we would have made it. From there, we were able to make it to a psychiatrist who helped us begin the process back to normalcy. Thankfully, the medicine and continued visits have really brought her back to a place where she looks, acts, and feels like herself again.
Every now and then, something will remind me of this, and I relive this whole experience over again. It was hands down the most difficult season of my life, and I wasn't even the one experiencing depression. Watching someone you love go through that experience is torture in its own way. I remember thinking, "I'm so glad we only have to live on Earth for 70 more years." I would daydream of what heaven must be like and how wonderful it must be to escape all the pain we were experiencing. As someone who prefers to help themselves rather than ask others, not much is more complicated than feeling completely helpless, as I did during this time. I still remember times when the baby was crying while his mom was having a moment and being caught in the middle of how to help, fix, and protect my family. Had it not been for our family and church, I would have been totally helpless. Maryanna's sister even flew back from Poland for a month to help me hold down the fort.
As much as I'd like to, I won't continue to harp on the brokenness of the mental health system everyone continues to uplift. People with louder voices and more influence than me are already doing that. What I will say is this: God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good.
God was, and is, faithful to us. He always has been, and I have no reason to believe he won't always continue to be. From the therapist appointments to the lady working the desk in the emergency room, from the physician at our church to our church family bringing us meals, God was faithful. Looking back, it's easy to see how blind we were to his presence during this time. Often when we do simple things like deliver meals, make phone calls, and encourage and pray with others, we ourselves don't even realize how powerfully God is using us for his glory. In times when I wondered if God had forgotten or forsaken us, he continued to show us his love in ways I couldn't recognize at the time.
When asked questions like "How do you want to grow in your faith?" one of my favorite responses I hear from folks older than me is, "I just hope to remain faithful to the end." Sometimes it's easy to look at ourselves and see all of our problems. It's easy to see our own insufficiencies and feel God has abandoned us. If I've learned one thing in my short life, it's this: We can never be more faithful to God than he is to us. God is good to us, always. Even in the midst of our trials and suffering, he draws us closer to him so he can show us just how good and faithful he is.
Additionally, if you or someone you love is experiencing postpartum depression, you are not alone. You are in no way a failure or lacking strength by seeking help.
Approximately 1 in 10 women will experience postpartum depression after giving birth, with some studies reporting 1 in 7 women.
Postpartum depression generally lasts 3 to 6 months, however, this varies based on several factors.
It is estimated that nearly 50% of mothers with postpartum depression are not diagnosed by a health professional.
Information retrieved from postpartumdepression.org