Women are notorious for believing we can do it all on our own. Whatever the “it” may be, we are strong. While that is definitely the truth, childbirth and the early months of motherhood are one of the greatest challenges we face. My postpartum doula was integral to my early days of motherhood. From teaching basic childcare, through the scary weeks of postpartum depression, and in dealing with tragedy, my doula was not a luxury but a necessity.
Within days of having my first child—via emergency C-section—I was plunged into a nightmare of postpartum depression.
Noah had turned breech in the last week of my pregnancy, and my doctor scheduled a C-section for the following day. It was my first major surgery. It was the first time I’d ever stayed in a hospital. Physically, it was harder than I thought it would be, and I was terrified from the start. But Noah was born and I took him home, and as the hormones raged and rearranged themselves, the sleepless days and nights began to pile up. My thoughts turned dark. I wanted to die. I wanted Noah to disappear. It’s still so hard, 11 years later, to write those words. I wanted my old life back. Everyone around me was terrified and confused.
There were whispers from well-meaning friends and relatives: “We thought she‘d be such a good mother. We don’t understand.” “She was so good with her nieces when they were little. This doesn’t make sense.”
My husband didn’t know where to get help for me. He spent hours on the phone trying.
I was supposed to simply dance into motherhood with all the accoutrements that came with it. There didn’t seem to be as much brutally honest information out there about motherhood in 2008. Or more likely, I didn’t think I’d need any. It all just comes so naturally, right? I was not the type to ask for help. I really was convinced I could do this on my own.
With time and a hefty dose of an antidepressant medication, I started to come out of my darkness. It took a few weeks. But I will never forget its intensity. The extreme thoughts of wanting to disappear subsided. But the day-to-day was still so hard. I really wished someone had told me about this part.
On the suggestion of my OB-GYN, we were referred to a postpartum doula through the hospital where I gave birth, and soon a tall, gentle woman named Arlene came to our garden apartment door. Almost as if Mary Poppins had gently glided down from the sky with her umbrella and carpetbag of tricks, Arlene had me crying on her shoulder within the first few minutes of meeting. That was what I needed. To get the words and tears out. To say just how hard this all was.
She taught me that cottage cheese mixed with yogurt was delicious and an excellent source of protein when my appetite was nonexistent.
She talked to me about her thirty-plus years of marriage and four children.
She talked to me about sunlight. The very first thing I needed to do every morning was open the drapes. Not only to begin teaching Noah the difference between day and night, but for me too.
I started to feel much more joy than sadness in my everyday. I began to enjoy opening the curtains as I brewed coffee in those early mornings. I never would’ve guessed what was coming less than two years later. I thought the worst was behind me.
I was in love with motherhood. I was obsessed with the brilliance of my baby boy. I was good at it all. In my way, I was the best mother I could be. Even when my own mother died when Noah was one and a half, I had a sense of peace about it all. Like she had given me all the tools I needed to go on without her.
In July of 2010, my husband, Noah, and I were moving into my father’s house. He was widowed, had plenty of space, and a swimming pool. But in the proverbial blink of an eye, our lives changed. Noah silently opened a door I never thought he would or even could. I was maybe 25 feet away. Silent. My husband found him within minutes. I heard a scream and a splash. My father dialed 911 and I stood in the kitchen in shock. It was too late. Noah had drowned.
Arlene was among the hundreds of people that attended Noah’s funeral. She waited for me as I came out of the ladies room right before the graveside service was about to begin. I just remember her smile. It was as if her care for me had come full circle. In life and death.
Arlene continued to send cards on Noah’s birthday. Knowing that she remembered him…that he existed…was a gift that meant so much.
We knew we could never ever replace him, but we soon began fertility treatments and continued them for two years to create our daughter. But we would never ever live life with the innocent joy we once did. It was all measured in extremes now. My extreme grief was reminiscent of the darkest days of my postpartum depression but even more brutal.
When Miriam Phoenix was born two and half years after Noah died, I was prepared for the PPD monsters. This time I knew what they would look like. Even with all the delirium of finally having a child again, I was not immune to the hormones and exhaustion. Exactly ten days after my daughter was born, as I was washing my face at my bathroom sink, those postpartum monsters swooped in again. I opened the door of the bathroom, face still wet, and simply said to my husband, “It’s starting again.”
I called my doctor immediately and got back on the meds. I called Arlene and asked if she could come give me a “refresher course” with a good cleansing cry included. She did.
Miriam is now six years old. She is pure joy with quite a backstory.
I still have my dark days. But just like Arlene taught me, I will always start my days by opening the curtains. A cup of coffee, yogurt with cottage cheese, and some sunlight.
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