Mendolonium

Henry has a new favorite pastime, we call it dark/light.  It’s really quite simple:  we hold him up to a light switch and he turns the light on and off exclaiming “light” and “dark” in self-satisfied awe.  He is fascinated by the power to change the illumination with the flick of a finger.  When he wakes up in the morning he rolls over, points to the light fixture above our bed, and pronounces it “Dark!”.   He’s even created his own sign for dark, a sort of hand-over-his heart, pledge of allegiance style, quick salute.

Emerging from the darkness of post-postpartum depression (more accurately partum and post-postpartum depression as it plagued me my entire pregnancy) hasn’t been nearly as easy as flipping a switch.   I had a hard time sleeping last night,and not just because my soon-to-be one year old woke up to nurse every two hours like clockwork.  I tossed and turned remembering where I was one year ago; sick with anxiety over why my water had broken early, why my baby didn’t seem to be growing appropriately, why his movements had slowed down.  I really didn’t know if my baby was going to be “OK” and I was exactly where I didn’t want to be:  in the hospital, chained to monitors, with Pitocin coursing though my body.  I looked at the clock at about 1:30 this morning and thought about how exactly one year ago I was about to ask for an epidural and how badly that made me feel about myself; yet I had been in so much emotional pain for months I just couldn’t take one more minute of physical pain.  I really wasn’t ready to have a baby on that day – I  was scared of a medically induced labor in the hospital;  I still had innumerable items on my before the baby comes do-list; we hadn’t even come close to deciding on  name.  Birth , however, waits for no woman and at 6:30 in the morning on March 25th 2009 our baby boy slipped easily into the world.  He was small, but wonderfully healthy; a beautiful, calm, presence from his first moment on Earth.

While pregnant, I hadn’t been able to acknowledge my depression to anyone, not even myself.  The first few weeks and months after Henry’s birth were dark ones for me; I loved my perfect baby boy so very deeply, but was so lost, so paralyzed by sadness.  I was overwhelmed with two children, sleep deprived with the demands of a newborn, and wondering what had happened to my identity.  I could have  easily resented Henry for my depression, but I never did.  I was perfectly happy and content when I held him; usually upright against my chest with his head tucked under my chin, as was his preferred position.  He hated to be put down (still does, in fact, if he is not actively exploring something new) and carrying him around, rocking him for hours gave me purpose.  At my six week postpartum check-up I thought about Henry and told my OB that I thought I might be depressed.  It was Henry that flipped the switch giving me light and helping me to start to figure myself out.  My little Henry turned one today and it was only this week that I finally was able to say that I don’t think I am depressed anymore.  I am so very grateful that Henry is exactly the person who he is and that he was born exactly when he was.  I love him so much.  I wouldn’t be the same without him.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 25th, 2010 at 11:24 pm and is filed under Me, Theodore. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.