Today is Truck Day in Boston – the day the Red Sox equipment truck leaves for spring training. It’s a sign of hope. Here’s a story about hope.
She was my second child so I wasn’t quite a novice this time. I knew what to expect when she was born. I would need to take it easy for six weeks after the Caesarean. I would get almost no sleep — maybe three hours total each day. Nights would be terrifying and filled with fear. What if I fall asleep and drop her? What if I roll over on her and smother her? What if she dies from SIDS? Days would vary. I would experience moments of bliss when I nursed and gazed at my new baby. And I would have moments of sheer frustration when I focused on my still fat body and the fact I was stuck on the couch for weeks.
This time, however, things were different. There was more frustration and fear than there was bliss. My incision hurt whenever I moved –my first Caesarean hadn’t bothered me at all. This time around I had a two year old child, my beautiful son, who wanted me to pick him up and cuddle him. But because of my aching incision, I could not. I was tired and bitter.
Three months passed and I did my best to suppress my negative feelings. I returned to work at the end of my maternity leave only to be laid off. My only escape was watching the Boston Red Sox play – they were having an amazing season. I had inherited my love off baseball from my mother and I was a diehard Sox fan even though my team had never won a championship in my lifetime.
She was in my arms the night the Red Sox finally did win the World Series – the team’s first in 86 years. To commemorate the event, I took a picture of her wearing a Red Sox hat and seated next to a bottle of champagne. That picture captured a rare bright spot during a long, dark autumn.
As winter approached, my mood worsened. I decided to stop nursing her at eight months even though I was still home full time. I had nursed him for a full year, lugging my breast pump to and from work everyday. With the weaning came some drastic changes in my hormone level. I became very moody. At midnight every night, she would still be crying. My husband and son would be asleep and I would be crazy. I felt alone in my despair. I wanted a job. I wanted hope. I wanted sleep.
I hated my husband for being asleep when I was awake. I hated myself for not being able to comfort her. I would sit in the rocking chair in her nursery, too tired to hold her, but too racked with guilt to sleep and I would beg her to just give me a break. I felt so much shame. What kind of a mother screams at a baby? What kind of a mother can’t calm her child and get her to sleep? What kind of monster was I?
Eventually she and I would both fall asleep. In the morning, I would feel much stronger than I had the night before and I would tell myself everything was okay. I could make it through the rest of the day.
I know now that I was suffering from postpartum depression. I know that I should have called my doctor for help. I still worry that my behavior in those months will affect my daughter for the rest of her life.
But I also know this. It is never too late to seek help — I finally went to a doctor. I know I can’t change the way I acted but I can provide her a better future. I know I was sick and I can’t continue to punish myself for my behavior. I know without a doubt that I love and adore my little girl.
And I know that she and I will always share a special bond. Just like my mother introduced me to baseball, I have passed the tradition on to my daughter. Now when the Red Sox play, she climbs into my lap, we cuddle, and we watch the games together.
