Ye Olde Gag Reflex

I’m so glad Pippa is my firstborn.  She spit up plenty as a baby, but once she got past that, the spit up was over, aside from puking when she is legitimately sick.

I wish I could say the same for Julian.

Julian has a mighty gag reflex. Which, I suppose, is a good thing from an evolutionary standpoint. He still puts tiny things in his mouth, which is less than ideal, but I don’t have to worry about him choking. He’d puke long before it came to that.

For example, today.

At Starbucks.

A crowded Starbucks.

Julian had been eating a peanut butter sandwich. Some crumbs were bugging him.  He started to cough.  And cough. And then whee, he emptied the contents of his stomach on to the floor.

I looked at the line of patrons behind us. They were horrified.  I assured them Julian just has a strong reflux.  Not sure they were convinced.

As I bent down and cleaned up the mess, one woman started to clean up Julian. I looked up and said, “You must be a mom.”

“Yup,” she said, “I have five kids.”

You got to love the kindness of random mothers.

Also, I’m so glad this sort of thing did not happen with Pippa. I was not nearly as strong then as I am today. If Pippa had puked all over a crowded Starbucks, I would have wanted to puke myself.

But today? Meh. I’m sure some people were telling their friends or colleagues about the horrible mother who took her sick child to Starbucks. Doesn’t matter. I still got my iced coffee.

It was delicious.

 

Deleted Scene: Alcohol and Depression

I am revising my memoir about having a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder and sharing deleted scenes here on the blog. In this scene, I talk about the effects that wine had on my postpartum depression.  My psychiatrist told me it was fine to drink an occasional glass of wine, but wine actually exacerbated the symptom of physical fatigue.  

Early on in my treatment, I asked my psychiatrist if I could still drink wine.  He told me it was better to avoid alcohol but an occasional glass would not make my head explode.

In college, I drank more than my fair share.  My friends could humiliate me with many tales regarding Courtney’s inebriated antics.  But after college, I only got drunk a few times.  The hangovers were too brutal.  The last time I have ever been drunk was December 30, 2006.  (The culprit: red wine.  When I moved out of my apartment in September 2010, there was a still a pink stain on the carpet next to my bed.) 

Nathan and I have never been drunk together, but we have shared many bottles of wine.  We love the movie Sideways and have gone wine tasting in Santa Barbara County at least a half dozen times.  We love the whole experience: driving along windy country roads, past vineyards and horses; sniffing and sipping several different wines; tossing around pretentious descriptors like “smoky” and “forest floor.”  Our trips to wine country were always relaxing and romantic.

One of my favorite bloggers often wrote about the trips she took to tropical islands with her husband while her mother watched the baby.  Her parents were divorced, and she thought these weekend getaways were vital to the health of her marriage.  I read her blog posts as if they were written by God Himself.  If Nathan and I did not go on a romantic getaway immediately if not sooner, our marriage would turn to ash and dust. 

Never mind the fact that our marriage was showing no signs of wear or tear.   In my mind, a romantic getaway was imperative, and the getaway had to happen in wine country, and if we went to wine country, by God, I would have to be able to imbibe at least three glasses of wine during the day.

OR TERRIBLE SHIT WOULD HAPPEN.

In the hopes of rebuilding my alcohol tolerance, I made myself drink a glass of wine at least once every two or three weeks.  I did not enjoy these drinks.  Before I got pregnant, a glass or two of wine made my body hum pleasantly.  Now every sip of wine made me feel edgier and edgier.  It felt as if I was forcing myself to drink poison.

Months after my psychiatrist said the occasional glass of wine was fine, I finally noticed something: there was a cause-effect relationship between my fatigue and the wine.  If I had a glass of wine with dinner, then the next morning, my depression-fatigue kicked in and I felt as if I was being dragged into hell by Satan himself.  

If I wanted to avoid my fatigue episodes, I would have to stop drinking wine and abandon my Santa Barbara romantic getaway dreams.

To wine or not to wine?  It took me all of 0.8 seconds to answer that question.

I stopped drinking wine in February 2014. 

Nathan and I are still very much happily married.

Deleted Scene: My Postpartum Obsession With SIDs

I am revising my memoir about having a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder and sharing deleted scenes here on the blog. If you are a mom who is currently struggling, please know that you are not alone.  You did not bring this upon yourself.  You can and will make a full recovery. 

According to my baby books, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome claims the lives of 1,500 infants every year in the United States. 

In 2013, the year Pippa was born, there were 3.93 million births in the U.S. 

Math never was my strong suit, but I knew that given when and where I lived, it would be incredibly unlucky to lose a baby to SIDs.

SIDs still scared the shit out of me. 

I thought about it every night when Pippa fell asleep and then I thought about it again in the morning when she awoke – we had cheated the SIDs reaper once again; we were one day closer to Pippa’s first birthday when the threat of sudden inexplicable death would dissipate. 

In my crusade against SIDs, I declared that Pippa must sleep in the master bedroom, end of discussion. 

A cradle was stationed in our bedroom next to our closet, which has large wooden sliding doors.  If Pippa was in her cradle, the closet doors had to be closed.  Otherwise, something might fall out during the night, land on top of Pippa, and smother her. 

If the closet door was open even an inch, it tormented me until I got out of bed to close it – even if the screech of the closet door might wake the sleeping baby. 

My closet fears were a bit, shall we say, irrational.  We had lived in our house for several years and one of the sliding closet doors was often open, sometimes all night.  Sometimes a shirt or dress fell off its hangar and landed on top of the shoes, but the clothes and shoes always stayed inside the closet. 

My anxiety inspired some creative thinking. 

There could be an earthquake!  Strong enough to give the clothes enough momentum to fly from the closet, but weak enough so that Nathan and I kept sleeping.  If the tectonic plates shifted just so… and we were at the right place in our sleep cycles…

It could happen. 

A psychopath might break into our house, tiptoe into the bedroom, remove a shirt from its hangar, and drape it over Pippa.  The psychopath would have to choose our house… and would have to sneak past me, Nathan and a sleeping baby…

It could happen.

The closet could suffer an infrastructure malfunction, and the pole that supported the hangers could collapse, and a shirt could fall on Pippa.  The wooden pole would have to break silently, but in a way that sent clothing flying through the air …

It could happen.

If I could have positioned Pippa’s cradle away from the closet, I would have – but I had evaluated all the dangers and selected the safest spot in the house for my baby’s cradle. 

A foot to the left, and the television might fall over and kill her. 

A foot to the right, and Pippa could be lacerated by shattered glass if a suicidal squirrel leapt through the window. 

A foot forward, and she was too close to the blankets on the bed, which could creep towards the cradle and engulf Pippa at 3 a.m. 

A foot backwards, and she was too far from me – if a kidnapper slipped into our room, I might not hear my baby being lifted away.  She would be sold to a cult in Australia and killed by dingoes.

I debated with myself whether or not we should lock ourselves into the bedroom.  A locked door might deter a kidnapper but it might also delay a fireman from rescuing Pippa if our house was on fire and Nathan and I were unconscious…. but firemen have axes, and kidnappers don’t (too noisy), so the door was locked.

I checked Pippa again and again during the night. 

She slept in pajamas and a sleep sack, a wearable blanket with armholes and a zipper in front, and I constantly checked these articles to make sure they were not covering her mouth or nose.  Adjustments were often necessary at 3 a.m.  (And 3:01 a.m.  And 3:03 a.m.  And 3:07 a.m.) 

I would climb out of bed and tug the fabric of her pajamas away from her face.  Assured that Pippa was not in danger of being smothered, I would get back into bed, only to crawl back out thirty seconds later. 

What if, when I turned away from Pippa, I had caused a disturbance in the air that made the sleep sack flap over her face?  Or maybe, when I had leaned over to kiss her forehead, I had accidentally disrupted the fabric of her pajamas.  I had to check her again, or she would die. 

Sometimes I checked her seven or eight times before I could force myself to stay in bed. 

Then I would get up again to make sure she was still breathing, that her heart was still beating.  I strained my eyes in the dark to see the rise and fall of her chest.  I placed a hand over the soft spot on her head where I could feel her pulse.  Then I leaned close so I could hear her breathing.  Sometimes, if these methods had not assured me enough, I poked Pippa until she stirred a little. 

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!

I Started A Hashtag

I started a hashtag yesterday: #PPDforDummies. Let me explain.

When I was recovering from postpartum depression (and postpartum anxiety) (and postpartum obsessive compulsive disorder), Postpartum Depression for Dummies by Dr. Shoshana Bennett was my bible. It helped me understand what was happening to me and gave me tons of great ideas to help me get better.

I remember finding this book online and thinking, Holy crap, For Dummies published a book about this? Then it must be really common.

A few months later, as I started to feel more like myself, I thought, This book really needs to be in the waiting room for every pediatrician and obstetrician.

That was over three years ago. At last, I am finally following through on my idea to make sure this book is EVERYWHERE because no woman should think she is alone when she is suffering from a maternal mood disorder.

 

I donated a copy of Postpartum Depression for Dummies to the parent education class that Julian and I attend.  They have a library with books about pregnancy and baby care, and now they have PPD for Dummies. I think this is the one book about maternal mood disorders that every mom needs in her life.

Folks, I’m publishing a memoir about my postpartum adventures in a few months, but this is the book I really want everyone to read. That is how serious I am about this book.

I have thought long and hard about the best way to get copies of this book into the waiting rooms of pediatricians and obstetricians. Should I start a Kickstarter? Form a non-profit? Host a fundraiser?

Then I realized the best way to start was to just start. Sometimes a little grassroots advocacy is the most effective way to raise awareness.

I hope I can inspire other advocates to donate copies of PPD For Dummies – or whatever book they love the most – to all the places that moms visit.

And you know what? This does not have to be a purely altruistic mission. I wrote a little love note with the address for my podcast’s website on the front page of the book. Think of the marketing possibilities for doulas, midwives, therapists, and anyone else working with new moms! In a world where everyone is screaming for attention on social media, why not differentiate yourself from the pack and reach moms in a totally different way?

I am going to create an actual nice “bookplate” to paste into future copies that I share. Something much prettier than my handwriting. But hey, I did not want another excuse to procrastinate. Maybe a mom will be in that classroom tomorrow and see the book and go home, order it from Amazon, and finally get the help she needs. How could I wait another day to make a pretty bookplate when there are moms suffering right this very second?

So that is why I started a hashtag. If you feel inspired and donate a copy of Postpartum Depression for Dummies to your pediatrician, obstetrician, whomever, please let me know! Post a photo on Instagram or Facebook, don’t forget to tag #PPDforDummies, and I’ll let my podcast listeners know. (I’m @Courtney.Novak on Instagram. Tag me, too, to help spread the word and make sure I see your post!)

I’ll start a page on this website to list all the people who get involved and include links to where you live online. This is such an easy way to make a difference.

We can change the world one book at a time.

3 Mom Circus

I received such a sweet message from Sunny last week that I just had to share:

My name is Sunny and I wanted to let you know your podcast helped me through my postpartum anxiety after delivering twin baby girls. I’ve always had issues with anxiety and when I became a mother it was unbearable. I listened to your podcast while taking my girls, Lynley & Emma on long stroller walks outside and it helped so.much.

Your creative use of storytelling as therapy for PPD also inspired me to share my story. Together, my cousin (currently suffering from PPD/A) my sister (clinically depressed) and I (anxiety) created a blog called 3momcircus. We live in MN, TN, and FL, and we’re working together to support each other as we share our lives with other moms.

It’s a brand new blog, but we’re hoping it will reach moms going through these struggles. We are working to normalize perinatal mood disorders and let moms know it’s ok to not be ok.
Your voice was the first real voice I heard on the subject, so thank you for your bravery for being so real and vulnerable. It’s definitely a hard thing to do, but it does help.

Thank you, Sunny! I am working at Pippa’s school book fair right now and having trouble concentrating because I just want to read all the posts on your beautiful new blog, 3 Mom Circus.

I’m so glad to hear of more moms sharing their stories because folks, this maternal mood disorder stuff? It’s real. It’s happening. And by sharing our stories, we empower ourselves.

Deleted Scene: The Physical Fatigue of Postpartum Depression

I’m revising my memoir Adventures With Postpartum Depression and sharing some of the deleted scenes here on the blog. Parts of this passage will probably make it into the final version, but I wanted to share it now, in this form, because it was so difficult for me to understand the physical parts of postpartum depression even as I myself was being treated for that very illness.

I still occasionally had days where it felt like my muscles were melting off my bones.  No matter how much I slept, no matter how much caffeine I consumed, my body felt like a useless sack of jelly. 

I first experienced this fatigue in the hospital on the same day that I realized I was depressed.  I assumed the physical feeling of exhaustion was my body’s way of adjusting to my medications. 

The muscle-melting fatigue happened again after I was discharged from the hospital.  Every afternoon, I felt exhausted in the marrow of my bones and collapsed on the guest room bed while Laura watched Pippa. 

Napping, though, did not help.  Lying down did not help.  In fact, the longer I lay in bed, the harder it was for me to mobilize and get back to the act of living. 

Even as I felt better and better, the fatigue still sometimes struck without warning. 

Several times, I felt it slam into my body at Mommy and Me class.  I could hear the moms talking but felt as if I was sinking into an invisible ocean. 

The fatigue also liked to grab me whenever Nathan was driving us somewhere on the weekend. 

And most baffling and frustrating, the fatigue often tried to haul me back into bed even after I got seven or eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. 

For months and months, I thought of this as Zoloft-fatigue.  The Zoloft was doing good things for me, so I accepted this little side effect.

Then, over six months after I was first diagnosed with postpartum depression, it hit me. 

I was not experiencing Zoloft-fatigue. 

I was experiencing DEPRESSION-fatigue.

Before I had postpartum depression, I always equated “depression” with having a “bad attitude” and “crappy mindset.”  Depression was all in the person’s head.  They did not need to spend all day in bed moping.  If they could just adopt a more pleasant attitude, they would be fine.

Depression is not just in the head.  It is physical.  For me, it felt as if the muscles were melting off my bones.  I spent a lot of time resting in bed not because I had a crappy attitude but because I truly and physically felt incapable of doing anything else.  

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!

Deleted Scene: The Concerns Of An Anxious Mother

I am working every day on my memoir Adventures With Postpartum Depression but in the meantime, here is a deleted scene that might resonate with your personal experiences.  You are not crazy.  You are not alone.

Or maybe this passage will help you understand what your loved one is going through. She’s not crazy. She’s not alone. 

My parents had a guest room with a queen sized mattress and plenty of space for Pippa’s cradle.  That was where the newly displaced Novaks should have slept, except I did not want to share a queen sized mattress with my 6’5” husband – not after five weeks of insomnia.  Nathan volunteered to sleep on a cot in the guest room – I was too afraid to sleep alone – but my parents insisted that we sleep on the king sized mattress in their master bedroom instead._

I was thrilled that I could share a bed with Nathan, but now we had a new problem: where would we put Pippa?  We had brought her cradle, and there was more than enough room for it in my parents’ room.  You could easily fit a dozen cradles in their master bedroom… but for the large, scary chandelier hanging in the middle of the room.  What if it fell?  What if there was an earthquake?  The chandelier would kill Pippa! 

I moved the cradle from place to place in the master bedroom, and my mom pointed out several places where Pippa would be safe.  She suggested a spot near the window.  Next to the window?!  What if some hooligan threw a rock through the window and it hit Pippa?  We moved the cradle away from the windows, but now it was near a side table with a large lamp.  What if there was an earthquake and the bedside lamp got flung fifteen feet across the room?  My mom moved the cradle closer to the door.  The door?!  Holy shit, why not invite the local union of kidnappers to stop by at midnight and hand them my baby.  How had I survived my childhood?    

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!

Deleted Scene: Postpartum Anxiety Even Ruined Baking

As I prepare my book for publication, I’m sharing deleted shares on the blog. This scene focuses on the way that I felt guilty about anything and everything. Did you know that guilt can be a symptom of postpartum depression? I had no idea! But when my hormones crashed, and I got dragged down by depression and anxiety, my body hummed with an almost constant feeling of guilt. I always felt like I was failing and disappointing everyone and anyone.

I love baking.  I love everything about it – flipping through cookbooks and searching blogs for recipes; shopping for ingredients; measuring cups of flour; cracking eggs and separating the yolk from the whites; stirring everything together; and then sharing my creation with my loved ones. 

Baking recharges my soul batteries. 

I had not baked anything since before Pippa was born – yet another failure to add to the list.  Yet another reason for Nathan to hate me.  Yet another reason to feel anxious and guilty.  

I had to bake. 

In mid July, a couple of weeks before I admitted myself to the psychiatric wing of our hospital, I baked a strawberry cake. 

As I pulled out the recipe, my anxiety clicked up several levels.  I rushed, rushed, rushed, measuring ingredients and cracking eggs as if an assassin had a gun pointed to my head and if I did not stir the batter fast enough, he would pull the trigger. 

I felt guilty that I had not baked any treats for Nathan, but now that I was baking, I felt guilty that he had to watch Pippa. 

Before the batter was ready to go in the oven, I had to take a breastfeeding intermission.  Now I felt guilty that I had chosen such a complicated recipe.  I should have hulled the strawberries the night before. 

Why hadn’t I hulled the strawberries?! 

It was just a strawberry cake, but it felt like a matter of life or death.  Everything was starting to seem like a matter of life or death.

Death was winning.

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!

Deleted Scenes: The Inner Monologue of a Mom With Postpartum Anxiety

As I finish up the latest rounds of revisions for my memoir about having a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder, I am sharing deleted scenes right here. 

On a Saturday in mid-July, Nathan and I took Pippa to a shady park near our house for the first time.  Pippa looked around in awe at the trees and grassy hills. 

I thought that I should feel very happy and content.

I did not. 

Question after question raced through my head. 

  • Would Pippa need to breastfeed? 
  • Was Nathan enjoying himself? 
  • Had I done anything to make him angry? 
  • Was I doing everything I could to make Pippa comfortable? 
  • We did not have a picnic blanket.  I should have brought a picnic blanket.  Why didn’t we have a picnic blanket??

After the park, we decided to drive to our favorite deli in downtown Los Angeles and pick up sandwiches for lunch.  Pippa had eaten recently, and I thought we could make the forty-five minute roundtrip to the deli before she got hungry again.

Nathan drove, and I sat in the back of the car so I could attend to Pippa’s every need.  She fell asleep almost immediately. 

Nathan and I talked, and a stream of questions continued to unspool in my head. 

  • Was I talking too much? 
  • Too little? 
  • Was I boring him? 
  • Did he hate me for dragging him out of the house on the weekend? 
  • Did he hate the music we were listening to? 
  • Should we change the radio station? 

Then we grinded to a halt on the freeway. 

We could see smoke in the not too far distance and hear the wail of fire engines.  A tanker had set fire, and a freeway between our house and the deli had been closed for the fire trucks. 

It would take hours to pick up our sandwiches.  Nathan called and cancelled our order, maneuvered through the crawling lanes of traffic, escaped the freeway, and drove home. 

I wanted to vomit. 

Nathan had so little free time, and we had wasted a precious hour on a doomed mission to a deli.  I was a terrible, thoughtless wife. 

True, Nathan had proposed the field trip, but I should have known better.  I should have known that there would be a freak accident, forcing the fire department to shut down a freeway. 

Nathan did not need any additional aggravations.  Having a wife with insomnia was aggravation enough. 

As we drove home, I willed myself to be invisible.

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!

Deleted Scene: The Roller Coaster Ride of Postpartum Depression

Oh, happiness, I am so close to finishing up my memoir about postpartum depression for publication. In the meantime, enjoy a deleted scene! 

On the first day of July, I took Pippa to Target and bought towels and pool noodles.  It was summer!  We were going to swim every weekend! 

Target is less than five minutes from my house, but it felt like a voyage to Antarctica.  The excursion was exhilarating but exhausting.

I was fighting the depression with every fiber of courage and strength I had in me. 

It felt as if something inside my body had broken, and I wanted to fix it on my own.  

I did not want anyone else to know how I was suffering. 

I did not want anyone’s help. 

Want to stay in touch? Want to know when the book Adventures With Postpartum Depression is published? Sign up for the newsletter!