I See You, Mama: Part Two

The four weeks between my first panic attack and my trip to the emergency room are quite fuzzy.

My sleep was minimal due to constant intrusive thoughts. I tossed and turned through the night, unable to rest. Eating felt nearly impossible—my stomach was a constant wave of nausea.

In moments of desperation, I would get out of bed in the middle of the night and search on the computer for a Christian psychiatric program. Terrified of what being admitted might mean, I would quickly close the screen and return to bed. As I became more exhausted and less nourished, the panic only tightened its grip.

Three weeks into this nightmare, I attended a meeting at church. I shared with my friend Michele what had been happening. She just so happened to be in nursing school and had recently completed a module on postpartum mood disorders. On her drive home, she called Paul and told him to get me to the doctor ASAP.

When I arrived home, Paul was waiting with loving concern. We called the doctor the next morning, and I was seen that very day.

The doctor was concerned—but not nearly as concerned as I felt, which struck me as strange. He started me on 25 mg of Zoloft.

I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

How did I end up here?

That evening, I sat in our living room and took my first pill. At that time in my life, I believed some very poor doctrine—that Christians were wrong to take psychiatric medication. Still, my hope that this tiny pill might bring relief outweighed the shame I felt. (As a side note, I’m deeply thankful for the deconstruction process that later brought me to a very different place.)

Unfortunately, the low dose didn’t help. One week later, I found myself in the emergency department.

Before leaving for Barnes-Jewish Hospital, we called our pastors, Matt and Michele, to meet us there. We arrived around 7:00 p.m., and they came shortly after. The plan was for them to take Joshua for the night.

This would be the first night I had ever been away from my baby.

I felt like my heart might break open and spill onto the floor. The intrusive thoughts grew louder:

• You are going to lose Joshua to DCFS

• You will never have another child

• You are a bad mom

• You are hurting him

• He will never recover

While Paul and Matt switched the car seat, Michele sat with me. She told me I would get through this. Her presence was powerful and grounding.

When Paul returned, we said goodbye to Joshua. My tears flowed like a waterfall. My baby was gone.

We spent eight hours in the ER. Interestingly, they didn’t view my condition as severely as I experienced it. First a resident, then an attending physician, asked the same questions:

Do you want to hurt your baby or your husband?

No.

Do you want to hurt yourself or anyone else?

No.

Do you plan to hurt yourself or someone else?

No. I’m having terrifying thoughts that I’ll lose my mind and act against my will.

Where is the baby now?

He’s with our pastors for the night.

Their conclusion:

They sent me home with a prescription for 100 mg of Zoloft, some Klonopin, and a referral to a psychiatrist.

By 4:00 a.m., we were home. I took one dose of Klonopin and slept for 24 hours.

When I woke up, my mind and body were calm for the first time in weeks, a welcome gift. The addictive nature of Klonopin increased my fear, so I decided to take it only if needed. I found I did need it intermittently. However, I wasn’t willing to continue breastfeeding while taking this medicine.

With a heart split in two, we bought our first can of formula.

Because a functioning, present mama mattered more—for Joshua and for me—than my fear-driven belief that stopping breastfeeding meant I had failed. While a deeply hard and personal decision, I could start to see the horizon of recovery.