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Our
Founder’s Story: Rachael
My precious baby boy was born on May 16, 1997, which is where my
story begins. Delivery was wonderful, one half hour of hard labor
and out came Grant at 9lbs, 12oz. My first issue came just hours
after delivery when the doctors refused to let me see my baby due
to the fact that he was having trouble breathing. They would not
even let me nurse him. As with any mom, that was cause for concern
and fear. It turns out that he was just fine. We came home the next
day and life seemed great, two beautiful boys and a great husband.
Wow, did that end fast! By day three, I was so sick in bed that
I could hardly move. I had constant vomiting and diarrhea for 21
days straight-I lost 40 lbs during that 21-day period. I lay in
bed paralyzed with fear--I had no idea what I was scared of. Consciously
I had nothing to fear. Early on we learned about colic. Grant would
scream from 8 to 11p.m. every night. After a while, I couldn't deal
with it and my husband would walk him up and down the street for
hours nightly. Why was my baby screaming? Why couldn't mommy help?
His colic lasted for 3 months and 1 week.
When Grant was born, he contracted thrush (yeast infection of the
mouth), which was transferred to me through nursing. I spent countless
hours working with LaLeche League to heal the problem. My OB said
"the mother can't get thrush", so it was left to untreated.
Many times Grant had to suck off the scabs before he could get milk.
I would cry every time he nursed. Eventually, 4 months later, a
dermatologist was able to treat the thrush as well as the staph
infection that had set in. Things with nursing were looking up.
Why didn't I just stop nursing? It seemed to be the best thing I
was doing for him and I had enjoyed my nursing relationship with
my first son, Zachary.
I was still physically sick during this whole time. I visited my
Primary Care Physician several times, blood was taken, cultures
taken and no answers. I was sent to a gastrologist, and after dreadful
tests I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome. They put me
on several medications to help. They help with the diarrhea, but
my fears and panic were still out of control. I kept thinking that
I was such a wonderful mother to Zachary, why couldn't I be to two?
I spent approximately 15-19 hours a day in bed. That was my only
safe haven. My grandmother had to come to play with Zachary and
keep the house up. My home business was failing fast. My husband
learned to do everything. I couldn't even dress my children, make
dinners, feed the dogs, or even shower myself. I was physically
too sick, but the guilt of not doing it set in and added to the
problem.
I
had lost all my friends but one. I wish someone had been there who
had experienced this before, just to talk to and know that I'm not
"crazy". No one understood what was going on including
my family, and since I didn't either they didn't know how to help
and decided to keep their distance. I was so embarrassed not to
be the "perfect mom". I tried to tell everyone that everything
was okay. My family and friends never pushed the issue, so nobody
stepped in. They didn't know how horrible life really was. I was
petrified to be alive. I was getting so frustrated with the continual
doctor's visits with no concrete answers about was going on. When
Grant was 5 months old they finally agreed to put me on valium 4
times a day to help with the anxiety. I saw my primary care physician
for the 12th time. I truly believed that I was dying from a disease
that they couldn't find. I had previously been taken to the hospital
3 times only to be hooked up to morphine until the pain subsided
and then sent home. I later figured out that the pain was brought
on by extreme anxiety/panic attacks. On the 12th visit to my primary
care physician I cried for 1 1/2 hours about everything and nothing.
Finally, he looked at me and said, "you have postpartum depression."
I was so grateful. Surprised, but grateful. Surprised because I
was a very in control kind of person, this couldn't happen to me.
Grateful to at least have a name for what was wrong and knowing
that I didn't have to die.
Finally after so many doctor visits with no one helping with the
extreme anxiety, fatigue, hopelessness, continual crying and guilt,
I began to see a therapist. He was wonderful. He taught me how to
handle panic attacks and start working through a lot of issues.
Even though this time I was still having upwards of 10 panic attacks
a day. I kept telling my husband "don't let me die". I
wish now that he would have documented the thing because the most
painful part is that I don't remember my baby as an infant at all!
That really hurts a mom's heart. I loved him and did everything
that I could, but everything wasn't much at all. He lay next to
me in bed and I'd roll over and nurse him...I don't even remember
how much I really talked to him, that's painful. I would love to
go back and remember his first smile, his first tooth, his precious
personality, anything: but I can't. His baby book is still pretty
empty. My postpartum depression ended at about 10 months, but the
severe panic attacks lasted until he was 16 months old. I continued
nursing until he was 13 months. It helped save me.
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