A VERY DARK TIME

The day we took our baby home was bitterly cold for Florida.  We bundled Jeanne in tiny sweaters, booties, a hat and many receiving blankets to shield her from the icy wind.  In her short life Jeanne had only experienced warmth.  When the cold hit her little face, her eyes widened and she looked at me very intently in disbelief.  What in the world was this?  I held her close to me to protect her not only from the freezing cold but from everything else in the world that could possibly hurt her.

The euphoria I felt in the hospital was gone.  I felt anxious and inadequate.  How could I possibly care for this helpless infant?  I was frightened and tearful.  I experienced a feeling I had never felt before--despair.  But I said nothing to Paul.  I fed my baby; I changed her; I sang little songs to her; I washed her tiny clothes.  I held her in my arms, but inside I felt nothing but panic and despair.  What was wrong with me?  I couldn't sleep at night so I got up for all Jeanne's feedings.  We sat on the couch as she drank from her bottle and I cried silently.

The days dragged by and I was no better.  I asked Paul to call the doctor as something was very wrong.  I heard him talking to Dr. Scott in a low voice and I tried not to scream.

"The doctor thinks you have  post-partum depression.  He wants me to take you to the hospital right away."  How could I go to the hospital and leave my baby?  Paul's mother came over looking terrified and took Jeanne from my arms as I cried.

Dr. Scott met us at the hospital and conferred briefly with Paul and a psychiatrist.  I had shut down completely and just stood there like a sleepwalker.  This was fifty years ago and there were very few antidepressants available, so I was given a anti-
psychotic and slept thirteen hours.  Even now, so many years later, I can still recall the unrelenting terror of that time.

                                     TO BE CONTINUED