Postpartum Hormones Work In Crazy, Mysterious Ways

I wasn't sure how to title this post, because a few things could work: "What Nobody Tells You About Postpartum Recovery" or "Way #9734 That Motherhood Has Changed Me" or "Crazy Shit That Happens In Motherhood."

I decided on being broadly specific. Because that just made so much sense. Anyway. On with it. Here's a big secret: Postpartum hormones can really, really fuck you up. And with that, here's another (not anymore) secret about me: I went through some weird stuff postpartum and it changed me forever. 

Immediately after my first child was born, I was flooded with all of the feel-good hormones. I was, in spite of my nipples having turned into ground beef, quite happy with my little Ethan, and my hospital stay was the best thing ever... stay in bed all day and have people bring you food? Hold your tiny sleeping baby all day without having to worry about doing anything else? SIGN ME UP. 

Then, upon returning home from the hospital, I experienced a strange emotional upheaval. Overall, I was still really happy, but then I'd be feeding my little baby and would suddenly, with startling clarity, think about the fact that there were babies just like him going hungry at that exact moment. Watching him eat, thinking about the suffering, hungry babies in the world who were crying for food right then, I would be filled with a piercing, agonizing, grief-filled pain for those babies. My emotional upset was so incredible that it manifested as physical pain, squeezing my chest, my heart, and restricting my breathing. 

I would start sobbing, absolutely gripped with grief, helplessness, and anger. As if that wasn't enough, the same thing would happen while changing his diaper; I'd think of the babies and children who were being molested right then. I'd think of their fear, of their pain, of their broken psyches and lost innocence, and thought I would lose my mind over the crushing devastation I felt for them.

Or when Ethan cried, I would pick him up and comfort him and think about some neglected baby in the world who was crying right then, because he was cold or in pain or hungry or just needing somebody, and nobody was coming to help him. The thoughts came against my will, and once there I could not stop my brain from plunging, in exacting detail, into the depths of the horrors that babies and children everywhere face. 

And I would cry and cry, absolutely crippled with pain. I couldn't help it, I couldn't stop it, it was completely out of my control. It was baffling. It was agonizing. It was some of the worst emotional pain I have ever felt in my life. The pain was almost unbearable.

I wondered if this was who I was going to be forever, an extremely sensitive person who cried all the time and was tortured at the knowledge of babies suffering, but I suspected and especially hoped that it was the hormones and would eventually go away, because the grief was too much to take and I needed it to stop, before I broke. 

Anybody who has delivered a child knows how powerful those postpartum hormones can be. I was consumed with these thoughts for over two weeks postpartum, consumed with the gripping, torturing realization of the vulnerability of children, of the horrors inflicted on them. I  tried (but didn't always succeed) to hide the episodes from Nate because I don't like to cry in front of anybody, not even him.

After the first few weeks, I still had the episodes but they came less frequently and with lessening intensity until finally, my grief, rage, and sadness at children's suffering became something I could think about and still feel striking pain over, but the thoughts did not cripple me or reduce me to a sobbing, hot mess. However, I did not emerge from the episodes unscathed. It is impossible to endure something that powerful and walk away from it unchanged. My level of consciousness had been heightened, forever. The pain that I felt from my acute awareness of the suffering of children had become a huge part of me.

Forever.

Looking at my baby, looking around his room, I started thinking about what I could do to help. Sometimes, at the store, I would buy an extra tube of diaper rash cream and pack of diapers or extra baby food and take them to a family center or shelter, along with baby things that we didn't need. I knew it wasn't a lot, but we're not wealthy and at least it was something. It was comforting to know that at least for one day, a baby was going to have clean diapers, some warm clothes, and a full belly. 

Then we had Connor, and then Brandon. I experienced the exact same thing for a couple of weeks after coming home from the hospital with each of them; the emotional upheaval was renewed. At least I knew it was eventually going to wane and so I was able to let it ride. Since then, money is tighter, time is tighter, and I'm not able to do the little things as much as before, not that it was a whole lot before. I have to force myself not to think very much about the hungry babies out there, because I have my own babies to feed, and I can only do so much. 

But it doesn't feel very good to turn a blind eye. 

We live in a "beach bum" town, emphasis on the "bum." There is a high adult homeless population. Panhandling is something seen pretty much every day, and I have become inured to it and tend to ignore the panhandlers. I would go broke if I gave any money every time I was asked, and I especially don't trust that they would use the money to eat.

And they almost never have kids with them.

Plus, Nate always warns me that to open my wallet up in front of people opens me up to be robbed. So after 11 years of living here, I have come to naturally and automatically deny the panhandlers when they ask for money. Besides, I usually (like the rest of the world now) hardly ever have any cash on me, anyway.

Last year, when Brandon was about a year old, I was walking out of Toys 'R Us when a scraggly, dirty man approached me and said they were stranded and needed gas money to get the rest of the way home. I gave him my automatic (and true that time) response of "Sorry, don't have any money on me" and walked to the car. As I was pulling out of my parking spot, I caught a glimpse of the man standing against the building with a woman and small child in a stroller. Something gripped me as I was driving away and it wasn't until I was on the highway heading home that I realized what was bugging me. 

They had a child. They were down and out, and that baby might have been hungry, or in need of a fresh diaper. I mean, if they couldn't afford gas to get home (assuming that was the real story - I don't trust panhandlers, even ones with kids) were they able to feed that child? I started thinking about the things I had in the car with me that I could have asked if they needed for their child; extra diapers, wipes, a sweatshirt, some food. I could have gone to the gas station down the street and bought a gas card for them.

The farther away I drove, the more my feelings of devastation grew. I could have helped a baby that was right in front of me, and I didn't. I beat myself up on that drive, telling myself that I needed to be a quicker thinker, that I should have been quicker about recognizing the situation, that I should have acted on it as soon as I saw the baby. The fact that the baby was not my responsibility didn't matter. The pain that I had felt in my postpartum days was pushing into me. I was mad at myself. I almost turned around but I needed to get home for whatever reason and couldn't take the time to turn around. It haunted me for weeks that I missed an opportunity to make sure a child wasn't going to be hungry or cold, even if for just that day. And I vowed that I would not miss that chance if it was put right in my face again.

I wanted another chance put in my face. 

A month later, I was leaving the grocery store. A woman approached me in the parking lot and asked for money. As I began to give her my automatic response, she added that she just got into town and only wanted to get a campsite so her kids would have somewhere safe to sleep for the night, instead of spending another night living in the car.

That stopped me in my tracks. I said, "You have kids? Send them over here. I have no cash but I have food I can give them so at least they're not hungry." A minute later, a couple of small boys came running over and I handed them several things from my bags, enough for a couple of meals. They were happy to have food and it was wrenching to see their happiness at just being able to eat.

It's painful seeing kids going without the basics, it's painful knowing that it is happening everywhere in the world, every minute of every day. While not at the depth it was postpartum, it's still so painful.

Those postpartum episodes were agonizing (I know, nothing compared to what the kids I'm hurting for deal with on a daily basis) but I'm glad they happened. I'm glad that I was branded with this compassion and awareness, so that here and there, I can be cognizant of opportunities to help. 

And especially, so that I can be encouraged, motivated, angered into finding bigger and better ways to help.

I'm also glad because it helps me remember perspective and gratitude, so easily forgotten in the chaos of life. Every once in a while, I will stop and just watch my boys eat for a few moments, and I can temporarily let go of my parental frustrations and feel this infusion of bone-deep gratitude that they have enough to eat, that they are not going hungry, that I do not have to listen to them cry out of days-old hunger and feel the crushing pain and helplessness from having nothing to feed them. 

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