No Such Thing as a Free Lunch...

Today marks the end of my journey with the Mother and Baby Unit. My doctor saw me as an outpatient for a number of months following my discharge as she wanted to make sure I was doing ok at home. But David is now one, and I have been stable, and it was time to be referred back to my local mental health team.

Today was the day I was to have an appointment with the new Psychiatrist that was going to be taking over my care. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Due to the experiences I had before my hospitalisation I am wary of medical professionals – particularly those in mental health. Would they take me seriously? Would they screw around with my medication? Would they be nice?

Furthermore, my appointment was at my local hospital whose service has not impressed me over the past 18 months. This is the hospital where I was told (in the midst of a mixed psychotic episode) that I didn’t need hospitalisation, only a good night sleep. Indeed it is the very same hospital that I called during my labour with David, only to be told to take a Panadol and have a bath. It’s a good thing that we ignored that advice, because when I arrived we found out I was half way to having a baby, and the contractions were coming quick and strong. Naturally the birth suites were full, and I needed to be transferred to a different hospital, but the doctor was then concerned that I wouldn’t make the ambulance ride. I was told I may have to deliver in the waiting room, with no epidural (“this was not in my birth plan!!!” I couldn’t help thinking ;)). Fortunately for everyone my labour stalled, I was successfully transferred to a different hospital and I even got an epidural. No thanks to my local hospital though. Do I sound resentful? Perhaps a tad ;)

  Anyway. Back to today. I went to the appointment feeling rather stand offish and cross about things. I was on the offense and I wasn’t afraid to let ‘them’ know about it. The doctor called me up by my middle name, which wasn’t a great start. But there was something profoundly kind about this woman, and for the life of me I couldn’t stop myself from telling her everything. To open up to someone so quickly is very unusual for me. I talked and talked so much that when Steven came to pick me up my voice was hoarse. Ok, so admittedly I am still recovering from laryngitis...but you get the idea ;))

At the end of it she asked me how it had been. I was honest with her and told her that I had had deep reservations about coming, I told her about my experience with the other doctor. I explained to her that when I am depressed I don’t tend to show the emotion that other people seem to. I don’t tend to cry or even talk much. I will just state that I feel depressed, and because actions speak louder than words, I didn’t seem to receive the help I needed.

To my surprise she told me that she had dealt with many individuals that show little emotion, and that ‘Depression’ is about far more than feeling sad. She told me it was about an inability to sleep, to concentrate, to make decisions, to engage in life. She assured me that she was taking me seriously, and from her notes from the mother and baby unit and from what I had talked about she felt that I had been to hell and back. She told me how sorry she was that I had been through this, and how sorry she was that their service had let me down.

I think that’s what I really wanted. To tell someone at the hospital what had happened and for them to acknowledge it. I hope that by telling someone, perhaps someone else out there won’t slip through the cracks. Not everyone who needs help wears their heart on their sleeve.

All in all I feel good about the appointment. My new doctor is lovely, and I’m confident that with time I will trust her in the way I trusted my old doctor. To my surprise I was also given a medication voucher for the pharmacy, so I can get all my medications for free! This was a huge relief since we were paying almost $100 a month on pills.

 To be honest with you, although I have had some bad experiences with our mental health service, I’ve had some really good ones too. The hospital and all of my doctor and psychologist appointments have been free of charge. I received free childcare and now free medications. People say there is no such thing as a free lunch...but I guess sometimes there is. And I know I’m grateful for it! :)

Hospital Visit

 I think that when you’re a mum, you just KNOW when your child isn’t well. When there is something more serious than the average cough or cold going on. I think as a parent you have an instinct.

This week I had a suspicion something wasn’t right with David. On Monday I worried when I dropped him off at daycare, and called from the uni to see how he was. When we took him home that night he was frantic. Screaming, writhing, thrashing. Painkillers didn’t seem to work and nothing seemed to settle him. First thing the next morning I took him to my local GP.

My GP was concerned, David was still screeching in pain, and basically inconsolable. Yet at this stage he had no fever, no sore throat, no ear infection, no runny nose, nothing obvious to explain his pain. We spent an hour at the surgery for observation, then were advised to take him to hospital for further investigation.

My mum came with me to the emergency department, where David screamed and thrashed. He was assessed by doctor after doctor. Through tears I watched as my little boy was wrapped in a sheet and pinned down by three nurses, while a consultant unsuccessfully attempted to administer a line and take bloods. Dripping in sweat, writhing in pain, David didn’t take his eyes off me as they pricked him again and again.

The doctors were concerned he had a bowel twist and directed us to go to the city’s specialist children’s hospital to meet with the GI surgical team for a review. We were offered an ambulance transfer but I refused as I didn’t want to be without my mum. Instead we drove home, picked up my husband and went straight to the emergency department.

 At the hospital we were seen by doctor after doctor after doctor. But nobody could tell us what was going on. David was obviously in tremendous pain, but had no other symptoms. An ultrasound ruled out a bowel twist, and suddenly doctors were talking about real nasty pasties. Bone infections, meningitis, lumbar punctures. Of course we were terrified – although David was unwell we hadn’t expected anything like this. For a while, Steven and I couldn’t even say the word. ‘Meningitis’ became ‘that other thing the doctors mentioned...’ 

 Luckily for us David started to improve after taking some painkillers. Although he still had periods of intense crying, he also started having longer periods of calm. Doctors were more relaxed, telling us he had no suspicious symptoms. After a long night where David developed a hoarse voice, cough and wheeze, he was diagnosed with Croup, an ear infection and constipation.

Croup! What a relief! Somehow I couldn’t believe our luck. You see, for the entirety of our stay at the children’s hospital I had seen such dreadfully sick children. I had heard stories that made my heart break. And I had been praying that we were not about to embark on a similar journey. Taking my sad, hoarse little boy home felt like such a gift. My heart goes out to the families who have to leave their children at the hospital. The families that have to deal with heart break every day. We had a scare with a happy ending. Some other families are not so lucky.

I’m not religious but tonight I’ll thank God for my healthy child, and I’ll pray for those who need it.

It's So Much Friendlier With Two

While I was in hospital, my dearest friend Leanne was undergoing chemotherapy for Ovarian Cancer. A horrendous journey that she and her family went through, and although she has finished her chemotherapy (and is now cancer free!!) she still walks the tough road every day while she recovers physically and emotionally from the cancer.

 For the best part of three months Leanne and I were unable to see each other (the longest time we have ever been separated), and although we had conversations on the phone and by text, we weren't able to physically be there for each other. The funny thing is, our friendship and our bond has grown stronger by our experiences. As Leanne put it today “no one out there understands what it was like for us to go through hell this year”. And she’s right – they don’t.

I may not understand what it is like to go through chemotherapy, but I do understand what it is like for no one out there to understand what you are going through. She may not understand what it is like to be bipolar, but she knows how it feels to be depressed and alone. We understand each other in a way that others may not.

  And now, although the fire has been fought, there is still work to be done for both of us. This is something I think a lot of people tend to forget. Just because you have finished chemotherapy does not automatically mean you are cured. Far from it. The body needs time – a lot of time – to recover from the hell it has endured. The mind needs time to process all that it has been through. Likewise, just because you have been discharged from hospital does not mean that everything is suddenly ok. At the moment I feel I am in a constant juggling act, trying to keep on top of my emotional wellbeing.

  But despite the past year, when I get together with Leanne I laugh more than I do with anyone else out there. We have the exact same warped sense of humour that I’m fairly sure nobody out there understands. We bake and we laugh and we watch TV, and yeah we talk about the hard stuff, but we talk about the fun stuff too.

Friends are the family you choose, and I think I have chosen well. Bipolar, and many forms of mental illness, carry such a social stigma. As much as I should be honest and comfortable with what I have been through, when I am faced with someone I’m not sure I trust I find myself telling them that I suffered post natal depression, and conveniently skip over the psychotic, neurotic, manic bits. I don't want to be remembered as 'the crazy one'. But with Leanne and her family (who I trust wholeheartedly), I’m not the one who went crazy, I’m just Rachael. Just like Leanne to me is just Leanne – not the girl with Cancer.

What I am trying to say is that one thing that has helped me on this journey is my friendship with Leanne. The road is much less lonely when you have someone to laugh with, talk with and cry with. Life is so much more enjoyable when you are sent amusing texts and facebook posts (or voicemails that merely say “we’re doomed!” ;)) And as Pooh Bear once proclaimed “it’s so much more friendlier with two!”  

So thank you Leanne for everything you have done for me, and for all the ways you have helped me. I appreciate it more than I can express. Love you lots my sister from another mister :) 

I just wanna feel....

If there is one thing that my GP, child health nurse, psychiatrist and psychologist all seem to agree on, it's that I really didn't express much emotion during my last depressive episode. They all cite this fact as one of the reasons why I slipped through the cracks for so long, and things got as bad as I did before receiving adequate help.

They are probably right. When David was only a few weeks old I visited the child health nurse, talked about David for the majority of the session, only asking for some resources for post natal depression at the very end. "Are you feeling depressed?" the nurse asked, clearly surprised. I told her yes and filled out the Edingburgh scale for her. It was only after seeing my score that she became concerned, urging me to see a GP that very day. I remember her telling me that I didn't look or act like someone who was depressed. I wondered what a depressed person was supposed to look or act like.

Months later, in the midst of a mixed state, I poured my heart out to a community psychiatrist. Telling him how I thought the police were after me, that I was considering drinking toilet cleaner, that I simply couldn't go on. But actions do speak louder than words. It wasn't until I broke down and screamed at him that he believed I had a problem.

My weeks in hospital were a baseline of emotional detachment with occasional blips of insanity which invariably resulted in me being medicated and escorted to my room. I was off or on. I was quiet, off in my own little world. Or I was falling back to earth with a thud, and screaming with the pain of it all.

The thing is, it wasn't that I didn't feel pain, I just didn't know how to express it. How can you express a deep intangible pain? Where do you even begin? "I feel depressed" just doesn't seem to cut it. Because of my attitude, and the way I described how I was feeling, people didn't seem to take me seriously. The more my attempts at asking for help were unsuccessful, the less inclined I became to talk about it. It just seemed like a no-win situation.

At some point in hospital my medication was adjusted so that my pain went away. It was incredible! I didn't feel anxious anymore, I no longer felt depressed. There is so much that you can achieve when you aren't weighed down by depression and insecurities. The best thing was that although my negative emotions were dulled, my positive emotions soared. I feel happy and excited so much more than I used to. I don't know whether that is due to the medication, or simply because there is more room for positivity now my negativity has been dealt with.

But in the recent weeks I became a little concerned. While at first the absence of negativity was freeing, now it felt a little...odd. I never felt upset - even when I had a good reason to be. I never felt stressed - even when I should. On one occasion, shamefully, I even picked an enormous fight with Steven. Just to see if I could feel upset. We fought and shouted he stormed off, and I sat there screwing my face up trying to cry. Nope. Nothing! While Steven fumed in the bedroom, I went back to my book.

This week I talked to my psychiatrist about this, and she reccomended that I reduce some of my medication, particularly since I haven't had any problem with depression. So I cut down my dose and forgot about it. Until last night.

Last night Steven and I had a little argument. Nothing too upsetting. But as he stood outside, talking on the phone I suddenly burst into tears. Now I'm not talking a little sniffle, I'm talking loud, messy, gut wrenching sobs. Alarmed, Steven raced inside and tried to calm me down. But I was unstoppable. I cried about all the things that I never had a chance to deal with while I was on the medication and couldn't feel. I mourned the lost time I felt I had, I cried for what I had been through. I cried for purely selfish reasons. I sobbed and bawled, and GOD it felt good.

What's more, I slept better than I have done in weeks.

Like a storm after a drought the air is clearer now. Although I'm scared I will feel to much again, I'm relieved I can feel something. I guess it's a balancing act, trying to find a steady point between the two poles. And I'll get there. I know I will.