When my youngest was born, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety and went to therapy every week for four months (which I loved). One of the things I learned in therapy was that my anxiety has been around for a while! I just didn’t know that’s what it was called. As a mom, it’s been interesting to me to see that there are some very specific times that it’s more obvious than others (including when my therapist told me I no longer needed to come to therapy!).
One of those circumstances is leaving the hospital after having a baby. I’ve seen a bunch of memes and posts online that reveal I’m not the only one who feels panic set in when being sent home from the hospital with a brand-new baby. I was never really worried I wouldn’t know how to take care of the baby, or that I didn’t know what to do when the baby cried, or that the baby was surely too fragile for my rough adult ways, or that the work and exhaustion that loomed was daunting. It was more that being at home meant there was no safety net — no nurses checking in on the baby and me regularly, no nurses available at the touch of a button day and night, no doctor just down the hall *just in case*.
By the time of discharge I was ready to go home, I really was, and even in the hospital I wasn’t the kind of patient who used the call button all the time or was high maintenance in any way (I’m actually the kind of patient who would rather wait until my arm has actually fallen off before taking the embarrassing step of letting someone know my arm hurts. Not because I’m tough! It’s because it embarrasses me to inconvenience others!). But there was something so reassuring about knowing that if I ever did encounter a situation with the baby that I didn’t know how to handle or that was serious and especially time-sensitive, the baby was in good hands.
Another of those circumstances was when we added on to our house. When we were looking for what we hoped would be our “forever” house about fifteen years ago, the only houses we could find that were big enough for the big family we hoped to have, with a yard, and that were within our price range were outside the city. It was important to me to be within walking distance of my parents, school, and church (I’m sure you’re rolling your eyes just as much as my husband did back then! I may not be a high maintenance patient, but I’m sometimes a high maintenance wife), but the only houses we could find within our budget (when we could find any at all!) were very small. We had a few conversations discussing the pros and cons of a bigger house outside Saratoga or a small house in the location I wanted, and we (I) ultimately decided we (I) wanted to be in town.
We hoped to add on when the time came, in large part because our sweet 1.5 story house couldn’t accommodate bunk beds in the bedrooms because of the slanted ceilings, and if nothing else we needed to be able to fit beds for all our future children. We were able to do so a few years later and had an awesome contractor who did an amazing job, and he and his crew were in the house daily for a solid three months. As much as I liked them all and loved watching the progress, we were so eager for it all to be done and to have the privacy of our home back. But! As soon as they packed up all their things and were gone for good, I felt that familiar dread settle in that I always felt upon leaving the hospital with the baby. It was so reassuring when the guys were here! If anything went wrong in the house, they could fix it! It wasn’t all on me to identify problems and call the right people and hope the house didn’t fall apart under my watch.
The most recent experience I had like that had to do with my son, the one with the broken leg. His ordeal is one of those things that took up all of my brain space and heart space that wasn’t being used for survival for a solid three months, and I had to make a concerted effort not to talk about it all the time, because all I could think of to talk about with anyone was his leg and no one likes it when someone talks about the same thing all the time that’s only relevant to them. Right? So anyway. His ordeal was *our* ordeal, and even though he likes to downplay its seriousness and insists it wasn’t as big a deal as I thought it was, I’m telling you that it was a very big deal and my husband and I still feel traumatized by it. I wrote in my November column about how some of the difficulties I had in managing his care with his medical team made me extra grateful for those medical professionals who are trained in pediatrics, and I also want to be sure to say that there was an aspect of his care that was really great: his physical therapy!
We went to LaMarco Physical Therapy, which I highly recommend (hi James and L.L.! Thanks for your help!!), and I knew that this part of my son’s care was great because when my son had his last session (he may go back once or twice more if needed, but since he’s been cleared to return to all activities without restriction, it’s not likely), I felt that feeling. I imagine it’s a little bit like how with sky diving you just have to trust that your parachute will open. It’s definitely a leap-of-faith feeling. I definitely wanted to ask these trained professionals to move in with us, just until we’re totally, one hundred percent sure that everything will be okay.
I started this piece wanting to praise my son’s physical therapy team and ended up writing about anxiety! Please do note that LaMarco is an excellent place, and also, since I know a lot of people deal with anxiety, I wanted to share something that a mental health professional shared with me that I’ve found helpful many times: when I start feeling that dreadful panic, I try to remember all the other times I’ve felt it and how, each time, it all worked out just fine. There have never been any emergencies or situations that we couldn’t figure out. As a woman of faith, I also remind myself of my sincere belief that if I were really in a bind, help would come — usually through others. “Just pray and do the best you can,” as my mom always says! On that encouraging note, happy New Year to you! I hope 2024 is your best year yet!
Kate and her husband have seven sons ages 19, 17, 15, 13, 12, 9, and 5. Email her at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
