Like everyone else in Massachusetts, I have been shaken to my core by the Lindsay Clancy case, but not for the reasons you might think. For those not from this area, here is the quick backstory; last week a mother of three young children, suffering from post-partum depression/post-partum psychosis, killed her children and tried to end her own life.
This family's story has been all over the news and social media. I have been glued to the coverage of this case. The comments people who have never met her are making are making me sick to my stomach. Things like, "she is pure evil", "she deserves to rot in hell", "she knew exactly what she was doing", "what kind of loving mother would kill her children?"
This is an unspeakable tragedy for sure, however, therein lies the problem...unspeakable. Post-partum Depression and Post-Partum Psychosis, which I will refer to as PPD/PPP are a taboo subject. No one talks about it, and very few people will ever admit they struggled with it. PPD is the most underdiagnosed obstetrical complication in the United States. Let that sink in for a minute. It is the most underdiagnosed complication, and it is estimated that 66% of cases go undiagnosed. In a country with unquestionably the best and most advanced health care in the world, we are failing our new mothers.
I know exactly what kind of loving mother would kill her children, because I was Lindsay Clancy. I had a pretty significant case of PPD/PPP after my first baby was born. I didn't talk about it for several years after she was born, I did start talking about it, but if I am being honest, I would gloss over what it was really like for me. I was too ashamed to tell people what it was really like. This local tragedy brought all of those feelings I kept locked deep down back up to the surface. I feel as though I am right back in the thick of it, reliving the darkest time of my life. I have responded to a few social media posts with glimpses of my story, just barely scratching the surface. I have had several people message me, thanking me for telling my story, that they also struggled after their children were born. A friend suggested that as a way to honor the lives of Cora, Dawson and Callan Clancy people need to share their stories, start a true conversation about PPD/PPP with the hope that getting it out there might just save another family from an unspeakable tragedy.
If you know me in person or have read my blog in the past, you know that I always try to find the humor in any situation and I love telling a story with the ultimate goal of getting someone to laugh. This is not that post. This is my PPD/PPP story. This time, I am not glossing it over. I am not leaving anything out, this is my story. I am going to be brutally honest, raw and vulnerable. The Clancy children along with their father deserve that. But this blog is for Lindsay Clancy too, she too deserves grace.
Here goes...
I had my first baby at 35 years old. It was a typical pregnancy. We were very fortunate and got pregnant right away. My life was everything I had always wanted. I was a newlywed madly in love with my husband, we had a brand new, beautiful apartment, we were financially stable and so excited to be parents!
I had a lengthy 36-hour labor. When my baby was born, I was so exhausted. I kept falling asleep, so I didn't really hold her all that much the first day. My plan was to try to breastfeed and if it worked great, if not, we would formula feed. I was working with a lactation consultant, and she was determined to make me a successful breast feeder. Keep in mind, I had a breast reduction 5 years prior so there was a 50/50 chance it wouldn't work. This woman was relentless. Looking back, she was pretty much a bully. She insisted on no formula. Since I was a new mom and delivered at one of the best birthing hospitals around, I figured she knew better than I did. My baby would be screaming, and she would have me try all sorts of ways to get her to latch on. Finally on day 2 or 3 when the baby had crystals in her pitiful little bit of urine she relented, and we were able to supplement with formula feeds. So, things were off to a stressful start.
I ended up having a c-section, so I was in the hospital for 5 days after delivery. About day 3, things shifted for me. It was as if I wasn't me anymore, all of these experiences were somehow happening to someone else, but in my body. Chuck had left for a little bit to feed the cats and run errands. The nurse took the baby to the nursery so I could get some sleep. I fell asleep and when I woke up, I was terrified. The nurse took my baby and hadn't brought her back to me to feed. I got up and ran down to the nurse's station, mind you I was still healing from the c-section. I was yelling at her, asking why she didn't bring my baby back, she needed to give her back to me, she hadn't eaten in hours. The nurse was all confused and told me it had only been 10 minutes; the baby was fine. I would have sworn I was asleep for hours. The nurse got me settled back in my room, though I knew she was lying to me about it only being 10 minutes, no matter what the clock said.
The last night of my hospital stay, I was wide awake in the middle of the night just sitting up in bed. The night nurse came in and introduced herself and said, you must be mom. I told her no; I was her aunt. Chuck was on the couch and must have heard what was going on and said, "oh she's just tired, she is so used to being called auntie and not mom". I couldn't understand why they both thought I was the baby's mother. I was just the aunt, why did everyone keep calling me mom?
My OB came to see me the morning of our discharge. She must have known something was not right with me, she sat on the end of my bed and was asking how I was doing. She told me I needed to not only take care of the baby but take care of myself as well. She told me it was important to get up, take a shower and get dressed every day.
We get home and settle in as a family of three. I had it drilled into me, that I can breast feed and to use formula sparingly. At this point OCD had ramped up. I became obsessed with breast feeding and pumping. Thing was, I would pump every 2 hours for days on end and would only get a 2 ounce bottle every couple of days. I kept hearing the lactation consultants voice in my head telling me that breastfeeding is natural and with practice and consistency we would figure it out. I was a mess. I was only wearing the mesh underwear and I was constantly hooked up to the pump. The pump was taunting me. The swishing noise from the pump was saying "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you" in an evil voice. I didn't understand how Chuck couldn't hear the pump mocking me, the voice was so clear. Even the mechanical pump knew I was a failure. The LC told me that if I were to use formula I should put it in a syringe, connect the syringe to a tube and tape the tube to my breast, so when the baby would latch, they would be getting a little food and that would encourage her to nurse. So that became part of this improbable endeavor. This lasted for 5 weeks until our amazing pediatrician gave me permission to stop. Normally I am very decisive and free thinking, but I was like a robot and would only do what the medical professionals told me to. He was so generous and told me that even though he was a pediatrician, and his wife was an OB, they went the formula route because nursing wasn't working and that it was not only OK to stop, but it was also what was best for my baby.
It didn't help that the baby was extremely colicky. Turns out she had a milk protein intolerance, but we didn't figure that out until she was almost 3 months old, so we were basically torturing her by giving her basic formula. I kept calling the pediatrician, but the gatekeeper that would answer the phone kept telling me it was fine, babies cry, no need to call every time the baby had a crying fit. I also called because she hadn't pooped in 14 days, and she told me sometimes babies don't poop for long stretches. She must have been right, I mean she works at a pediatrician office, she must know more than I do. Every instinct in me told me something was wrong, but obviously, I was a terrible mother, and my instincts were ridiculous. I called another time because the baby had a small red mark on her head that wasn't there before. Did I mention the gatekeeper was someone I knew from the hospital I was working at during that time? They basically laughed at me and said, Oh Erin, relax, you are a first-time mom, no need to worry so much. It is probably just a scratch from her clothes or your fingernail. I looked at the clothes she had on, and it was a fleece zip-up that didn't go over her head and my nails were short and smooth. Even though I knew something was wrong, I am a terrible mother with shitty instincts, and she knows better than me, so I dropped it and told myself that from now on, when I think something, I was going to change my mind to the opposite because I was stupid, always wrong and didn't deserve to be a mother. By the way, turned out it was the start of a hemangioma forming, so I was right.
I was very fortunate to have Chuck home with me for the first couple of weeks because I was failing with this whole mother thing. It was around this same time the intrusive thoughts started. This is the stuff I have only spoken out loud to very few people, which I am sorry I haven't talked about this sooner. Turns out, over half of new mothers report having intrusive thought. This is where things got very dark and scary. Buckle up.
At night, when it was dark, the baby's eyes would glow bright red. Bright red like a character in a horror movie. I couldn't understand why no one else noticed. I figured they had to see it too, but like me, they were afraid if they said it out loud, the baby would become evil. I didn't want to be the one who caused her to become evil, so I never said anything.
I was getting up and showering everyday like my OB told me to, taking care of myself, so I thought that I was OK.
I was so exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. I was afraid if I fell asleep something bad would happen to her. The day came for Chuck to go back to work. My sister had planned on coming over but called early in the morning to let me know she couldn't make it. There must have been something in my voice because after we got off the phone, she called my parents and said something was wrong with me. My mom called and asked how things were going and I burst into tears saying I can't do this. I can't be a mom. My parents were at my house within an hour and came every weekday for weeks after. It was obvious something was wrong with me. At that point all people knew about PPD was Andrea Yates drowning her children. My mom would follow me if I went into the baby's room, she didn't really let me be alone with the baby. I joked that I wasn't going to pull an Andrea Yates. But deep down I wasn't sure I wouldn't.
I didn't give her a bath by myself. I would have these visions of her in the tub, slipping under the water, staring up at me with her eyes wide open and me doing nothing. Just watching her as she lay underwater. We lived on the North Shore at the time. If I was going to the South Shore, I would go the long way making sure to avoid the Tobin Bridge. I would have visions of her car seat falling off the bridge, hitting the water and me just watching her in the car seat slowly sink to the bottom of the Mystic River. If I was carrying her on the sidewalk, I would wonder what it would sound like if I dropped her on the concrete, or what it would feel like if I smashed her head into the corner of the wall. I didn't think I would do any of these things, but the thoughts were constantly running through my head.
My OCD was in overdrive by now. If I took a diaper out of the stack of diapers in the diaper holder, I immediately had to put on back and they had to be perfectly aligned. The carpets in the house had to have vacuum lines at all times. The sheets in her crib had to be perfectly taut. Her swaddles had to be on point. I had to have everything just so, if not, something bad was going to happen. I didn't know what would happen, but there was always something terrible on the verge of happening and the only way to keep us safe was to make sure everything was perfect.
One of the things that would make her stop crying, which she did for hours on end, was to lay her on her changing table. I would stand there staring at her for hours. A friend called and asked what I was doing. I told her I was standing at the changing table to keep the baby from crying. She said why don't you take the pad off of the table, put it on the floor so you can sit down next to it. That had never crossed my mind. My mind was so scrambled I couldn't think rationally. I would put the baby in her swing and lock myself in my closet and cry. At 3:45 every weekday I would stand at the back door waiting for Chuck to come home from work at 4:15. Without fail, the baby would stop crying as soon as Chuck would walk through the door. She knew I was a terrible mother and couldn't wait to get away from me.
About a month after the baby was born, we went out to celebrate our wedding anniversary. This should have been such a happy occasion, our one-year anniversary, a beautiful new baby, from the outside, our life looked pretty good. Chuck made dinner reservations and my parents came to babysit. It was the first time we left her without one of us being there. We went to the super swanky Mandarian Oriental in Boston for dinner. Chuck paid a pretty penny for me to sit and sob through the entire dinner. It was a few days later when Chuck told me he missed my smile. That he hadn't seen me smile in weeks. Hearing that broke my heart and that is when I realized I couldn't do this anymore. I needed help.
I was educated, had a strong support system, financial resources, had worked in a hospital for almost a decade at that point and knew how to navigate the health care system. None of it mattered. It was nearly impossible to get help. I called my OB's office and was referred to the maternal psych program. When I finally got someone on the phone, she asked if I felt as though I was going to hurt myself or the baby and when I told her no, she gave me an appointment for over a month out. I said OK. Over the next few days things continued to decline.
I came up with a great plan to get things back to the way they should be. I was going to have the baby kidnapped. I drove to the CVS in Peabody. Parked in a spot with heavy foot traffic and rolled the back windows down. My though was, if I left her alone in the car, someone would see her, kidnap her and my life would go back to normal. This was the perfect plan. I ultimately left without following through with my plan, not because I came to my senses. No, only because I didn't know how I was going to tell Chuck his baby was gone. At the time, this plan was so well thought out, rational and made perfect sense. Looking back, I am horrified and ashamed of having come up with such a diabolical plan.
That event made me realize I couldn't wait over a month to be seen. I called back and asked to speak directly to my OB. I told her some of what was going on. I couldn't tell her all of it because even though her devil red eyes were real, and the breast pump would come to life and yell at me when I turned the power on, I was afraid she wouldn't believe me, and my child would be taken away. I didn't feel connected to her in any way. She was well taken care of, always clean clothes, always fed on time, daily tummy time, but it was just the basics. That was all I could do. The name I had loved for so long sounded like nails on a chalkboard to me, and even though she was a beautiful baby, so much so, strangers would comment, I couldn't see what they were talking about. That being said, I knew that I loved her on a primal level and would have clawed anyone's eyes out that tried to harm her. My OB was amazing. She called in meds immediately, called me back letting me know the prescription went through and called an hour later to make sure I had picked them up and started taking them. Now, reading this story you might think she didn't do enough, that she should have had me come in immediately, but keep in mind, I only told her a fraction of what was going on, she didn't know any of the dark stuff.
There were times I would sit on the floor next to her sobbing for hours, telling her how sorry I was, that she deserved a better mother. There was a time I called out of work without telling Chuck and I started driving to New York, so I could leave everything behind and just start over. I only got about 25 miles before I turned back, not that I felt compelled to stay, but it wasn't fair of me to make Chuck be a single dad.
While on maternity leave, I went to a holiday luncheon at the hospital. It was the first time a lot of my co-workers were meeting the baby. Everyone was fawning all over her and I just wanted to scream I was a fraud. I am an awful person, and she deserves so much better. It was the first time I had a panic attack. I was sitting in the conference room, and I felt like I was going to die. I didn't tell anyone what was happening because I was ok with it if I died that day.
I went to a Christmas Party at one of my co-workers homes a few days later. I went without the baby, and it was a nice break. While there, the conversation turned to PPD, I don't remember exactly what it was, but there was something that had happened related to PPD, I don't remember if it was a patient that came in the ER or a mom over in Labor and Delivery, but anyway, they were saying they couldn't understand how a mom could do that, she had a beautiful baby what was she depressed about. I was furious! These were health care professionals. They had no idea they could have interchanged my name for hers and tell the same story. But you know what? I don't blame them. A few months earlier I would have joined right in the conversation because none of it makes sense. None of it.
We went to a Christmas party with Chuck's family. I felt like everyone was staring at me. I'm sure they weren't but I felt like everyone could see inside my head and see the awful thoughts ticking by. I overheard someone in another room say they had the baby blues after their baby was born. I wanted to scream I don't have the baby blues! I am going insane. But I didn't say anything because I was embarrassed. I was also so angry at Chuck for saying something about my struggles in the first place. I felt betrayed that he told people. What I didn't realize at the time was he was suffering too. I can't imagine how alone he felt, his wife had lost her mind, he was working full time and then coming home and having to take care of me, the baby and everything else that needed to get done. Of course, he had to have an outlet for his feelings. To his credit, he was unwaveringly supportive during all of this. He never once complained, never once said anything disparaging to me about my behavior, and never balked at all the added responsibilities he had to take on.
After a few weeks the meds started to take effect. I found a therapist. She was OK, I don't think she really understood PPD/PPP but she did her best. I never did come clean with my intrusive thoughts. I don't think she could have handled it. I did start to feel better, the baby got on the right formula, and I finally started to feel a connection to her.
I did go on to have another baby just over two years later. As the 2nd trimester was starting my OB gave me several options. 1. To start meds during the 3rd trimester. 2. Start meds immediately after delivery or 3. Start meds only if symptoms show up. We decided option 1 was best. I had complications with the pregnancy. A mass was found on my ovary during a routine ultrasound. They referred me to an oncologist because they thought it was ovarian cancer. I needed to have surgery to remove it when I was 18 weeks pregnant. I wasn't on the medication yet and my brain started to get the best of me. I was convinced this was the universe's way of paying me back for being such a terrible person, who thought terrible things with my first child, and I didn't appreciate what I had. I started to go back to that dark place. Fortunately, the surgery went well, it wasn't cancer and I got on meds right after that. At about 4 months post-partum I felt great and took myself off the meds. 3 days later when I was nursing her, I looked down at her and thought, what would it feel like if I punched her in the face. I immediately restarted the meds and got right back on track.
I had another baby about 6 years after my first. Maternal mental health was starting to get a little more attention but not nearly what it needed to. I know this, because with my 3rd, Chuck only stayed the first night after she was born and then he was back and forth with the other two. This was right around the time that hospitals were doing away with nurseries and keeping the babies with the mothers the whole time. Not me, they must have had my chart flagged because they did not let me be alone with my baby. They would make sure someone was with me in the room, have a staff member come in or take the baby to the nursery. I get their thinking, but it made me feel like some kind of monster. They even discouraged me attempting to nurse her despite successfully nursing my second baby. Being my 3rd, I felt confident and spoke up for myself. They had a lovely social worker come and we had a long conversation and after that they would let me be alone with the baby.
There are still very few resources for PPD/PPP. It is hard to find anyone who specializes in it. Then if you find someone, they aren't taking new patients, or the waitlist is not realistic. I had several medical professionals tell me I have a beautiful baby what do you have to be depressed about, snap out of it, have a good cry and move on. If this is the advice from the so-called professionals, a mom in crisis doesn't stand a chance. Then the societal pressure to be the perfect mom is overwhelming. If you are already struggling this pressure can seem insurmountable.
This week has been a tough one. The Clancy family tragedy has brought it all back as if it just happened yesterday. I have felt compelled to tell my story so people can see it can and does happen to anyone! I remember hearing Brooke Shields had PPD. I got her book and was so cynical thinking she is rich and famous, what does she know about PPD. This after I went through it myself! I got her book, and it was as if she wrote my story. Famous Actress, Child Life Specialist from the North Shore, Labor and Delivery Nurse from the South Shore, it doesn't discriminate! It doesn't make sense and unless you have lived it you can never truly understand how devastating it really is. This poor mom has been charged with murdering her children. How does the court handle this? When she regains her clarity of mind, there is no punishment that can be handed down worse than what she will do to herself. I know. This week all the shame and guilt came flooding back to the point there have been times it was hard to breathe. The intense guilt of robbing Me, Chuck and our baby the magical fairy tale we all deserved. The guilt of hatching a plan to have my baby kidnapped. The guilt of not bonding with my baby early on because my mind was unbalanced. The guilt that I came very close to destroying the lives of everyone I love. Many of the tears I have shed have been for the mom Lindsay. I was her and by the grace of the universe my story has a happy ending. So yeah, I know what kind of loving mother would kill her children, one that has been to the depths of hell through no fault of her own, simply because her mind betrayed her.
When I see any red flags of PPD/PPP I reach out. When I was working in the NICU and thought a mom might be struggling I would bring it up to the medical team. I tell my friends that are pregnant, if you don't have that instant connection with your baby that is portrayed in the movies, you are not a bad mother, it doesn't happen right away for all moms. if I notice a pregnant mom posting a ton on social media but her posts become flat after the baby is born, I have reached out. I usually start with, I may be off base, and you can tell me to mind my own business, but I struggled after my baby was born and I see some of the signs in you. I would rather 100 women tell me to fuck off, then let one woman go through what I went through. It is preventable. We need to take it out of the shadows and talk about it. I have given my number to so many new moms and tell them they can call or text me anytime, I will always be available to listen, never judge and they can tell me their scary shit, because I went through the scary shit and came out the other side.
Thank you for reading all the way to the end. This was a lot. This was hard. This was therapeutic for me. This was necessary. If this story makes one person feel less alone, it was worth putting it all on the table. Oh, and I am still madly in love with my husband!
