When Decca was born I was caught in a severe bout of depression, much worse than anything I've had in years. Jules had just started declining in function, he had his first speech therapy appointment at the house when she was three days old in the room next door to where I'd birthed them both. I never had been a terribly fearful person until that day. Now I had these two kids, their father had nearly walked out on us during Decca's birth and I wasn't certain he was going to stick around, my son was losing his speech and stopped looking at us, and this poor tiny baby was completely dependent on me for food and water and maintenance. If that wasn't enough to overwhelm, my stomach started to hurt, bad.
Somehow I got it in my mind that my symptoms could only be consistent with metastatic cancer. I'd lie in bed nursing Decca and cry wondering who was going to be there for her when I was dead in a few years, maybe less. And how sad it was going to be that Jules wouldn't have any really clear memories of me, if he weren't completely impaired by the time he was an adult, if he became and adult. The pain got worse and worse, for weeks. Finally I couldn't take it anymore and I actually went to the GI doc, and there was blood in my bowel. That was it, I knew I was dying. I have no recollection of who actually took care of the kids when I had my scope, but I was amazed that it was an ulcer, recurring. Yes, that's right, it was an ulcer I'd had once before seven or eight years ago, and it still managed to take me by surprise that I wasn't dying. The fact that I was fat I had attributed to giving birth near weeks back, but then someone finally asked if I'd had any problems with my thyroid and drew a level. A smidge of synthroid made me functional again, my stomach was finally working, I felt better, and I had not one free minute to be depressed. All my energy went to not killing Jules as he was not sleeping (he actually would sleep for three hours and then be up for three hours, that lasted two weeks and I did think about killing us all) and keeping Decca alive and something like sane.
We tried different therapies, different doctors, nothing was coming up with any consistent answers or a plan. Then in May he had another regression and I could just feel him slipping away. Thats when I took the kids to Baltimore and Jules started at Johns Hopkins. His treatment team was great, he made really good progress, I didn't have to deal with their dad, but I was with them 24/7 no breaks except for one morning a week when I went to Slainte to watch a soccer game with PJ. I didn't have the time or the inclination to look at my life, I just managed crisis to crisis. But it gave me something to fill my head with.
Now, Jules is in school, Decca is big enough to enjoy the playroom at the club I've just joined and I'm working out three times a week. I did this in part to combat my maudlin tendencies, studies show that regular exercise and direct sunlight during the day are as good for symptoms as medication. But I've noticed that it's not had a positive effect on me, mental health wise. I find myself turning up my iphone as loud as I can because I don't want 30 minutes in a row to think about the way things are right now. I just can't face the choices I need to make, from the simple (what program are we going to use to try and teach Jules to write) to the profound (am I going to try and have another girl so Decca won't have to care for him alone after I'm gone). My head is just not up to the task and I have no idea what will get me there.
