As I was telling the story of JP’s Colic last night (and subsequently the unspoken story of my PPD) I realized there were no adjectives I could find, now even 3.5-4years later to even begin to describe that time in our lives.
It was hard. It was terrifying. It was exhausting. It was Hell. I wouldn’t wish Colic on anyone. Just that simple word puts a terrified look on my face. But those words don’t mean the half of it.
Around three weeks old is when it started. Somewhere around 8 months old is when we realized it was over. It wasn’t that one day we woke up and it was done. It was more like realizing that we hadn’t had any really bad days for about the last two weeks.
I dreaded being alone with my son. Isn’t that awful to say? I know it is. I still feel awful saying so. He didn’t know why he screamed, I didn’t know why he screamed, Daddy didn’t know why, the doctor didn’t know why. But he screamed. And screamed. Of course every time a fit/issue/situation/whateveryoucallit began we went through the routine: Is his diaper dirty, is he hungry, is he hurt, is he tired, is he gassy, is he…? Who knows? No one ever knew.
What worked to get him calmed down today wouldn’t work tomorrow. What worked yesterday would make it worse today. There was no rhyme or reason. No understanding. No figuring out the magic key to his unhappiness. And in return no key to happiness for Mommy either.
To say it was a trying time is an understatement. I’ll never forget how close I came to rock bottom. Maybe, in a way, it was my rock bottom.
It was a Monday. I was home alone with both the Colicky baby and my daughter. We had had an especially terrible, stressful morning. I remember putting the crying/screaming/thrashing baby into his crib and having to walk away. Just, walk, away.
It hurt. It hurt that I could not comfort him. That Mommy could not make the screaming stop. That Mommy could not make her baby feel better and be happy. And that Mommy could not be happy herself. It hurt so much.
I ran to my closet and shut the door. I remember sitting in the dark hearing my baby screaming two rooms down and yet I couldn’t move. I sat there. Crying.
After a few minutes I remember one little toddler hand sliding under the door and along the carpet to reach for me. It was Madi trying to tell me in her own little way that she was there for me. She asked me if I was ok. I wasn’t, but I lied. I told her Mommy and the baby were just fine and that we would all stop crying soon. That was a lie, too. I remember her asking if she could go get the baby. I told her no but she went into his room anyway. She tried singing to the baby and came back to tell me he was still crying. I knew he was, he always was.
It was then that I picked up the phone and made the most desperate phone call of my life. I called Nick at work and told him I needed him to come home right away. I remember so vividly him listing at least five people I should call instead because he was at work. He said “can’t you call someone for help?” My reply stopped him dead in his tracks, “I called YOU.”
Nick was home within 5 minutes. He checked on me in the closet then went to get the baby. At that point, I called my Doctor and admitted I needed help.