I entered motherhood with great expectations and excitement. After all, what could go wrong, with my mum being a former staff nurse, who provided good family support?

The birth of my first child, a girl, brought such immense joy to the family. The atmosphere in the family transformed from a cold adult dominated environment to one where the cries of a child sounded like music to one’s ears. Even without a domestic helper at that time, my mum and I single-handedly managed the new born despite the stress of moving to my new marital home. We’d moved in the day the baby was born.

Although I was not able to breastfeed my baby as much as I wanted to because of a physical problem, I successfully managed to fully give my baby breast milk for seven months just by expressing the milk very diligently despite returning to a full time job after two months.

Eighteen months after the birth of my first child, God blessed me with another pregnancy. I entered this period with full confidence, maybe even over-confidence after experiencing the success and joys of my first parenting experience. Nine months later, I was truly blessed with a lovely boy weighing 3.04kg though he came three weeks earlier. I had my breast pump all ready, tons of bottles accumulated from my first girl’s time. In short, I was certain I was well prepared. I was discharged from hospital after four days with my bundle of joy. On the fifth day, I was required to take my baby to the polyclinic for a check-up. The doctor advised me to admit my baby boy to hospital as he had a low-grade fever. On the way to the hospital, I started crying uncontrollably, imagining the worse that would happen to my little boy. As it happened to coincide with the SARS period, administrative delays made it worse. I was in the hospital from 3pm and my boy was only admitted at 8pm. From 3pm to 8pm I was sobbing so helplessly. Moreover, having not expressed my milk for almost the entire day, I was suffering from engorgement. After much persuasion from my husband, I went home reluctantly. By the time I tried to express my milk upon reaching home, the ducts were blocked and I was running a fever. Furthermore, I was unable to sleep thinking of my little boy in the hospital.

That was the onset of my postnatal depression (PND). I had no idea that I had PND. I was feeling very blue and low even when my son was discharged three days later. When he returned home, I was filled with much apprehension. I kept waking up at night to check on his well being and his every little cry got me flustered and worried. I passed out one day after his return and was diagnosed by the general practitioner as suffering from mastitis, an infection of the breast. I decided then to stop expressing milk as it was taking a toll on my health. The moment I took the antibiotics to clear the infection, feelings of guilt engulfed my mind. Why couldn’t I persevere? Why am I depriving my child of a mother’s best gift? Why am I such a lousy mother? Would I have short-changed my child by depriving him of break milk? Such thoughts invaded my mind like a plague.

At that time, I was also experiencing other changes in my life like, adjusting to a new domestic helper, handling two children myself and having a mother who was not well enough to help me. Moreover, I was suffering so much stress that I had massive bleeding even six weeks after delivery and had to be put on hormone tablets to stabilize my condition.

The innocent little boy seemed more like a burden to me. I felt sorry that he was born to me, such a useless mother. I entertained thoughts of putting him up for adoption and even ending our lives together to remove agony that I felt. On hindsight, I am so glad that I did not do that. He’s now a well-adjusted and adorable four-year-old. For three-and-a-half months I experienced PND but never got it diagnosed nor treated. I cried everyday, had insomnia, lost my appetite and worried over the smallest things. Everyday mundane activities became difficult tasks and I dreaded every single day of my life. I was really an absent mother and have little memories of my son as a baby except for his incessant crying. Soon I decided to seek treatment at KKH.

My first visit to the psychiatrist was a difficult one and I had trouble accepting the fact that I was ill. I thought that only “crazy” people visited them. I was nervous but with the help and encouragement of family members, I went and was put on an antidepressant and a mood stabilizer. In addition, I was given tranquilizers to help me sleep. The effects of the medication “kicked” in only much later and I began doubting myself after I failed to show immediate improvement. However, after three weeks, my condition improved and I felt better and more able to lead a normal life. After six weeks, I was well and felt as fit as a fiddle and resumed normal full-time work.

I had always enjoyed my job, worked hard at it and was accrued the recognition. One and a half years later, I had to assume added responsibilities both in my job and as a mother. I clocked in long hours at work and even brought work home to complete. I tried my best to be the perfect mother too by trying to spend time with my children and staying up late at night to complete any unfinished work. I was often tired and neglected my personal health. I never expected to be a victim of depression again. I suppose my body was signaling me to go slow but I never took the cues.

Again I experienced insomnia and extreme fear. Still I pressed on in my work and responsibilities and chided myself for being weak. I told myself, “Snap out of it!” but it was impossible. My mental health suffered again and my condition was more severe than my previous episode. I spiraled down so quickly that no amount of medication could pick me up fast enough. In the end, the psychiatrist suggested electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). The procedure was done at a private hospital and it involved sending electric pulses into the brain to bring about some chemical balance. The thought of it was very frightening. What if I never recovered? What would happen to my children? What if I end up losing my memory? What would happen to me? Was I still capable of sustaining a relationship with my husband after the treatment?

Despite all these apprehensions, my family decided that I was best for me at that point in time to undergo the treatment. I was admitted into a private hospital and had 3 ECT treatments. At the end of the 3 sessions, I felt better. With medication and psychotherapy, I recovered and was back at work 4 months later. My bosses were very kind and supportive during my recuperation and that brought me solace.

I have learnt not to take my health for granted. I have been advised by my psychiatrist to be on maintenance medication. I still experience some downs in life (e.g., a miscarriage, a new job) but I’m more aware of the cues that my body sends me and I retreat from the stressful situation temporarily. I feel very thankful for a supportive family, in particular my husband who has been my pillar of support throughout the ups and downs of my life. I do not resent the thought of having to be on medication because I believe that depression, like any illness is debilitating and one needn’t live with it. Anti-depressants are like other kinds of long term medication and can enable one to lead a normal and fulfilling life. With a great family, a fantastic psychiatrist, an unfailing God, I know that life is meaningful and I will do all I can to treasure it.

Story excerpt from “Diary of a Mother – The Untold Truth about Perinatal Depression” published by KKH Mental Wellness Service

Copies of the book are available on display at KKH Women’s Specialist Clinic, or get the limited edition free at their upcoming Maternal Depression Play: when the bough breaks…