by You Jin
I said coldly, “My condition has nothing to do with my gynaecologist.”
He said, “If you don’t find a way to help yourself, no one else can help you.”
I responded with an unreasonable outburst, “There wouldn’t be a problem if I were dead!”
He did not say anything else, but there was a silent pain in his expression. Early the next morning, he pulled me up from bed. “Let’s go see the doctor,” he said.
As soon as I arrived at the clinic of my gynaecologist, Dr Lena Chen, my tears started flowing ceaselessly. Crying, I said, “I don’t want to live. I want to die. Really, I just want to die.”
Dr Chen waited silently, allowing me to cry and lament. Then she handed me a box of tissues and, with a tone gentler than her expression, she said, “My dear, I think you are suffering from postpartum depression.”
I lifted my teary eyes, stunned. Postpartum depression?
She explained to me patiently that roughly half of new mothers have signs of emotional imbalance. They are bad-tempered and weepy, but it is not a serious problem; in fact, without medication, it often clears up in a week or so. About twelve to fifteen per cent of new mothers, however, suffer more severe postpartum depression, and it usually starts between two and four weeks after delivery. The patient feels depressed and anxious, losing interest in everything, and might even hate the newborn child. Gradually, fibrillations, palpitations, insomnia, loss of appetite and body aches cause the patient to feel all hope is shattered, often leading to suicidal thoughts. If it is not treated early, it can lead to disastrous results.
Dr Chen pointed out that hormonal changes were the root of postpartum depression. When a woman is pregnant, the hormones surge at levels twenty or thirty times higher than the pre-pregnancy levels. Sometimes after giving birth, the hormones plunge immediately, and the body cannot adjust quickly enough, resulting in postpartum depression.
There were two possible courses of treatment. One was taking antidepression medication, and the other was electrotherapy. The former was a slower remedy, often taking half a year to see results, or perhaps even a year. The latter was quicker, but it might affect the patient’s memory in the short term, and was only recommended for severe cases.
After considering my situation, Dr Chen recommended treatment through medication. She emphasised that I needed to take it regularly to achieve a one hundred per cent cure.
When we left the clinic, as I stood in the bright sunlight, I thought of the origins of a Chinese idiom meaning “an immediate change”.
During the Warring States period, the famous philosopher Yang Zhu attained great learning, for which he was widely respected. One day, he went to visit his friend Ji Liang, who happened to have fallen ill. Ji Liang was confined to bed and was very depressed.
Crying, Ji Liang’s son pleaded with Yang Zhu, “Uncle Yang, my father’s illness is very serious. Can you use your great learning to find a remedy for him?”
Yang Zhu took a close look at Ji Liang, then said calmly, “Don’t worry. From what I can see, your illness is not serious. You just need to relax. Rest, and you will recover quickly.”
Not believing what Yang Zhu had said, Ji Liang’s son sought the advice of three more doctors.
The first doctor looked at Ji Liang and said, “Your illness is the result of an imbalance of yin and yang, because your regular eating habits are uneven. Just take these packets of medication and you’ll be fine.”
Ji Liang shook his head and said, “You’re just a regular doctor. Go away.”
The second doctor checked Ji Liang’s pulse and said, “Your illness is due to a feeble constitution, and it didn’t happen overnight. It will be very difficult to cure your illness with just medication.”
Ji Liang commended him, saying, “You’re a fine doctor.”
The third doctor took a long look at Ji Liang and said, “Your illness has psychological roots. You don’t need to take medication; you need to give attention to your mental state.”
Ji Liang praised him, saying. “You are really a magical doctor!”
All along, Ji Liang’s illness had been depression. When he gave attention to rejuvenating his spirits, he was better in no time.
This story shows that a patient needs to keep calm, look for a good doctor, find out the source of the illness, treat it appropriately and recuperate with ease; only then can the illness be cured when the medication takes effect. I had identified the source of my trouble, and even though my life was still a boundless patch of sorrow, at least the angel of death lurking outside my door would have to wait.
Search for a Doctor in Australia
Having cancelled our round-the-world trip, James decided to take me to Australia instead. Because it is in the Southern hemisphere, Australia enjoys lovely summer weather at the end of the year. It is a spacious and peaceful place, and the pace of life is relaxed. James chose Australia because he had studied and worked there, and lived there for many years, so he was very familiar with the country.
James and I spent most of our time that month in Sydney. He brought me to many Chinese and Western restaurants, buying all sorts of delicacies for me to try. The sad thing was that, in my condition, even all these grand delicacies were bland as wax.
I vividly remember the day he took me on a luxurious cruise ship to eat seafood, ordering rare, expensive Alaskan crab. Its round shell was like the sunset by the river, and its thick fat meat like snow. Normally, my hands would have flown through the task of digging out the juicy flesh, popping each morsel into my mouth. But that day, my heart was throbbing. I was nervous. My muscles ached. I had no energy, or appetite. I sat amid the elegant atmosphere of that restaurant in the romantic flickering candlelight, head bowed and lips pressed together as I wept silently. My tears ran in two streams down my cheeks and fell onto my huge plate of untouched crab.
James took me to the famous Sydney Opera House to see a performance. But even as the troupe sang and danced, my heart was plunged into darkness. Everything around me was bright and beautiful, but none of it could break through and penetrate my bleak world.
James rented a car and drove us about 60 kilometres outside of the city to the scenic Blue Mountains. The forested area was perfect for walks. The cedars, oaks and wild grapes grew in abundance. James, who loved the outdoor life, demonstrated breathing exercises as we walked on the shaded path: “Breathe deeply. Let the air cleanse your lungs. Breathe…” I was like a walking corpse, moving woodenly beside him. Even the wondrous sights around me could not draw my interest or enthusiasm. I plodded along, then said listlessly, “Let’s go back. I want to rest.”
The worst part of the depression was that my personality, my interests, and even my view of life were all changed, twisted out of shape. I hardly recognised myself. On top of that, it cruelly destroyed any happy feelings, or even the ability to feel happy, making me constantly think that being dead was better than being alive.
Every time I have ever travelled in my life, I was always happy when I set out and happy to return home. This trip to Australia in 1984 was the sole exception to the rule.
James then took me to see a specialist, Dr Woolf, for a consultation. Dr Woolf listened carefully as I described my symptoms, then coolly analysed them. He came to the same conclusion as Dr Lena Chen: I was suffering from postpartum depression, caused by a severe hormonal imbalance after childbirth. He advised antidepressants.
I explained that I was hesitant to take antidepressants because I did not want to run the risk of addiction, which might lead to nerve paralysis or organ failure.
Hearing this, Dr Woolf said with confidence, “Don’t worry. Medicine has really improved. These days, antidepressants do not have side effects. If you take the medication, your emotions will stabilise, and you will slowly see improvement. If you don’t, your condition will get worse.”
“How long will I have to take them?”
“That depends,” he explained calmly. “Some people need them for only three months a
nd are completely cured. Others require a whole year, or even two or three years.”
Dr Woolf pointed out that, since my depression was the result of internal factors (such as hormone changes or a chemical imbalance in the brain) rather than external factors (such as changes in relationships or financial difficulties), everything would look bright again and be back to normal once my internal systems normalised. But only if I took the medicine regularly. He added, “Aside from the few things which we have not yet found a cure for, what can modern medicine not take care of these days?”
When we returned to Singapore, it was time for the school term to start. I went back to work, taking my medication regularly as I taught. The days flowed quietly, and very, very gradually, the symptoms of my illness disappeared little by little. My spirits slowly revived. My optimistic, open-minded personality returned, and I again became the fun-loving person who enjoyed the good things in life.
After half a year of medication, I finally stopped taking the antidepressants. I felt like I was reborn.
The pain brought on by postpartum depression, like being plunged into purgatory, is hard to imagine for anyone who has not experienced it. During the days when I was suffering from the deepest pain and nearly ended my own life, it was my husband’s sacrificial care and concern that saved me from my suicidal intentions at the crucial moment. Love is the best medicine in the world, the greatest treasure a person can ever attain; the concern expressed by loved ones is like a life-saving ring. From then on, I have inlaid every single day with the sounds of laughter and love, living my days as fully as a treasured pearl.
CHAPTER 7
Family Instruction
Iron Hoops and Floral Garlands
WHEN MY DAUGHTER went away to study in London, she once wrote me a long letter, rich both in content and style of writing. It included this paragraph:
Today when we ate with other students from Singapore, we started talking about our childhood and youth, and the rest all felt they lived a sort of “burdensome” happiness. Their mothers constantly forced them to learn this and that. They seemed to be Jacks-of-all-trades yet masters of none, and hated everything. Their childhoods and youth were filled with extracurricular classes and, now that they think back on it, they had everything, but lacked one important thing—happiness. Mama, while they were talking endlessly, my heart was brimming with gratitude towards you. You never forced us, not even once. I always took up learning what I wanted to learn. The freedom that you gave me painted my growing years with sweet colours.
One word really stood out in her letter: freedom. This freedom included the freedom to choose for herself, but not the freedom to act however she wanted without any restraints.
Too many ambitious parents make their children live their lives like a lantern twirling round and round in the breeze, with piano lessons, dance lessons, language lessons, tuition and computer classes all lined up one after the other until their lives seem like an overflowing sack, without a bit of breathing space. It makes me think of the long-necked beauties of the South African Ndebele tribe. Parents are so afraid to lose out that they project all their wishes onto the child, ceaselessly adding one heavy iron hoop after another around their child’s neck, which stretches longer and longer until it is hard to breathe; but the parents are pleased, thinking that the longer the neck is, the more beautiful the child.
I did not subscribe to this approach. I did not use iron hoops, but floral garlands. I wanted my children to pass their young days happily amidst the sweet fragrance of flowers. I told them, “Whatever you want to learn, you can. Just tell me, and I will sign you up. I won’t force you to learn what you don’t want to.”
Fung Yee and Fung Teck both liked physical activity so, at their request, I signed them up for Taekwando. Every week when it was time for class, they would urge me, “Hurry, Mama, we don’t want to be late!” The enthusiasm was written all over their faces.
Ke Jun liked to draw, so I signed her up for a watercolour class. Every week when it was time for class, she would gather up her bag with watercolour paints and canvas, and skip out the door, laughing. Her joy was evident.
Thinking back on it now, there were times that my democratic approach backfired. When Ke Jun was eleven, she took a sudden interest in music. One day, she told me she wanted to learn to play the piano. I was very pleased to hear this. I had always dreamed of having a house filled with elegant music, but no one in the family had yet taken any interest in learning. Now that my daughter had taken the initiative to make the request herself, I was naturally quite thrilled.
That weekend, we went to a music store and bought a piano. Looking back now, I can see that I was a little hasty in the midst of my enthusiasm. I contacted a young piano teacher who had advertised in the newspaper; she had a Grade 8 certificate in piano and seemed sufficiently qualified to teach Ke Jun, so I asked her to start the following weekend.
She was pale and thin, very elegant and quiet. She seemed quite cultured, but I instinctively felt she lacked the liveliness a girl her age should possess. Ke Jun had no foundation in music, and her teacher had no teaching experience, so the student-teacher pair seated at the piano had many stiff encounters. Ke Jun’s untrained fingers fumbled over the keyboard. The teacher sat there, her expression wooden, and said, “No, that’s not it,” then played the selection herself. Ke Jun tried again, creating an awful racket filled with complaint and anger. The teacher’s face resembled a wax sculpture. They both looked completely drained and dispirited.
I mistakenly assumed that this was what the process of learning to play an instrument was like, so I allowed them to continue to torture each other. After three months of this, Ke Jun came to me in tears and said, “Mama, I don’t want to learn piano any more.”
Hardly believing my ears, I stared at her. Her tears fell faster, and she said, “The teacher said I was stupid.”
Whether the comment was the truth or not was beside the point; it was clear that there was just no chemistry between this student and teacher. I could see that quite plainly. So, I started looking for a new teacher.
My friend recommended a music teacher who was well known in educational circles. When my daughter came home from her first day of lessons, she was all smiles. As soon as she saw me, she started telling me about a story the teacher had told: “A thief broke into a house, and he saw two people there practising the piano. He immediately left, not daring to disturb the place, because he figured the family must be really poor, since two people had to share a single piano. Mama, that thief wasn’t very bright!”
From then on, she was always very excited to go to her piano lessons, because she knew the teacher would tell many funny stories.
After several classes, the teacher called me and said very politely. “Can you help me get Ke Jun to practise at home? It’s very important for a beginner to do so every day.”
I had assumed that my daughter would pursue her interest with enthusiasm, since it was on her own initiative that she was learning. I insisted she sit at the piano and practise for an hour a day. She did not say a word, but the notes that leapt from the piano were like beans jumping in a hot pot, not at all pleasing to the ear. What I did not realise was that, when she finished practising, her anger would prompt her to do something that infuriated me, and it makes me extremely sad to think back on it now—she turned every framed photo of me in the house face down.
There was great tension between my daughter and me, all because of the piano. It was like a taut bowstring, ready to release at any moment. It went on like this for six months before I finally waved the white flag.
As I pondered this painful experience, I discovered that the greatest source of the problem was that she was not musically inclined. She had seen her classmates enrolling in music lessons, and that made her think it would be fun, so she wanted to learn too. I did not think it through before blindly giving her my support, and this ended up creating a situation with hurt feelings on both sides. So I put an ad in the new
spaper for our second-hand piano and once it was sold, the standoff between mother and daughter came to an end.
When it was all over, I was talking with a good friend about the situation. She thought I had done the wrong thing. She pointed out that the learning process is always difficult, so I should have pushed my daughter and made her finish what she had started.
But I disagreed. When it comes to the arts, if your child is a stream, she will sing with the tune of the water’s flow. If your child is a sea, her voice will naturally be full of the booming sound of waves on rocks. If you try to force a stream to become a sea, it will never work, and will only succeed in making that brook feel miserable.
The Fourfold Self-care Philosophy
The exam period had arrived. Fung Yee was in Primary 6 that year, Fung Teck in Primary 1. After dinner, the two brothers happily sat in front of the television watching their favourite cartoon, Popeye. When it was over, they turned the channel to another programme.
During this most precarious exam period, most parents would find it unthinkable to allow their children to watch television. But in my home, it was life as usual. I not only let the children watch TV, I gave them the freedom to play basketball, play video games or do whatever they pleased. I only had one requirement: they had to get acceptable results. In other words, I expected their scores to match their abilities and effort.
From the time they were small, I tried to instil in them the clear message that, since I did not make them go for extra tuition, they needed to be alert and pay attention at school. They needed to apply themselves to their studies, and give their best effort. I did not even check their bags for homework. They were expected to adopt the mindset that “each day has enough work for itself ” and finish the work assigned that day.
If they did not perform well and get good results, I would take that privilege away, which would mean they had to follow the timetable I set for them to study and do their chores. For a person who has enjoyed freedom, the mental punishment of losing it is the most difficult thing to bear.