I'm not sure how long Jeramy and I sat in the hospital parking lot. It might have been fifteen minutes; it could have been forever. The bitter cold of Colorado winter wrapped its arms around our silver Jetta, scattering ice crystals on the windows. Maybe on a different night they would have been beautiful to me.
For me, any response to the world would have been a welcome relief. I hadn't been able to carry on a normal conversation in weeks. Often Jeramy would catch me staring off into space, but when I "came to," I could explain neither where I'd been nor what I'd been thinking. As far as I can remember, I only thought, breathed, and lived pain during those hellish days.
St. Stephen's loomed in the not-so-distant foreground. It was one of those seventies-style concrete hospitals that looks more like a communist tenement than a place of healing. It was a psychiatric hospital.
I had been placed on a 5150, a psychiatric hold for people who are a danger to themselves and others. The social worker who did my intake evaluation told Jeramy that, based on her 20-plus years of experience, I was suffering from the most severe level of postpartum depression possible. At least they let Jeramy drive me from the ER to St. Stephen's. Still, he had to leave me there—alone. Not until years later did he tell me that he wept for the entire 40-minute drive home.
Neither of us knew what to do. Neither of us felt the comfort the Bible promises for those in pain. Neither of us could pray with any conviction of hope. We knew God was there, but he seemed distantly cold. The pain was wreaking havoc on our marriage.1