Time suddenly had no meaning for me. I was simply cognizant of sitting in a chair, staring ahead. Yes, I knew that there was a child asleep on the other side of the room. Yes, I knew that said child happened to be my son. But beyond that . . .
Nothing.
Some time later, I stood up and walked into the bathroom. After peeing, I went downstairs. I sat on the sofa. I turned on the television. The screen flickered into life. I stared at it, noting that it was BBC News 24. I also noted that the time was 1:08 and that there was a pizza box on the coffee table by the sofa. But beyond that . . .
I curled up on the sofa. I looked ahead. I was aware of the moving images. I could also smell the pizza. I needed to eat. Because I hadn’t eaten anything since . . .
Yesterday? The day before?
Didn’t matter.
Then Jack started crying. Suddenly I was all action. Manic action. Cursing myself for my listlessness, my little catatonic escapade. Go, go, go—I told myself. Get on with it. You now know the drill by heart:
Into the nursery. Remove his dirty diaper. Clean his dirty bottom. Dress him in a clean diaper. Pick him up. Sit down in the wicker chair. Lift T-shirt. Offer nipple. And then . . .
After the feed, he passed right out. I staggered to my bedroom and found the bed empty (Tony—surprise, surprise—having taken his pizza and his impending hangover up to his office). I curled up on top of the duvet, and . . .
Nothing.
An hour, two hours, three . . .
My bladder called again—the one thing that would get me out of the near-fetal position into which I had entwined myself. In the bathroom, as I sat on the toilet, I saw the bottle of sleeping pills on the shelf above the sink. The key to the real emptiness I craved.
When I reached the sink, I resisted the temptation to start ingesting the bottle, five pills at a time, ten big gulps, ensuring permanent oblivion. It’s not that the idea of everlasting sleep didn’t appeal to me—it’s just that I was too damn tired to do anything about it. So I popped three pills (one above the recommended dose . . . but I wanted the extra knock-out assistance) and got back into bed, and . . .
The baby alarm went off. This time, however, I didn’t rise and shine. No, this time my head felt as if it had been filled with a sticky, glutinous substance that made all my actions seem molasses-slow and fuzzy. But, yet again, I followed the drill:
Into the nursery. Remove his dirty diaper. Clean his dirty bottom. Dress him in a clean diaper. Pick him up. Sit down in the wicker chair. Lift T-shirt. Offer nipple. And then . . .
Back to bed. Back to sleep. Instantaneous sleep. Which seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Until . . .
Tony was shaking me with considerable, anxious force, telling me to get up.
But I didn’t want to get up. Because getting up would mean facing into the day/night/whatever it was. Getting up would mean regarding the disaster that was my life. Getting up would . . .
“It’s Jack,” Tony said, sounding scared. “He seems to be unconscious.”
“What?”
“He won’t wake up. And his eyes—”
I was on my feet, even though everything was still a chemically induced blur. Though I must have made the journey from my bedroom to the nursery twenty times a day, now it suddenly seemed like a labyrinth, strewn with heavy objects that I kept bumping into. When I reached Jack’s crib, it took several moments for my eyes to snap into focus. But when they did, I felt as if someone had just kicked me in the stomach. Because Jack appeared to be catatonic.
As I picked him up, he went all floppy—his limbs splaying like a rag doll, his head lolling, his eyes unfocused, blank. I pulled him toward me and shouted his name. No response. I fought off the urge to shake him. I brought my face to his and could feel his faint breath, which was a relief. Then I turned to Tony and told him to call an ambulance.
They arrived within five minutes. The paramedics took over. We rode in the back of the ambulance with Jack. We roared through the streets, heading further south. Jack had been attached to a heart monitor, and my eyes roamed between his tiny body (strapped down to a gurney) and the steady beat being registered on the monitor. The paramedic in charge kept throwing questions at us: any convulsions or seizures or episodes of breathlessness or previous catatonic incidents?
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
And then we were at a hospital called St. Martin’s. There were two doctors waiting for us in the ambulance bay. The paramedic spoke with them. Jack was wheeled directly into a consulting room, filled with medical hardware. A woman doctor in her mid-twenties was in charge. Calm, efficient, immediately registering our fear. As she checked all vital signs, she too ran through the same checklist that the previous paramedic had used, and then asked if he was on any specific medication.
At which point, I felt something close to horror. Because I knew what the next question would be.
“Are you yourself on any medication?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
“What kind exactly?”
I told her.
“And might you have breast-fed your son before the stipulated eight hours?”
I could feel Tony’s stare on me. Had somebody handed me a gun right now, I would have happily blown away the top of my head.
“Jack woke me up out of a heavy sleep,” I said, “and I was so fogged, I didn’t think . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tony said. “Where is your brain?”
The doctor slightly touched Tony’s sleeve, a hint that he should stop. Then she said, “Believe me, it happens all the time. Especially with very tired new mothers.”
“But will he be all right?” Tony asked.
“What time did you take the pills?” the doctor asked me.
“Don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Tony said, the anger now showing.
“Middle of the night, I think.”
“You think?” Tony said.
“May I handle this, please?” the doctor asked, then turned, put her hand on my arm, and addressed me directly.
“Now you mustn’t get upset about what’s happened.”
“I’ve killed him,” I heard myself saying.
“No, you have not,” she said, her voice firm. “Now tell me—”
“I threatened to kill him, now—”
She gripped my arm tightly.
“Just please tell me . . . you took the pills around, what, five, six this morning?”
“I suppose . . .”
“And then he woke you up and you fed him . . . ?”
“Don’t know . . . but it was still dark.”
“That’s good. And who found him in this state?”
“Me,” Tony said, “around nine this morning.”
“Which was probably around three to four hours after you fed him?”
“I guess so.”
She turned to the nurse and spoke in a low voice, issuing instructions.
“Is he going to be all right?” Tony asked.
“I think so. I’ve asked the nurse to put your son on a saline drip to keep him hydrated—and we’ll also keep him on a heart monitor, just to be absolutely sure that everything is fine. But, from my experience of this situation, the baby simply has to sleep the medicine off.”
“But will there be any long-term damage?” Tony asked.
“I doubt it. The fact is, the dosage of the drug he received in the breast milk was so nominal that . . .”
That was the moment that my knees gave way and I hung on to the side of the gurney containing Jack like a passenger on a sinking cruise liner, not wanting to abandon ship, but also not knowing what the hell to do.
“Are you all right?” the doctor asked me.
How many times in the last few weeks had I heard that damn question?
“I just need to . . .”
A nurse helped me into a chair, and asked me if I’d like a glass of water. I nodded. Then I put my head between my legs and started to
gag. But all that came up was watery spew.
“Oh, Jesus,” Tony said as I continued to heave.
“Would you mind waiting outside?” the doctor asked him. After he left, the nurse cleaned me up and then helped me to a gurney opposite the one on which Jack was still strapped. I sat on the edge of it, my legs dangling down the side.
“When did you last eat?” the doctor asked me.
“Don’t know. A couple of days ago, I think.”
“And how long have you been feeling depressed?”
“I’m not depressed.”
“If you can’t remember when you last ate . . .”
“Just tired, that’s all.”
“That’s another sign of depression.”
“I am not . . .”
But I heard myself being cut off. By myself. But without deciding to cut myself off. The doctor said, “And if you’ve been on sleeping pills, you obviously haven’t been . . .”
“I tried to kill him.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I should die.”
“That’s another sign of depression.”
“Leave me alone.”
I put my face in my hands.
“Have you ever suffered from depression before?”
I shook my head.
“And this is your first child?”
I nodded.
“All right then . . . I’m going to admit you.”
I said nothing. Because I was otherwise engaged—pushing the palm of my hands against my eyes, in an attempt to black out everything.
“Did you hear what I said?” the doctor asked, her tone still calm, considerate. “You seem to be showing pronounced signs of postpartum depression—and under the circumstances, I think it wise to admit you for observation.”
My palms pressed down even harder against my eyes.
“And you must understand that what you are going through is not uncommon. In fact, postpartum depression is . . .”
But I rolled over onto the gurney and started to baffle my ears with a pillow. The doctor touched my arm, as if to say “Understood,” then I heard her mention something about going outside to have a word with my husband. I was left alone in the observation room with Jack. But I couldn’t bear to look at him. Because I couldn’t bear what I had done to him.
A few minutes later, the doctor returned.
“I’ve spoken to your husband. He’s been informed of my diagnosis, and agrees that you should be kept in. He also understands that it’s hospital policy to admit the mother and child together . . . which will also allow us, in the short term, to make certain that there are no side effects from Jack’s mild . . .”
She stopped herself from using a clinical term, like overdose.
“Anyway, your husband said he had to dash off to work. But he will be back tonight . . .”
I pulled the pillow back over my ears again. The doctor saw this and stopped her monologue. Instead, she picked up a phone and made a fast call. Then, after hanging up, she came back to me and said, “It’s going to be all right. And you will get through this.”
That was the last time I saw her, as two orderlies arrived and flipped up the brakes on Jack’s gurney, and wheeled him off. As he disappeared out the door, a nurse came in and said, “Don’t worry—you’ll be following him in a moment.”
But I wasn’t worried. Because I was feeling nothing. Just an all-purpose general numbness, a sense that, once again, nothing mattered because nothing mattered.
The orderlies returned for me around ten minutes later. They strapped me down (but not too tightly), then wheeled me down a long corridor until we reached a freight elevator. En route, everything seemed gray, badly lit, scruffy. And there was a prevalent toxic smell—an intermingling of disinfectant and fetid rubbish. But then the elevator doors opened. I was pushed inside, and we rode upward. The doors opened again, and I was pushed forward down another long, gray corridor until we reached a set of fortified doors, with wire mesh covering the glass on both sides and a coded lock to the right of the door. A sign above the lock contained two words: Psychiatric Unit.
One of the orderlies punched in a code, there was a telltale click, and I was pushed inside, the doors closing behind me with a decisive thud.
Another long corridor. From my side-view position, I could see that, along this hallway, all the doors were made of steel and had been fitted with outside throw bolts. On and on we went—until we turned right and passed a small ward with regular doors. Beyond this was another series of doors—none of them with the formidable locks or fortifications I’d seen earlier. Just before one of these doors, we stopped. Then an orderly opened it and I was pushed inside.
I was in a room—around twelve feet by twelve, with a window (barred), a television bracketed to the wall, and two hospital beds. Both were empty, but judging from assorted personal debris on the small locker beside one of them, I already had a roommate. A nurse came into the room. She was in her late forties—thin, beaklike features, old-style horn-rimmed glasses, a carefully modulated voice.
“Sally?”
I didn’t answer. I just continued to stare ahead—even though I was still taking everything in.
“Sally?”
I looked at her name tag: Shaw.
“George Bernard?” I suddenly said. The nurse peered at me carefully.
“Sorry?”
“George Bernard . . . Shaw,” I said, and then fell into a serious torrent of laughter. The nurse gave me an even smile.
“It’s Amanda Shaw actually.”
This struck me as the funniest thing I ever heard—and my laughter redoubled. Nurse Shaw said nothing—and, in fact, let me laugh like an idiot until I was spent.
“All right now?” she asked.
I returned to my balled-up posture on the bed. She nodded to one of the orderlies, who unfastened the straps that had been placed around me.
“Now if you wouldn’t mind, Sally, these gentlemen need the bed, so . . .”
I lay motionless.
“All I’d like you to do is sit up and we’ll take care of the rest.”
I didn’t react.
“Sally, I’m going to ask you again. Will you please sit up, or should these gentlemen give you assistance?”
A pause. I could discern the threat lurking behind her even-tempered voice. I sat up.
“Good, very good,” Nurse Shaw said. “Now do you think you could get down off the bed?”
I hesitated. Nurse Shaw tilted her head slightly, and the two orderlies were on either side of me. One of them whispered, “Come on, luv”—his voice uncomfortable, almost a little beseeching. I let them help me down, and onto the bed. Then, without a word, they returned to the gurney and steered it out of the room.
“Right then,” Nurse Shaw said. “Let me explain a few things about the unit . . .”
The unit.
“First of all, your baby is in the ward around ten paces down the corridor from here. So, you can have complete access to him whenever you want, twenty-four hours a day. And you can also bring him in here with you . . . though we do prefer if he sleeps in the ward, as it will allow you to get some much-needed rest.”
And it will allow you to keep him out of my clutches . . .
“Now, the next thing that’s important to realize is that you’re not a prisoner here. Because, unlike some individuals in the unit, you haven’t been sectioned . . .”
Sectioned rhymes with dissection . . .
“So if you want to go for a walk, or leave the unit for whatever reason, there’s no problem whatsoever. All we ask is that you inform the head nurse on duty that you’re leaving . . .”
Because the front door’s barred at all times . . . and also because we don’t want some ga-ga dame like yourself running off with the baby . . . especially since you want to do him so much harm.
“Any questions?”
I shook my head.
“Fine. Now you’ll find a hospital nightgown in the locker by the bed, so
if you wouldn’t mind changing into that, I’ll see to it that your clothes are given a good wash.”
Because I spewed up all over them.
“And then, I gather it’s been a while since you’ve eaten, so I’ll have some food sent up straightaway. But before all that, would you like to check in on your son?”
Long pause. Finally, I shook my head. Nurse Shaw was reasonableness itself.
“No problem whatsoever. But do remember—to see him, all you have to do is ring the call bell by the side of the bed.”
But why would he want to see me? Especially after I poisoned him. No wonder he always cried around me. From the start, he could sense my antipathy toward him.
“Oh, one final thing: the unit psychiatrist, Dr. Rodale, will be in to see you in about two hours. All right?”
I can’t wait.
“Well then, that’s everything covered. So I’ll leave you to get changed, and then I’ll have one of my colleagues come back with lunch very shortly.”
Nurse Shaw left. I lay on the bed, not moving. Time went by. Nurse Shaw returned.
“Need some help changing, Sally?”
I sat up and started stripping off my clothes.
“That’s good,” Nurse Shaw said, and left.
The hospital nightgown stank of bleach and felt scratchy against the skin. I rolled up my street clothes into a big ball and shoved them into the locker. Then I crawled in between the equally scratchy sheets, and shut my eyes, and hoped for sleep. Instead, the door opened. A plumpish young nurse in her early twenties came in, Patterson on her name tag.
“G’day.”
Australian.
“You all right?”
I said nothing.
“No worries. Lunch here.”
She was having a one-way conversation with a catatonic. But there was nothing I could do about it. I’d entered yet another facet of this strange landscape—in which mere speech suddenly seemed impossible, or somehow beyond my grasp.
The nurse placed the lunch tray on the sliding table positioned next to the bed. She eased it over. I lay there and did nothing. The nurse smiled at me, hoping to get a response.
“Cat got your tongue? Tongue got your cat?”
I shut my eyes.
“All right, all right—it was a dumb joke,” she said. “But you’ve still got to eat. I mean, your roommate stopped eating for more than five days. And then . . .”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 84