There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me

by Brooke Shields

  I had heard that babies got switched sometimes and I was paranoid.

  Once I was alone with the team of doctors and nurses, the terror set in. I was terrified of dying. I suddenly did want my mommy to tell me I was going to be OK after all. I had just had a baby, but I felt more like a baby than I have ever felt in my life. “Mommy, where are you?” was ringing in my ears. The doctor was able to assure me that the worst that would happen was a blood transfusion and a hysterectomy. I couldn’t have cared less about losing my uterus. I wanted to live.

  I also instantly got jealous of Chris for being alive and with our baby and hated my mother for being so careless with her own life by abusing her health with alcohol. And here I was split down the middle and fanned out like an opened minibox of cereal! It all came out as feelings of abandonment. I was sad and miserable—I couldn’t believe how cold the OR suddenly felt. I got stitched back together and was allowed to own my uterus for another twenty-four hours. Ooh, goody! They were going to watch me, and if the bleeding stopped, I would not need the hysterectomy. I had always been fascinated by the fact that the word hysterectomy was born out of the word hysteria and was designed to fix women who were acting crazy during menstruation. It made sense to me now.

  Once I was back in my room, they brought Rowan to me to breast-feed. My mother had never breast-fed me and, while watching the nurse hold my newborn baby up to my chest, had the strangest look on her face. Mom kept herself tucked in between the side table and the side of my bed and draped her left arm over the back headboard of the hospital bed. I felt crowded but also strangely glad she was quiet, while making her best attempt to be near me without trying to control something she knew nothing about. She was shockingly still sober. Maybe she was deeply afraid something was going to happen to me.

  I was exhausted and beginning to really struggle. I was beginning to feel stranger and sadder than I had ever felt in my life. I felt like I didn’t recognize anyone around me. I knew who they were, but I felt they were all on a shore celebrating while I was underwater trying not to drown. I have pictures of the nurse holding Rowan up to my breast and I have fear all over my face. My mother was quiet and noncommunicative. She looked like she was in shock.

  Chris’s family and some friends were milling around and all focusing on the baby. Chris held her practically the entire time. I don’t remember ever asking to hold Rowan myself. I had seen so many photos of friends and relatives from their hospital beds holding their newborns and looking at them with utter devotion and loving awe. I am sitting bare breasted and hooked up to machines, looking at almost everybody else except Rowan. I had this overriding feeling that she already did not like me.

  This was obviously the beginning of severe postpartum depression. None of us knew what it was yet, but it would last much longer and cause damage to all of us in different ways. Thank God Rowan would remain unscathed. I eventually wrote a book about this experience, Down Came the Rain, but at the moment I had to concentrate on avoiding both a blood transfusion and a hysterectomy. My twenty-four hours of being watched were not yet over. I was not out of the woods yet and I could not seem to focus on anything other than my health and my own life.

  People who wanted to see the happy mother and child came and went, and I kept a close eye on my mom. She seemed so out of sorts and slightly sad. I kind of felt like shaking her, but I didn’t know what I would say. She seemed to want to be needed but she was so uncomfortable. It was as if she felt like she did not belong. She was as much related to this baby as Chris’s parents, and yet she seemed to be receding into the background. In a surreal way, we both were but for different reasons. We were both out of sorts, equally at risk of not surviving. Mom dealt by being eerily quiet and I, too, chose reticence as a way to stay afloat.

  It was time for Rowan and me to rest. Mom and Lila went to P. J. Clarke’s to eat and I slept. Rowan was in a crib next to my bed and was attached to a light to help build up her bilirubin. She was a bit jaundiced and needed the vitamin D. She looked like a little alien on a mini wooden stretcher. I can’t remember when Mom and Lila returned but I recall them coming back separately. Lila came in first and was mumbling something about how Mom had not wanted to leave the restaurant.

  Chris had set up chairs in a kind of circle in the middle of my room and inclined toward my bed. He knew many people would be coming and going and want to hold the baby. Mom arrived after Lila and she walked into the room totally hammered and ready to fight. A male nurse, with whom she was overtly flirting, was guiding her into the room. We got the feeling that Mom had been in the building for a little while and had inappropriately made her presence known. She may or may not have pinched or slapped him on the butt but he ushered her into the room and then made a quick exit. I had an inkling that because she was my mom they were stretching their tolerance.

  Mom came in the room as the family members were passing Rowan around to be held. They all took turns, and when it was Mom’s turn, she reached out to hold the swaddled newborn, only to almost drop her in the process. Rowan only weighed seven and a half pounds, but Mom fumbled her and the baby almost fell to the floor. I could tell she was drunk, but I could not even speak. I was mute and exhausted and felt like I was out of my body and hovering unnoticed. I watched in stilled horror and felt as if I had just been forced to ride a terrifying Ferris wheel for a second time. As if the operator would not let me get off.

  Chris leapt up, grabbed the baby from her hands, and got right up in my mother’s face. He told her that she was not allowed to hold Rowan in her condition. He took a strong stance and told her she was drunk and could do whatever the hell she wanted to herself, but was not allowed to jeopardize our baby. His face was red with anger, and he said, in fact, he would like her to leave this room right now.

  Nobody else said a word. I don’t even remember Rowan uttering a peep. Chris followed my mother to the doorway to make sure she didn’t do anything sudden. She turned face-to-face with him in the doorway, pointing at him and tapping her forefinger on his chest in a threatening way.

  “Oh, I know your kind,” she said.

  She pushed back and staggered off and out into the night.

  Chris came over to me immediately and apologized and said he was so sorry, but he had to draw the line at our baby. I was relieved she was gone but profoundly sad that it had to be that way. I thanked Chris for defending us, even though I knew he was just defending his daughter. That was the man I knew he was and the father I wanted for my children. But overall, I was just fatigued by everything.

  My in-laws were trying to act normal and were successfully avoiding discussing anything but this perfect baby. I could tell Lila was angry and sad and hurt and frustrated by having to deal with Mom again and again. Nobody had any authority over my mother. Even in this supposedly blessed and happy moment, she could not be happy or healthy.

  My heart was breaking for a few reasons and it would soon become evident that I had reached an emotional limit. The cumulative and recent pain and sorrow had caught up to me and I was breaking apart. My heart ached for everybody I loved and was now breaking for myself. I fell asleep that night looking at this little stranger under her orange light and I envied her. This baby was allowed to be helpless. I had never been permitted to be so.

  • • •

  The next day the doctor came and told us Rowan’s hips had not fully formed and she would need to wear a strong Velcro brace for a few months. I sat there on my hospital bed and could not grasp anything. I hated breast-feeding, I had lost a lot of blood and was weak, my baby was yellow and needed a paddle attached to her with intense light, and now her hip sockets had not formed and she needed to wear a brace that made her look like a marionette whose knees were stuck bent up. I did not have the strength to feel happy or available to the present potential of joy. Rowan was in a brace, but I felt like I was in a straightjacket.

  I was able to keep my uterus and my life and I was
soon released.

  At home, it seemed that nobody could help me. I continued to struggle with breast-feeding, I could not stop crying, and I had horrible visions of Rowan getting hurt. I would get dizzy at the powder smell of the diapers. I’d huddle in the shower with hot water pounding down on me and not move for extended periods of time. Food had no taste or appeal. I actually still haven’t eaten lasagna since my mother-in-law made a pan of it that first week. I had taken one bite and could not even swallow. I had such trouble producing milk for my baby because I was not nourishing my own body.

  On one incredibly low day, Chris went out to get a changing table because we were totally unprepared for the arrival. For some reason I had not been proactive about setting up a nursery. I knew the due date but had not bought the necessary furniture and had only set up the nursery by getting a rocker that had actually been a gift.

  Chris came back from a store (ironically called buybuy Baby), empty-handed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cry. He said he had seen happy mothers holding their newborns, and pregnant mothers smiling and shopping.

  “What is wrong with you? You don’t sing to her or kiss her.”

  I felt my world end. I could only answer that I did not know and that I was so sorry. I left him in our room and hobbled out to see my mom, who was sitting on our leather tufted coffee table in the living room. I slumped in the chair in front of her and began to cry. She asked me what was the matter, and I looked at her and with dismay said, “I made Chris cry.”

  “I made him cry?” she asked.

  “What?! Oh my God, Mom, no, not you. I made Chris cry! You are not the important one here. Get out of this house right now or I am going to jump out of the fucking window. Get out—I mean it!”

  She just sat there motionless and trying to be invisible. I cried and escaped back to the bedroom, disgusted. I knew her hearing was deteriorating but I could not believe that she heard something about her—and not about Chris or me—in what I was crying about. Just like when Dad died and she asked me if he had asked about her, my husband was crying and she thought she had caused his tears. It was all about her in her mind, not out of narcissism but out of fear and insecurity. Mom had just stared at me and had become helplessly still. Her eyes looked like those of a scared little kid witnessing something horrible.

  I realized the problem did not actually concern her. There was something terrible wrong in my life and it affected all those around me. I did not know where to turn.

  • • •

  I would soon get a baby nurse to help out for a week, which turned into a year. I got help from a doctor who referred me to a pharmapsychologist who prescribed me the proper combination of medication. I also began to eat better and began to exercise again by taking Rowan on long hikes around the neighborhood in New York and LA.

  Things settled down and I stopped hating my mother for not knowing what I needed. How could I expect her to talk about her experiences from a place of wisdom and understanding when she had never spent any time on self-reflection? I realize today that she was scared most of the time and lonely all of the time. I was eventually even able not to punish my mother for continuing to call Rowan “Brookie.” We invited her out to California because, no matter what, I wanted her to know my baby and I wanted Rowan to know this grandmother as well.

  I didn’t realize, though, that this was the beginning of a new phase in our relationship and my mother’s health. Mom started being more and more helpless. The next few years would be a challenge in an all new way.

  • • •

  In the months after Rowan was born, there were a few times that Mom visited us in LA and seemed to be in a quieter place. I was going back and forth between New York and New Jersey and LA, but for the beginning of Rowan’s life we were primarily living in Santa Monica. Chris was working on a new TV show and we were living in a house on the west side of town. Rowan was only a few months old but was getting so big so fast, and I really wanted Mom to see that I was doing a good job taking care of my baby. She enjoyed playing with Rowan and putting pink sponge rollers on her few bits of baby hair. Mom would spend the first few days seemingly not drinking, but by day three it was always clear she did not want to be under my watchful eye.

  Not watching my mother was never something I could do. I always fell right into a codependent routine of scrutinizing her every move and trying to anticipate those I had yet to see. I wanted my mother around because that way I knew she was alive. But she made me crazy in ways I could not believe. She would say things under her breath or I’d see an expression of judgment in her eyes and I would have to address or fight it. Even if I left the room and counted to ten or practiced deep breathing, I would have the urge to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze. Even when I’d try to be sweet, it felt forced because she made me nervous. Oh, how my mom could unsettle me and undo all the work I had done on myself to live a healthy and self-actualized life. And why did I still seek her approval?

  I still would rather have her be around than alone and in an echoing house in New Jersey. It was a relief to have her arrive safely off the plane and a relief to see her leave. She was OK with Rowan but was never left alone with her in those early days.

  I wanted to have her go on these walks with me while I pushed Rowan in a stroller around the neighborhood. I had had such good deep conversations with Gemma, our baby nurse, on these walks, and I would have loved the Hallmark moment with my mom as well. Sadly, Mom’s knees were bad and her arthritis was making it very hard for her to do any walking. She was perfectly comfortable to sit and watch movies for hours. It seemed it was the only activity we occasionally still enjoyed together. For some reason it bothered me when she sat doing nothing all day, just watching movies. And for some reason I didn’t trust that she was not also trying to snoop around my office or even pocket little things just because she felt entitled to do so. It was very strange but Mom wanted any form of control she could find, even if it meant stealing back a little ashtray or coaster we had gotten in Europe on one of our earlier trips.

  Her health did seem to be declining and it was beginning to be apparent that alcohol consumption was not her only issue. It would be years before the problem would be diagnosed, but she was somehow increasingly different and booze was surprisingly no longer the only problem.

  When I once went back to Haworth when Rowan was about six months old, it became even clearer to me that drinking or not, Mom was not completely coherent. She would get confused or not be able to follow a story. This particular night in Haworth, Rowan was sick and I really did not feel secure with my mom helping. She began drinking, only in the evening, but I realized that I was totally alone in caring for my sick infant. I had no car because I had been dropped off at my mother’s for the night and her car was in the shop. She had had her license taken away from her anyway, so she wouldn’t be needing a car. I was going to help her sort through some closets that needed cleaning out that evening, but Rowan had gotten a fever and instead I had to keep a close eye on her.

  Chris told me to call a car and leave immediately. Leaving abruptly was proving problematic, but I figured since I was near a police station and hospital I had a potential escape plan. I called the doctor and he said just to keep an eye on her fever. If it got past 103, then I should worry. I tried to cool her face off with cool compresses.

  It was a real traumatic night for me because I felt so alone and so afraid for my daughter. I had my own child to care for and it really hit home for me that I could not rely on my mother to help. All my life I felt secure knowing I could handle my mom and take care of myself. I also always believed she actually did take care of me growing up. I had survived, hadn’t I? This feeling with my own baby girl felt very different and deeply unsettling. Suddenly all bets were off and I hated my mother and her incompetence.

  I consciously separated myself from my mom and her issues, and survival kicked in. But this tim
e it was not for myself but for my infant. Something deep within me shifted and I made Rowan my only emotional and physical focus. My daughter became my only priority. I realized, completely, that I could not count on my mother to help my daughter or me. And most likely not even herself.

  All throughout my life I had held out hope that my mother would one day ultimately show up for me and give me the freedom not to worry about her or put her needs ahead of mine. In these moments of fear for my daughter’s health, I realized that it was up to me to reclaim that freedom on my own. She would never be able to bestow on me such peace and autonomy. Rowan slept and I stayed awake to watch her breathing. As I lay awake listening to Rowan’s labored breathing and praying for her fever to break, I hated my mom and I redefined my loyalty. By dawn Rowan’s fever had broken. I was exhausted but buoyed by the fact that the worst was over. I returned to New York City and never discussed any of it with my mom. There was no point.

  • • •

  Two years later, living in New York again, I was planning to appear in the musical Chicago for the second time as Roxie Hart, this time trading London’s West End for Broadway. I had called my IVF doctor to say that I wanted to start the process of getting pregnant during my run in the show. I would need a few months of medication, and being in a show was the best time to do it, because I am always my healthiest when performing. After some routine blood tests the doctor called back to tell me that the process would not be necessary because I was already pregnant. I was stunned and elated but now suddenly afraid of doing eight shows a week while pregnant. The doctor said not to do any extra exercise and I would be fine.

  Mom came to my opening night on Broadway and seemed happy to be included, but very distant. She seemed uncomfortable and unable to articulate herself. I had been getting more short and curt with her recently because she couldn’t even seem to order the food she wanted at a restaurant. She whispered instead of speaking loud enough to be heard, and I would often impatiently hurry her on and speak to her in a condescending tone. I could not seem to stop myself from lashing out. I would get frustrated and oddly embarrassed.