Not Exactly As Planned

by Linda Rosenbaum

  “What if you’re right?” I whispered, looking away in embarrassment.

  It wasn’t hard to see that there might be connections between my previous panic attack and what I’d been feeling since Michael’s arrival. I let myself admit that below the surface, despite all the love, I was feeling trapped, something beyond garden-variety new-mother jitters.

  “Before we brought Michael home,” I said, “there was never anyone in my life I couldn’t run away from if I had to. Even you, my husband. If I ever had to leave, I could. People get divorced. It happens. But you can’t run away from a child, ever.” What if this doesn’t work out? What if I have to get away?

  “You won’t have to escape,” Robin said. “I know you. No matter what happens with Michael, you’ll never run away. You’ll be a devoted mother. You were made to be a mother.” He reminded me that I wasn’t the first mother to feel trapped by a new baby, but they had nine months and a whacking good set of hormones to help them get used to the idea. “Still,” he said, “being trapped has more meaning to you than it does them. You may have to take a look at that.”

  “You can just forget about that,” I snapped, thinking he was suggesting a trip back into therapy. I couldn’t bear the thought. I’d done my time.

  Robin backed off. We sat and talked for the few moments we had before Michael’s next feeding. Identifying the source of my fears was making me feel slightly better. I was becoming noticeably less anxious. My heart was beating more slowly, I had stopped sweating and thoughts weren’t galloping through my head at breakneck speed. “Maybe I actually do have some control over my feelings,” I said, feeling myself becoming calmer. I couldn’t do that after my previous panic attack. It took years of blistering self-analysis to heal.

  I felt better knowing that my past was playing havoc with my mind as much as the present, “but it’s not fair,” I said to Robin. “I’ve spent years on this and I’m still haunted by the notion of being trapped.”

  Yes, caring for Michael so far had been tough, but it was early times. If we were lucky, Michael’s needs would lessen and disappear altogether. But raising Michael wasn’t a horror I had to escape from, anyway. It wasn’t like my student experience in Washington where the danger was real and I couldn’t run from it. Nor was it like being trapped in the airplane during the trip back from Florida.

  I didn’t need to analyze anything further. There was no way in hell I was going back to revisit the past, particularly the event in Washington close to thirty years before. As long as I could put one step in front of the other to take care of Michael, I would.

  I just didn’t know how hard that would be.

  A few days later I jumped out of bed as if I was about to miss a meeting with the Pope. It was just after six in the morning. Before walking ten steps to the bathroom to brush my teeth and have a much-needed pee, I started frantically picking up clothes lying on the floor, rearranging the dying red roses on my night table and fluffing the duvet — with Robin still under it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, annoyed. Robin has always loved his sleep. “The rare morning Michael is actually sleeping and you’re running around like a maniac.”

  I tried to sound reasonable. “The other new mothers are coming for coffee. I want to get everything cleaned up. Then, maybe, I can relax enough to bake muffins or something nice like that.”

  “What time are they coming?”

  “Ten.”

  “You’re kicking me out of bed, cleaning up a room they won’t see, getting yourself into a frenzy, and they won’t be here for four hours? It’s a little crazy, don’t you think?”

  “Only on the surface,” I said. I knew “getting everything in order to bake muffins” didn’t touch on what my frenzied activity was about. I tried to quickly change the subject. “How about a cup of tea?” I asked, as I headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Wow,” Robin said, nicely surprised. “That would be lovely.”

  Every morning of the three years we’d been married, at his own doing, Robin brought a cup of hot tea to me in bed. It was such a sweet, generous gesture, most likely inherited from his English upbringing. I never had the heart to tell him I didn’t really care for tea in bed in the morning. If anything, it was coffee I’d like. With time, however, that cup of tea meant more to me than you would think a cup of liquid ever could.

  Such sweet thoughts I had, but the minute I entered the kitchen, my mood was punctured. Before I filled the kettle, my good intentions were sidetracked. There was stuff everywhere. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. Leftover Greek salad in an uncovered bowl on the counter. Breadcrumbs hovering around the toaster. Yesterday’s Globe and Mail lay on the butcher-block kitchen table. And there, in the middle of our kitchen’s hardwood floor, sat a pile of dirt, right where I’d left it after sweeping up the night before. Distracted by a screaming Michael, the pile never made it into the dustpan, let alone the wastebasket.

  I had been awake for fifteen minutes, but already my enthusiasm for the day was waning. I wasn’t sure what to tackle first, and this was only the kitchen. I had three other rooms to do. Making Robin a nice cuppa was losing importance. I was trying desperately to beat the clock. Michael could be up any minute and I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.

  I was so worked up, it was pathetic. What was such a big deal, for god’s sake? I’d had six-course Turkish-themed dinner parties without making such a fuss. Yet here I was crumbling just thinking about a few moms dropping by? Sure I wanted the house to look nice, and sure I would have loved to bake something to welcome my neighbours. But honestly, they probably couldn’t care less. As new moms, we were mainly looking for good adult company, weren’t we?

  The self-talk didn’t work. I walked into the living room and became further overwhelmed. The carpet was covered with rattles, stuffed animals, blocks and books. This was the one room, minimum, I had to get organized before my friends arrived. I started hurling the toys into the wicker chest on the other side of the room like a quarterback making a pass.

  That job done, I was ready to make Robin tea. Too late. I could hear him walking around upstairs and Michael making noises in his bedroom. Though only three hours since his last feed, I knew it would be minutes before he started crying for his next. It was already 7:00. Robin would have to leave to catch the 7:45 ferry for work.

  “I guess you forgot the tea,” he said, coming down the stairs.

  I wanted to say “I had to finish the kitchen, sweep the floor, then put the toys away,” but I kept my mouth shut and walked over to him instead. He opened his arms.

  “It’s not about the women, is it?”

  “It is, partly. I love company, and you know I like to make things nice when people visit.”

  “Linda, it doesn’t matter; they just want to be with you,” he said.

  I had been meeting with the same four new mothers and their boys every week. We formalized weekly get-togethers soon after the babies were born. It would be fun, good for stimulating under-used grey matter and sharing parental advice. We assumed the boys would be going through developmental stages at relatively similar times, and we liked the idea that the boys would bond from this early contact growing up together on the Island.

  Initially, I really looked forward to these get-togethers. They were everything we intended. Yet, without telling Robin, I’d recently become increasingly anxious about them. Though I enjoyed everyone’s company, I didn’t feel good by the time I left for home.

  At first I couldn’t figure out why. Then, slowly, it began to dawn on me. My experiences as a new mother and theirs were diverging. They were sharing tips about taking their children to restaurants, concerts and friends’ homes — places I couldn’t imagine taking Michael. They spoke of babies starting to sleep through the nights, gaining weight and growing an inch or two. Their lives were becoming less topsy-turvy. Mine was getting steadily worse. I was jealous.

  “Michael is really different than the other boys,” I said to Robin, trying to help hi
m understand at least part of my frenzy.

  I could feel his body tighten the second I said it. “All kids are different,” he said. “You know that. You mustn’t compare him to anyone else. He’s having a bit of a rough go right now. He’s fine.”

  I expected him to say exactly that, though I wasn’t sure if it was denial or that he actually believed what he was saying. We both knew that all children develop differently, and at their own pace. Yet I still felt concerned. I didn’t, however, want this to become an argument, so I pulled myself away, not knowing whether to pursue the conversation. What good could come of it?

  It wasn’t as if Robin didn’t know how sensitive Michael was or how his body continued to startle and his arms thrash with changes of sound or light. He knew Michael shook and fidgeted, was never easily soothed. He saw that he wasn’t putting on weight. He knew what a huge proportion of time was taken up trying to comfort, console and calm Michael. That was why the dishes didn’t get washed, the newspapers read or the piles of dirt removed from the kitchen floor.

  “The doctors say he’s fine,” Robin reminded me. He was right. We had taken Michael repeatedly to the pediatrician for check-ups, vaccinations and advice. He had been checked out from head to toe when he was born, and by other experts since then, including a neonatologist, a specialist in newborns. There was nothing to be concerned about, they assured us.

  “And,” Robin added, “don’t you remember how furious you got when your sister suggested something might be wrong? That he might be going through withdrawal or something? You wanted to throttle her.”

  I could see the conversation could go nowhere good. I was feeling utterly lonely and separate from Robin. To feel otherwise, though, would mean Robin would have to see things the way I did about Michael. That would be awful, too.

  I was about to say, “Robin, I think something is wrong with Michael. I’m afraid he may have a tenuous hold on life. I really do.” But I held back. I decided that feeling alone in my husband’s presence was far better than voicing that thought and having him agree with me.

  “You’re right,” I said. “He’s probably fine. It’s just hard sometimes seeing him make such a fuss, particularly with the other boys. They seem happier, more settled than he is.” The other boys had recently begun lying happily on their backs in the playpen and gaining more control of their bodies. Some were turning over by themselves, holding rattles and other toys while Michael continued to squirm, moving randomly and indiscriminately, any way he could.

  Robin and I felt terrible that we couldn’t make our son comfortable or happy, and worried we might be doing everything wrong. Perhaps we were bad parents. But I was lying when I said to Robin that I was afraid the mothers would think I was a bad parent and that was why I was anxious that morning. My usually good instincts were telling me something was wrong with Michael. For the first time in my life, I prayed for those instincts to be dead wrong.

  I left Robin to get ready for my guests, then to fetch Michael. His face lit up when he saw me and he stretched out his arms. It was a moment every morning I always adored. Nothing could beat that. But once I picked him up, the chance of getting anything done before the women came was kaput. The day had begun. Who was I kidding when I said “I want to get things in order so I could bake some muffins”?

  The mothers arrived soon after. Everything went smoothly on the surface. We chatted, drank tea, watched the boys. No one would have had the slightest idea of the angst I was feeling. The get-together confirmed my desire to stop going to them. I called one of the mothers to tell her I didn’t think I could continue with the weekly gatherings. Though I hedged about my reason, she said she understood. Several other mothers were also finding it hard to find time, too. They were getting out more and moving on with their lives, so needed less formalized support. I let her believe I was thinking the same thing.

  Days later, Yolanda sat down next to me on the ferry. “I might be able to take Michael,” she said. “I’ve got room for one more.”

  “I thought you were full,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I’m afraid this might sound self-serving,” she said, “but I’m worried Michael might not be getting the attention he needs.”

  Yolanda was the Island’s childcare worker extraordinaire. She “raised” half the kids in our community. Yolanda didn’t need me. I needed Yolanda. The waiting list for the daycare she ran out of her home was a mile long. Opportunity for Michael to spend time with Yolanda would be a godsend, for both Michael and me.

  Yolanda wouldn’t specify why she was concerned, but I suspected it was about the woman I hired periodically to give me a break. It had been difficult to find someone on the Island to look after Michael, so I had been thrilled to find Soraya.

  With Yolanda’s comment, though, I had to ask if I’d grabbed too quickly at the opportunity. I was already developing a few of my own doubts. After Soraya had been out with Michael a few times, she told me how good his spirits always were. Everything a mother wanted to hear, right? But really. Michael?

  Yolanda eventually confirmed my suspicions. Soraya was letting Michael cry for long periods without comforting him — she believed he should not be coddled, needed more discipline and had to learn who was boss. Yes, it would be tough on him at first, but best in the long run. Several other moms at the Island’s Parenting Centre agreed. Michael needed a firmer hand. The reason he wasn’t sleeping and eating well was because we hadn’t enforced a routine. We’d been too soft and were paying for it.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard comments about how we were raising Michael. I was disconsolate, but took comfort knowing that Yolanda was no softie and she was dumbfounded by such talk. She’d seen a lot of babies in her years of daycare. She felt Michael’s physical fragility alone told her he needed extra doses of TLC, not neglect. But who really knew? I was new at this parenting thing. My friends were caring, but as dumbfounded by Michael’s behaviour as I was. They were also busy with their own children.

  But now I had Yolanda. She always said something good when I picked Michael up. I felt comfortable enough to talk openly about Michael’s problems. We could acknowledge his differences from other children his age, yet I never felt guilty that Robin or I were the cause.

  Learning to care for Michael was an ongoing challenge, but I was managing, for the most part. I tried to take it day by day and do what I needed to connect myself to my present life and not my past. As I had reminded myself during my panic attack a few days earlier, I didn’t want to go back into fear mode, especially now with a baby depending on me for safety and security. Safety and security: something I had temporarily lost at an earlier point in my life and thought I had found.

  In spite of or maybe because of the troubles with Michael, Robin and I became more and more attached to this vulnerable little soul, if such a thing was possible. We were both mad for this strange boy taking over our lives. I couldn’t get enough of the delicious smell and velvety feel of Michael’s smooth white skin. I marvelled at the perfection of his inexplicably long, tiny fingers and toes. During his naps and at night, I would often sit by his sleeping basket. As I watched the ebb and flow of his breath while he slept, I found each rise and fall nothing short of a miracle.

  It didn’t hurt that Michael was new-puppy cute. He had the smile of a seraph, first revealed on the diaper table several weeks after his homecoming. Robin called it, “The smile that could launch a thousand camera clicks.” In time, the smile was accompanied by a great gurgling chuckle. It emerged one day while blowing bubbles on his tummy and playing peek-a-boo. Another endearing attention-grabber of Michael’s was his preposterously thick, dense head of hair, slowly turning from its original strawberry to blond — a guaranteed crowd pleaser.

  Strangers in grocery stores, scanning my tight curly brown locks and Robin’s dark hair, would come up and casually ask, “Where did your son get a head of hair like that?” We spared them the complexity of the real answer and enjoyed the shared laughter.
>
  2.

  Panic and Fear: Tracing the Origins

  Florida, 1980 / Washington, DC, 1968–1970

  MY FIRST PANIC ATTACK happened on Christmas Day in 1980, four years before I married Robin, seven before Michael was born. I was on a Wardair flight returning to Toronto after visiting my parents’ retirement home in St. Petersburg, Florida. I boarded at Tampa International, feeling lucky as the stewardess led me to a window seat. I stretched my long legs out, placed my Harper’s into the pocket compartment on the seat in front of me, held on to the Maclean’s, arranged the small white pillow I had grabbed from the overhead compartment, then buckled up. I was all set for the next three hours.

  After being airborne for forty-five minutes, I looked up from my magazine and glanced out the window. Two engines on the plane’s wing were spewing bright red flames.

  No one was sitting next to me and the flight was sparsely filled. I looked around to see if anyone else was looking at the fire, but everyone seemed perfectly engrossed in whatever it was they were doing, mostly sleeping. I reached up and pressed the white button, calling for the stewardess. When she approached my seat, I spoke with remarkable calm, then pointed: “The plane is on fire.”

  Her eyes widened. She looked terrified, but checked herself immediately. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll speak to the pilots,” she said in a lollipop-coated voice. She turned and walked briskly towards the front cabin.

  The pilot came on the intercom. His deep voice was initially commanding, then faltered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. We seem to be having some engine difficulties. Nothing to be concerned about. We’re … we’re going to attempt to return to Tampa. If that proves impossible … we will look for another location to land. I will keep you posted. Keep seatbelts fastened and do not leave your seats.”

  No mention of the bright red fire flaming out of the engines. No explanation as to how or if an airplane could fly another forty-five minutes with two of its four engines on fire. The stewardess never returned.