Day Nine

by Amanda Munday

  As quickly as Rose’s tube-and-plastic-nipple demonstration began, it ends, with strict instructions to go to sleep immediately and stay asleep as long as the baby sleeps. Since the baby isn’t currently sleeping, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that. Rose shuts the blinds in my bedroom and yells to Gordon to get blackout shades. He is standing at the foot of my bed looking baffled by everything that’s just transpired. “It’s too bright in here,” Rose says. “She needs to sleep.” She rearranges my pillows under my head, tucks a sheet around my sore body, and climbs in and lies down bedside me, her face really close to my nose. She rubs the crown of my head with a mother’s touch, cooing soft words about relaxing and letting Gordon take control for a little bit.

  “There. I showed you a new plan if you continue to struggle to latch her. You are going to get the hang of this. She only just got here! You are both new at this. You’ll feel better if you sleep, okay? Please try to sleep when the baby sleeps.” Her warmth destroys what little composure I was maintaining and I collapse into sobs. This version of my body is the feeding vessel for Fiona; I withdrew my autonomy at her birth. Rose strokes my hair. I submit to her touch. She leans in extra close, and I can smell her spicy perfume. It smells like leather and power and life.

  “It will be okay, Amanda,” she says. “The worst case here is that you might have to go on anti-depressants. You might need medication to feel better, okay? But that is worst case and we aren’t there yet. I’ll come back tomorrow and I want to hear that you have slept, okay?”

  Her use of the words worst case unnerves my already too-nervous state. I know something isn’t right, but I can’t define exactly what that is. And I can’t feel better when someone is looking at potential ways this might get worse. It’s already the worst possible thing. Isn’t it? I try to think of other mothers who are surely suffering worse than I am: single mothers with no support; underprivileged parents and those on the margins; the systemically abused; the domestically harmed.

  I deserve this.

  I grasp for some perspective but the thoughts slip through me. All I hear are baby screams. I’ve never cried this much in my life, not through deaths or fights or romantic breakups. I continue to cry and insist that I need to stay with the baby, that I shouldn’t be alone.

  Just then, Rose flies out of my bed. The baby’s cries make her spring out of caregiver mode and into medical problem-solver mode. She takes the baby from Gordon’s tired arms and says, with command, “Where’s your baby carrier? One you can wear on your body to be hands-free with the baby?” She paces while shushing and bouncing Fiona.

  “I think someone gave us one but I’m not sure where it is,” I say.

  I definitely ordered a larger, infant-style one for later, but for a two-day-old newborn? Rose shakes her head in disappointment at our repeated lack of preparedness.

  “No, no, all that is nonsensical, expensive baby gear. All you need is a scarf.”

  She looks around my untidy bedroom. We didn’t prepare this space for a baby, because we rushed out of bed so quickly on Monday morning, and even then I don’t think I ever really believed I was going to deliver my baby so soon. I admit, I didn’t do the laundry. My body aches thinking of how much has happened so quickly.

  Rose looks to me and says, “Amanda. It’s time to sleep now. I am going to show Gordon how to build a baby carrier out of a simple scarf and then he’s taking the baby out for a walk so you can rest without thinking about or listening for the baby. Do you understand me? Your job is to sleep, now.”

  This plan registers as the most luxurious symphony of sound waves to me. Our saviour Rose has descended with feeding contraptions and Martha Stewart–level homemade baby-carrying magic and words of comfort no family member or online forum can deliver. I exhale, thinking, It’s going to be okay. They’re taking the baby away.

  With one hand, while holding our baby, Rose wraps one of my long scarves around Gordon’s waist and over his shoulder — it’s not unlike the awkward feeding-tube demonstration, but far more comfortable for him than the tube procedure was for me. She places Fiona in the homemade fashion-accessory-turned-baby-carrier and together they try tighten it until she’s secure, but it’s difficult to do while holding the baby. I turn onto my belly and push my folded arms under my soft pillow, my favourite sleeping position. Rose and Gordon are whispering, still in my room configuring the scarf carrier. They can’t quite figure it out, and Gordon is sounding agitated.

  “Okay, I’ll try this carrier thing later. Can you hold the baby for a moment while I hug my wife? My priority is that she get some rest.” He’s pissed off, but I’m not sure if it’s because Rose is calling out how unprepared we are, or because he’s just downright exhausted. He asks about the anti-depressants she mentioned.

  I snap, “I don’t need anti-depressants. I know how to handle this emotion. I’ve taken melatonin and other natural supplements before to help with sleep and anxiety, so maybe I’ll take those again later, okay? Stop with the drugs talk.”

  Rose congratulates me for my studious approach to sleep-deprivation problem-solving.

  “Good then. Call your naturopath so you can find the right supplements that are suitable for breastfeeding. You have to consider the baby first. Now please sleep. Gordon will take care of the baby.”

  Gordon starts to look a little more excited. I think he’s actually relieved to have a few concrete solutions — the nipple shield, the feeding tube, the baby-carrying cocoon. Things are looking up. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe I can sleep three, four hours even?

  At that moment, I hear a huge crash, and Gordon screams, “Oh my God!”

  Silence. All quiet for one or two seconds. A lifetime. Everything slows down while speeding up. Rose has fallen with our baby in her arms. She slipped on a T-shirt at the end of my bed and crashed to the ground. I don’t know who flew faster — Rose when she went down, or me, immediately after I realize the baby must have been thrown onto the floor. Rose yells out, “She’s fine. She’s fine. I caught her. The baby is fine.” She’s not fine, my brain insists. She must be injured. I mean, she looks okay, she didn’t even cry, but this is the beginning of her lifelong medical procedures. I scoop up the baby and start yelling accusatory questions at the two people who are trying to assure me everything is going to be okay.

  “Is she breathing? Is she hurt? Do we need to go to the hospital? Did Rose have a stroke? What the fuck?”

  Rose says sharply, “Yes, I’m a bit sore, but mostly I am fine and you should not worry.” She is definitely annoyed. Gordon helps her up while I coddle the baby in our bed. Some scolding from Rose about how messy our bedroom is, delivered as authentically as any mother of a teenager. I think I remember that Rose has two young daughters. I wonder if she makes them clean up their rooms, or if they disappoint her like I do.

  Rose lifts the baby out of my arms and holds her vertically to show me an unscathed newborn.

  “See? She’s fine,” Gordon says, but in a way that sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

  Rose hands me the baby back and dusts her skirt off. “Oh my God,” she says, looking at her watch. “I have to get out of here.” In a split second, she’s out the door and on her way to the car. My bedroom window is open, and I hear her say to herself, “That’s not the way she’s going to be less anxious. Jesus.” She drives away and leaves the three of us stunned in my bedroom.

  “Okay, listen to me babe,” Gordon says with a tone that leads me to expect a lecture. Instead, he says, “I love you so very much. That was a fluke. Not a sign. I know what you’re thinking. You’re so tired, I can see it in your eyes. I’m going to take Fiona out for a walk, and you are going to try to sleep as long as you can. I’ll only come and get you if I really have to. Okay? Please rest. We love you.”

  We love you. We are a group now, more than a couple. We are a family. I want us to be a family, and I hate how babyish I’m behaving. He walks out of the room with the baby, and a few moments l
ater I hear him close the front door.

  I try to sleep, but I keep hearing screaming sounds in my head.

  Hours pass. I’m lying in my bed. I’m not getting any rest. I stand up and begin to cry as I walk toward the stairs. I hear Fiona cry; they’ve obviously returned from the walk. I’m not sure how long he’s been downstairs with her, but she must be hungry by now. It’s time for the nipple-shield-and-plastic-tube feeding session, which is way worse than the difficult-to-latch-and-painful-to-sit-through feeding session. I can’t sleep, I think; I need to watch over my baby. Now I have concrete proof that without my care she’s in danger. We are all subject to our own demons and this is mine. I head downstairs to feed her.

  _______________

  1 After all is said and done, while at the time I believed “breast is best,” today I firmly disagree with that philosophy and align much more closely to “fed is best”; any way the baby can get fed is the best for a family. At the time, however, I was so terrified by the messages in those classes that I bought into “breast is best” wholeheartedly.

  June 20, 2014

  THINGS HAVE GOT to get better soon. Seeing as my milk has arrived and all. Every feeding stings because of the open sores on my nipples, but at least it seems like there is actually enough milk to drink. Maybe I’ll stop crying soon. My childhood best friend, Michelle, arrives with her husband a little after 6:00 p.m. She has two children of her own, and I feel a fresh wave of relief when she walks through the door. She will see me and understand what is happening. She knew me before this alternate reality, knows my true self, the regular Amanda. Gordon is in the weeds with me, so much so that he can’t be the source of comfort I need in this sleep-deprived haze. I haven’t showered today and my tank top is soaked from leaking breastmilk and sweat. Michelle arrives with coffee for Gordon and mint tea for me. It’s hard to imagine drinking hot liquids in this humidity. I miss coffee, but caffeine is a luxury for those who haven’t given their flesh over to food production. I start to cry as soon as she sits down next to me. I don’t care that her husband is left to make awkward small talk while I wail to my friend in the same room.

  Michelle senses my desperation. She starts to build a conversation around happy, positive chatter. “Look at how beautiful she is! You made this human! You look so skinny!”

  I try to smile. When the baby cries, I immediately pull down my shirt in front of Michelle and her husband, Richard, a man I know tangentially at best. It’s clear from the darting eyes that I am making everyone in the room feel awkward, except Gordon. He enthusiastically declares that his wife is not afraid to breastfeed in front of anyone.

  “This is who we are now. Amanda often doesn’t have a shirt on for most of the day,” he says. Michelle asks about the plastic nipple shield. She looks at me, confused, and I sense her judgment at my failure to feed my baby naturally. She has two children and she’s unfamiliar with this contraption? I must really suck at this.

  “My nipples are too flat,” I explain, looking down at my breasts. “I know. It looks a bit like a clown nose. The proportions are so off.”

  “Why don’t you at least try to put a little formula into a bottle, or express some milk manually into a shot glass and get Gordon to feed her?” Michelle suggests a range of alternatives to me for breastfeeding the baby tonight.

  “You’re right. I have to do something. I don’t see what the big deal is with a little bit of formula,” I say, wiping tears away between big gasps of air. I concede that if my brother comes over later tonight, maybe I’ll let him try to feed the baby without me.

  “Listen to me,” Michelle says in a lowered voice. “If Gordon is really against formula, then try to get some milk into a cup. Any container. And go upstairs and sleep. You can feed her once you’ve slept an hour or two, at least.” I nod and pick up my phone to text Max. I need him to come over tonight and help us out, to be responsible for Fiona’s feeding. Any way other than me breastfeeding her.

  If you had asked me three weeks ago if I would be okay sitting mostly topless in front of my best friend and her husband while discussing the surface area of my left nipple and ways to get breastmilk into my baby without using my breast, I would have laughed at the absurdity. Now here I am in my small east-Toronto home on a hot summer Friday night, with no air conditioning, drinking tea and trying to ask my friend for non-baby stories, hoping that maybe, maybe, my real self isn’t lost forever.

  It’s 3:00 a.m. and I hear the baby screeching downstairs. Max has come over for the night and he’s downstairs with her and Gordon. I went upstairs earlier and left them with instructions to do whatever they could to let me sleep. The bottles in our kitchen hadn’t been sterilized, so Gordon left the baby with her new uncle so he could prepare the supplies for feeding her without me. Now she’s screaming. Something is wrong. I rub my sore eyes and lift myself out of bed. The act of getting out of bed at 3:00 a.m. after only an hour of sleep is like jumping off the dock into a lake and landing in cold, mucky seaweed water that is difficult to swim through without the seaweed tangling up in your legs. It’s awful, and there’s no way out but through. When I get downstairs, Fiona is squirming in Gordon’s arms while my brother holds a shot glass of breastmilk to her lips. I did what I could to squeeze some drops out before I went to sleep, uncertain if it would keep the baby full for minutes or hours. Max appears tired but resolute. He looks like he’s been feeding newborns for years.

  “She won’t latch on the bottle. We’ve tried every bottle in the house,” my dejected husband says. Max explains that he’s researched alternative feeding methods for newborns and found a suggestion to pour the liquid into her mouth from a glass, rather than have her latch onto an unfamiliar silicone nipple, just like Michelle suggested. Given how difficult it has been to get her to latch onto her mother’s flat nipples, anything should work better than me as the food source. But I’m doubtful.

  “That won’t work,” I lament. And if she won’t drink the liquid from a cup or a bottle or a feeding tube, it is clear I’m the only solution. I crawl onto the couch between my brother and my husband and start feeding Fiona from my breast using the nipple shield.

  “Please try to go back to bed,” Gordon pleads. “We will figure this out.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Max echoes. “We can do this. I slept. I can stay awake with her all night. I will handle this. Go back to bed, Amanda, you need to sleep and get better.”

  I feel calmer with the leadership of my younger brother, and also grief-stricken that he’s in this position at all. I see the concern in his eyes. I don’t want to cry again and I don’t know how to not cry again. He must know I’m dying.

  June 21, 2014

  Sent: June 21, 2014, 8:51 a.m.

  From: Jackie

  To: Amanda

  Let me know when you guys are off cloud nine and can pull yourself away from staring at Fiona in total admiration while cooing “oooh look what we made!” (I totally get that’s a place you’re probably at)

  Whenever you’re ready we should Facetime! I want to see her and hear your labour stories and catch up on how your first few days are going.

  lotsa lotsa lotsa love. And no rush either!

  Sent: June 21, 2014, 9:14 a.m.

  From: Amanda

  To: Jackie

  Not on cloud mine can’t stop crying haven’t slept more than four hours since Tuesday am feeling beyond crazy and desperate for help. Gordon is helping and in charge of coordinating visitors and calls right now.

  I sob as I read my friend’s kind email. I’m proud of my comprehension and absorption of full sentences. Maybe I’m not crazy after all? Gordon’s mother is coming to visit today. I’m anxious about her seeing me in this state, but I also see the longing in Gordon’s eyes for the normalcy of his family. I know he’s looking forward to introducing his daughter, the first granddaughter, to his mother and I want that for him. I want to show her the baby as soon as she arrives, but at the moment she walks in the door Fiona starts to cry, an
d I sit back down on the couch to feed her, holding back the special reveal.

  Since late yesterday afternoon, we’ve woken Fiona up every two hours (not that she really sleeps for more than two hours at a time anyway) to feed her liquids, because she was showing early signs of jaundice. I can’t miss a single feeding if the baby might be dehydrated. At the first signs of baby tears I snap back into my place on the couch, in a housecoat with no shirt on, and return to my role as feeder first, human second. I see my mother-in-law’s disappointment, but I can’t offer comfort; I have none left to give.

  After a couple hours of visiting, I notice we’re running low on newborn disposable diapers. We had been using cloth diapers as part of our organic, all-natural recipe for parenthood success, but we noticed that during longer sleep stretches the cloth diapers would leak, because even the newborn-sized ones were still a bit big on her tiny bottom, and I wondered whether the leaky diapers were adding to Fiona’s relentless every-ninety-minute waking. So we switched to disposable, and the thought of being without them now sends a paralyzing fear directly into my chest. When I start to cry, my mother-in-law offers to go to the store to pick some up for us.

  “That sounds great, thank you,” I say. “I’d like to go upstairs and try to sleep.”

  “Yes, go,” she says. “Gordon and I can handle it down here.”

  It feels like things are improving here. We have regular ongoing support from family and friends. Maybe I just needed a little bit of time to rest. Maybe all I needed were those few hours of broken sleep.

  When I wake up from my nap to find a box of diapers and Gordon lying on the couch alone with the baby, I learn my mother-in-law left shortly after running the diapers errand. It’s clear we are alone again. I lose it. I let out a desperate, shoulder-curling, back-folding wail. I’m hysterical in every sense of the word. I am destroyed.