But I’m under breast arrest here. All I do is wait for the next feed.
I wish someone would call me back. I cannot solve this pumping problem on my own. Yesterday I felt all right, after the polluted walk for a onesie. Today I’m longing for sleep. I’m longing for my old self back. Everything is bad again. I’m losing my mind. Sleep eludes me. There is a new version of me I don’t recognize. An unidentifiable self.
Sitting on the couch waiting for the phone to ring feels worse than sitting around waiting for the baby to flip in utero out of breech position. All I do is wait. I get up and roam aimlessly around the house. I find Gordon standing in our home office, staring out the back window overlooking our garden. He turns around to face me, and the dark circles under his eyes are so caved in they look painted on. I burst into tears when I see his frazzled state.
“There’s never a plateau, is there?” I say as I lift my hand to touch the circles. I want to see if I can rub them off his face.
“It’s up and down, yeah,” he says. “But don’t worry about how I am. I wish you could sleep. I can watch the baby for the rest of the day. Why don’t you try to lie down and focus on rest?” His voice is strained. But he doesn’t seem to have the worries about the baby’s safety that I do. I wonder what makes him so confident that she will survive?
All day yesterday I thought about creating a “one week old!” photo album to share on social media. But every time I tried to collect some photos on my phone I’d begin to cry. I’ve already wasted a week of her life, I kept thinking. I don’t want to celebrate this milestone; I want to mourn it. For days now I’ve been constantly checking the clock, never wanting to mess up the breastfeeding routine. If I catch 9:11 a.m. or 9:11 p.m., my mind begins to scream: 9-1-1! 9-1-1! 9-1-1! Someone sound the alarm. Save me. This is an emergency. It’s a hint that she’s going to die. I decided that sharing a milestone photo album on social media could be embarrassing, when later I have to take down all the photos of my child who’s died. Why am I thinking about her dying? Is my body trying to warn my brain of impending doom? That sounds so cliché. I don’t deserve the safety of a cliché. I should stay awake. Someone needs to watch the baby at all times. But can I control my own actions in a sleep-deprived state? They’d better not leave me alone with her. This feeding cycle is so claustrophobic. I hate the nipple shield. I don’t want to use the stupid tubing supplies. I can’t be free of it. How does anyone sleep and feed their tiny human? Part of me knows that my brain is sick, but I tell myself that this is just what parenthood is. I start to wonder if the reason I can’t sleep is so that I don’t suffocate the baby.
A gentle-sounding woman phones me back. I move to hand the baby to Gordon, who is dozing beside me on the couch. I begin to speak but start to cry. Before I can give her any background on my situation I say, “I’m so tired. Please tell me how to pump. And if I do pump, how do I feed her? How do I hold the bottle? Will she choke? Do I give her cold breastmilk or warm? Should we try formula again instead? What will happen to my milk? What did you do when you had your child?”
“Oh dear,” she replies. “You just need to sleep. If you stop breastfeeding, your milk could dry up. Has anyone shown you how to feed lying down so you can sleep and feed?”
“No, it seems like the baby could suffocate that way. She’s so very little.”
“I understand that, but it’s not true. And you definitely need to get some rest. It’s true that if you pump you could have an oversupply of milk. But you also need to rest. I get it. It’s so hard.”
“Yes,” I whimper. “I’m just so tired. I’m so tired. Please tell me what to do. I’m so tired. I’ve never been this tired in my whole life.”
“I don’t think you should pump. Wait until baby is one month old, even six weeks if you can.”
“Are you crazy?” I say in desperation. “A month is so long. I can’t go that long without sleep like this, I’ll never make it. I feel like I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. You’re tired. There’s a change at three weeks that stabilizes baby. Then again at six weeks. You will sleep again. It will get better. This is the hardest time. Get someone to show you how to feed lying down, it will help you.”
“Okay, I understand, thank you.” I hang up and sob. She’s too little to feed lying down; that’s an impossible recommendation. The proper latch only works with this baby if I’m sitting up straight and holding her, with the plastic shield between us. My back aches, and my stitches are still sore. I don’t know the last time I ate anything at all and I’m not hungry. I need to wait at least three more weeks, maybe more, until I can sleep again.
The odds are I won’t make it, I tell myself. I’ll die of sleep deprivation, or I’ll throw myself off a building. Death is lingering above me. I see it now. I’m not going to sleep for weeks, but before that I’ll trip and drop the baby. Or she’ll suffocate in the couch. Or I’ll forget her outside in the backyard. If she dies, I’ll kill myself. I couldn’t live without her. I’m a mother now. I’m a mother forever. If I’m no longer a mother, I can no longer live.
June 26, 2014
DAY NINE. My younger sister, Alice, arrives and she brings her boyfriend with her, a guy I barely know. He falls asleep on my couch. Must be nice. She’s excited to see the baby, but also seems to be looking for answers. There are a lot of questions.
“How are you feeling? How was labour? I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come until now. I was away at a conference for work.”
I can’t talk to my sister about what’s going on. Throughout her twenty-plus years, I’ve seen myself as a parent figure to her. I’m not her mother and don’t want to be, but I’ve felt responsible for guiding her. I see her accomplishments and success as my own. She inspires me to be more independent, less obligated to my family. She wants to be an international journalist, to tell compelling stories of people who have struggled and persevered. Now she’s in my home and wants to help take care of the baby. Maybe her presence will let me settle and I can sleep.
I choose rest over visiting, and head upstairs to take a shower. Try a shower and sleep. Now that Alice is here, she can hold the baby and Gordon and I can get some relief together. I step out of the shower and hear the birds out my bedroom window. It’s a sunny, warm afternoon, not unlike the day Fiona was born. It’s pleasant outside, but it’s also loud. Cars are honking. It’s the FIFA World Cup; somebody’s team must have won. It sounds like the whole city is celebrating outside my windows.
The sun is sparkling on the car windshields. I picture all the people cheering and laughing on the patios and bars around the corner. They must be blissfully sticky. Summer makes everyone happy. I cannot find pleasure because I’m a mother now. It’s so very hot in my non-air-conditioned house. The shower only made it worse. I’m damp, with wet hair, staring at my broken and bruised body in the mirror.
My breasts are leaking milk down my chest. The shower left me unclean. I am damaged, broken, and scarred. This body is so foreign. It’s not the one I grew into. I hate it.
I look around my bedroom and spot my bridal veil wrapped in the same plastic dry cleaning bag it’s been in since the wedding. Plastic. That’s it. I can use plastic to suffocate myself. It won’t be bloody or dramatic. It’ll just be like I went to sleep.
I look to the floor and spot my iPhone cable beside my bed. I’ll put the plastic bag over my head and wrap the cellphone cable around my neck. That’s how I’m going to die. I’m going to die today.
Two things are happening at the same time. The thought is real and feels like it’s on the cusp of becoming action, and, separately, I can see the horror of the thought itself. I know it’s wrong but I’ve never felt this desperate before. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do next. I call Rose and begin to cry.
Her voice is measured, careful. “Do you think you might hurt yourself or the baby?” She’s asking but she doesn’t believe me. She’s annoyed that she has to deal with this dramatic woman instead of taking care of babies an
d helping new life flourish.
“I’m scared, Rose.” I plead for help through my tears. Don’t mention the plastic bag. Don’t mention the cable. Everything in my house is a weapon. The details don’t matter.
“Okay, listen to me, Amanda. Are you listening now?” We both sit in silence, until I quietly release a sound to let her know I’m ready to listen. “After I left our last visit with you in tears, I called the hospital to get you an assessment with the outpatient program. I told them it was urgent and they need to speak with you as soon as possible. It might not be until tomorrow or the next day before they call. But if you really feel like you need to talk with someone and they’re not calling you back, you need to go to the emergency room. If you go to the emergency room, they will help you.” She tells me about a specific hospital that has an excellent program for mothers with postpartum depression. “There are other mothers there like you, and they will help you. Okay? I love you. It’s going to be okay. You need to be seen by a doctor and you need medication to figure this out. We are going to do this together.”
I am sobbing by the time I hang up the phone. She said “postpartum depression,” a phrase my family has seemed apprehensive about using in my presence. Everyone’s been saying that I’m experiencing “temporary baby blues,” a normal part of childbirth. Except nothing about this feels normal. I’m relieved to hear someone validate that I might actually be losing my mind. That I’m not exaggerating the panic. Could I really have PPD so soon after having a baby? Do all mothers not feel like this? Is what she said correct, that something is terribly wrong?
I know from my dad’s experience with depression that this means meds are in my future. I also know I don’t want to go on anti-depressants. They’ll just take whatever of me is left, steal all my thoughts away. And they’ll hurt the baby. I resolve that I will take the help from a psychiatrist but I will refuse to accept medication as a form of treatment. They’ll need to fix me another way. I’m not angry with my midwife. She gave me a solution that isn’t death.
Go to the hospital, tell someone about the plastic bag and the veil. Find relief.
When I get downstairs, Alice is holding the baby and Gordon is on his phone. I hear him say, “She’s been having a rough couple of days. She was crying again this morning. She’s upstairs right now trying to sleep.”
Hearing him say I’m struggling infuriates me. “I’m not sleeping!” I yell directly at him, startling Alice’s boyfriend awake. “I can never fucking sleep! Who are you talking to?”
“It’s your mother,” Gordon says. He hands me the phone, without mentioning my tear-soaked face. “Talk to her yourself. Tell her what’s going on.” My mother is at her school. It’s the last week before summer and the last few days of her working career. She plans to retire and help me with the baby. I want to yell that I don’t need her help but there’s a huge wall of unsolvable struggles in front of me. I wish my biggest problem was how to tell my mother I don’t want her to visit me if she plans to bring my stepfather with her. I can’t stand that guy.
“How are you? Have you slept?” She sounds concerned.
My lip quivers and my voice comes out as a wail. “I feel crazy, Mom. Rose says maybe I should talk to someone about why I can’t sleep. Maybe someone who can give me some medicine or tell me when this will stop being so impossibly difficult to get through. I think I need to see a doctor.” I’m not really asking for permission; I don’t need it from her. Why did I tell her at all? She’s going to think I’m making it all up.
“If you think seeing someone will help you to sleep then do that. I’m proud of you for saying you think you need help. Go see a doctor. Do that. You were right to say something.”
I’m surprised by her reaction, given I’ve rarely, if ever, heard her acknowledge mental illness. I don’t have anything else to say, so I hand the phone back to Gordon and shrug. I’m a bit stuck with what to do now. Do I wait the night or head to the hospital this very minute? I walk upstairs to be alone to try to make a decision. The narrow tunnel vision has returned and I can only see directly in front of me. Not down the hall or out the window or left to right. Everything beyond me is a blurry mess. I don’t hear the cars honking outside or the soccer celebrations on the nearby patios. I can’t hear the birds. All is silent. Then I’m hit with a thought.
There’s a stranger in my living room. I can’t trust Alice and her boyfriend with the baby. They’ll drop her. I’m trapped. I have nowhere to go. Maybe if I jumped out the window I’d get hurt and be taken to the hospital sooner?
I text a friend who I’ve spoken to about anxiety before.
When you went on meds, you felt better right? Will it make this feeling stop?
No reply. She’s reporting me to the police for sure. My phone rings a minute later. It’s her.
“Amanda. I’m in the car. I pulled over when I saw your text. Do you feel like something really bad is going to happen? Do you think you’re going to hurt yourself, really?”
“Yes,” I say in a quiet, unfamiliar voice. I will hurt myself to make the pain stop. Otherwise I’m going to hurt the baby. It’s clear to me.
“Go to the hospital right now. Don’t wait. Go over there and demand that someone help you. We’ll come down on the weekend to help with Fiona. Go, Amanda, go now.”
She is saving me. This phone call is what will save me. Get to a hospital or you will die. I can’t think about breastfeeding or sleeping or eating, my only job now is to go to the hospital.
I’m nervous as Gordon comes upstairs. This rapidly progressing plan makes total sense in my head, but it will be news to him that I want to rush to the hospital immediately. I have to get him to where I am, without telling him about the plastic bag. I need him to understand that I need medical attention to help me sleep and to make the mind nightmare stop. I take a deep breath and tell him, through tears, about the plan I’ve pieced together.
“Rose says the hospital has an excellent postpartum program. She said if the outpatient person doesn’t phone us back we could also go to emergency; that would possibly expedite the process. She said they can give me medication to help me to sleep, that it’ll be safe for the baby, but I don’t need medication. I just need a doctor to tell me what’s happening to my mind. Will you take me to the hospital? I think I need to go. Please?”
Gordon sighs loudly. He doesn’t want to go. “There has to be another way. Let’s read those baby books you ordered. There must be some answers there. We haven’t done our own research about what’s going on with you. Going to the hospital now seems drastic. If you want to go I’ll take you, but why don’t we just wait until tomorrow when the outpatient doctor phones you back? Did Rose say you need to go tonight?”
He seems more exhausted than worried. Maybe I’m over-reacting. I felt better talking to my friend on the phone than I do trying to explain this to Gordon. He doesn’t think this is serious enough, but I can’t tell him about the plastic bag. I can’t tell him that the only thing replaying in my mind is death.
“I feel like I’m going to hurt the baby,” I say instead. “I don’t want to hurt the baby, but I don’t know what’s happening with me. Please. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, and my stomach is really bothering me. I really think something is wrong. Please take me.”
Gordon looks stunned. He stares at me for a few moments, tears filling his eyes, and says, “Okay. We’ll pack up your sister and the baby and go.” As he pulls me into his arms, I want to relinquish control to him. Let my guard down. I don’t want to save myself without someone else standing beside me, and I don’t feel that I can protect the baby alone. I’m not a good mother; I’m barely a mother at all. This isn’t what I imagined parenthood to be. It was supposed to be easy, something I would instinctively navigate. I have a strong desire to be saved.
I stay upstairs and cry in the bedroom while he goes downstairs to deliver the news to Alice. I hear him describe the plan, which he presents with caution and reluctance.
“Your si
ster isn’t feeling very well, so we’re going to take her to the hospital.” I hear the doubt in his voice. Alice’s response, a simple “oh,” sounds surprised, and maybe a little hesitant. Gordon explains that her boyfriend should probably go home and that if my sister is willing, she should come with us to the hospital.
My husband, this new father and now the only officially sane parent among us, is wearing track pants and hasn’t showered in at least two days. How will I ever communicate how much I love this man for agreeing to parent me and to become the primary caregiver when I had intended to lead? Maybe he’s just desperate for me to stop crying and to start being the mother he expected I would be. He knows I won’t stop asking to go. I stand in the hallway and search my memories for a baseline, another time in my life when I felt this on edge, and for what I did to make the panic slow down.
I can’t remember another time when I’ve had such aggressive thoughts about ending my life, but I know I’ve had episodes that were close. I’ve let anxiety overtake me before. I’ve melted down in the presence of others. The most recent crash was a few years ago in a coffee shop, when I burst into tears in front of my boss during a weekly check-in meeting.
“I just can’t do this,” I sobbed. “It’s too much work. I’m beyond overwhelmed and overworked. I need to rest. I am incapable of doing what you’re asking. I’ll never get everything ready for the show; it’s only in a couple of weeks. It’s not going to happen. I can’t do it.” We were gearing up for an eight-hundred-person art show in Toronto’s Distillery District, and although tickets were sold out, the media and marketing to-do list was extensive. Sure, working at a non-profit is tiring and stressful, but it’s not heart-surgeon stressful. I sobbed while my boss looked on, helpless. It was hard to tell if I had terrified him or pissed him off. He must have suspected I could be losing my mind, but he didn’t say it outright.
Day Nine Page 10