Day Nine

by Amanda Munday

  “Hey, do you have a cellphone charger?” he asks, like a teenager stopping older kids on the street to ask for a cigarette. I don’t think he has a phone, but I’m not about to be the one to remind him of that.

  “No, they took mine away. It’s the worst,” I say dramatically.

  “Yeah, mine, too. I need my fucking phone,” he says, pacing. He’s angry. I could maybe calm him by making a joke or sharing that I have both my cellphone and iPad in my room. But am I here to make friends? I am really not here to make friends. Finally, after what seems like hours but was probably minutes, a nurse slides open a small glass window and doles out pills in a tiny white paper cup. It’s exactly the scene from every psychiatric ward in every movie about the institutionalized. I stand up straight in the meds line and get ready to show the nurse my tongue as proof I swallowed the pills, but after seeing the close-talker skip it, I simply collect my white paper cup and head back to my room, hoping tomorrow I don’t have to stand in this line again.

  July 5, 2014

  MAX CALLED EARLIER to tell me he loved me and offered to come by after his restaurant shift, but I’d rather he be present at work than delve into my daily hospital drama if he can avoid it. He’s been around so much already, and I’m happy he’s focusing on his job today. His phone calls are reminder enough that he’s got my back.

  My sister, Alice, though, isn’t going anywhere. I’d send her back to university and away from here, except that it’s summer break and she seems content with staying with me instead of working her student job. Content is probably the wrong word — maybe more like compelled. I don’t know if she remembers the last time our family was in the psychiatric ward. She was only thirteen when our father attempted suicide. Though I’m sure the image of finding him is forever burned into her brain, I don’t know what, if any, of his recovery she remembers. Today doesn’t feel like the right moment to dive into our family history, given I’m not contributing to a story of wellness.

  With my father in long-term recovery, he’s pretty unlikely to spend much time visiting his sick daughter in the psychiatric ward. I wouldn’t want him here, knowing this place could be a trigger for him. I didn’t talk to my sister much about that suicide attempt. She was only a young child. In my eyes, she’s still a child today, but one who’s seen enough hell to warrant autonomy. She’s strong without angst and stubborn without attitude. She chooses kindness over gossip and books over raging parties. I haven’t asked her how she feels about caring for her only niece while sitting in a psychiatric ward, less than ten years after our dad landed himself on a seventy-two-hour hold in a similar place. I want to thank her for being here with me, but I also want her to get out of here as soon as possible. If I was successful in shielding her from our father’s illness the first time around, I’ve failed to protect her from it with her big sister. I wonder, Have I broken my innocent, youngest sibling’s image of me? Will she still come to me for advice, guidance, and reassurance after having seen and heard her big sis fall apart so disastrously? I’m not sure where she learned to be such a nurturing creature, but in her only twenty years of life, she brings the calm my baby and I need in this moment. I’m happy she’s sticking around.

  We are going to try another day-pass excursion today. My team of doctors suggested we try a few hours this time, so Gordon, Fiona, Alice, and I are going out. It’s hotter today than the last time and I’m annoying Gordon and my sister with my persistent questions about whether it might be too hot out for the baby.

  “I want to wear her in the carrier,” I say, “but don’t feel like I deserve the responsibility of holding the baby. Can you do it, Gordon?”

  He shakes his head but agrees anyway. The last time we were out at a restaurant was the Saturday before Fiona was born. Max, Gordon, and I met on the very busy College Street to watch Italy’s soccer team play in the FIFA World Cup. Little Italy in Toronto isn’t the saturated Italian landscape it once was, but when Italy is playing in major sporting events, the bars and restaurants spill onto the street with excited fans. Café Diplomatico, a staple in the neighbourhood, put out huge big-screen TVs to broadcast the game. We couldn’t find seats on the patio at Diplomatico, so we sat across the street at a smaller red-sauce joint. I remember the day vividly — partly because it was less than a month ago, but mainly because it was the last time I sat at a restaurant eating fries with my most loved family members.

  During today’s day-pass escape we’re looking for somewhere with decent food, as Gordon insisted we do, and also a place that might be airing a FIFA game, since the World Cup is still on. I can feel stinging abdominal cramps with each cautious step on the sidewalk. I haven’t walked very much in days and it hurts to move. The tightening in my uterus is distracting me from the sights and sounds of summer patios in Toronto, though I do notice the asphalt smells hot.

  We settle onto a floppy worn-out couch on the second floor of a pub near the hospital. The bar is full, way busier than I would have guessed this place would be on a sunny afternoon. But it makes sense since today there’s a soccer game on and we’ve picked a British pub with giant TVs. They have the volume turned up so loud that the noise level of all the patrons can’t overpower the screens. It’s too loud here. What a stupid parent I am to bring my two-week-old baby to a bar.

  “Gordon, will you look on your phone for safe volume level-s for an infant?”

  My sister looks worried and unsure of what to do. “I don’t think it’s so loud in here,” she says, in an attempt to comfort me.

  I want to hold Fiona close and cover her ears. A server stops by and wants to know what type of beer I want. Can I drink beer? This entire trip feels very illegal for mental patients. They’ll lock me up for longer if they find out. I wonder if this server knows I’ve escaped from a mental institution? I need to get out of this room. We can’t stay here, lunch trip or no lunch trip.

  Alice stands, looking for another option, and says, “What about the patio?”

  “Perfect. Great idea,” Gordon says, too quickly. I still want to know what volume levels are safe for an infant, but he isn’t sharing his phone research with me. Gordon signals to our server that we’re moving outdoors, and we try to pick a table outside in the shade. Going out for lunch is an absurd thing to do.

  A table of older women are enjoying their fish and chips and pints of beer, and now they’re ogling my tiny baby. They think she’s too small — they’ve said “tiny baby” more than once. Do we look ridiculous on a patio with a baby? We are ridiculous. I certainly am. Is that smoke I’m smelling? Oh no. They’re releasing toxic cigarette smoke from their mouths. They’re exhaling poison and I’m out of options. We either allow Fiona’s hearing to be permanently damaged, or her lungs.

  I don’t feel calm or peaceful. I want to hurry this lunch along. I feel like a failure at everything related to parenting. A good mother would know better than to expose her baby to city pollution, second-hand smoke, and aggressive soccer fans. I am clearly not a good mother. I’m never getting better.

  The hospital is very close to Queen’s Park, so after lunch my sister suggests we don’t rush back but instead go wander the grounds to spend a moment or two more outside. We make the long walk around the very huge Queen’s Park with its swollen red bricks and well-manicured flower pots. In all my years living in Toronto, I haven’t spent very much time in this park. The round style of the driveway and the lanes of traffic that surround the building have always felt like a bullseye to me, indicating that this is truly the very centre of the city in the centre of the universe. It makes sense that this is where I would fall apart. Patient zero in the centre of the bullseye.

  Some clouds have rolled in while we walked into the park. I want to stay under the trees in case it starts to rain. Everything feels like it’s about to fall to pieces. I’m certain that people walking by with their dogs are looking at me. Look at the baby and the crazy mother holding her.

  Fiona starts to stir, so I bounce and walk in lunges in the gras
s to try to calm her. I reach down my shirt for my plastic nipple shield, but I can’t find it. My heart rate increases with the speed of the steadily angrier breeze. I can feel the panic rise from my thighs to envelop my chest. I can’t stop it. How am I going to feed this baby? We didn’t think to pack a bottle for the trip. I bounce a little faster.

  Standing beside me, Alice tries to shush the baby. She repeats, “I really think it’s going to be okay, Amanda. The baby can cry a little. It’s just a little windy out here.”

  Gordon echoes everything my sister says, and neither of them seems to consider how irritating their words are to me. Fiona is full-blown crying now, and the wind has picked up viciously.

  I don’t want to feed the baby in this public park. I haven’t attempted public feedings yet and this doesn’t seem like an ideal place to begin. I don’t even know if it’s legal to pull your breast out in a public park, especially one where our provincial elected officials meet and vote on our laws. I’m going to have to hide what I’m trying to do.

  “Can’t we just go back to the room?” I plead. “It’s probably a seven- or eight-minute walk. Let’s just go back.” But Gordon doesn’t want to. I run over to a nearby picnic table and climb up to sit on the table top. I’m going to have to try to breastfeed her right here, without the nipple shield that she prefers to latch to.

  “We can do this,” Gordon says. “We can calm her down here. The air is so much better outside.”

  “But it seems like a fucking tornado is coming!” I scream.

  Alice immediately looks away from me and picks up her phone. I don’t know if she’s about to report me to some authorities or call her boyfriend to rant that her sister is a lunatic. She’s avoiding eye contact with me and I regret yelling at her.

  “Amanda …” she begins to reason with me. “If you want to go back we can. Do you think the baby is at risk out here? I don’t know if this wind is that big a deal.”

  “It is a big deal, Alice,” I snap back. “I can’t feed her out here. I can’t feed her anywhere. I need to get back inside. It’s my only chance of calming the baby down. Don’t you understand that?” Alice nods and looks over at Gordon, who I sense is trying not to express any signs of worry.

  This is so hard. I move to latch Fiona onto my breast, but I can barely see what I’m doing with my breastfeeding cover over her face. I whip it off and throw it beside me. The white lace breastfeeding cover we brought along for the outing, assuming one would be required for nursing in public, is infuriatingly branded the “Hooter Hider.” When it flies away I couldn’t care less. Fiona screams louder, just to make sure I can hear her through the whirling traffic and blowing leaves. She refuses to latch. The louder she gets, the more desperate I feel. Gordon offers to hold her, and the minute he takes her in his arms, I stand and start walking south toward the hospital.

  “You all can stay here; I’m going back. I can’t take it any longer.” I stomp away down the path before either of them can stop me. I hate it out here. I just want to go back to my safe hospital room. They stand and follow me.

  When we’re back at the ninth-floor front desk, I see one of my favourite nurses, the one with the warm smile and the dark brown hair.

  “How did it go?” she calls out over the tall check-in desk.

  “Terrible! Not good at all. It’s awful out there,” I reply quietly.

  “It was fine,” Gordon says behind me. “I think Amanda is a little overwhelmed.” I hate him for not backing me up, but I hate myself more for being in here at all.

  July 7–8, 2014

  NIGHTTIME LOOMS. Gordon and my mom are packing up to go back home for the evening. I don’t want them to take Fiona. I ask them to stay a little longer. “Until I fall asleep, maybe?” I wish Max was here, but he’s working again tonight. Alice left this morning, heading back to her university town and her summer job. She was here over a week and likely didn’t sleep very much the entire time. I’m sure after my freak-out in the park she’s had it with this whole drama. To think she only intended to visit Fiona for an afternoon, but she became secondary caregiver for days. I’m jealous that she’s able to catch up on sleep at home, something I’m not sure I’ll be able to do when I return to my house. If I ever return to my house.

  “Okay, well, it’s time we get going,” Gordon says in an exasperated tone. I’m sure he’s tired of this back and forth routine. “I’ll be back tomorrow — back in the car, back to the psych ward.” My husband looks devastated, overwhelmed by his role and everything I’m asking him to be responsible for now. I get the sense he’s stressed about managing me, our baby, and my mother tonight. Especially now that Alice has left and he has to build another new schedule. He’s probably mad at me for it. Earlier today he asked a nurse if we could keep our phone chargers in the room and she refused, pointing to a sign on the wall in my room that clearly says no cables. “My wife isn’t going to hang herself with my phone charger while I’m in the room, for Christ’s sake.” But I stopped him from getting any angrier, explaining I’d rather we follow the rule. It’s safer that way for everyone.

  As Gordon moves to place the baby in her infant car seat, I signal that I want to hold her, and softly kiss her forehead. Tears rush down my face.

  “I love you,” I whisper. I’m sorry your Mama is so crazy. I can’t look my husband in the eye. “Okay take her. Just go.” Gordon kisses the top of my head, rubs my back, and finishes buckling Fiona into the seat. The way we all say goodbye feels strained, the polite Canadian goodbye you’re obligated to perform even when your insides are tearing apart. I don’t want my baby to leave me. I don’t want her to not need me.

  The next morning, two of my resident doctors knock loudly on my room door and say, “Today’s the day!” I’m going home. I am not being discharged; I’m just leaving the psych ward and going home for the day.

  Gordon is full of excitement. But I’m incredibly nervous to leave this place. What will happen when I go back to the house of danger?

  I like these doctors because they don’t wear white lab coats. The younger residents usually come in with a business-casual vibe, sporting brown leather loafers and checkered shirts. There’s one woman, a thin-framed lady with long, slick black hair who always looks immaculate. Today she’s wearing a navy-blue summer dress and peach-coloured heels. I wish I could be polished enough to sport peach heels, I think.

  “Now remember, Amanda,” she says, “you can always come back here. No one is getting this room; it’s yours. Your things will remain in place. If it’s too much for you, you come right back here.”

  “Am I leaving too early?” I ask her with a shaky voice.

  “No. You’ll feel better at home,” my mom chimes in before the doctors can answer. They look at her and seem satisfied enough with her reply not to add anything else.

  Rose is getting out of her car just as we arrive on our street. The sight of her makes me cry, and I rush over to embrace her in a very tight hug in front of my house.

  Everything is blurry when I get inside. It’s all back. The bag. The iPhone cable. The kitchen knives that feel too accessible. Rose wants to hear about our experience in the hospital while examining the baby. She mentions to Gordon again that she feels left out, that since we’ve been in the hospital we haven’t been updating her on my care. They talk in lowered voices. I crawl up onto the living-room couch, the couch where I felt the madness creep through my body. My mother paces through our living room, asking repeatedly if I want something to eat. I don’t want to eat anything. I’m not hungry. I don’t even really want to be here.

  Rose and Gordon continue their conversation at the other end of the house, and I wait for her to finish her check-up of the baby and say goodbye. She is as much my mother as anyone. She is here, present, in my home. Showing up. Don’t forget the people who show up for you. A voice somewhere behind my ears reminds me she is good. There are louder thoughts assuring me that she wants me to die. I’d like those thoughts to quiet down.

 
I’m crying again as Rose packs up to go home. This visit to my own home doesn’t feel real. It isn’t my home anymore. The hospital is my home.

  My mother pleads with me to go for a walk. “Go get a coffee. Just get a cold drink. Why don’t you pick a destination and go there.”

  “No, Mom, I don’t want to leave this house!” It’s rare for me to raise my voice in front of my mother; I don’t enjoy doing it. I prefer passive aggression and avoidance. But in this moment, I’m fed up. I do not want to leave this house; it’s scary enough staying within it.

  “Okay, okay. Fine.” Her voice lowers and she looks away.

  In my heart, I want to apologize and comfort. But I just stay silent. I don’t want to go anywhere unless we’re going back to the hospital. My mother stands up and looks out our dining room window. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, then she quietly says, “I’m going to take Fiona for a walk, to give you some time to just sit here in the house. Drink some water.” When she leaves, I lean my head on Gordon’s shoulder. He looks utterly exhausted, and I say out loud what has been on repeat in my mind for days.

  “If I’m at risk of hurting the baby … if I think I will actually do it, I’ll kill myself first. If anything happens to her, I will immediately kill myself. I kind of want to die now. I can’t see how this will ever get better.”

  He looks at me, stunned. His eyebrows arch to the middle of his forehead. “Wow,” he says softly.

  I said it out loud. There is a part of me that knows that rationally what I’m saying can’t be entirely true, that I really don’t want to not live anymore. I love my life, and before this happened, I never had thoughts of dying. Why would having a baby be the end of me, especially the end of me by choice? But what if I can’t stop it? Gordon puts his hand behind me, cradling my head, then lifts my forehead to his lips. He’s quiet for a while. When I look up to him, he looks devastated.