Gordon and I are sitting together in the social worker’s office and the last thing I want is for them to take anything else away. I haven’t seen this social worker since the first morning I checked in, when I sat topless in a meeting room crying that I’d never recover. This woman seems confident that the call she’s about to make is no big deal. Though calling a social service agency on me feels pretty significant.
“As I told you before, it’s the hospital’s duty to report this incident to Children’s Aid, and since you’ve indicated that you’re Roman Catholic, I’m opting to call the Catholic Children’s Aid Society. There isn’t an option here not to call them, okay? This is standard procedure. I’m going to call on speakerphone with you in the room, so you can hear exactly what I report to them and what the plan is.”
Gordon takes my hand and squeezes tight. I rock Fiona in my arms. I want to hurry through this discharge meeting and get home for good. The woman clears her throat.
“I need to make a report regarding a mother and her one-month-old baby,” she says into the phone. It sounds like the person on the other end is struggling to hear her, so she picks up the receiver; we can only hear her end of things.
“When was Fiona born?” she asks me, but Gordon answers first, more to me than her. “June 17. Wow, it’s been almost a month.” His tired voice makes my heart hurt.
“Amanda was having thoughts about harming herself and the baby.” Did the person hear the distinction? That I was having those thoughts but am no longer having them? I’m better now.
“No, no I didn’t say she used the cable, she only had thoughts of doing so. She did not take any action. We know there’s a big difference between thoughts and actions, as I’ve explained to her. No … she will not be alone with the baby right now, she has help from her husband, her sister and brother, her mother, and nearby neighbours. I believe she is ready to go home today.” The social worker looks over at me with a hopeful smile, and all I can think about is whether a social service agency is going to take my baby away because of my illness.
I can feel hot tears rising. The phone call, the details of how we got here, my tired husband, it’s all too much. Fiona is asleep in my arms, and I hope she isn’t internalizing any of these details. Can she understand that her mother is being reported?
The call is finally over. More instructions. “A representative from the Catholic Children’s Aid Society will be visiting you at home, and there’s usually a standard amount of time that the file remains open. After that, if everything is well and there are no new concerns, I expect that they will close the file with no further investigation. This is standard procedure, Amanda.”
I have no words for how it feels to be told I’ll be monitored in my home. Because I don’t know how it feels. I guess I will soon.
“They’ll explain it all to you during their first visit,” she says with a smile, a clear signal that we should pack up and go home.
I follow Gordon back to my room and we pack up my personal items for what I hope is the last time. I pick up the thick purple-wrapped menstrual pads on the windowsill. I can’t think of another time in my life where my menstrual products have been so visibly on display for family and strangers alike. Another me would have been embarrassed. Today I couldn’t care less that everyone here knows I’m bleeding. There are so many bigger problems I’m facing; menstruation vulnerability is nothing.
Walking out of the hospital, I see one of my doctors, one who was here on my very first day, and he says loudly in my direction, “I don’t want to see you back here, okay, Amanda? This is not a place for you and your family.” It feels like a demand more than a request. Don’t come back. Next time you won’t get out so easily.
On the drive home, I roll the windows down just enough to feel a bit of wind on my face. I’m sitting in the back seat with Fiona so I can hold her hand and be close to her. Gordon heads south on University Avenue and is intending to turn east when I ask him to take a long route home.
“Could we go by the water, just quickly please? I want to see the blue.”
“Sure, babe. Of course we can.” He sounds more at peace than he did when we were first en route to the hospital, thankfully. I rub his neck and shoulders through the headrest. We have survived hard things before, and we will continue to do it together.
I long for the sounds of the lake. I exhale as I catch a glimpse of Lake Ontario. As we travel west along Lakeshore Boulevard, we see runners on the boardwalk, swimmers in Sunnyside pool, and kids swinging on the swings at a playground. People seem happy today. I hope the worst is over. The night will come and I will still be scared, but knowing the water is here for me to return to gives me comfort. Maybe I should have just asked Gordon to take me for a drive eighteen days ago. Could I have avoided all this pain? I finally feel a little bit better.
“Are you willing to take Lakeshore back again?” I say softly from the back seat. I just want to keep looking out at the water. I’m thankful that we are moving forward together. The ugliness is behind me.
Part III
Death and Life
July 23, 2014
I’VE BEEN HOME for nine days. The past week and a bit have had ups and downs. I don’t do the night shift — I leave that mostly for Max, my mother, and nearby friends who’ve offered to help. I’m a parenting liability. When I get downstairs, it’s clear that no one is happy this morning. I see my mom with dark circles under her eyes, staring at the TV talk shows and scattered in her morning greeting. The night must have been a rough one.
“Fiona needed several two-ounce formula bottles consecutively, and she never really settled for longer than ninety minutes. I thought she’d have been sleeping longer by now. But not last night.”
I’m overwhelmed with guilt. This is not a great way to start the day of our Children’s Aid home visit. Since my job is to prioritize sleep, I have to leave the night feedings to others, and I’m also no longer waking up to pump. During the day I’m not pumping enough to sustain Fiona without formula, so any preference Gordon had for her meals has had to be abandoned in favour of her survival. Gordon, who has gone back to work after six weeks of paternity leave, has permission to arrive late for work today so we can present our united family to the social worker and leave no question about the support system I have around me. I can’t imagine what the coffee chatter must sound like at his office. “Did you hear about Munday’s crazy wife?”
Standing in the bathroom, brushing my hair and straightening my shirt, I’m filled with shame. I need to prepare for how exactly I will explain that I’m prioritizing sleep just like I’ve been prescribed, and that I have a system for calling for help whenever I need it — including summoning my brother in a taxi from wherever he is in the city, plus my mother’s scheduled weekly visits and overnights from our friends. I’ll make sure to mention that my sister and stepmother are often sending in offers of overnight sleep support, which I accept only rarely because I cannot endure subjecting any more people to this struggle than absolutely necessary. Maybe I should leave that last part out?
I can tell that my mother and Gordon are nervous. The social worker from the Children’s Aid organization knocks at the door and everyone jumps. I had imagined an authoritative elderly librarian-type woman with a clipboard, but the woman at the door seems very warm and very hip. She’s young and blond, with a haircut that’s buzzed on one side and long on the other. She’s wearing jeans and an airy summer top, and if the context of this meeting wasn’t my fitness as a parent, I might want to be her friend.
With an exuberant smile she hands over an offering — a board book. Urban Babies Wear Black. “I adore this story. I’ve given it to several friends who just had babies. I thought you’d enjoy it.” A memento of this day. I can’t help but wonder how many of the families she visits have one newborn baby and are already falling apart, and how many have experienced years of hardship.
“Okay, Amanda, why don’t we start with the story of what happened and how we got her
e?” Her body language is calm and open, like she’s ready to welcome my tales of madness. I’ve recounted this story so many times that it feels more performance than introspection, more rehearsed than natural.
What’s painful for me to explain is the plan moving forward: “I have someone here at night, sleeping with the baby, so I can rest and Gordon can be rested enough to work. We sleep in shifts, attempting to provide each person with at least four consecutive sleeping hours. Two or three days a week my mother lends a hand, and the other days I take Fiona for walks or try to get myself to a Mama-and-baby yoga class, though I have only been successful at getting there once.” My voice is shaking, something I hope she doesn’t notice.
“This period of total exhaustion is normal,” the friendly, super-cool social worker explains. She’s writing down a lot of notes. I can’t help but wonder if she’s underlining the word crazy over and over again.
“What about Fiona’s bedroom? And fire safety in your home, like alarms, flammable materials, and proper exits? Have you considered all the ways baby could get hurt here and how to prevent accidents?”
I stare deeply into this woman’s eyes. She must be kidding. “I think our house is pretty safe, especially coming from someone who is constantly thinking about the ways she might die?” I giggle. No one else does.
“I see.” She writes more. “Can you take me to see where the baby sleeps?” I look over to Gordon who’s not laughing, though in my eyes this entire situation is becoming a little amusing. Even Rose didn’t check out Fiona’s room. Although I’m smiling, I’m suddenly overcome with fear that we could lose parental custody because we forgot to ensure all the proper fire precautions were implemented before we brought the baby home. This isn’t a time to be giggling.
She follows me and Gordon up to the baby’s room, taking a long look at the baby’s crib. It’s hard to explain that the baby isn’t spending much time in that super safe and fireproof bed, given we can barely put her down for any significant length of time.
“Everything seems great here. Your file needs to remain open for the next thirty days, but if things continue as they are now, likely no follow up will be needed. I think that’s all I need to see. You clearly have a good support system here to help you through this. At this moment I’m not worried about Fiona.” She heads back downstairs and prepares to go home.
I passed this parenting test. As soon as the door closes, I feel the privilege curdle across my skin. We are a heterosexual, white, middle-income family in east Toronto and I’m sure each one of those privileges served me well in this review of my parental suitability. I feel heavy guilt for how much worse it could have been, and how I bet this meeting doesn’t go the same way for other parents. LGBTQ families, people of colour, Indigenous women, single mothers. I’m not sure the “pass-with-flying-colours” report would have been handed out quite as seamlessly for them. What made her so sure I wasn’t going to hurt the baby again?
Saying goodbye to the social worker doesn’t bring me the relief I thought it would. I regret that she was here at all. I regret that Gordon and my mother look so jacked up on adrenalin from preparing for what might have been, putting their best faces forward despite the chronic sleep deprivation. This is all my fault, and I’m not sure how our family will ever be the same.
July 20, 2015
“MAMA! MAMA! HI!” Fiona says excitedly as she lies down belly-first in an inch of water. She and I are spending the afternoon at the park together. She giggles as she splashes around, clearly the happiest one-year-old around. I’m standing ankle-deep in a public wading pool when my cellphone rings.
I pull my phone out of my shorts to see a public relations manager calling. Louise is someone I’ve been working with on an upcoming project launch. She’s frustrated with my team because some early coverage of our event didn’t turn out the way she expected, and it’s on me now to charm the anger away. I love this kind of problem. Calming Louise’s anxiety is my productivity.
I pull Fiona out of the water and lift her into a nearby swing. It’s my go-to strategy for doing double duty as park mother and communications manager.
“You know,” I say to Louise, “I think we should think about ways we can deepen our relationship even further, and ways we can both describe our passion for supporting women in the workplace. This doesn’t have to be a negative. There are so many opportunities to do more with this project.” I might not be humming the typical tune for the afternoon playground, but it brings me joy to be saying buzzwords like partnership and collaboration. My first month back at work has been marked most prominently by regret and guilt, and I’m ready to start feeling excited again. I negotiated a flexible work-from-home arrangement with a staggered schedule so I only need to be in the office three days a week. My time at home helps heal the hole in my heart left from our tumultuous newborn phase. I hope Fiona realizes I love her more than ever for having come through this with me.
Although Fiona sleeps through the night now and I can put her down without much struggle, I still feel incredible guilt about the lost time with her in those early months. It lingers throughout this phone call. While I’m telling Louise that I’m willing to do more for her and spend more time on work, I’m also feeling the sharp pang of mourning for the late-night feedings I didn’t do, the milk supply that had all but dried up by month three postpartum. I feel guilty for not being able to return to ten-hour working days and evening social events, for needing to be home well before five o’clock in the afternoon so I can prepare a healthy dinner for Fiona and plan something for Gordon and me to eat after we put her down to sleep. When I’m at work, I wish I was with Fiona, and when I’m with her, I’m usually also holding my phone, trying to squeeze in another blog post to make up for the year I didn’t go to work.
I’m holding more balls in the air than I have hands to catch them. Focus on the positive. Rest tonight. The phone and swing act is a choice — I wanted to answer this phone call, in the middle of playground time, to demonstrate commitment to my work. Now I’ll need to spend an extra few minutes lingering in the park to make sure Fiona hasn’t noticed my absence.
Try not to fake it, I tell myself. You got better, after all. You never thought you would. We pack up from the park and I get ready to take Fiona to my mother’s house and head for the hospital. I need to make sure I’m not late for my biweekly psychiatric check-in.
I’ve been seeing a new in-house psychiatrist since I was sent home from the hospital and I admire her tell-it-like-it-is, judgment-free banter. Occasionally, I hear a little feminist fighter in some of her advice monologues. Today my intention is to show up and try to keep my complaints low and my answers to “any more dark thoughts?” short.
She begins her answer to my “Can I get off medication now?” question with, “Since you’re not having intrusive thoughts and crushing anxiety, you’re in a better position to at least reduce your dose. Let’s do it slowly and together, all right? How was the mothers’ PPD group? Did you find that helpful? There’s an upcoming mindfulness group that you can join if you want?”
“I’d love to join another group,” I say with complete confidence. The PPD group she enrolled me in saved me, too. It was one of the most therapeutic activities on my maternity leave. It’s the program I originally thought I’d be enrolled in when I showed up at the emergency room with my nine-day-old baby, supporting the mental health of prenatal and postnatal mothers. It finally allowed me to connect with the women I’d expected to find on the psych ward but never did. Our babies were welcome during the two-hour weekly sessions, so I often brought Fiona in a baby carrier, swaying her side-to-side through discussions of our deepest fears, happy moments, and recurring nightmares. There aren’t a lot of times in my life when I can recall bursting into tears in front of complete strangers, but as part of my new identity, this feels like something that might continue. “What I wanted the whole time I was in the hospital was to feel like there were others who felt the way I did. I found them in that g
roup. Thank you for that.” It feels hard to hold eye contact with this psychiatrist, as if somehow it makes these revelations too intimate.
“You’re welcome. I told you things would get better, didn’t I?” The psychiatrist smirks and I trust that whatever she says, it comes from having seen it all before. If she says it’s not yet the time to come off meds, then I’ll wait. I don’t need to make a big deal about it. “How’s your mood today? Have you had any intrusive thoughts?” She is quick to not let me off the hook, especially on days where I say I’m feeling great.
“I haven’t had any specific flashes or scary thoughts. I do still feel a bit uneasy around sharp knives, especially if Fiona is nearby.” I hold my breath and wait for a reaction.
“Okay.” She pauses and writes some notes on her yellow notepad. “Would you say the thoughts are not increasing this week?” She waits for me to nod in agreement. “That’s a good thing then. Improvement.” Another passing grade from this authority figure. I set the next appointment and pack up to leave, happy that I have the option to wean off medication.
As I walk out the door, I feel regret. I didn’t do a good enough job in today’s session explaining that even talking about getting off medication helps me remember that I can return to my former self, one not marked by ongoing illness. I’m not exactly the same Amanda, because now I am a mother, a once-institutionalized postpartum-depression patient, and a suicidal-ideation survivor. But I can be a new iteration of Amanda, the over planner, Type A social butterfly. Today I feel confident that I can blend my old self with the new one, the one that doesn’t apologize for putting sleep first. It’s the only way I can remain healthy and in control. It’s the only way I can be a good mother.
January 10, 2016
I AM A NEW PERSON, not the old Amanda and not the sick Amanda, but a blended version, who’s landed the job she’s dreamed of for years. Happy and sad. Stressed and at peace. Recovering and in remission.
Day Nine Page 19