Day Nine

by Amanda Munday

  As much as I love my new identity as a mother, mornings that include child-care drop-offs are painful — especially these stupid cold January mornings when everything is so blah. The warm, sunny summer months seem so far away now that I’m in the depths of winter work and parenthood imbalance. Even if I wanted to daydream with a coffee for a couple of moments, I can’t; I have an eighteen-month-old daughter screaming because we made her turn off Paw Patrol.

  “Sorry, my love, but we need to get you over to Nonna’s and I need to get to work.” My toddler seems unconvinced. Two months ago I was offered a position at a promising technology start-up working to help advance the child-care sector. When I suggested to the hospital’s psychiatrist that I was considering changing jobs so soon after I returned from maternity leave, she looked at me like I’d said I bought a house in southern Italy and was leaving at the stroke of midnight.

  “Wouldn’t you be better to continue as you are now, with flexible working hours and clients you know and who know about your situation?”

  “The problem is, I’m not good at stagnation, and productivity is one of my preferred coping mechanisms. If there’s an opportunity to work somewhere that supports mothers and where the leadership team sees the potential to help me grow in my career, why wouldn’t I go for it?” It doesn’t matter if she agrees with me, I tell myself. I’m doing it. My will was back.

  Today I’m excited to get to work and chat with my most unlikely ally, Madeline. She’s a tall, beautiful, young brunette who fills my days with tales of her new passionate relationship and stories of restaurant dinners I can only dream about. I resisted a friendship with Madeline in my early days on the job because we have so little in common — she’s in her midtwenties, and she spends her evenings between clubs and exquisite Italian restaurants, having the kind of sexy weekend rendezvous I haven’t experienced in a decade. My evenings are spent stepping on chunky blocks and throwing in loads of puke-stained sleepers. Madeline and I share lunches and bond over emotional struggles that distract us from our long to-do lists. When I finally get to work after a messy commute including Fiona’s drop-off, Madeline suggests we get a coffee. I tell her I can’t stomach the idea of coffee after that stop-and-go drive; I’m a little nauseous.

  Driving home after work I have to stop because I feel downright awful. I decide I must have eaten something rotten for dinner the night before, a signal more meal prep and organization is needed in my busy, new tech-professional-meets-parent life. When I get home, dizzy and exhausted, I head for the shower, hoping a cleansing ritual will clear some anxiety. A thought enters my brain and I almost slip in the tub. Could I be pregnant?

  The idea of being pregnant again so soon after the chaos of my first baby, who has just turned eighteen months old, leaves me paralyzed. Being pregnant right now has no part in the plan I’ve built in my head, and it certainly wasn’t my intention when I accepted this new job. This is not what I’ve been working toward since I got out of the hospital. Do not fall apart. Questions invade my evening shower, a steady stream of worrying thoughts that run through my mind like soft waves on the shoreline, flowing inbound, wave after wave, with no beginning and no end. What happens to my career now? What kind of person does this without planning? What was I thinking? We cannot have a baby now, can we? Will my boss be furious? Will Gordon be angry with me? What if this time I permanently lose all rational thought?

  I swallow the thoughts, get out of the shower, and head downstairs where Gordon is preparing our dinner, which we’ll eat together after we tuck Fiona into bed with a quick book. Keep it together, Amanda. It’s not an absolute.

  Six weeks have passed and this pregnancy uncertainty is becoming unbearable. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t rely on late periods to predict a pregnancy or ovulation because I’m under two years postpartum and everything gynecological is still a big mess. I’ll have to see my family doctor to receive a definitive answer. I must find out if I can push forward in my career or if I have to proceed with caution. I need to know what the second-time-around PPD risks are.

  By this point in my motherhood journey, I should receive a medal for expert delivery of urine in a cup. I can manage the task with superior efficiency, not needing to clean up even a single drop. I’m a pro cup-pee-er.

  My family doctor is laughing as I walk into her office. “You already know, right? It’s a baby!” She’s clapping and laughing and seemingly completely unsurprised.

  “Oh no.” It’s all I have as a response.

  Is this the right time to slay my family physician with every what-the-hell-do-I-do-now line of questions? I don’t wait for permission and let my questions roll: “Am I going to have PPD again? What are the chances I’ll have to go to the psych ward? I just got off the anti-depressants, what should I do? How did this happen?”

  Her eyes light up in delight. “Well,” she says, “I don’t have many specific answers for how this happened, beyond the obvious, but I could suggest you consider birth control after this baby.”

  She’s laughing at me. I’m not ready to laugh.

  I feel deep, deep fear. I am terrified. I was so overjoyed when I peed on a stick and found out I was pregnant with Fiona. I couldn’t get to the doctor’s quickly enough to confirm the news. This baby, this time, is shocking. I didn’t plan to have two children in two years. I did not expect this. Do I want this? Maybe it isn’t the right time for this baby, I consider. Maybe this is not my second child.

  Once home, I walk in the door to see Gordon on the floor playing ball with Fiona. They are winding down the evening in our regular bedtime routine. A little bit of play time, then bath, book, and bed. Where once I was resistant to the repetitive schedule, I now crave the familiar pattern we follow for her benefit each night. Cuddling up with her for a book before bed is the best part of my long days.

  When she sees me open the door, Fiona says, “Hi, Mama! I see you!” It’s a phrase we’ve been working on for weeks. She is so smart and loving and calm. Her energy always brings me down from whatever adventure spiked my neurons earlier in the day. I know I have the right and the ability to terminate this pregnancy if that makes the most sense for this family. But seeing Fiona makes that not feel like the right choice at this moment. I could, and it would be okay. But maybe this baby came to show me something important. I don’t believe in divine power the way I once did as a faithful Roman Catholic; I’m no longer a practising Catholic and I have no moral issue with terminating a pregnancy. Yet abortion doesn’t feel like the right path at this time. Our family feels ready for this.

  I look at Gordon as he plays with Fiona and try to remind myself that family is the most important thing, and that we survived hell before and we will again.

  “I have news,” I say carefully.

  “It’s positive? You’re really pregnant?” He seems shocked but surprisingly thrilled.

  “Yes. We are having another baby. I think. It makes sense to have another baby, right? We do have options.” I’m careful with what I say in front of Fiona.

  He stands up, picks Fiona up, and walks over to me at the door.

  “Family hug!” Gordon commands and Fiona giggles. His embrace is strong and warm and loving. I feel his breath on my shoulder and hear his heart beating out of his chest. It’s official. We are having another baby.

  “Okay, we are doing this! We will figure it out. Another baby. This is great!” Gordon is way happier about this than I expected him to be. He looks like he’s in shock, but not upset. His reassuring demeanour reminds me that there are worse things that could have happened and that we don’t always have full control over our lives. Sometimes things happen. This happened and now we have to face it.

  He runs through all the reasons why this is going to be okay: “You have a good job and they will understand. Financially this is going to be hard on our family, but also you’ll have two maternity leaves basically back-to-back, and then you can focus on strengthening our family and growing your career.” He has an answer for
every question. I look to him and wonder if we’re making the right decision.

  “Why don’t we read Fiona a book on the couch as a family, and then I’m going to sit in silence and figure out how to break this news to everyone.” I want to cry, but I worry about upsetting Fiona. So I move to the couch and pick out Sometimes I Like to Curl Up in a Ball, her favourite book. The room is spinning a little. Not out of control. But it’s unstable.

  “No, babe,” he says. “Don’t panic. I will help you. It’s not bad news. It’s happy news. We are having another baby. We will do this together, like we always do.”

  March 27–28, 2016

  WE DIDN’T GET the opportunity to plan one of those ubiquitous Instagram- or Pinterest-worthy birth announcements when I was pregnant with Fiona, since I found out I was pregnant five days after we took possession of our first home. It’s important to me that this new baby receive a proper birth announcement, especially given that I took the news with a little less celebration than I maybe should have, and I’m going to include Fiona in the photo, to tell the world she’s becoming a big sister. Today is Easter Sunday, and I want to stage the birth announcement photo in her Easter outfit in our backyard garden.

  This morning I spend a long time picking out her dress. I want something with a little bit of yellow, but not too girly. I find a navy-blue-and-white-striped sundress that has a few small yellow dots on it, and select a yellow sweater to go with it. My mom brings over some photos of me as a two-year-old, and I dig around my basement to find my old Easter bonnet so we can put Fiona in almost the same style as I wore thirty-plus years ago.

  We snap a great announcement photo, featuring Fiona putting some plastic eggs into a basket that reads “Hatching September 2016.” She’s wearing my old white bonnet and playing in the grass.

  It has been a typical family-filled day, with a lunch that included my mom, Gordon’s mom, Fiona, Gordon, and me. Gordon suggests we head to a park so Fiona can enjoy a little time outside in the early spring sun. I’m exhausted from being pregnant and from all the cooking and the visiting, but I’m happy that our daughter is content and that we found a way to bring some of our family members together for a peaceful, happy afternoon. Things are good today.

  We’re in the very centre of the big neighbourhood park, which is filled with many other happy families, when Gordon’s phone rings. It’s a little strange because no one ever calls him, so I look over to see who’s calling. It’s my stepmother, which is even more odd, but plausible because it’s Easter Sunday afternoon. Maybe Dad wants to laugh for a few minutes with Fiona.

  Gordon answers with the phone with an exuberant, “Hello, Jane!” but then quickly scurries to the other side of the park. He walks back over to me and says, “Come here.”

  I say, “Who died?” and he doesn’t answer. I follow him to the fence at the back of the park along with Fiona, my mother, and his.

  After a hushed conversation with my stepmother, Gordon puts the phone in his pocket and looks at me with wide eyes. “Your father died. I’m so sorry.”

  I can’t hear anything else. Actually, that’s not true. I can hear the screams of the playing children.

  I yell, at him and at no one, “What? How? What happened? How — how — how?”

  “He … killed himself. By hanging. It’s all I know.”

  Everything is collapsing. Everything I have feared about my-self has happened to my father.

  Gordon continues. “We can’t go to Brampton because the police are still at the house and I don’t have any more information. I love you. I’m sorry.”

  My father has died by suicide. On Easter Sunday. I did not see it coming. Not today. Not ever. A history of illness, maybe, but not currently sick. No imminent concerns. No lingering worry about him. I didn’t say goodbye. I need to phone Alice. I need her to know I’m here for her.

  As I dig around my bag for my phone, my mother is crying, getting hysterical. “Why did he do that? Why did he do such a thing?” I can’t help her, though I very much want to. I just can’t. Fiona starts to cry, presumably because she is watching her Nonna and her mother fall to pieces in the middle of a busy park. I grab my stomach and feel the baby bump.

  Breathe. Find comfort. Don’t fall apart again. Gordon asks me to wait as I pick up my phone, but I ignore him. I’ve already dialed Alice. I’m hysterical on the phone, and she is, too. Bawling, she just says, “I don’t know. I don’t know why he did this.” I’ve never heard her cry so hard. I have no words of comfort for her. I just say I love her and that I’m devastated.

  “Amanda, get off the phone,” Gordon says. “We need to get you home.” He pulls me close to him.

  “I love you,” is all I can offer to Alice. I hang up. I need to get a hold of my brother immediately. I need to tell Max. I want to hear his voice. He’s in Mexico with his girlfriend, Caitlin; I’m not even sure I know where they’re staying. All my thoughts turn to his sadness and how I’m going to reach him.

  Gordon puts his hand on my back and leads me out of the park. As we walk through the gate, an Easter Bunny shows up at the entrance. We’ve been talking up Easter so much all day to Fiona, stories about the Easter Bunny and baskets and presents, and now this huge person in a white bunny costume is being swarmed by neighbourhood littles right in front of us. My mother yells out to Fiona to come and see the Easter Bunny. Her voice shakes as she squeaks out, “Look how happy she is.”

  I can’t stop to see the bunny. I start walking away from the scene and Gordon’s mother offers to walk with me. I’m not waiting for any of them. I need to get home and make some phone calls and talk to Jane. I want to go to the house and see the body. As we walk I say all of my questions out loud. They are all unanswerable: “Did he kill himself because we didn’t come visit on Easter Sunday? Did he forget I’m pregnant? When did he get sick again? What happened to recovery? Is this going to be my fate? Am I doomed to die?”

  I cross a busy street, barely looking around to make sure there are no cars headed my way. My mother-in-law holds my shoulder, presumably to protect me from being hit by a car. Back at home, I sit on that same grey couch where I’ve had so many breakdowns, and cry. It’s been about a month since I saw my father last, when we brought Fiona over to his place to celebrate his birthday over dinner. She was enamoured with his cat, and he seemed to be enjoying his granddaughter’s presence in a genuinely healthy and happy way. What’s more, it was at that same birthday dinner where Gordon and I gave him the news that Fiona was to become a big sister. He cheered and jumped up and down the way you do when the Leafs score a winning goal late in the third period: supreme joy mixed with a little surprise. He celebrated with us and hugged me tight. Did he know it would be our last embrace?

  In the years since he attempted suicide, all those years ago when Alice found him, there has been a part of him that was never quite the same. He would speak openly of mental illness, and of his own recovery. But I was often irritated by his omnipresent plastic grin, the one he would put on in moments of struggle or idle chatter. He was distant in group settings. But I also felt connected to him, heard by him, and so very loved. I wonder if there were secrets that led to his death. Did his colleagues notice he was getting sick? Has he been showing up to work at all? He really did seem fine at his birthday dinner. And earlier, this past Christmas, we played board games and laughed about Fiona’s second Christmas and how for a little eighteen-month-old she was already by far the most spoiled person in our family. I didn’t catch on that darkness loomed over him. I didn’t hear his internal screams. No alarm bells rang for me. Have I been so disconnected from myself that I missed the cues that my dad was falling ill? How long had he been planning to end his life? Did he plan it? There are so many questions I can’t answer. So much I don’t know.

  I do know that everything is about to get impossibly hard. I sob to my mother, who is trying to comfort me on the same grey couch where everything bad happens. “I don’t want to do any of what comes next. The viewings. The fu
neral. The people who tell me how upset they are.”

  I know what’s coming and that I have to be a part of all of it. The people who will tell me they’re sorry. The people who’ll tell me they knew him, maybe better than I did. I will have to smile and thank them and be a gracious host. My grief will have to wait for some other time, until after I have the baby, after I know my own mind is safe from this.

  I wake up unusually early on the morning after my father died. Tomorrow is a new day for everyone, except my father because he is dead. Up before the sunrise, I head downstairs to curl up on the couch and turn to the morning TV shows for familiar comfort and emotionless noise. It seems so surreal, watching morning show hosts laugh with fake glee over a “new twist on guacamole!”

  I lie on my side and rub my belly. At only three and a half months pregnant, I cannot feel the baby move yet, but I wish I could today. Don’t project anxiety onto this baby. Don’t let it all happen again. I can’t sort through my thoughts because the fog is lingering above me.

  I’m consumed by the thought of my father’s death sending me back into the psych ward. I’m going to die the same way. I lean over the side of the couch and throw up. I lie back, devastated. I can’t move to clean up my own puke. But once I hear Fiona start to stir, I move to the kitchen to find some paper towels. I hate throwing up. The way my body feels like it’s rocking on a boat, the vibrating tightness in my chest, the pressure on the back of my neck, and the heat that fills my ears. A feeling I always want to stop, but the fastest way is to throw up, the least bad option.

  I wonder if that’s how Dad felt yesterday morning? A pain was so unbearable that the only way to make it stop was to hang a rope off the bathroom door, then loop it around his neck. Wasn’t it more painful to tie the knot? To stop standing and let go? Didn’t you think about how horrific it would be for all of us? For my brother and sister and me and my daughter and unborn baby? For your wife and your brothers and sisters and your own mother? He couldn’t have. He must have forgotten about us in that moment. He must have only felt pain and saw a path to make it stop. I have to believe he was in search of relief that was unavailable any other way. I understand. I see myself in his last moments, and it’s not logical. It’s dark and determined. It has to have been what he wanted for a long time, so what right do I have to deny him peace? My father is dead. He did what I said I might do, and I understand that fog so well. Maybe I’ve always embodied his darkness, because I know that at the moment his depression told him to end his life, he found relief. There is, of course, the possibility that he was in so much pain that he wasn’t able to enjoy his final journey to peace, that he was only following the demons that told him to die. Either way, he’s gone.