Gordon and I walk into the Toronto Birth Centre and I exhale deeply — Fiona’s birth was so different from this, and I feel lucky that I get to try to deliver a baby in this calming place. The Birth Centre is like a hotel for labour and delivery. In our room, the back wall is covered in a soothing wallpaper of blue and green flowers. Looking closely at the wall I see that some of the flower petals resemble vaginas. I smile. I head straight to a big deep porcelain tub and strip off my clothes — any modesty I once felt in medical establishments has long passed.
Gordon rubs my back. A Lumineers album is playing on repeat. He reaches for his phone and attempts to change the music to something a little more lively, he says, than the soft folk album I want, and I snap, “No, there’s only one band I want to hear.” Not sorry. I’m resigned to letting my animalistic tendencies take over during this labour. When Rose walks into the room holding a blueberry smoothie, I squeal with delight. I didn’t eat for more than twelve hours during Fiona’s labour, and I’ve only been at the Birth Centre an hour and already I’ve had cheese and crackers, and now a fresh smoothie. She refreshes the cold cloth on my head, which soothes the cramps in my abdomen, and I sway back and forth in the bathtub while taking long sighing breaths.
Rose checks me around 8:00 p.m. and announces, “It looks like eight centimetres.”
Gordon says, “By that math, this baby should be here by ten o’clock?”
“Shhhh,” Rose says, her favourite birthing phrase for us. “Try not to put that type of pressure on Amanda’s body. Saying the baby will come before she’s ready could stall things. Let it be.” I’m quietly happy that Rose scolded Gordon, a fond reminder of when she shushed him for announcing Fiona’s sex before she was fully out of my body.
Another hour of water and cold cloths, and my breathing sighs turn to loud moans. I move around the warm water in the tub, floating on my stomach, gripping the sides of the tub while Gordon puts pressure on my lower back. Rose suggests I get out of the bath and try a different position. The moment I stand up I feel a rush of pressure on my cervix, like every organ from my neck down is about to empty out my vagina at the speed of a freight train. Rose leads me to the double bed, where I crouch on my hands and knees and scream at the top of my lungs.
“Should we try some laughing gas?” If Rose is making a joke, I won’t indulge her. All I do is yell, “Yes, gas now.” She brings an oxygen mask over and instructs me to inhale deeply, but at the same moment a strong contraction begins and I feel the baby move down my body. I scream, “He’s coming right now — get him out!”
Rose very calmly strokes the back of my knees and a panicked looking Gordon climbs onto the bed and sits behind me. They both want me to move from my hands and knees onto my back, but changing positions seems like lunacy to me. Rose forcefully guides me onto my back and spreads my legs while saying, “It’s time to push. Don’t pull away from the pain.” At that moment I let out a noise Gordon immediately calls “the loudest sound to ever leave your body,” and with two reluctant but strong pushes, the baby is out.
I feel instant relief. Euphoria. Though my insides feel bruised and a sharp familiar sting returns between my legs, I feel no lingering severe pain. Gordon crawls out beside me on the bed and gets under the sheet. Rose places a wet baby, umbilical cord still attached, on my chest. She rushes to bring a warm blanket to cover the baby with. I lay my head on Gordon’s shoulder and laugh. We are now a family of four and it feels unbelievable. I feel a rush of love and energy and want to stay on this bed, in this moment, for as long as possible. Rose interrupts my moment of ecstasy to tell me I need to deliver my placenta next. I tell her “no thank you” but a second later she is pushing on my stomach and pulls it out of me. I wince in pain, but the truth is it’s not nearly as painful as a minute earlier when I pushed a baby out of me.
Everett Christopher Munday is born at 9:12 p.m. on a Tuesday evening in August. He is born on the same day of the week, in the same hour as Fiona. A coincidence maybe, but the last few hours have brought with them very specific flashbacks of the first nine days with my daughter. I remember the Tuesday evening that we brought her home after only a few hours in the hospital. I remember my father and stepmother arriving with pizza early Wednesday afternoon. I remember the hellish Thursday night the next week when I was admitted to the hospital.
The difference is that this time I know that I need to ask for help. I know I need to drink the smoothie and take a break and sleep away from the baby. And I need to trust that if I get sick, it’s not my responsibility to heal in isolation. I trust Gordon and Rose to monitor me. Every hour that moves along where I don’t feel panicky and desperate feels like a major accomplishment. Between the medication, the help from family, and most importantly, the released expectations of what motherhood is supposed to be, I am free to enjoy this new being and the perfect soft skin he’s wrapped in. At least, I hope so.
I wonder whether my heart has enough room for this new little baby? The thing about this new little baby, though, is he has become my healer. He’s showing me what labour outside of a room full of residents and specialists looks like. He brought with him crystal-blue eyes and just a whisper of light brown hair that remind me of my father. There are fleeting seconds where I still feel weepy and anxious that a full-blown depression may return. I also feel an incredible sense of joy that I couldn’t access through the fog with Fiona. This baby brings me peace and health. He brings me recovery. He brings me out of the fog.
August 27, 2016
DAY FIVE. It was hot outside today. I’m sick of the heat, having just come through a full pregnancy in one of the hottest summers in recent memory. It’s been gross all day, but the sun is going down and Fiona is asleep. I’ve just fed Everett — it hasn’t been painful and he hasn’t needed the nipple shield. I don’t dread the night. We groove together, strangers but family, new but familiar. I want to go outside and breathe the summer night air. I was afraid to leave the house with Fiona, and I know this is a test. I’m scared to take him outside alone, but if I can do it and come back, I’ll know I’m ahead of where I was last time. I can use the progress as leverage against the enemy, should she return.
Gordon is busy assembling a new sound bar that he got as a birthday present, one I expected to use during the last month of my pregnancy but couldn’t, since Everett arrived in August instead of September. Assembling a new tech toy is an unusual but no less entertaining evening activity.
I stand up slowly, feeling the familiar pull of my recovering insides, and reach for a muslin blanket to wrap the baby in. Everett, my days-old baby, is in my arms in nothing but a diaper, and I’m pretty sure it’s hot enough outside that he needs little more than a light cover.
“I’m going to walk to the end of the street and back, okay?” I say to Gordon.
“Okay. Let me finish what I’m doing and I’ll hold the baby,” he replies.
“No, I’m taking him with me. We’re going outside for a nighttime walk,” I say.
“Oh. You are?” He looks up at me with a big grin. “That’s great. Have fun.” He returns to his assembly instructions without saying anything else.
We can do this, little one. We can make it to the stop sign and back. If things go wrong, I’ll turn around and come right back. Outside, I’m greeted with the orange warmth of the street lamps. A neighbour is outside working on his motorcycle, and he stands up when he sees me approach with the baby.
“Hey, how are you doing? How old is this little one?” he asks softly.
“He’s five days old, maybe four? It’s a little blurry,” I respond with a smile.
“Wow, good for you for coming outside. I’ll wait until you’re a little more down the street before making any noise.” Pausing his work probably inconveniences him, but I’ll accept the gesture. In a moment I’m at the stop sign. I rest my lips on the top of Everett’s little head and give him the softest kiss. We’re doing this, you and me. You are healing me. I loop around the street to the north end an
d back again. He sleeps with his arms folded under his head, eyes closed while snuggled tightly against my chest. He’s so little in my arms, I could hold him with only one hand.
“Let’s breathe in the summer together.” There is no worry, no fear, no panic. I feel warmth, a genuine, strong love, and happiness that tingles around my shoulders and makes my hair feel lighter on my shoulders. The soft muslin blanket coats his skin and rests over my arms. It’s not intrusive. I circle past my neighbour once more before heading back into the house.
“Have a good night,” he says as I walk past.
“It is a lovely night. It’s maybe just getting going for me, but lovely either way. Good night.” I’m happy to have a little banter, knowing that even if there is judgment, it doesn’t matter. I am safe.
August 31, 2016
DAY NINE. Everett is nine days old today. On this Thursday in Fiona’s earliest days, I had outright lost my sense of being. I was imagining harm and was panicked about survival. I remember the numbness and the utter disconnection from reality. I remember the visceral fear. The memories won’t leave me alone. I woke up this morning and greeted the same bright blue summer sky that I greeted each of those first days with my first baby, but today I have yet to unravel. Am I guaranteed not to unravel later? No. But I’m far away from the cliff. There were times I didn’t want this baby, where I strongly considered what it would mean to do it all again, given the risks of a second case of postpartum depression. There was definitely an option that didn’t involve the risk of it all happening again.
This morning feels so very different. I took my time taking a shower because in an hour, Jessica, our family friend and photographer of all our important life events, including our wedding and Fiona’s four-month-old and one-year-old photoshoots, is coming over for a newborn photo session with Everett. I never had the opportunity to have a newborn photoshoot with Fiona. I couldn’t bring myself to post her one-week-old photos on her one-week birthday, because I was especially insane that day. Jessica’s presence in our home today is significant. I’ve invited my mother to join us, because despite my having pushed her away from Fiona’s early milestones, she’s now a vital piece of our thriving family. I am beginning to trust her. Plus, Fiona adores her Nonna.
When Jessica has finished with her first round of family photos in our master bedroom, Gordon goes off with Fiona to find some toys so we don’t strain the toddler’s attention span. All intermediate parents know that toddlers can go from daisies to dragons in a hot minute. While they’re downstairs, Everett starts to fuss a bit, and I know I have to feed him.
I ask Jessica, “Are you willing to take a photo of me breastfeeding him? I didn’t have this moment of joy from my first newborn experience.” I’m not nervous about asking Jess to take the photo. She smiles warmly and lifts her camera. As she tilts her camera away to look at the LCD screen, I know she got it. Because we’re sitting here, being ourselves, in our own space. It is authentic and real no matter how the photo turns out. I look down at Everett and smile. I’m going to figure this out. Even if it crumbles later, I have today.
I walk out with Everett to our family garden to find Fiona eating a popsicle in the shade with Gordon. When she sees me she drops the popsicle in the grass and runs over yelling, “Mama!” Her eyes are lit with excitement.
“My dress sparkles,” she says as she spins one perfect twirl at my feet. The sun catches the sequins and lights up her outfit, her light-brown hair curling ever so softly around her shoulders. She is a soothing presence, a sweet little girl who, despite being fully immersed in the infamous “terrible twos” phase, has a meditative persona that settles my mind every time she’s in my orbit. Even her supposed tantrums are calm. She doesn’t want anything from me this afternoon. Simply standing in my shadow as Gordon picks her popsicle up from the grass and walks the half-eaten treat back to her.
“Do you want to go to the park, or blow bubbles in the backyard today?” I crouch down level with her, cradling the baby in my arms.
She strokes her brother’s foot, pauses to consider her options, then exclaims, “Bubbles, Mama! Bubbles again!” Gordon laughs at her enthusiasm and picks her up into his arms. She laughs as he lifts her high into the sky.
It doesn’t matter what she picks to do today. Either way today we’re going to be together, as a family, as a unit, celebrating the day. I don’t need anything more, and I don’t worry about what could happen later. Day nine is here and it’s a beauty of a day.
Epilogue
June 28, 2018
IT’S BEEN FOUR YEARS, this week, since I was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression that sent me into the psychiatric ward, nine days after I had my first baby. Fiona is four years old. She is clever, funny, kind, empathetic, and curious. She demands space to be alone when she needs it and seeks comfort from others to heal her wounds. Her wit is sharp, sending me into long reflective pauses when she finds a solution to a problem before I even understand the question. The person she is today is not the stranger I met in the days after her birth, the person I couldn’t reach from within my own lost mind. While her deep bond with her father is clearly rooted in their early experience together, we have a language all our own, just she and I. We are a unit not easily torn apart, one not handed to us by birth but earned with trust and time.
There are days when I want to say I didn’t deserve that introduction to motherhood. That I simply didn’t know what new motherhood would feel like and how much the hormone shift would affect me. I permit the occasional “It wasn’t my fault.”
When I was in the psychiatric ward, I really believed I could die. I felt calm under the watchful eyes of the nurses and doctors, and with the removal of any items that could bring me harm. I always stopped the train of thought before it spurred me to action. I’ve since been told this is an important distinction in mental illness: that although I felt — and said — that I would die, I didn’t hurt myself. I didn’t cross over from thoughts into action. The irony that my father died on Easter Sunday does not escape me. He died on a day that for Catholics symbolizes rebirth. He also died standing mostly upright, not terribly dissimilar from how Jesus died on the cross. My father’s death was self-inflected,a fatal symptom of clinical depression. It is and will always be horrific. I still can’t get the idea out of my mind that his body could have saved him and didn’t. He could have gotten down, put his feet firmly on the ground, even in an unconscious state. I still badly crave a reason why his illness descended so far into darkness just as spring was set to bring new light and life. I have worries now that if I fall into a darkness again, that if depression or anxiety overtake me, that I have an example of the final action, one that runs through my veins. No matter how many medical professionals tell me that just because my father died by suicide doesn’t mean that is my fate, I find it hard to believe. I am not confident that the same fate isn’t waiting for me. I’m lucid enough in my everyday mom-and-working-professional life to understand that mental illness doesn’t play favourites. I’ve also taken a lot of time to read about experiences of others who’ve struggled through different sorts of mental illnesses, specifically ones who came out the other side feeling positive and successful, the way I do today.
I feel successful because I had PPD, not in spite of it. There’s a poster that hangs in the waiting area of the hospital I regularly check in at that says, “Depression is the number one most common childbirth complication.” Yet research shows that 10 to 15 percent of birthers will live with a perinatal mood disorder. I’ve learned a lot about postpartum depression and anxiety (PPD/A) since I went through this. Olivia Scobie, a registered social-work counsellor in Toronto, has produced excellent work about understanding PPD/A. She illustrates that there are multiple elements that can contribute to PPD, including genetics (chronic mood concerns, family history), changes in hormones/neurotransmitters (during pregnancy, birth, and lactation, or from previous mood diagnoses), thinking styles (perfectionism, tendency to ruminate or worry),
and culture (such as the fact that we are held to impossible parenting standards and expected to naturally enjoy the work of parenting).
All of these factors, when stirred into a funnel with stressful life events and circumstances can, but don’t always, lead to PPD/A. It is not parent-specific and it can happen to either partner. It can happen at any time. Does Olivia’s research give me permission to have suffered so intently, and now to tell my story widely? Yes and no. Her research helps me understand what could have contributed to my depression, and allows me to let go of accountability. I can point to any one of the multiple factors that can lead to PPD/A and see a link to my experience:
My father died by suicide, a symptom of chronic depression.
My pregnancy and delivery were unusual, and they resulted in a major hormonal change I had never experienced before.
I have spent years fearing for my safety and doing anything I could to maintain control in my life through where I chose to work and live, and who I chose to interact with.
Pregnancy and motherhood took away my sense of control. For someone who thrived by planning and meeting her own expectations, letting go was a big challenge.
Even with a reasonable list of reasons why this was more likely to happen to me than someone else, I still at times think maybe I brought it on myself, by not accepting help sooner and not prioritizing sleep earlier.
I don’t know if I’ll have more children, and I can’t be sure I’ll be safe if I spiral downward again. To assume that I could control my mental state through another pregnancy and birth would be to ignore all of the various reasons beyond my control that this might have happened. I have to stop trying to assign responsibility, to myself or to something else. It just was. It no longer is. I am still here. We are okay.
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