Not So Quiet Desperation

I am down on my knees, my face pressed into my hands that lay on the carpet in my bedroom. She’s screaming again and there is nothing I can do to make it stop. From outside I hear the cars rushing by, normal life continuing for the rest of the world. But inside these walls is hell as I would imagine it and there is literally no escape.

Now I am begging, begging, God for help. I have never been a religious person, spiritual, yes, religious, no. I grew up going to church and learning how to pray. Over the year’s prayer has been more of a symbolic act for me in response to the minister or priest instructing the congregation to bow our heads in prayer. Or, when I was younger, asking God to make the boy I wanted to like me to talk to me or some similarly selfish request. Today is different, today I am desperate. Not the quiet desperation identified by Thoreau in his famous quote. This desperation is not so quiet and arrived with a tiny baby girl who entered the world one month ago at just six pounds.

“God, please, help me. Tell me what to do. Make it stop” my voice is choking through sobs that come from my body like crashing waves. How many times have I cried today? I have lost count.

Today is the first day I am home alone with her and I am failing miserably by only ten o’clock in the morning. Logically I recognize that I am luckier than most women in that my husband was able to take a leave from work for a month following her birth. I dreaded this day for the past month, when he would head back to his normal life and I would be stuck alone in the hell that is a colicky newborn who can’t be soothed. I do not want to be here, I want to be at work focusing on important things, adult issues, not trying desperately to calm a baby who can't be calmed. Emotionally I am angry that he abandoned me here. Why can’t he stay home, and I go back to work? He is so much better at all of this, so much calmer and it comes so naturally. For me all of this is forced, I am a fraud.

The fact that I slept only three hours last night and maybe four hours the night before is certainly not helping this situation. The fact that my anxiety rages out of control is no help either. I am an only child who did not grow up around infants and have no experience with them before her birth which adds to the desperation, I feel every moment. The fact that she never latched and after ten painful and excruciating days of trying to breastfeed before giving up and pumping every two hours before feeding, the result being creating double work, makes me more exhausted each day. I know all these things rationally, but still, I should be able to handle motherhood.

Slowly I raise myself up on my knees, place my hands on the edge of the bed and pull myself up to standing. My body has never been this tired, never felt this weak and I have been an athlete my entire life. How long does it take to recover from childbirth? I ask myself silently. My last workout was a week before she was born. I need to sweat, but I can’t find the energy. Once standing I take a deep breath, the kind the yoga instructors call a cleansing breath designed to push all the negative out of your body. Good luck with that, I think as I exhale to the point that my lungs burn with emptiness. With my next inhale my body fills with emptiness and negativity as I walk down the hallway towards the screams that have now taken on a desperation as she gasps for air.

When I enter her classic Winnie the Pooh themed room, I can’t even see her in the crib, she is so small, but the noise assures me she is there waiting for me to fix it, whatever ‘it’ is. What makes her think I can fix it? I have no clue what to do. I approach the crib and lean over to see her face, beet red and stained with tears, staring up at me. She has maneuvered her way out of her swaddle which doesn’t surprise me because I can never get it tight enough for her. Only her father can swaddle her appropriately, another clear sign I am not cut out for this motherhood role. Her tiny hands are balled up and she wiggles to try to escape the blanket and free her legs. I reach down praying that maybe this time when I pick her up and rock her, she will stop screaming. “Please God, please” I say as my hands reach her tiny body, my hand under her neck like the nurse taught me, and I bring her close to me. Her tiny head finds the inside of my elbow and for a second, she is quiet, the screams becoming almost silent sobs as her body begins to relax ever so slightly.

“Come on baby girl, help me out here” I say to her while looking in her big blue eyes that are searching my face for something, some emotion that I am unable to feel. Actually, I am pleading with her to please just allow me to survive the day and maybe get a little sleep. The nurse taught us that when they are crying it is one of four things; diaper change needed, hungry, something hurts, sleepy. With this mantra going through my head I place her on the changing table to start the process of elimination. As I carefully unsnap each of the small snaps on the yellow sleeper my mind flashes to my tiny office back at work. That world feels a million miles away and I wonder how life will ever return to normal. How will I ever be able to go back to work if I can’t sleep? Despite my trying to control it, my mind moves into dangerous territory of thinking my career might be over.

“I have a master’s degree! Why can’t I do this? What is wrong with me?” I say aloud to the small human now wiggling happily as her diaper is removed and the cool air tickles her body. I do not know that “what is wrong with me?”, said for the first time today, will become a common mantra in my head for years to come. With rote movements I remove her wet diaper, wipe her clean and secure a dry diaper to her body before replacing the yellow sleeper with a pink onesie and jeans. She seems happy as I pick her up again to head downstairs. From out of the corner of my eye I see my ever-present companion, my rescue dog Kahlua, watching me intently. Honestly, she may be the only living being not judging every parenting misstep I make. Her eyes are full of only compassion and she rises from the carpet to follow us downstairs.

“Please, don’t let me trip” I say out loud as I start to descend the stairs. I am so tired. In my mind I see a vivid and horrific scene play out in which I misstep and start to fall down the stairs, the tiny baby flying out of my arms, hitting the wall and rolling to her death. The scene causes me to shutter and place one hand on the railing, checking my grip and focusing my eyes on my feet. We reach the bottom of the stairs without tripping, which I count as a small victory, when the screams start again. Her little face is becoming red so I carefully flip her over into the now common ‘football hold’ position so I can press my hand into her belly and help relieve any pain caused by gas. It works! Once in position, the screams stop, and I feel her body relax temporarily.

I make my way into the kitchen to prepare the bottle, placing it in the bottle warmer to heat up while I look around the kitchen. It is a mess; dishes in the sink, clutter on the counters, mail that needs to be sorted. I really need to clean it up, but how can I do that when I can’t put her down? When the warmer beeps, signaling the warming is complete, she and I settle into the well-worn leather recliner for feeding time. As she voraciously drinks, I allow myself a moment to look into her eyes. I am desperately searching within myself for some connection to this life that I created. Everywhere I hear and read about the amazing connection between mother and newborn child, the expectation of its set-up for nine months while our bodies work to create another human being. Why has this not happened for me? Am I defective? Will I ever feel anything more than obligation for this tiny life that has been entrusted to me? She finishes her bottle quickly and the routine to get a burp begins. It takes several minutes of back patting to get one out, loud enough to startle Kahlua who is resting at my feet as if she is making sure I am doing it right. “I am not doing it right Kahlua; I am just doing it” I say aloud.

Play time consists of placing her on a small blanket on the carpet and securing the baby gym over her so she can look at the brightly colored animals and rattles that hang from it and make cute little cooing noises and kick her feet. Usually this lasts for about twenty minutes, so I lay down beside her and close my eyes hoping for a few minutes of sleep. Today though she is not having any of it and starts fussing after about five minutes. With tears falling down my cheeks at the thought of how exhausted I am, I slowly pick her up and we begin our tour of the house. The tour is just me walking in circles, bouncing her gently and singing softly to try to soothe and calm her. Despite my best efforts, it's not working today, and she is screaming as loud as her little body can scream. Today she is not in a place to be soothed which means that the minutes tick by slowly. It’s only 11:24 am and I will be alone for another six hours.

 “I can’t do this; I literally cannot do this” I say aloud to no one. I am heartbroken at how this experience is going. I should have known I was not cut out for this; I am a tough career woman not a soft, loving woman who takes care of other humans. How soon can she go to daycare? Do they take them at one month? Can we afford a nanny, someone who will know how to soothe this baby and make her happy?

Mid thought I hear my mobile phone ringing from the other room and follow the sound praying it is someone who can help. The display says “Amy”, my friend from work who gave birth just three months before me.

“Hello” I say as I answer the phone.

“Jess, it’s me Amy. How are you doing?” The question alone is enough for me to lose any composure I have left, and my voice betrays me.

I tell Amy everything; how hard this baby is, how sad I am, how much I hate my life right now and regret having a baby. She listens quietly and without judgement until I finish my three-minute diatribe and pause to take a breath.

“I am so sorry my friend” she replies “And you are not a failure, you are doing the best you can with what you have. This shit is hard, it breaks us, I know. This is the hardest thing most of us have ever done in our lives and you got to give yourself a break. Take one minute at a time. And it’s okay to let her scream in her crib for a few minutes while you take a break and breathe. I promise, she won’t die”

“Are you sure?” I respond “Because its sure sounds like she is dying”

Amy giggles lightly, not in a judgmental condescending way but in the way that tells me she completely understands where my thoughts are coming from. “I promise. Listen, what are you doing tomorrow? Let’s get out and go for a walk. I just joined the mother’s club and I am joining a playgroup with some other mothers. I think you should join us; it is very supportive. I will tell you all about it tomorrow”. We conclude the conversation agreeing to a time to meet and walk the babies in the strollers the next day.

As I hang up, I feel slightly better. “Other people are going through this too. I am not alone” I say to the now quiet, sweet baby girl wrapped in a blanket in my arms. “Maybe I can do this, maybe I will be alright”.