A New Mother's Truth

They hand me a clipboard at the baby’s first appointment. I pushed a living being out of my own body two days ago and they want to know if,

“I’ve been able to laugh and see the funny side of things”

Do they mean how funny it was to lift my freshly wounded body from the seat of the car today? Or how humorous my waddle from the parking lot to the doors, and then over to this waiting room seat was? You try walking with an icepack, a postpartum mega-ultra-super diaper pad on your recently sewn up vagina and try laughing about it. I circled “As much as I always could”.

Next, they want to know if “I have looked forward with enjoyment to things”.

My toddler runs over to the waiting room block table. I try not to think of what illness we’ll be bringing home with us as a blue block moves towards her mouth. I circle “Rather less than I used to”. Then I erase it and circle “As much as I ever did” instead. There are certainly things to look forward to. Like being able to walk comfortably again. And I am looking forward to when my bleeding slows down enough that I’m able to wear underwear that’s not made of paper. That will be the day.

I painfully adjust my seat and the icepack crinkles. I glance at the other dejected parents to see if they noticed. There is no acknowledgment or signs of life in their glazed over eyes. I return to the clipboard and read the next statement,

“I have blamed myself unnecessarily when things went wrong”.

I think of the previous night when I sobbed snottily all over myself when the baby refused to latch, but I was probably just tired. I hover my pencil over “Yes, some of the time” but opt for “Not very often” instead. I start to pick up my phone to Google latching techniques, but put it away realizing I can just ask the doctor today. The toddler is building a tower now. It is good to see the blocks moving away from the direction of her mouth. I can sanitize her hands afterwards, at the very least. I think of how I should be on the floor beside her. I should be helping her build the tower and keeping the toys that aren’t ours out of her mouth. I should be teaching her about germs, and how to play. But I can’t. My body won’t even make it to the floor anymore.

I skim through the next few questions. It is obvious what the right answers are.

“Not at all” have I been “anxious or worried for no good reason”.

Worrying about my vaginal stitches becoming infected, worrying if the baby is getting enough to eat, enough sleep, enough diaper changes, and worrying if the clamped off umbilical cord is infected or just normally smells that horrible is normal worrying. Not postpartum depression level worrying. There is no need to sound any alarms over these trivial things.

I certainly haven’t “felt scared or panicky for no very good reason” either.

That question doesn’t even sound like proper English. I wonder who wrote these questions. I circle “no not at all” because being scared my toddler is going to hate the baby, or that my husband was going to die on his way to work and I’d be left a single parent with a broken vagina my whole life seems like very good reasons to worry. Aren’t they? I am a mother. That is what mothers do, we worry. Endlessly, sleeplessly worry. But, I wouldn’t want anyone to worry that I was feeling any of these things “quite a lot” of the time. “No not at all” is definitely my answer.

They want to know, “have things been getting on top of me”?

My toddler never seems to stop break dancing on top of my broken body most days, and I think we might drown in dirty dishes, diapers, and laundry. I need to go through the toddler’s clothes because she grew again. I have to order groceries soon, and I still haven’t cleaned up the broken cracker that has been crushed into a fine dust beneath the rocking chair.

But, this is all normal.

And temporary.

That is what everyone always reminds me. If I just focus on the good things during the day and forget about all the other things that can be done later, I’ll be happy. I’m not sure when later is, or who is going to do the things then, but it’s fine. It’s all fine! I circle, “Yes, most of the time I haven’t been able to cope at all.” Then reread it and realize this time the right answer is at the bottom of the list instead of the top. I erase it and circle, “No, I have been coping as well as ever.” I shake my head. Are they trying to trick you into revealing your depression with these questions? I’m too tired for trick questions, but I have to make sure I answer this right.

I read on, “I have been so unhappy that I have had difficulty sleeping”.

I wouldn’t say that unhappiness is causing my lack of sleep. Though, I am unhappy because I’m not sleeping. That one is on me. I snort quietly to myself at the absurdity of complaining about lack of sleep when I absolutely, 100% wanted this. I wanted this life. I chose to have kids. I can’t complain. I circle “No, not at all’.

I still have three more trick questions to navigate through when they call my baby’s name. I smile in recognition and put the diaper bag on my back. I use the chair to hoist my weak body up. I hope I’m not visibly wincing. I grab the toddler’s hand and put the car seat with the sleeping baby in the crook of my arm. I rest the clipboard on the baby’s lap and accept that I probably will have to wash the blanket when we get home.

The rooms for babies are situated in the back of the building. Of course they are. I am nearly in tears after the long, endless shuffle to the end of the hallway. The nurse apologizes to me. I act like it’s no big deal; it’s not her fault we have to walk so far. It’s not her fault childbirth broke my body so badly.

Except it is a big deal.

I am in so much pain I can barely move. The car seat is heavier than I remember and the toddler is sobbing because she thinks the appointment is for her. I feel a sad tightness rising in my throat. How does anyone get through this? I choke the sadness back down and soothe the toddler. The baby is still peacefully asleep in her car seat when we reach the room. Thank God.

The toddler calms and traces her letters on the iPad. I shove the hatred I have for myself for allowing so much screen time lately to the back of my mind. I don’t have time to dissect that right now. I reluctantly pull the sleeping baby from her car seat and undress her. The nurse takes her vitals while I hold her in one arm and hold the table with the other to support myself. Standing hurts almost as much as sitting. The nurse looks sympathetic, but I smile and speak jubilantly about how well the baby is sleeping and eating so she doesn’t suspect anything of me.

“She really is a perfect baby!”

“It couldn’t be going any better, really!”

“And big sis just adores her!”

“I am so, so lucky!”

The nurse leaves and I let my weary body fall into the wooden chair. I gasp in pain and bounce back up. I’d forgotten the stitches. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes threatening to give me away. I suck my teeth, turn my head from the toddler and wipe them away with the back of my hand. I don’t want her to see my pain. I don’t want her to know how close I am to breaking. The baby fusses in my arms. The room is too cold for just a diaper. I hold my breath while I lean to the car seat for her blanket. It is only a foot away from me, but it might as well be miles with my current state. Pain radiates through my pelvis as I lean. I bite my lip and try not to cry. I yank the blanket and clipboard into my lap in one fell swoop. It is excruciating, but the pain returns to its normal, barely-tolerable state when I return to the chair. I wrap the baby and return to the questions. I should have tried to finish them before the nurse left. It’s too late now.

“I have been so unhappy that I have been crying” the next statement reads.

I did cry on the way to the car climbing down our front steps, and again in exasperation when I finally got both girls buckled into the car. Then silently again on the way here because everything that was supposed to be simple was far from it. I do cry most days. But only because I am frustrated that I am not healed enough to take care of my kids the way a mother is supposed to. And, I suppose, because I no longer recognize my own battered mind and body. I don’t know who I am anymore and it is terrifying. I think I am losing myself entirely into motherhood. Each day feels like one more step into forgetting the woman I was. The woman I am busy when I’m not wiping a dirty mouth or hand or nose or butt. I don’t need anyone worrying about me. This is normal. Hormones probably. I reluctantly circle “Only occasionally.”

Finally, I get to the last one. “The thought of harming myself has occurred to me”.

I immediately circle “Never”. Even though sometimes I dream about walking out the back door into the woods. I could just lay down in the leaves and twigs and stare up at a sky broken to pieces by tree branches. I fantasize about laying long enough that the seasons change over me. First, I’d be covered in a warm blanket of leaves, then snow. It’d melt and fresh green grass would grow around me, maybe even on top of me. Flower and tree roots would wrap around my body and pull me back into the Earth. The worms and fresh soil below the ground would warm me and take care of me. No one would need anything from me…

I come back to the room and realize I am staring at my swollen ankles that are connected to unrecognizable feet. They are crammed into sneakers with laces so loose I couldn’t tie them if I wanted to. Not that I could bend over that far anyways.

The doctor knocks on the door and I smile and tell her how well the baby is doing. She is thrilled, or at least pretends to be thrilled. I wonder if she really cares or if she is more worried about getting on to the next patient. The baby’s vitals and growth are exactly where they need to be. There is no concern. I am relieved. She asks how the toddler is handling the new changes. I excitedly sing the praises of my newly crowned “Big Sis”. She really has been amazing. The doctor feigns excitement for the new sisters as she examines the baby. She checks every inch of her body. She feels her pudgy little arms, legs, and stomach. She examines her clamped umbilical cord and reminds me of the proper, most recent suggested care for it. I nod and find a way to casually assure her that I have done all of my research on every possible need the baby and the toddler could have.

I reread books on early parenting. I have several apps that keep me up to date on the weekly developmental needs for both of them. I even paid for a course on new sibling integration. I want the doctor to know that I am taking such good care of them. Before I leave I need her to think that I am the best mother that has ever walked through the doors of this pediatric office. I need her to tell me that I am doing this right, that they’re both thriving and going to be okay. I need her to tell me this because deep down I have no idea what I am doing and I’m pretty sure I am messing all of us up.

I remember to give the doctor the clipboard, apologizing for not finishing it before the nurse left. She tells me not to worry about it and that she can take it. I watch her scan over my answers. I know I answered them right, but I am relieved when there is no look of concern in her eyes.

She smiles and reminds me to keep the baby sleeping on her back with no blankets or toys in the bassinet in my room. I nod and assure her that is of course what I am doing and will continue to do. She asks if I have any other questions for her.

I don’t.

She leaves.

I exhale.

I have convinced them all that we are okay.

I strap the unhappy baby back into the car seat and softly soothe her. I remind the toddler to keep her hat on because it is cold. We slowly shuffle back to the waiting room to make the baby’s next appointment. They want to see her again in two weeks. I won’t see my own doctor for another six. I wonder if I’ll feel better then, when someone finally wants to know how I’m doing. I wonder if I’ll tell them the truth at that appointment. The truth that I am not okay, that no one is really okay after becoming a mother.

We make our journey back to the car. I buckle the toddler into her seat first. She feels so heavy now. I move to the other side of the car steadily and wonder if the bleeding had gone through the paper underwear and on to my pants. I click in the baby’s car seat and put the pacifier back in her mouth. She sucks and quiets. If it did, I wonder if anyone would have bothered to stop and say something. I ease into the driver’s seat. Would it be better if they tried to help me cover the bleeding? Or is it better to just let me go off quietly to deal with the blood alone and somewhere else. I am breathless as I lean my forehead against the wheel. I decide that no one really knows how to help a bleeding woman. It is much better for her to keep these things to herself. I put the car into drive and decide I’ll answer the questions the right way at the next appointment too. It’s better for everyone that way.