persevering like this.’ She jerks her head at the ward beyond the curtain, lowers her voice, as though the Secrets of Motherhood are about to be revealed. ‘Most women have given up by now, you know? Opted for the bottle.’
I think about this, give pause to the notion of ‘most women’, embodied by the other mums on the ward; the world-weary middle-aged, the smug-marrieds, the hard-faced teenagers. Those young girls, with their matey banter and their constant chirpy chatting with their babies would have you believe they’ve already
forgotten.
How can that be? For some, mere hours have elapsed since labour and already the mental wounds have hardened into scar tissue. That
has
to be an act, a show of strength? Surely, when they get home and get real, these young mums, babies themselves, will slide down the wall and sob their guts out in the face of black, endless fear? But I know they’ll be fine. Sure, they’re kids, but they’re equipped for this – you can see it. Motherhood is a calling at which they will not merely survive, but excel.
I sense that the midwife is getting impatient; there’s a change of emphasis to her words, a change of tone. ‘And you know the third night is always the worst, don’t you?’
‘Huh? I’ve been here three nights?’
This seems to placate her, this show of weakness.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘But – the bells?’ She hasn’t an earthly idea what I’m talking about, I can tell from her tight-stretched smile. ‘The church bells?’
She gives me an indulgent pat on the wrist – just one, emphasising her ‘you think you’re going mad, but you’re not’ routine.
‘All blends into one long, woozy, loveliness, hey?’
‘But why am I still here? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Oh, sweetheart! There’s nothing wrong with Baby. It’s just your blood pressure was a little high yesterday and then we were still waiting on the doctor to test his hearing.’ A little rub on the back of my hand – meant to be reassuring, but it feels like she’s trying to scour the truth out of me. ‘And I’m guessing the last thing you want is another little chat about the “baby blues” from me, yes? You’ve heard
all
you want to know about
that
.’
This irks me beyond all rational justification. Ah yes, the ‘baby blues’, that harmless throwaway mantle, conjuring images of glamorous new mums breaking down over their lattes as they ponder where their size eights went. What I’d give to worry over weight. Because this thing I’m burying, that keeps pushing up to thesurface no matter how I try to suffocate it – this isn’t bound up with any change or loss or nostalgia for some former selfish self; and it isn’t blue, either. It’s dense and evil and black as tar. When Joe holds me hostage with his demands, pushing me way on out beyond the limits of my own battered endurance, my thoughts give way to fantasies of deserting him, handing him over to someone who won’t resent him, someone who will love him in the way he deserves to be loved. And sometimes my imaginings are much, much worse. Last night, my head lolling down, jerking up, my thoughts gave way to not just ending it, but how I’d do it. How I would call the whole thing off. For me. For him. This woman might mean well, but she has no idea. None.
‘What you’re feeling right now, Rachel –’ the Smile – ‘it’s totally normal,’ she says. ‘That’s what we’re here to stress.’
I try to hold back. I can’t.
‘
Normal
? If this is normal, if
any
other woman has felt this way before, or even come
close
to it, then . . .’ I flounder, unable to express my bewilderment at the sheer anger raging through me. My ribs rise right up, fall down and I try again. I focus on her, all grown up and ready to learn. I pitch my voice calm and level, but I don’t dilute the vexation. ‘Why was nothing mentioned about this at antenatal classes?’
She laughs and squeezes my hand.
‘Because –’ Tense, stagey,
I think about this, give pause to the notion of ‘most women’, embodied by the other mums on the ward; the world-weary middle-aged, the smug-marrieds, the hard-faced teenagers. Those young girls, with their matey banter and their constant chirpy chatting with their babies would have you believe they’ve already
forgotten.
How can that be? For some, mere hours have elapsed since labour and already the mental wounds have hardened into scar tissue. That
has
to be an act, a show of strength? Surely, when they get home and get real, these young mums, babies themselves, will slide down the wall and sob their guts out in the face of black, endless fear? But I know they’ll be fine. Sure, they’re kids, but they’re equipped for this – you can see it. Motherhood is a calling at which they will not merely survive, but excel.
I sense that the midwife is getting impatient; there’s a change of emphasis to her words, a change of tone. ‘And you know the third night is always the worst, don’t you?’
‘Huh? I’ve been here three nights?’
This seems to placate her, this show of weakness.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘But – the bells?’ She hasn’t an earthly idea what I’m talking about, I can tell from her tight-stretched smile. ‘The church bells?’
She gives me an indulgent pat on the wrist – just one, emphasising her ‘you think you’re going mad, but you’re not’ routine.
‘All blends into one long, woozy, loveliness, hey?’
‘But why am I still here? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Oh, sweetheart! There’s nothing wrong with Baby. It’s just your blood pressure was a little high yesterday and then we were still waiting on the doctor to test his hearing.’ A little rub on the back of my hand – meant to be reassuring, but it feels like she’s trying to scour the truth out of me. ‘And I’m guessing the last thing you want is another little chat about the “baby blues” from me, yes? You’ve heard
all
you want to know about
that
.’
This irks me beyond all rational justification. Ah yes, the ‘baby blues’, that harmless throwaway mantle, conjuring images of glamorous new mums breaking down over their lattes as they ponder where their size eights went. What I’d give to worry over weight. Because this thing I’m burying, that keeps pushing up to thesurface no matter how I try to suffocate it – this isn’t bound up with any change or loss or nostalgia for some former selfish self; and it isn’t blue, either. It’s dense and evil and black as tar. When Joe holds me hostage with his demands, pushing me way on out beyond the limits of my own battered endurance, my thoughts give way to fantasies of deserting him, handing him over to someone who won’t resent him, someone who will love him in the way he deserves to be loved. And sometimes my imaginings are much, much worse. Last night, my head lolling down, jerking up, my thoughts gave way to not just ending it, but how I’d do it. How I would call the whole thing off. For me. For him. This woman might mean well, but she has no idea. None.
‘What you’re feeling right now, Rachel –’ the Smile – ‘it’s totally normal,’ she says. ‘That’s what we’re here to stress.’
I try to hold back. I can’t.
‘
Normal
? If this is normal, if
any
other woman has felt this way before, or even come
close
to it, then . . .’ I flounder, unable to express my bewilderment at the sheer anger raging through me. My ribs rise right up, fall down and I try again. I focus on her, all grown up and ready to learn. I pitch my voice calm and level, but I don’t dilute the vexation. ‘Why was nothing mentioned about this at antenatal classes?’
She laughs and squeezes my hand.
‘Because –’ Tense, stagey,
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