The Postpartum Survey by Stephanie M. Wytovich

My husband carries our one-week-old into the waiting room. The receptionist smiles at him, awash in the sparkle of a new father. I creep into the room, my steps small. I am invisible now. My womb empty.

We are ushered into a room and the nurse hands me a survey. My options: most of the time, often, occasionally, never.

The fluorescent light hurts my eyes, triggers the start of a migraine. In the car seat, my daughter sleeps.

I wipe tears from my eyes. The diaper I’m wearing is soaked with blood. It hurts to sit, so I stand, the world a carousel of closed doors.

***

 I have been able to laugh and see the funny side of things.

I bare my teeth, not in a smile, but as a warning. I consider the word tear, count the hours to when I can take my next pain pill. I hate pills. I barely allow myself to take vitamins, and yet now I’m desperate, the tightness in my abdomen pulling against the stitches I dream about ripping out.

I have looked forward with enjoyment to things.

On Wednesdays, my parents come over and I get to shower. I cover the mirrors and turn off the lights, afraid to look at the remains of my body. I sleep with the windows open so the moon can watch me while I dream. I look forward to my morning tea. It helps me feel less nauseous.

I have blamed myself unnecessarily when things go wrong.

The sound of my dog barking makes my body go stiff. I crack my neck, my ankles, feel the tension slither up and settle in my jaw. My husband’s alarm repeats every eight minutes when he hits snooze. Again. Again. And again. I bite the fleshy inside of my cheek, clench my calves until they burn. I watch the ceiling fan spin, think about the two therapy appointments I missed because I couldn’t stand the sound of my voice.

I have been anxious or worried for no good reason.

I don’t like leaving my house now, and if I do, I need headphones, static, something to drown out the people who come too close. I worry about falling down the steps, about going blind while driving, about someone breaking into my home. Mostly though, I think about fire: a forgotten candle, a curling iron, the dryer exploding mid-cycle. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I smell smoke.

I have felt scared or panicky for no good reason.

Is my baby breathing? Eating enough? Eating too much? There is a formula shortage. Why couldn’t I breastfeed? She seems cold, but she can’t use a blanket. What if she freezes? What if she gets too hot? Are there signs to SIDS I need to be aware of? What if she chokes? Is it okay to bathe her? Did she poop today? Was it normal? Is that blood? Is she moving enough? How will I know if she goes deaf?

Things have been getting on top of me.

Mountains of clothes sit next to basement spiderwebs, but I can’t walk down the steps. The last time I went to the bathroom, I bit through a wooden spoon and screamed splinters into my mouth. I need to send birth announcements, have yet to do a homecoming spell. When did I shower last? Everything on my body looks like a bruise.

I have been so unhappy that I have had difficulty sleeping.

When I was in college, I’d pretend to drown myself in the bathtub. I liked the idea of floating, of becoming a wave. Sometimes when I’m trying to sleep, I see myself on the ceiling staring down, my dark hair a noose. I stopped sleeping in my bed, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard someone say my name instead of mom.

I have been so unhappy that I have been crying.

People text, some call. I disassociate into TV screens and novels, sink deeper into the couch as I hold my daughter’s hand. She stares at me, and I flicker, a hologram, a disappearance. I want so deeply to stay, to cradle her beautiful face, but my hands are shaking, the world dimming with each missed meal, every unanswered voicemail.

The thought of harming myself has occurred to me.

Sometimes I imagine driving into traffic, swerving off a bridge. When I cut carrots, I think about chopping off my middle finger, sticking my hand in a pan of hot oil. Since childhood, I’ve had the devil in my ear. I unplug everything before I leave my house. Triple check the doors and windows. I leave eggshells on my doormat and plant rosemary near our mailbox, but sometimes I think about swallowing a battery, about drinking all the cold medicine in the house. It’s like how I touch the airplane every time before I board, or make sure no one is hiding in my back seat when I get in my car. Nothing short circuits more than my brain, a faceless hunter prowling through my thoughts.

***

I leave the survey on the sink, adjust the blanket across my daughter’s lap. It’s snowing outside and my hair is wet, the doctor an image of perfection when she walks into the room. She glances at me, then starts talking to my husband, cooing at my daughter. I am a wall, a mirage, a cracked mirror. I try to sit down and feel the blood rush to my head. The room spins.

Before the doctor leaves, she looks at my survey. “Having a hard time?” she asks. “That’s normal, even expected. Just try your best and remember to sleep.”

I smile, swallow one of my teeth.