Sarah’s husband had never understood the painful yearning she had felt to be a mother. At least not beyond the basic concept of his wife being ‘clucky’, coupled with his own desire to be a father. Brad hadn’t understood the way her stomach ached inside, how it felt hollow, as if something important was missing. The sheer frustration she felt every day for the five years they struggled to conceive, looking down at her stomach bloated by hormones from the IVF and not from a growing baby.
Sarah remembered that back then, before Henry, she had willed her stomach to grow, staring into the mirror and cupping the little pouch of fat that had come in her mid-twenties and never left. She had imagined little butterfly kicks inside, strangers giving her knowing smiles on the street or at the shops. She had imagined Brad coming home after work, boots left clumsily at the door and hands full of dust, pausing to kiss her belly before heading to the shower.
She had dreamily imagined they would call the growing baby by some cute nickname, like ‘Spud’ or ‘Nugget’. When she was at the shopping centre she would pause at the aisles filled with tiny things for tiny humans, and dream of a forest-themed nursery with printed cot sheets and woodland creatures decorating the walls.
Sarah was jolted back from her thoughts by an obnoxiously loud phone ringing. She fidgeted restlessly, attempting not to disturb the hungry nine-week-old latched to her sore breast.
The waiting room of her local GP clinic was surprisingly empty for a Saturday. The only other person waiting was a man in his 30s, sporting dreadlocks and an arm cast, yet Sarah had been sitting uncomfortably on the plastic bench seat for the last 45 minutes, struggling to keep her son content and quiet. The skinny receptionist answered the phone with a dull tone.
“Richardson Street General Practice Clinic.”
Sarah felt a burst of jealousy as she watched the bored receptionist twirling the phone cord with her brightly manicured fingers. She remembered being a pretty 20-something with the luxury of feeling bored at the office. Back then, the most Sarah had to worry about was arriving on time for her administration job in the city or whether she had enough calories left for an afternoon coffee. Indeed, the numbers on the scales had been her biggest concern back then.
Sarah scoffed now at the self-conscious 25-year-old she had been, too embarrassed for photos, feeling fat wearing anything remotely skin tight and instead preferring leggings and oversized jumpers. Always dieting and exercising in search of her ‘goal weight’.
Sarah would give anything to have that body back.
After Henry was born, she had scoured Facebook for evidence she had once been anything but the bloated and blotchy person who looked back at her in the mirror in the mornings. She found only a few photos from that time in her life, just before baby fever took over and after that awkward teenage phase where her body parts all grew at different speeds like a lumpy, braces-wearing Frankenstein. In those coveted few photos of her in her early twenties Sarah saw a skinny, beautiful, young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Ironic that it was only now that she was able to recognise that woman for who she was.
She wished she could turn back the clock, enjoy those days fully. She wouldn’t waste them like the ungrateful, miserable woman in the photos. She would wholeheartedly embrace the two-piece bathing suits, greedily take selfies of herself in the mirror before going out with the girls. She would even hire a photographer for her and Brad’s courthouse wedding.
That was definitely her biggest regret. They had decided on a small courthouse wedding followed by dinner at their favourite Chinese restaurant with their family and close friends. Sarah had been adamantly against a photographer under the guise that they save money for their honeymoon and their future. The paper was more important than the day, right?
In reality, Sarah had been too awkward, too self-conscious to even entertain the idea of having some enthusiastic photographer snap photos of her in the too-tight white dress she had bought from Myer.
With one breast squeezed dry, she switched Henry to the other side, nuzzling his face until he latched on and started sucking. She checked her phone for the time and saw a message from Brad: “How did you go at drs?”
If Brad hadn’t understood about her ache to be a mother, he certainly did not understand the ache that came now, after Henry. The emptiness inside her, her stomach stretched and saggy.
The only difference she felt after giving birth was the utter rawness, like she had been used up and spat out. Even as she held the tiny boy in her arms, the child she had wished for every day over the past five years, she felt that ache. The longing had not gone away when he was born like she had hoped. It had changed, morphed and grown into something different, something much scarier. It was an ache that scared her, one she couldn’t talk about with her girlfriends.
Perhaps she had been sad inside for so long that she no longer knew how to live any other way. Maybe she had focused so much on having a baby that she had forgotten what it felt like to live without that constant pain in her heart. Whatever the reason, after Henry was born, the ache stayed. It turned into a beastly monster inside her, gathering splashes of rage, frustration and despair and storing them deep inside her stomach, in the empty space that had once held her son.
A blast of cold July air swept into the room as the automatic doors opened and a woman in her late 60s walked into the clinic. The woman smiled at the squirming infant in Sarah’s arms and sighed dramatically.
“What a beautiful bundle of joy! And I must say you are glowing, dear.”
Sarah forced a smile between pressed lips and turned her attention to fussy Henry, switching him to her other breast. The woman got the hint and moved on through the side door to the attached pharmacy with a scoff.
Why perfectly good strangers felt the need to tell her of her supposed bioluminescence, Sarah would never understand. To be perfectly honest, it felt a bit like a slap in the face. She had struggled through conception, struggled through the pregnancy and now struggled caring for her son. How could they not see that struggle written into every inch of her skin? How could they not see that this child had taken everything from her? Every ounce of individuality, every inch of happiness. She had poured it all into him, leaving her grey and lifeless. A zombie.
Henry let out a half-hearted cry, as if he could hear her thoughts. Sarah felt a stab of guilt. She lifted him upright against her chest and rubbed his back. She loved her son, of course she did … didn’t she?
Her mind took her back to when she was 37 weeks pregnant, feeling like a walrus, her body sagged into the couch, watching Suits and eating potato chips. Her husband came home and chuckled warmly at the sight of her. “You have got the hardest job,” Brad had declared, dropping his keys on the table and kneeling beside her to rub her swollen ankles.
It was hard when she was pregnant, so hard. But at least Sarah had felt special, important. Of the two of them, only she could carry their child, nurture him with her body.
Henry spit up a little stream of milk on her shoulder as if to remind her of who was the important one now. Sarah wiped at her shoulder with a wet wipe; she had forgotten the burp cloths at home. She tried to catch the attention of the receptionist to ask about the wait time but the girl’s attention was steadfastly on her computer, clacking away at the keys.
When Henry had been born, all the attention and care that had been gifted to her instantly shifted to the tiny, screaming baby. The little boy she had grown inside her was out in the world. A tiny piece of her was vulnerable and out in the open. Despite all the mixed emotions she felt about her son she feared leaving him with anyone, even her husband. For so long he had been a part of her. First as thoughts, then dreams, then wishes, then an actual baby growing inside her. She didn’t know how to be without him.
She didn’t know how to be with him.
Part of her, and this part of her made her sick to her stomach, wished there was a reason for the pain inside her. If she had miscarried, people would understand her sadness. They would cook her meals and let her lie in bed as long as she wanted, watching Netflix. But her baby had survived and God, she was thankful, she was. But now he was here, she was meant to forget all the struggles – like the tiny baby was a cure for all that she had been feeling for the last five years.
After another unsuccessful attempt to get the attention of the receptionist Sarah pulled out her phone, careful not to jostle the milk-drunk baby sucking lazily in her arms, and opened Instagram. Smiling faces, toothless toddlers and untidy houses with the hashtag ‘MumLife’ greeted her.
There was a difference between untidy and messy, she had decided since having Henry.
Toys and books strewn across the couch, baking supplies scattered across counters, warm cookies from the oven cooling on the counter while flour-smudged little faces waited eagerly to devour them. That was untidy.
Takeaway containers on the coffee table, spilt breast milk souring on the carpet, dirty dishes piled in the sink and a scruffy dog that desperately needed a bath licking sticky residue from the floor. That was actual mess.
Sarah grimaced at the sudden gummy chomp Henry gave to her sore and cracked nipple. She bit her lip to keep the grunt of pain slipping out and echoing through the quiet waiting room. She mentally pushed down the flash of anger that inevitably accompanied the brief and sudden pain. Yet more rage for the monster to sink its claws into before burrowing back down into the growing darkness in her stomach.
“Sarah Reeves?”
Sarah looked up at hearing her name. The warm face of her GP greeted her. She had been going to Anna, or Dr Trivedi, for over five years. She had been with Sarah through the struggles to conceive, the constant nausea through pregnancy, and the sporadic check-ups since Henry’s birth. Anna smiled in greeting as Sarah covered herself up, much to the chagrin of her restless son, and tucked Henry into the pram. She hurriedly shoved the nappy bag underneath and followed the disappearing back of her GP as she walked swiftly to her office. Sarah huffed as she struggled to catch up. Why did doctors make you feel as if you were the one taking their time after hour-long delays in the waiting room?
“Have a seat,” Anna gestured to the padded chair as she ushered Sarah and her pram into the room and closed the door. She sat down as Anna plopped into her own chair, swivelling to face the computer and clicking away on keys to bring up Sarah’s files. “What can I do for you today?” she asked.
Sarah swallowed nervously. She had preoccupied herself with thoughts of getting here. Leaving the house with Henry. Waiting for an hour in the waiting room. She had all but forgotten about this part. She thought of the conversation she had had with her husband the night before. His concerned eyes, his furrowed brow. The tenderness and love in his hands as he held her, sobbing. She owed this to her husband. She owed this to Henry.
Sarah took a deep breath. “I think I have postnatal depression,” she said.
Anna smiled encouragingly, nodding as she turned from her computer to face the exhausted, desperate young woman before her. “Of course, why don’t you start by telling me a bit about what you have been feeling?”
Sarah sighed, feeling a weight gently lift from her shoulders.
She owed this to herself.
About the Author
Emily Lacy lives in the western suburbs of Melbourne with her wife and two dogs. She has spent the past five years as a nanny. She loves exploring the joys and heartaches of familial relationships through storytelling. In her free time, Emily can be found cooking, gardening or spending time with the wonderful family she gained when she married her wife. She especially enjoys spending time with her niece and nephew.
