Because I’m not myself, you see, by Ariane Beeston – A fellow traveller’s letter

Dear Ariane,

Congralulations on getting an important and moving book out into the world.

You are only the third woman I’ve exchanged words with who has experienced what I have. Reading your book provided me with the unique privilege of an in-depth discussion with a fellow traveller. My other exchanges have gone a little like this:

Her: ‘I was depressed.’

Me: ‘I was manic.’

Her: ‘I had intrusive thoughts.’

Me: ‘I had delusions of grandeur.’

When we met, you joked that I had the fun kind of PP! It doesn’t lend itself well to a highlights package, does it?

My first motive for writing is to tell you a little of your book’s impact on me.

The honesty with which you describe the mostly bewildering process of a hospital birth was both gut-churning and familiar. There is so little time and thought given to what we need as we are born as mothers. No thought that we might be traumatised by this traumatising event, without information, without support. As mothers we seem to be free to ask for help though we don’t yet know what help might be possible. I remember not realising that we could simply buy a can of formula for ourselves to feed our dangerously underweight child when I had no milk, rather than wait, crying and distressed, for an overworked RN to bring it for me.

I’m so sorry that no one saw how much you were suffering, and that you struggled to bond with Henry when he was a baby ‘dragon.’ It is so important to hear a mother admit to not knowing how to love their newborn. When I was in St John of God, there were several women who had not been able to bond with their babies for the exact reason that they wouldn’t sleep or let mama sleep. It was heartbreaking to hear them admit that out loud with all the guilt that goes with it. It is quite another thing for a mother to write it in a book. It is powerful and real.

I was so struck by how the removal of four-month-old baby Declan came to haunt you – an idée fixe that plays on your sleepless and increasingly paranoid mind. There was always going to be something, steeped as you are in troubling memories and the all-too-human guilt you felt in separating children from their parents. Still in the throes of mania in the Acute ward of Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, I noticed that my delusions and hallucinations seemed to be specific to me, fed by my background, my life experience, hopes and fears, rather than being either common to all or random.

I am also struck by how lonely you were. How difficult for a woman to have to do this challenging and all-consuming task virtually alone, without sleep.

I sense the moment you break. It is hard to read:

            At 3.45 a. m, I google: Can you die from lack of sleep?

            I am certain there is something wrong with the baby, something I don’t know how to articulate. I can’t make out his features. I look at his nose and the rest of his face is out of focus. There is no ‘whole,’ only parts I could be looking after someone else’s child. Sometimes I wonder if I am.

                        Sometimes I wonder when his mother is coming to get him.

For me, it was when my husband left our bedroom to go and feed our son, and I checked the walk-in closet, glad to see that there was no-one there. I was waiting for someone to take him away from me. Or more precisely, to take me from my husband and our son because I was not fit to be a mother. I was certain ‘They’ were coming to get me.

I finally broke down in tears when your mother brings you cupcakes. Her wondering why you didn’t ask for help. You wondering why she didn’t notice.

It seems so crazy to me that women do so much of their mothering alone. There is so much science, so much research, so much supposed understanding of mental illness, and yet we leave mothers and their partners to sort their lives out alone. Increasingly, they have no support, like my husband and I. You seem to have done so much of it alone.

There is so little thought from those outside – even those who have been mothers themselves – as to what a new family is going through. Are they able to sleep? Do they need a break? Does she have birthing trauma? Is she struggling? It is completely ridiculous to expect mothers in the grips of madness and fear of losing their babies to ask for help.

And what is that help in our modern world? I remember when I was screaming for help. My husband asked me if I wanted to go out for the evening. ‘I don’t need dinner. I need a fucking break!’ I screamed at him. (To his credit, he moved heaven and earth to give me the break and the help I so desperately needed – a week-long mental health retreat at Heal for Life.

I am all the mothers I’ve ever been. Your interpretation of this thought that popped into your head is so interesting. That you are and will be different mothers as you face different situations. Just before I was induced early for my baby’s lack of growth, I stood with my feet in the ocean at Maroubra Beach and prayed to all the mothers that had ever lived. The fact that they answered me means has led me to wonder if this was the start of my illness. Despite this, these voices brought me so much comfort at a time I desperately needed it.

It was a great honour to read of your experience, and like so many fellow survivors of Postpartum Psychosis, it was so important to learn that I was not alone in this dark time of my life.

Thank you.

The Dark Emu controversy in a few words

Culture wars

As an English teacher, preparing international students for university, one of my jobs is to help them understand the culture they are operating in. I give them an important piece of advice: what works in your culture may not work in mine. As a woman of South Sea Islander heritage, I am also keenly aware that words can be used to exclude and diminish. My people were called Kanakas, a pejorative word at the time. They were called ‘indentured workers’ rather than ‘slaves.’ Words have power. They can be used to deny history and avoid responsibility. And so to the culture wars…

Debunk/hoax

I haven’t yet read Bruce Pascoe’s phenomenally successful and highly controversial book ‘Dark Emu.’ When it was being publicised a few years ago, I was keen to understand the alternate history of the first peoples of my country. That was until I saw articles about it being a hoax, and that scholars, archaeologists and anthropologists had supposedly debunked the claims in Pascoe’s work. I didn’t buy it. Instead, I bought into the debate about whether or not he was an indigenous man. (Note to self: teach my students the phrase ‘playing the man’.) 

Historian

I have always been a documentary nerd, and I’ve relished the new fashion for them.  And so it was with great interest that recently, I’ve been able to watch a slew of documentaries about indigenous culture, innovation, and even weaponry. Finally, I had some engaging way into the whole history of my country, not just the post-colonial one. The Dark Emu Story, by Blackfella Films (aired on ABC TV on July 18, 2023 and available on iview) is a revelation. It shows a literal war over words. Pascoe’s opponent, Dr Peter Sutton, makes a pretty cheap shot when he declares Pascoe’s bestseller to be ‘obviously the work of an untutored scholar in this field.’ It was then I realised that Pascoe is not a historian: he is a writer. Does that make his work irrelevant? He has started one of the most important conversations this country will ever have.

Agriculture/farming

These are two words that Sutton takes issue with in Pascoe’s work. He denies that the sources Pascoe uses – observations by Sir Thomas Mitchell, a colonial explorer that the indigenous were cultivating the land – were evidence of farming practices. He insists that they were hunter-gatherers, perhaps ‘hunter-gatherers plus’ (his term, which he now regrets). Sutton thinks it is wrong to equate Aboriginal land management techniques with early European farming. He accuses Pascoe of ‘portraying it as much more like ours than we thought before … it gave people a feeling of being closer to the old people because they had something in common with us.’

Spiritual propagation

This is the term that Sutton prefers to use to describe Aboriginal land management techniques. I teach my students to provide a definition if a word or term is not commonly known. What does this term mean? And more importantly, why is it vital for Sutton’s argument that this is the only way to describe how the indigenous lived in Australia? Why is it wrong to call it agriculture or farming?

Even more perplexing was his colleague, Dr Keryn Walshe, asking ‘Why do we want hunter-gatherers to be agriculturalists?’ She worried that this would ‘make them into something that we understand and recognise.’ I wondered what understanding someone would be a problem.

Sophisticated

This was the other word that Sutton and Walshe took grave issue with. Pascoe, and many of his supporters, not to mention the indigenous people themselves, often use the word ‘sophisticated’ to describe the innovations and technology evident in the Australian pre-colonial landscape. ‘What’s wrong with being unsophisticated?’ asks the old white male. Pascoe responds that repeatedly calling the indigenous just hunter-gatherers has been ‘used to reinforce Terra Nullius.’

Primitive/savage/backward/Terra Nullius

It is extraordinary and extremely sad that the argument about Dark Emu and Pascoe’s work seems to be about whether white historians and commentators will allow indigenous peoples the simple dignity of escaping words like ‘primitive’, ‘savage’ and ‘backward’ by having their history explained and shown in detail and in the ways they choose. This is especially true when that detail can be used to debunk falsehoods, fake news, and racist commentary. The fact that the colonialists chose to selectively describe the way that the land was being used – culturally different from their own – was indeed used to reinforce Terra Nullius, and in Pascoe’s words show that First Nations people ‘didn’t deserve the land.’

Human

All this angst by a handful of white historians – and then gleefully amplified by right-wing commentators like Andrew Bolt – over the semantics of a few words reveals to me one very interesting thing. If we insist that our indigenous people did not develop any meaningful technology, or develop any land management practices to modify the landscape to suit them, we would indeed be saying that they are not like us. Further, we would be saying that they are unique in the history of the world in quite an extraordinary way. We would be saying that despite their ancient knowledge and wisdom about the land, they were not quite human.

What all humans possess is the ability to communicate complex information through language. And through language, humans have been able to develop technologies and systems in a way that sets them apart from the animals. The fight of indigenous peoples to have their full humanity acknowledged apparently continues.

Drs Sutton and Walshe clearly respect the indigenous peoples they have been listening to and studying. I hope they come to realise that their insistence on the semantic subtleties of their jargon is part of the ‘othering’ of our first peoples, who are our brothers and sisters. Aboriginal history is part of our shared humanity. Indigenous people have a right to be proud of their customs, history and technological advances.

Postnatal Psychosis – My Story

In time for World Mental Health Day 2019, I thought I would include some of my story (part of a longer memoir I’m still writing). In April 2018, my first son was born. I loved and bonded with him instantly. Three weeks later, I was in Emergency, afraid to touch him. I had Postnatal Psychosis.

Postnatal Psychosis is classed as ‘rare’ on most of the mental health sites I’ve read, but a stat of 1 or 2 in 1000 doesn’t seem that rare to me. I find the differing descriptions online confusing, but the best I’ve seen is here.

World Mental Health Day 2019 is focussed on suicide prevention. Postnatal Psychosis, if left undiagnosed too long can lead to suicide and infanticide, so I feel it’s appropriate to discuss it at this time.

I have been horrified to read some case histories of women who suffered from this illness for months. It is hard for the woman herself to notice that there is a problem, and their partners seem either to be in denial, or believe that women go a bit crazy after giving birth.

I have no experience of mental illness, but I do have a family history of bipolar (my maternal grandmother), which is one of the risk factors. It could be a one off; I could experience it again if I have other children; it could be the first manifestation of bipolar for me.

I was weaned off one of the drugs – Risperidone (an anti-psychotic) after about 6 months, and off the other, Lithium (a mood stabiliser), only a month ago. I have had no relapses, but nothing is certain.

I would like to share my story of a frightening six weeks of an acute and potentially life-threatening mental illness. This is not a case study written well after the fact. I started writing one week after my son Lachie was born, while the psychosis was ramping up (I destroyed some of this writing when I threw the book in the bin in the Emergency department as some sort of lay-down misere move), and was writing both the day of my admittance to Emergency as well as the day after (much of which is included here). I hope the immediacy of my experience can add something useful to the pool of knowledge about this mental illness.

 

Continue to In Emergency Part 1

In Emergency Part 1

My Sandwich Family & Other Adventures

In Emergency Part 1

Thursday May 10, 2018 

‘I’m going to be in so much trouble!’

I am standing in the Emergency department of Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. I don’t know how I got here. I mean, I know that Joe drove me here from our home, but I don’t have any real understanding about how I ended up standing in a dress I normally wear as a nightie, with no bra on, and a sarong around my neck as a scarf. I am cold. I have come dressed for bed not an emergency.

I see Joe’s stricken face. His eyes are dilated and a painful blue. He has been crying. While I can’t raise a tear despite all this. It is painful to look at him. Painful to be the cause of his suffering. But I am suffering too because he will never look at me the same way again when he knows what I have done.

Joe is my husband of a year and a half or two years, depending on which wedding you are counting – our Sydney or Cuba one. More importantly, he is the best human I have ever known. He is bewildered; he is crying, just like me.

I am under attack – literally, physically, psychically, mentally and emotionally. These people here are attacking me. I don’t know why. Why can’t they just let me go? I don’t want any trouble, but I know that if they make me stay, if Joe makes me stay, it will be a disaster.

‘You aren’t in trouble,’ the doctor assures me. I don’t know why I’m standing while she’s sitting. Maybe she wants me to sit, too. I don’t really want to sit on the bed, however. I feel I would be at a disadvantage if I were on that bed. Someone could easily come in and inject me with drugs or drag me away to an insane asylum. There’s no way I’m sitting anywhere. If I’m mobile, I have hope.

I don’t belong here. They’ll charge me for wasting their time, right? In the same way that they charge you for calling out an ambulance unnecessarily, they’ll charge me for being in the Emergency Department under false pretences.

‘I just want this to stop,’ I say for the millionth time since we slammed into Emergency, ‘I’m ready to tell the truth.’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ she says in a gentle voice that I want to smack out of her throat. But I remind myself not to say or do anything violent, or they’ll take Lachie away from me.

‘Oh, cry me a river!’ whines a woman on the other side of the curtain. We’re in the busy emergency department, but we’ve been cordoned off in a space that’s too large given there’s only the doctor and Joe with me on this side of the hospital curtain. She and Joe stare at me, and then at each other in what seems to me to be a conspiracy. They aren’t telling me what’s going on. It’s some kind of horrible guessing game. They are as confused as I am, I’m sure of it, and I’m utterly bewildered by the disaster around me. Sharing the space with us are a shitload of machines large and small that go ‘beep’. And then there is the full cast of players beyond the curtain.

‘She thinks she’s writing a book,’ says a man from behind the curtain to my left. He’s speaking to God-knows-who; they both snicker. I see a pair of blue sneaker-shod feet. Are they dancing? The feet circle each other bizarrely.

‘Gem, you keep saying that you’re in trouble,’ says Joe. He’s now standing very close to me and his red-rimmed eyes hold mine. Is he holding me as well? I can’t tell.

‘You aren’t in trouble, Gem. We’ll get through this together.’ He’s too good for me. I’m not right for him. I’ve done the wrong thing and he’ll soon find out.

‘You’ll never speak to me again!’

I see Joe’s eyes flick towards the doctor. I snap my head to see her, but her face is blank. I look back and Joe nods and walks out through the gap in the curtain. He disappears, and all I can see are the uniformed bodies of two large paramedics wheeling an elderly man into view. I am alone with the doctor.

‘What do you do, Gemma?’ she asks, using my name in that patronising way medical professionals do when they are dealing with ‘clients.’

‘I’m a teacher and a writer.’

‘My cousin’s a writer,’ the doctor says gently, leaning forward. ‘Would I know anything you’ve written?’

‘No.’

The doctor opens her mouth but is cut off by the PA system which blasts,  ‘Attention! Attention! Patient is an amateur!’  How do they know all this about me?

Suddenly, I work it out. Joe has told them. Somehow, when I was occupied with all these different doctors asking all their identical questions, Joe has told them every awful thing that has ever been said to me or about me, and all of the terrible and shameful things I think about myself. Wow.

‘Why do you think you’re in trouble, Gemma?’

I ignore her question. I’m trying to make sense of this dawning realisation of how hard Joe has been working. There’s no other possible explanation: Joe must have told them – but when? I don’t remember being apart for more than 10 minutes since this waking nightmare began. And that was… last night? I don’t remember sleeping, but I remember that he has been very busy on his phone.

My phone! I dive into my bag, which is next to the baby car capsule. I know I mustn’t touch Lachie; I know they don’t trust me with him. I wouldn’t trust me with him right now either. How do I get out of this? Maybe I should pretend to be ill. That’s it! I turn to Joe.

‘Could I have…?’ I search for the word. I want to say the extreme tired thing, but can’t bring it to the front of my mind and give it a name. So I ask about the other one, ‘Do I have post-natal depression? Is it possible?’ This might be my get-out-of-hospital-free card. What are the symptoms? I try to use my phone. My fingers are almost useless on the keys.

I open Google and type in ‘symptoms of post-natal depression.’ The first is anxiety; ok, I can do that. The second is sleep deprivation – that was the term I needed a minute ago! All good; I haven’t slept in two weeks. Then I look at the third – Aggressiveness. Nope. Not that. I’ll have to work with those first two symptoms. If they think I’m aggressive, they’ll take Lachie away. It’s not about him. It was never about him.

‘You said you were in trouble, Gemma?’ Hasn’t she asked me that already?

‘He’ll never forgive me,’ I tell her.

What were those symptoms again? God, how am I going to get myself out of this?

I text my workmate, Chris. I don’t know if he’s at work, but he probably is. He’s a workaholic. I don’t know what to say, but I need him to know that it’s serious:

‘Shit. Help! Not joking! Tell Joe.’

Chris takes a few moments but replies, ‘What? You OK?’

‘Call now. Help, please!  I’ll put you on speaker phone. Lachlan!’

Chris obviously can’t come, he’s at work, but he is apparently trying to call me: ‘I tried to call. It says disconnected.’ Well, they really are throwing everything at me, aren’t they?

‘Didn’t expect that,’ I reply.

‘I’m on my way!’ Chris can’t possibly come.

‘Don’t come! I’ve fucked up so badly! No one believes me. Lachie!’

‘I am coming!’ Chris replies immediately, ‘I’m you friend!’

I send a photo of Lachie that I took at a party when Lachie was 15 days old – only a few days ago. The photo shows me smiling because I’m holding my new baby in one hand and a glass of sangria in the other. Lachie looks like he is holding his bottle of formula by himself, though it’s actually being held by the rigid teat on the bottle.

‘I’m just around the corner,’ texts Chris.

Liar, I think. That’s not possible. He’s a teacher; it’s not like he can just walk out on a class.

‘I’m ready to tell the truth,’ I write.

‘OK. You can tell me. I’m your friend, Gemma.’

‘Face to face. I know. I don’t know any other way. Tell them how I helped you.’

I hope Chris understands. I hope he understands that in order to help me I want him to tell them about the hideous breakup of his marriage, because it ‘proves’ that I’m a good person. That I helped him through those dark weeks and months. That I was there for him when he was desperate. Now I need Chris to help me. I know he will do it because he is loyal and generous, but will he understand? Will he forgive me for dragging him through those awful times again for my own benefit? I don’t know. All I know is how much I need someone to vouch for me. Or do I need him to provide the answer I am seeking? I just don’t know anymore.

Continue with The Weeks Before

The Weeks Before

My Sandwich Family & Other Adventures – continued from In Emergency Part 1

Three weeks earlier…

My son is very sweet. He has a head covered in dark hair. He has what I think is a birthmark down his forehead, like a blaze on a horse. It extends over his right eye. I think, ‘Oh well, it’ll be easier that he’s not a girl.’ Is it wrong for me to observe that there tends to be less focus from outsiders on looks when it comes to boys? One of the midwives tells me it’s just a stork mark.

We receive quite a few visitors, the most surprising of which is my father-in-law who has come despite his hatred of hospitals from his bitter experience with mouth cancer. Dozens of texts and Facebook wishes come through. Everyone is asking if he has a name yet. We have a shortlist, but we want to test them out first. He’ll remain with our nickname of Toothless (the dragon from How to Train Your Dragon) for now.

Today’s midwife, Jocelyn, is lovely, older, competent. She helps me try to get Toothless breastfeeding. He attaches and sucks, but apparently that’s not ‘right.’ She brings me some formula, and I am given the feeding routine, which needs to happen every three hours. First, we do skin to skin contact to see if he finds the breast. If not, I’m to try breastfeeding for a maximum of 10 mins. Then I’ll feed him any colostrum I have been able to express and then top up with formula. Then I express colostrum for the next feed. Rinse and repeat.

I ask why I can only breastfeed him for 10 minutes.

‘Because he’s so small, the energy it would cost him to breastfeed would be more than the energy he receives from your colostrum or milk at the moment.’ Fair enough.

Jocelyn brings me a breast pump and shows me how to use it and I express 10ml of colostrum, which takes me 20 minutes.

I find it difficult to feed him because he is very sleepy, and it’s worse overnight. I lay him naked onto my chest and cover him with two blankets so he doesn’t get cold. He doesn’t do the ‘head bang’ thing down to my breast, but he does eventually attach. He sucks a bit. It’s super-cute, but nothing much happens. We move to the bottle: he takes the colostrum quite well. I have to ring the bell and ask for the formula. It takes 20 minutes to come and meanwhile, he has fallen asleep again. I wake him and put the bottle to his lips. He purses them to prevent me from putting the bottle in. I keep trying for 20 minutes. It’s 2am and I’m in tears.

‘Please, darling!’

I press the call button. No one comes.

‘Please, please come! Please help me!’ I don’t want to cry. It might increase his distress. If he is distressed, he’ll cry and use up all that energy. I have to keep calm. Where the fuck is the midwife? RN? Anyone?

By the time she comes, I have managed to put it in his mouth. All she sees is that I’m still crying.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It takes such a long time to feed.’

‘It will. He’s very small.’

I have 30ml of formula to feed him. After half an hour, he’s had 15ml. He starts to cry. I apologise to him. I cuddle him and sing to him. I sing one of the songs Mama used to sing to me: ‘Coming through the rye.’ It is too upbeat – these things are important to me, a singer! – but it’s the only one I can think of and remember the words to at this moment.

Eventually, he finishes most of it. I put him down. I get the pump. By the end of the regimen, it has taken 2 hours. I have 1 hour to rest and do it all again. I don’t think I sleep.

 

I look at the sign on the back of the bathroom door for the umpteenth time, which shows bathing demonstrations. I don’t know how long we’re going to be here. They normally try to get rid of you from post-natal after 3 days, and Erika, our doula, has advised me to push for staying 4 or 5 days. So if I look at this schedule, today is the only day I can be sure that I will be able to have a demonstration.

I walk barefoot out to the nurse’s station and ask to book in.

‘Oh, we don’t really do it that way,’ a young nurse tells me, ‘I can do a demo now, if you like.’

‘Oh, ok.’

‘When was he born?’

‘3.30 yesterday afternoon,’ I say.

‘It’s 2pm now. That’s close enough.

I go and get him. She shows me how to bathe him. It’s completely adorable, but I regret it instantly because now that he’s dressed he’s completely asleep and it’s time to feed him.

About an hour later, Jocelyn learns that I’ve had a demonstration.

‘Tell me you didn’t bathe him.’

‘Yes – well, the nurse did it.’

‘No! You can’t bathe a premmie for at least 4 days!’ she said. ‘They can’t regulate their body temperature! It’s dangerous! I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s not professional for me to say that,’ she says in a stream of consciousness rant. Fuck professional. Is he going to get sick or die?

I will be alone in hospital tonight because we agreed that Joe would stay at home and look after Dad. I flatten the hospital bed and pull the cot next to me so I can see him. I stay awake all night watching him to make sure he is still breathing. That is, when I’m not waking him, feeding him, cuddling him and expressing for him.

At nothing o’clock in the morning, I look through the pamphlets lying around that various nurses, midwives and other professionals have brought me. There are descriptions of what to expect of a ‘well term baby.’ But I realise that my baby is considered premmie. Does that mean he’s not well? Shit.

Signs that my baby is not well

• Sleeping a lot, lethargic and not waking for feeds
• Baby has fewer wet and dirty nappies
• Baby may appear dry (mouth and skin)
• Baby gaining little or no weight

Shit. A phrase pops into my head from God knows where: ‘Failure to thrive.’ Will I lose him? Oh God. I lie in the hospital bed all night and watch him. At times I put my hand on his chest because I can’t be certain that he’s breathing.

What seems like moments later, the sun is up and he’s still alive. The new midwife arrives, takes one look at him, and announces that Toothless has jaundice.

 

I don’t know why we’re still here. It’s been four days and they’ve given me no indication of when I can go. I go to a breastfeeding class, but can’t participate with Toothless attached to a bili matt, which is treating the jaundice. I get the lactation consultant helping me get Toothless attached properly for feeding. And I spend hours waiting for the nurses and midwives to bring me the formula that I need. In desperation, I send Joe out to buy some formula so that I don’t have to wait and have Toothless fall asleep on me.

This morning at four, Toothless has fallen asleep again after taking his colostrum and a little milk as well because my milk has finally come in. I call very early for formula, hoping to game the system, but to no avail. A nurse comes in and asks ‘Why are you crying?’ In fact, I am regularly crying in frustration and perhaps a little hopelessness. She listens to me patiently as I blub out my incoherent problems.

‘Do you have enough change for a coffee?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I stammer, somewhat taken aback.

‘We’ll look after him, why don’t you go and have one?’

Not only is it the best idea I’ve heard in some time, but I also realise that I have confined myself completely to this room for the four days since Toothless was born. I get dressed and find my wallet. I go out to the nurse’s station, and one of the women is already holding my boy.

It’s quiet in the hospital because it’s only 7.15am. I go to the cafeteria and order a coffee. I also get a muffin because I don’t have to jab myself to check my glucose levels. It’s pretty bland, but I eat it defiantly. Take that endocrinologist! I sit in the middle of the empty cafeteria and cry.

‘Why am I still here?’ I ask myself.

I soon find out. Later in the afternoon the lactation consultant comes in to see how my milk is. I’m expressing about 30mls after each feed. She mentions in passing that I can go when Toothless puts on weight. So that’s it. He’ll be weighed in the morning, so I start saying my little mantra to him.

‘Think heavy thoughts.’

At 2am on Anzac Day, I am woken by a piercing cry. Oh my god, is he hurt? He seems to be ok, but he is hungry. We wait, as usual for the formula, his cry getting more and more insistent. My ears ring. My heart pounds. What is this new crisis?

After he is fed, I express and fall into a fitful sleep. At 5am I hear a cry from another baby somewhere on the ward. That sets off another, and another, and then Toothless chimes in. A dawn chorus.  Then it dawns on me. This is what a well baby does – demand food rather than fight it. There’s a chance we can go home.

            In the morning, a new lactation consultant comes to check on us. A nurse weighs Toothless and I hold my breath. He was born at 2.3kg. He needs to be heavier, right? He is 2.18kg. I am crushed and burst into tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ asks the nurse, ‘that’s good!’

‘But not enough to be released.’

‘Yes it is. They lose 10% of their weight at birth, so now, he’s putting on weight nicely.’

We’re free. Hours of paperwork stand between us and release, but I can Joe and tell him he can bring us home. He spends the afternoon running around trying to get a breast pump and a tin of formula. We order in pizza for dinner.

The next day, we watch ‘Chef’ on DVD. We get up and dance to some of Latin songs from the film. He holds me close. We are still in love. The world looks right again.

 

May 2018

My little one is eating well, and waking only two or three times in the night. I find it hard to call him Toothless to his face, so we start to work through our list of names. We decide that we’ll try each name for 3 days and see which one we like.

We start with Jackson. I like having lots of diminutives to work with. I like calling him Jacky. I also call him bubba, bubba-boo, little one and le petit monsieur. But after three days, I find that I haven’t warmed to it. We switch to our next name, Lachlan. It’s perfect instantly.

‘That’s his name, isn’t it?’ I ask Joe after 3 hours. We name the baby Lachlan.

 

He wakes at 1.30am and I take him to feed him, having had a really good rest since dinner. The session with him basically takes the rest of the night, but I’m in a good mood, so I don’t mind. My brain is full and so is my heart. Is that why I seem a bit superhuman at the moment?

In the morning, I text a friend, Luce, whose son Carlos shares a birthday with Lachlan. We talk about going back to work and I mention the talent agency I work in. Normally it’s a second job to teaching, and I say stupidly, ‘I’ll have more time for it now.’

‘Never heard a new mother say she has more time,’ she replies.

I feel so stupid. ‘It’s just that it’s the only job I have now. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll hit the wall soon,’ I say, backpedalling furiously.

Which is absolutely true. I’m waiting for the other boot to fall. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the lack of sleep. Is it the hormones? Is it love? I have so much energy – though sometimes it’s hysterical, half-asleep energy. I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through life for many years, and now! Well. I’m in love with my son, my husband, and this time. I don’t know how long it can possibly last, but I’m going to enjoy every moment.

I’m holding Lachlan in one hand, trying to make formula with the other – I catch my eye in the mirror of our bathroom.

‘Who are you?’ I ask the woman in the mirror. I smile at myself. ‘I don’t know who you are: but I like you.’ I can’t believe this transformation.

My only real problem is milk. I don’t seem to be making very much. The doctor gives me some Motilium to help increase my supply, and the female pharmacist agrees that it’s safe. She gives me what I think is the best advice ever given to a new mother.

‘When your baby cries, you have time to get a glass of water or a snack: he won’t explode.’

 

I’m finding living with dad to be more difficult than I imagined. I seem to have become some kind of control freak, and his messy and dirty habits make me very agitated. He is also snarkier than I expected, and I take this very badly indeed.

I have to go upstairs because I made a mistake with Lachlan’s formula.

‘Oh really?’ he says in such a way that he thinks is cutting and terribly witty. With the sleep deprivation I’m experiencing, it’s just insulting.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ I say under my breath, in my usual conflict-avoidance way.

I start taking photos of the places where he leaves half-eaten food. There’s half a piece of tart left on the washing machine; a partial piece of toast in the fruit bowl; quarter of an orange in the cupboard. As I scroll through the photos with Joe, laughing my head off, I have an overwhelming feeling that I am mean. I counter by assuring myself that if this were a function of the dementia and Alzheimers, I wouldn’t make fun of him. He is a slob, and that deserves being laughed at.

Joe and I have taken to calling him ‘The Cat’ because he pulls random items off the shelf – a photo, a card, a pen – and leaves it neatly out. ‘Is it yours?’ It’s like receiving half a lizard from a feline. Poor man; he’s not used to a household where things belong to other people. He spends several days looking forlornly at the shelves in the main room and the unpacked boxes in front of them. He goes through everything multiple times.

‘What are you looking for Dad?’

‘Something I can’t find.’

 

It’s 2.20pm and I am very late for the hairdresser. And there is a problem – I don’t know exactly how to get there. I have always been a little nervous about driving to new places on my own. I am still on my red Ps.

I have a rough idea of how to go through to the motorway, but I get lost. I don’t have GPS; I have a good sense of direction and I prefer old school maps, but now I don’t know how to get there. Problem. I should be upset and reactive, as I usually am when I’m driving.

Instead, it is the best drive of my life. Don’t get me wrong. I take wrong turns, I pick the wrong way, I can’t find an alternate way through to that bloody motorway. But I am calm, I am confident, I have good vision and I make good decisions.

I think, ‘this is amazing!’

This is followed by the usual doubts and superstitious self-talk – ‘Don’t say it out loud.’ This is my long-term mantra. ‘You’ll jinx it.’

Then, something entirely new comes to my mind.  ‘That habit no longer serves me,’ I tell myself.

And with that, I have cracked it. In my 48^thyear, I have found the secret.

‘This is amazing! I feel really good. I am strong!’ I praise myself. I notice precisely what I am doing well and say so: out loud. ‘That habit no longer serves me.’ I like the sound of it.

I once heard that when we are critical of ourselves we are very precise. I hate the mole on my chin. I need to lose 10 kilos. My eyes are too small, and so on.  But when we are asked to say something positive about ourselves, we are very general. I start to be very precise about what I’m doing well.

I’m completely high and happy. The only thing that deteriorates is my language. Someone cuts me off. Normally, I would be upset. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ I would ask myself. Now, I say, ‘Fuck ‘em!’ Quite cheerfully. ‘Fuck ‘em!’ The guy tail-gating me. ‘Fuck ‘em!’ The people racing past me while I’m doing the speed limit.

I have cracked it. The secret is revealed to me.

Finally at home, the tension is thick between Dad and Joe. Dad is being grouchy and complaining about the trains and the buses and the hills around our home. The suburb and the houses boring. They are all the same. This is a common theme. I cook dinner and am breezy and cheerful. I don’t care if Dad is pleasant with us or not. I genuinely don’t care. I don’t need it. ‘Fuck him!’

Joe sees that I’m happy and joyous. He has no idea what to make of it.

 

Continue with The Day Before

The Day Before Emergency

My Sandwich Family & Other Adventures – continued from The Weeks Before

The Day Before Emergency

When Joe leaves in the morning, Lachlan grizzles and so I pick him up and sit opposite Dad to feed him. The conversation rambles as always, and it soon turns to Barry. Barry was a childhood friend who had polio, and he had a huge impact on my father. Dad starts telling me about him; I’ve heard it a million times. Then, he heads in a different direction and starts to tell me new things about him and I think, ‘Damn, I really want to remember this,’ but I have a baby in my arms. I pray that I can keep it all in my mind. Then I get a good idea.

‘Hey, why don’t I interview you? I can use the camera phone?’

Dad likes the idea, but he wants to ‘make some notes first.’

By the time he has given me his excuses for not doing it today, I have started my voice recorder. I start asking questions, and soon I have a 30-minute interview that is gold to me. This is how I want to remember my father; it is also how most of my friends see him. No sign of dementia; just a smart man who has led a very interesting life. It makes me happy to let him reminisce, and Lachlan will be able to learn about his Grandpa from his own lips.

 

Joe comes home and I have sausages for dinner, but they won’t all fit into the pan at once. I ask the men how many sausages they’d like.

‘There are six,’ I say.

‘I’ll have three,’ says Dad.

He’s usually better at maths than that. I cook four. Dad gets two; Joe and I have one each. Joe looks confused but says nothing.

While Joe is out at his piano lesson a couple of hours later, I have a problem with the teat on the baby’s formula bottle. It’s blocked and I don’t know what to do. In full panic I call the Newborn care line that RPA administers. One of the midwives Jill helps me out, and I calm down again.

But when Joe comes back, it’s terrible. He is angry with me. He is angry that I called strangers when I had a problem instead of him. It doesn’t seem to matter that it helped; that I’m fine, that Lachie is fine. He goes away sulking. I don’t understand. What has happened to my Joe?

Come bedtime, Joe does his ritual re-washing of the dishes. He does this every night because Dad insists on doing it but he does such a terrible job of it. Joe finds an empty bottle in the rubbish bin.

‘What the…?’

I assume he is annoyed because the bottle should be in the recycling.

‘He’s finished it,’ says Joe.

Dad has drunk ¾ of a bottle of Limoncello. I hope not all in one hit.

‘It was a gift,’ says Joe.

‘He didn’t know,’ I tell him. It isn’t his fault. That’s the dementia; that’s not Dad. Joe can’t tell the difference, but of course I can. Joe will say of a particular behaviour, ‘that’s the dementia,’ and I might say, ‘No, he’s always been like that.’ This is not Dad. Please Joe, don’t undo all the good things that happened today!

‘That’s disappointing,’ says Joe.

Finally, he goes to bed.

How do I make Joe understand? I’ve changed irrevocably. I’ve solved the puzzle of my father. I just want to be kind to him. Not sarcastic; not talking about him behind his back. Because that habit no longer serves me. But Joe’s not there yet. I need to convince Joe, but how? I tell him in bed how I’ve changed and how I want to help him to make the same change.

‘I want us to do things differently. Like I’m doing with Dad.’

He agrees, but I won’t let Joe sleep. I keep trying to explain myself, and he tells me that he understands what I’m saying. But he doesn’t say the right words to show he really understands. I think he’s only humouring me, using his sarcasm on me. So I persist until he snaps.

‘Are you going to keep me awake all night? Do I have to call in sick at work tomorrow?’

He’s bluffing. He’s trying to avoid the issue – trying to avoid getting real. He’s got his phone out and he goes out into the hallway. Who is he calling at this hour? I sit on the bed, waiting. I look behind me to check that there is no one hiding there. It’s all clear.

At 7am Joe wants me to go to the doctor. Fine. I can do that; he’s not going to sway me from my course. He hasn’t shown me that he knows what I’m talking about, so let’s go! I walk straight outside, while Joe puts Lachlan in the pram and struggles with it up the steps. I stand with my back to the fence, so that no one can grab me.

Now, I don’t think for a moment that we’re really going to the doctor. I mean, it’s too early in the day for starters. And it’s a ruse anyway. He’s testing me. I lag behind when we get close, to give him an opportunity to pull out, and I definitely see him hesitate, but to my surprise, we arrive at the medical centre and they’re open for business.

We go in to see the doctor and he’s an idiot. He’s obviously part of the test. When he asks how he can help, I handball the question in Joe’s direction without saying a word. After all, it’s Joe’s party.

‘Well, Gemma here recently gave birth and she’s been feeling a bit confused,’ begins Joe.

‘I see,’ says the doctor, not looking at me.

‘And she hasn’t been sleeping, that’s right isn’t it, Gem?’ Joe continues.

The doctor still does not look at me and starts tapping on the computer and asks more questions about the birth: where and when. Joe answers for me, and the doctor lets him. I’ve had enough. I get up and walk out.

Joe and Lachlan catch up with me, and the doctor calls out that we can see another doctor if we prefer, but we’re out the door.

‘He was completely useless, wasn’t he?’ says Joe, trying to make me feel like he’s on my side. We start walking home.

Just around the corner is the thing I’ve dreaded without realising it. There’s a Star Track courier vehicle. It’s what the men will jump out of to drag me away. I was expecting an ambulance.

‘Of course, the courier van.’ I say. The van follows us for a block, but they leave me alone for some reason. They let me walk home with Joe.

Within the hour, Joe has made a call and we are on our way to Emergency. Ha! Another bluff. He won’t follow through.

 

Continue with In Emergency Part 2

In Emergency Part 2

My Sandwich Family & Other Adventures – continued from The Day Before

Thursday May 10, 2018

In Emergency – Part 2

We have been in Emergency for what, hours? I know that something is terribly wrong, but what? Not long ago I was feeling so amazing, so on top of life.

Now, I know that Joe is an amazing man. I know that he will stand by me in any crisis. But he will never look at me the same way when he discovers we are here under false pretences. We’ll never be the same again. I’ve trashed our lives.

I start grasping around for something to save me from being discovered as… as what? A fraud? An unfit mother? – Stay away from Lachie, I tell myself. Don’t forget. Keeping a distance from my baby is something I instinctively understand is important. I don’t want anyone to think for a second that I could harm him. I don’t know where this idea comes from, but I do it anyway. I stand in the middle of the room, away from everyone.

Outside the curtain that they have pulled around us, it is very busy. I see feet under the curtain, and people and gurneys moving past the 1-metre gap on the right, where the curtain opens. Behind that screen, it seems that the hospital has the actors mustered. It seems bizarre, but maybe they are on staff and used regularly in situations like this. This is logical enough. The actors have been well briefed; I assume Joe has told them all about me, because he is the only person who could give them all of this information. It’s as if a bunch of New Idea reporters have crawled all over my life, my memories and my experiences and come up with all of this awful stuff. They now know all of the shameful things Joe knows about me. And the pettiness of the detail is astonishing.

I think perhaps some of the actors have misunderstood the information, or perhaps they have become carried away with their roles, because I don’t always understand their jibes. They sometimes only tangentially hit on a sore point.

A couple of women talk about a guy I supposedly fancy, but the trouble is that I don’t know anyone called Kyle. My niece-in-law’s boyfriend is called Kyle, but I’ve never met him, so that isn’t a great way to hurt me. Maybe Joe wasn’t able to give them a name, and I’m relieved about that. There’s been no one but Joe for years now, so that could explain it. But they go on about how hot Kyle is and what one of the women would like to do to him. What I’dlike to do to him is the clear message here. They don’t know that I’m not like that.

Something else that is upsetting me is that this is the hospital where my mother was poked and prodded for hours before they realised the bleeding obvious – that she’d had a stroke. This is also the hospital where my father is currently being seen for his Alzheimer’s and dementia. I have come here with him several times. Finally, this is the hospital where less than three weeks ago, I gave birth to Lachlan in stressful circumstances. I’m just not happy being here.

My Lachlan sits on the floor, folded almost in half in the car capsule. There is a soft toy tiger in there with him, but it’s the wrong tiger – it’s not the one I remember. It’s not the tiger that Joe always packs in his bag and brings with us on holidays as a sweet gesture. This is a different tiger. Is it a sign? Oh God – does that mean they’ve switched Lachlan for another baby, too? I squint and strain my eyes to try to see if the baby in the capsule is still my own. I’m afraid they might take him from me. I know they are testing me. Do I recognise his cry? Do I recognise him? Will I let them take him away? My eyesight isn’t very good, but I see the red stork mark on his forehead. He’s still with me. Good.

I have to get myself out of here. Somehow, I have to do something to persuade them to let me, Joe and Lachlan go home. It seems impossible; things are spiralling out of control. They are going to drag me away, inject me full of drugs, and life as I know it will be over. Maybe Joe will be able to give me the safe word. But not now. It’s not the right moment; it’s not the last roll of the dice yet. It’s important to reveal it at the right time. I write a note to myself on my phone: Today I decided to change. Oh fuck. This got out of control. I’ll ask you the safe word.

I desperately need someone to give me a sign. A sign they know and believe me. When they give me that word, it will be over and the hospital will let me go. In what state, however, I just don’t know.

 

My brother-in-law Tom is here. When did he arrive? He’s holding Lachie, and Lachie’s not happy about it. He’s grizzly and wriggly in his skinny arms.

‘He’s kvetching,’ says Joe, using one of the Yiddish words I often use.

‘Hmm. Ka-vet-ching,’ says Tom, deadpan, trying out the unfamiliar word, ‘but no tears at all.’ I snap my head to look at him. Why is he here and why is he holding Lachie? Maybe he’s here to be involved in the baby switch. I’ll have to watch him and Lachie closely. The three of us stand staring at one another.

In any case, I hate Tom for holding Lachie. From his comment he also seems to have noticed that I can’t cry even though I’m acutely distressed. And that’s bad for me. It means these people might not believe me.

‘Tom, you’re a terrible actor,’ I tell him. He has this flat voice, which shows no emotion, which just doesn’t work if you want your acting to be realistic. Doesn’t he know that? He simply stares back at me. Can’t he take direction? The curtain twitches as one of the actors sets himself up, presumably for the next assault on me. I turn and look at the huge clock that is on the back wall. It’s 2.15. Is it am or pm? It doesn’t say and I can’t see outside to work it out.

Damn Tom. My boy is asleep. Is he moving? He’s peaceful. Not grizzling at all. I look very hard at him, to make sure it’s still him. I wish Tom would put Lachie back in his capsule. It’s harder to take the whole capsule than to pass a baby from one person to another.

My brain hurts. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make it stop. I’ve sent so many text messages to myself. I’ve written so much shit in that bloody book that I’ve confused myself. Still waiting for that sign. Still don’t know what sign I’m waiting for or how I know I’ll recognise it when I hear it.

That’s it!

I grab my bag and fish out the book. Joe makes an exasperated sound. I guess he’s sick to death of me scribbling in this fucking book. He doesn’t know what I know; that getting rid of it is not the last card I have to play, because I have already typed 10,000 words, tap-tapping on my computer in the wee small hours between feeds when I couldn’t and wouldn’t sleep. When I had two hands I typed; when I had one hand, I wrote longhand in the book, and when I’ve had no hands while feeding Lachie I made voice recordings. Most importantly, I’ve kept every detail of what happened and what we said in my head, stretching my mind to it’s greatest extreme. I’ve stayed awake, either writing or recording every detail. Or if I am holding something in my head and something more interesting happens, I can push that less exciting information out of my skull and into oblivion. It’s exhausting, but it’s all there in my head, on a page, or in a recording. Word for word. I can put my hand on my heart and swear that every word of what I’m writing is true. That every conversation is verbatim. Who can swear to that?

If I lose the book, I lose a lot, but it’s not my last card. Maybe it can give me what I need. Maybe it can provide the sign.

I open the book to the last entry on page 85. I started writing in this book only a few days ago and I have filled it with every thought that seemed interesting, useful or bizarre. Thoughts, recipes, lists, book ideas are all crammed in. I write on this final page in large letters:

Burn the Book.

Burn this Book.

Tom is standing in the way of the bin. I take a small step to the left of Tom, lean across and throw the book into the bin under the sink in the corner near the break in the curtain, and then move back into my space in the centre of the room. He looks puzzled. I don’t care. I keep myself a safe distance from Tom, who is still holding Lachie. I look around to make sure no one has come in to the back of the room through the other side of the curtain to sneak up behind me. It would be a disaster to be surprised. If they want to try and grab me, I must make sure I’m close enough that I can grab Joe. I’ll be safe with Joe. They can take us both. Joe will sort it out, be my champion. He won’t let them just take me away, no matter what I’ve done.

Will I ever see Lachie again? What happens if they take him away from me? What happens to Joe? Does he get taken away from me too? I have to be careful. If they decide I’m a danger to Lachie, it’s all over. I can grab Joe for protection, but I mustn’t grab Lachie.

‘If she’s acting, that’s not a good sign,’ says a woman on the other side of the curtain. Oh God; they know I’m faking it. Though I can’t remember what illness it is that I’m pretending to have. They know I’m a fraud.

I take out my phone again and write a note. Is it better for Gemma to be insane or for Gemma to think that she’s insane?

‘Could this be…?’ I ask Joe, Tom and the room generally. I struggle for the words again, the name of the sickness I’m supposed to be faking. I look at Joe and his bewildered and exhausted face doesn’t help me to think clearly, but eventually I wrestle the name from somewhere in my overloaded and sleep-deprived brain.

‘I could have Post-Natal Depression, right?’

‘Yes,’ says Joe sadly, ‘yes, that’s possible.’

‘Ok.’ I say. ‘Maybe that’s it.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young woman empty the bin. Well, at least that’s done. Now they’ll go through The Book and use whatever they find there against me. I can’t remember what’s in it any more. It’s a relief to let The Book go. But I don’t remember what the answer is – the sign. Is it in The Book? Is it The Book itself? I forgot what I just wrote. My brain won’t take any more in. I’m exhausted and at the end of my resources.

‘I just want this to stop,’ I say again to Joe.

‘I’m fighting for you, Gem. Do you believe that?’

I look into Joe’s eyes. I find a moment of quiet there. It is so restful in comparison to the chaos in my brain. I know what I see. I see that all this pain that these actors are inflicting on me is because of him. Joe believes that it is important. That these doctors told him that he had to do it for me. That’s the only reason he would do something so horrible. He is doing it for me. This, at the very least, is a sign.

‘I know that all this is because you love me very much.’

My friend Chris appears at the curtain-door. I smile and frown at him simultaneously. How did he escape work? He comes in and says hello to me, Joe and Tom, who both shake Chris’ hand. I’m hopeful. Maybe Chris can give me a sign, or maybe I texted him the key to this disaster earlier. He looks at me meaningfully, but it’s not clear that he’s giving me a sign. I need Chris to give it to me so all this can end, but he’s just standing there, helpless.

‘Gemma,’ says a new woman. Is it a doctor? A social worker? I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a police officer come to take me away. I don’t even remember how this started anymore.

‘I’m just going to feed your son,’ says the well-dressed woman, who takes him from Tom. Who the hell is she? She wears a grin almost as big at her chunky necklace. As she disappears with Lachie in her arms, she gives me an enormous stage wink. Is that a sign? Why is she giving me a sign?

It is not until she disappears that I realise – I’ve failed. She’s taken Lachie from me, and I just grinned politely and let her. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. I’m lost.

 

They want to do some tests.

‘What will that do?’ I want to know.

‘It will test your thyroid and your blood pressure…and so on,’ says the nurse, or whoever she is.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ I complain.

A woman duly comes in with a blood pressure machine, but when she starts applying the pressure, I see her just wander away from the machine. It’s too tight and tightening more! She’s trying to test me to see if I’m so far gone that I don’t notice. I tear the Velcro strap off my arm.

Another nurse comes in to take my blood. This is not on. This is what I’ve feared. They’re going to inject me with drugs and take Lachie away. Where’s Lachie? I look over and miraculously he’s there, comfy back in the car capsule and presumably fed, the strange tiger toy on his lap.

I tell them I don’t want to do a blood test, but Joe comes very close to me and holds me with both hands and his red-rimmed eyes.

‘Gem, it’s very important that they do this test.’

I trust him. I let them do it. She has a canula, and I don’t understand why that’s necessary. It suddenly occurs to me: it’s not real. They are going to pretend to take blood in order to test me. She pretends to insert the needle into the back of my hand, and pretend blood comes out. But then I see her push the plunger on the tube instead of pulling it out. Here we go! I pull away from the needle and dislodge it from my hand before she can inject me. She doesn’t protest, she just puts a little round Band-Aid on my pretend needle entry wound.

 

And now they want to take me to the Acute Ward. Bizarrely, they want to take me there in an ambulance.

‘But it’s just across the road,’ I protest, ‘Why can’t we walk there?’

Maybe I can run. I can run onto the university campus – I know it from my time studying at Sydney Uni. They won’t easily be able to track me down. I don’t know what I’ll tell Joe. I can meet him at home later. I hope he’ll let me in the house.

But they make us wait. More hours. More voices taking the piss out of me, making me feel ashamed of my feelings, mocking my life. It’s hard to take. Almost as hard as seeing the pain that is only increasing in Joe’s eyes. The fear in my eyes isn’t going anywhere either. I have forgotten how I got here, but I’m desperate to get out.

The ambulance is outside. I think about running, but Joe has climbed in. ‘I’m going where he’s going’ I think. I climb inside. No one gets in with us. There’s a driver and another person in the front. Joe holds my hand. I hold onto it like a lifeline.

In the few moments we are in the ambulance, they even manage to broadcast something on the radio that mocks my belief in the Cuban santeriagoddess Yemaya. Why would they do that? Can’t they leave me alone? They’ve won – must I be harassed too?

Chris and Tom are in the foyer of the new building the ambulance has brought us to. It is night-time now. I’ve been fighting this all day. A woman comes to tell me that I’m being committed and could I sign some paperwork? The paperwork is confusing, the pronouns seem to shift from ‘I’ to ‘you’. I appeal to Chris, a fellow English teacher, and he confirms that it’s a bit oddly worded.

I write my name and then cross it out. I don’t understand the form and I don’t want to sign away my rights. Joe tells me that it’s very important that I make him a designated carer, so that he can talk to the staff about my care. I don’t write my name, but I write Joe’s name and our address.

I write, ‘I don’t understand. I need advice from a professional.’ They accept the paperwork as it is.

The woman offers to let me see the papers committing me, but tells me that I can’t read them. She tells me that I could be committed for up to three months. The three men – Joe, Tom and Chris – crowd around her, telling her that it isn’t right that I can’t read the document and that she shouldn’t say those things to me. I have flattened myself against the back wall, standing as far away from this disaster as possible. Maybe this is my chance. Maybe Joe will take me home because this paperwork is wrong.

The worst happens. I am committed. My fear has become real – Joe leaves, and who knows if he will come back? I don’t even know where Lachie is. Numb and confused, I follow a nurse into Acute Ward. Chris comes with me, but Joe and Tom are gone. He didn’t even kiss me goodbye.

 

Inside the ward, it’s dark and there is no one around. The nurse, Annie, is going to take me to my room. I follow her and am yelled at by a burly man for being in a restricted area. I flatten myself against the wall until Annie is ready. In the room there is a trundle bed, a chair a cupboard and a table. There is a bathroom as well. Chris and I sit on the bed and watch Annie show us how the door locks and unlocks. The lock looks complicated and as she fumbles with it. I realise wearily that it will probably not allow me to leave. The door will lock when she leaves, and I’ll be stuck in this room for as long as they want.

I need the bathroom, but I’m not sure that it will unlock for me when I want to leave either. I go to the toilet hastily and get up before I’ve entirely finished, afraid of being bust in on. I’m extremely relieved when I am able to get out of the bathroom. I wasn’t locked in, and no one burst in on me. I had been worried about both possibilities.

Chris and I go out and sit in the empty common room. We are able to make a cup of tea in polystyrene cups. Have I eaten today? I don’t think so. A woman passes us. She is stocky with greying hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She is muttering to herself, but she doesn’t seem to be talking about me.

A man passes us. I flinch as he passes; I’m horrified that there are men here as well. What if he hits me? But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything either.

Chris leaves. I think I hug him. I think he is close to tears. I feel nothing. The worst thing, the one thing I had feared, has happened: I’ve been dragged away from my husband and son. There is no point in crying. As Tom said, ‘No tears at all.’

Annie brings a pump for me to express milk. I don’t have a lot at the best of times and I haven’t expressed for a couple of days. Perhaps this is a test. I’m tired of being tested. She leaves me to it, but I can’t make it work; there’s no suction at all. Have I failed even this bloody test? Can’t they stop? Annie comes back, and she can’t make it work either. She brings me another pump; maybe she isn’t testing me. She’s a bit grumpy, but it seems she isn’t trying to trick me. Annie and another young nurse wrestle with the pump to no avail. She takes it away, and I’m finally left alone to sleep.

I sleep a long time. It’s the first time since before Lachie was born that I’ve properly slept. I don’t cry. I don’t dream. At 3am I realise I’m no longer hallucinating. I can also, finally, cry. I do so – copiously.

At 4am, I go out into the common room and make a cup of tea. I meet an indigenous girl called Faith and a woman called Tracey. They tell me their stories. They have been in places like this before. They have already been in Acute Ward for many days each. Faith needs to attend a tribunal later today in order to be released. Tracey is a voluntary patient, but she is having a tough time getting what she needs from the staff.

At 6am I’m able to beg a pad and a pen and I begin to write. To try to make sense of what is happening to me.

At 10.30am I see the doctor. She asks me a lot of questions. I finally ask her one: ‘What is wrong with me?’

‘You have post-natal psychosis.’

At least I’ve heard of that. Since I became pregnant, I read about a woman in the UK who died of it, though I’m sketchy on the circumstances. I also heard an interview with a woman who had it with two or her three children. It sounded terrifying. I sign the paperwork properly this time.

 

Continue with The Weeks That Follow (final)

The Right to Tell a Story

The recent social media stoush over American author Lionel Shriver’s (We Need to Talk About Kevin) speech at Brisbane’s Writer’s Festival raised interesting responses for and abou…

Source: The Right to Tell a Story

To all writers – How to be persuasive

Dear Writers,

I am tired of outrage. I am tired of sarcasm. I am tired of opinion masquerading as fact.

Most of the social issues addressed on the myriad of social media platforms are important or interesting for the broader community. But when opinions and commentary are laced with bile and vitriol, a writer loses not only their opponents but also many of their supporters. I’m not sure what this kind of writing is worth. Multiply that by multitudes of baying commentators, and the online world becomes very loud and angry.

Telling a person who has a different point of view or experience from you that they are stupid, insensitive, or a bleeding heart is a pointless waste of time and just so much hot air. It only serves to inflame differences, and this cannot provide a worthwhile outcome.

I work in one of the most multicultural environments – I teach academic English to international students – and we all find our beliefs challenged from time to time. We mistake our own cultural norms for being ‘right’.
They are not, they are simply a product of our experiences, and some of us have more experience than others. It is interesting to see the young people I work with realise that the world is bigger and more diverse than they imagined.

So, why not try to win your opponents over by enlightening them? If you have more information than someone else, share it. We don’t blame and shame a child for being a inexperienced or having a narrow outlook on the world. Why treat an adult the same way?

Apart from being rude, telling someone who disagrees with you that they are stupid is counter-productive. If you look very closely at a person you offend, they are not listening to you with open ears, they are offended by your lack of respect towards them. You have lost them. You might even reinforce their opposition.

Instead of bashing them about the head with their ‘wrongness’, why not give them something to think about? Why not treat them with some decency and respect? You are far more likely to have an impact.

It’s hard enough to be civilised in a community of thousands, but now that our multicultural community is in the millions and billions, the need to be respectful and persuasive is even more crucial.

My Black Is, by Noel Price

This powerful protest song is by performance artist Noel Price. 

Price’s song opened and closed an Australian investigative journalism piece on #BlackLivesMatter. I couldn’t find it anywhere online, except on the Facebook page of the ABC program, Foreign Correspondent.

This song beautifully encapsulates the desires and demands of African Americans specifically, as well as those of oppressed black lives worldwide.

I was also moved and impressed by the artwork and journalism of Erik Rodriguez and Darryl Holliday @ Illustrated Press.

Together with ABC journalist Sally Sara, they paint what I think is a balanced, humane picture of the terrible situation facing many African Americans – injustice, disadvantage and broken hopes.