Confessions of a human nurse
“ ‘Look, it’s just once I saw you with the police, I realized they could do a better job taking care of you than I ever will. ‘” (“Shazam,” Rachel, Shazam’s mother) My throat closed up and my eyesight blurred. It was supposed to be a moment to empathize with the hero of the story, but all I had was a terrible feeling of hearing my own vague feelings being put into words. This mother was a minor character who’s role consisted mostly in her absence and then in her ability to push herself out of her son’s life for good and leave him to the family waiting for him. I cried that night for the umpteenth time since having my own kid months before. Only this time there were words to go with the crushing feeling of failure: maybe someone else should raise my son. It physically hurt to consider the idea, but it seemed like the only logical response to my apparent inability to be the parent I always thought I would or should be. Don’t get me wrong, I cared for my son. I tried. A lot. I tried breastfeeding. After 18 weeks of struggling, sleeplessness and physical/emotional discomfort with rare moments of bonding, my body gave out and I switched my son fully to formula. I tried. I failed. At barely 4 weeks, I medicated my own son to help him cope with the gas problems that had him writhing and screaming in pain. Then added vitamins because breastfeeding alone was judged inadequate. I tried. I failed. At roughly 10 weeks, I went back to work. I was home as much as possible and there for him every night. Still, there was a nagging at the back of my mind that it wasn’t enough. But I tried. I failed. From his birth to 8 months old, my child resisted sleep. He was up multiple times a night. His napping skills during the day deteriorated with age. Even on maternity leave, I could not run my life on such a schedule, so I tried putting him on the start of a schedule by 2 months. I implemented a full schedule by the time I had a consistent work schedule, desperate for sleep and sanity. I tried. I failed. In all those months, the two of us found moments of fun and smiles. I found things he enjoyed and we had some fun times together. But even when it seemed like a win, the feeling of failure haunted me. And looming darkest of all was the lack of feelings toward my son. I cared for him. I loved him. I was afraid to lose him. But there was none of the wonder and joy that seemed to characterize most young parents. It was like the volume had been turned down on all my positive emotions (joy, love, compassion, etc) and up on fear and anger and frustration. I couldn’t even pretend on social media posts. The guilt of having to pretend I was thrilled at being a parent, instead of struggling to feel anything besides epic inadequacy, was too much. Pretending was just another reminder I wasn’t good enough on my own. I was also afraid to tell anyone for fear of sounding or, worse, proving myself to be messed up somehow and unfit to be a parent. So, what was the answer? What’s the happy ending to this depressing view of parenting a newborn? At nine months, the fog I did not realize was there started to lift. Simultaneously, my child began to sleep consistently and I started to pick up an old hobby of reading, including the biographies of believers. Finally, as mysteriously as they had disappeared, the feelings that had been dormant or muted since pregnancy, came back to life. I didn’t become a bubbly, enthusiastic new parent, but I got a second chance at life with a kid. I tried. And I get to keep trying again.
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August 2018
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