i lay on the table like frog about to be dissected. Somewhere else Kolkata Knight Riders were having a match. Somewhere else the festival of lights was being celebrated with fireworks -banned and otherwise. Somewhere else the goddess of wealth (Goddess Lakshmi) and the goddess of misfortune (Goddess of A-Lashmi) were appeased a while ago. Somewhere else the worship of the Goddess Kali had begun. And in that moment, i lay like a frog to be dissected.
A little while ago, he had missed a heart beat. Missing a heart-beat had never sounded as ominous as it did at that moment. It had to be a Cesarean. Cutting through flesh, through layers of bloody mess, he would emerge. Our little man. The nauseous feel of the blood and the mess remained even though i couldn't feel a thing. i remembered Kafka's The Metamorphosis. Surely i wasn't metamorphing into anything. The metamorphosis had happened ten month and ten days ago. The walk had gradually become strange, the breath had become heavier, the taste for food had changed every day, the washroom had become farther and farther. That was change. That what was happening there, in the middle of the night, as my partner paced impatiently and my parents waited with camouflaged anxiety, wasn't really change.
The little man, wrapped in clean white sheets, with a white cap on his little head, fish-mouthed me and blew bubbles. His eyes were crystal black. The nurse who held him said hurriedly, "Contact, contact. Cheek to cheek." i barely felt his cheek to mine. It was implausible almost. This living being had grown in me, listening to light and classical music. This living being had grown in me, listening to Sartre and to retellings of the Ramayana. This living being had moved, nudged, kicked, gasped in me. This living being was the magic we were waiting for.
i called to the nurses to give him to me. They said, they will give him in time. i took the pain killers for i was in no mood for pain. Three long hours passed before we met properly. He. so little, in my arms, seemed to be the most precious thing i had ever held. Dishevelled hair, last night's clothes didn't matter. We clicked our first family picture as the morning was setting in.
The romance of motherhood hit the wall when i wasn't producing enough milk to satisfy my little man's hunger. My partner came rushing from home, (he had reached home a little while ago). He tried to reason with me. The second-time mother in the bed beside mine consoled me as well. It's normal they said. So did the nurses. But i couldn't get over the first guilt i ever felt for my little man.
To me the equation was simple. i was pregnant, a baby would be born, i would feed and clothe him.
For individuals like me, taking on guilt for others' actions or things beyond my control is a problem in my social behaviour. But i was in no state of mind to analyse it all.
At that point of time, the only thing that occupied my mind was that i, the mother, was being unable to feed my child. i held myself guilty, no matter what everyone said. i understand now that i carried this guilt for quite a few months after that.
This was the beginning of post-natal depression i think. This mental illness is again an issue that is mostly left unaddressed in our society. While with the birth of the baby, the baby's health and wellness becomes naturally a priority, the concern for the health of the mother is limited to her physical well-being.
In the weeks and months that followed, i would hold on to my little man, may be feeding him, may be rocking him to sleep, and still feel the tears rolling down my eyes. A sharp pain, as if something was amiss, ran through the veins. I was ashamed to share this with anyone. How could i, the mother of such a beautiful child, feel anything but happiness?
My world had changed for sure. It had evolved into something that i was still grappling with.
A little while ago, he had missed a heart beat. Missing a heart-beat had never sounded as ominous as it did at that moment. It had to be a Cesarean. Cutting through flesh, through layers of bloody mess, he would emerge. Our little man. The nauseous feel of the blood and the mess remained even though i couldn't feel a thing. i remembered Kafka's The Metamorphosis. Surely i wasn't metamorphing into anything. The metamorphosis had happened ten month and ten days ago. The walk had gradually become strange, the breath had become heavier, the taste for food had changed every day, the washroom had become farther and farther. That was change. That what was happening there, in the middle of the night, as my partner paced impatiently and my parents waited with camouflaged anxiety, wasn't really change.
The little man, wrapped in clean white sheets, with a white cap on his little head, fish-mouthed me and blew bubbles. His eyes were crystal black. The nurse who held him said hurriedly, "Contact, contact. Cheek to cheek." i barely felt his cheek to mine. It was implausible almost. This living being had grown in me, listening to light and classical music. This living being had grown in me, listening to Sartre and to retellings of the Ramayana. This living being had moved, nudged, kicked, gasped in me. This living being was the magic we were waiting for.
i called to the nurses to give him to me. They said, they will give him in time. i took the pain killers for i was in no mood for pain. Three long hours passed before we met properly. He. so little, in my arms, seemed to be the most precious thing i had ever held. Dishevelled hair, last night's clothes didn't matter. We clicked our first family picture as the morning was setting in.
The romance of motherhood hit the wall when i wasn't producing enough milk to satisfy my little man's hunger. My partner came rushing from home, (he had reached home a little while ago). He tried to reason with me. The second-time mother in the bed beside mine consoled me as well. It's normal they said. So did the nurses. But i couldn't get over the first guilt i ever felt for my little man.
To me the equation was simple. i was pregnant, a baby would be born, i would feed and clothe him.
For individuals like me, taking on guilt for others' actions or things beyond my control is a problem in my social behaviour. But i was in no state of mind to analyse it all.
At that point of time, the only thing that occupied my mind was that i, the mother, was being unable to feed my child. i held myself guilty, no matter what everyone said. i understand now that i carried this guilt for quite a few months after that.
This was the beginning of post-natal depression i think. This mental illness is again an issue that is mostly left unaddressed in our society. While with the birth of the baby, the baby's health and wellness becomes naturally a priority, the concern for the health of the mother is limited to her physical well-being.
In the weeks and months that followed, i would hold on to my little man, may be feeding him, may be rocking him to sleep, and still feel the tears rolling down my eyes. A sharp pain, as if something was amiss, ran through the veins. I was ashamed to share this with anyone. How could i, the mother of such a beautiful child, feel anything but happiness?
My world had changed for sure. It had evolved into something that i was still grappling with.
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