“This is Laura Dorwart, 28. She is six days postpartum and had a vaginal full term delivery of her first baby. She has a medical history of depression and chronic PTSD,” the nurse read, monotone, to her replacement, as my parents watched.
May we always hold the prairie boys of winter, those boys that were lost, within our hearts and memories and may we always be ready, willing and able to help those that survived in the coming months and years with putting the pieces back together once again.
Unfortunately, I feel like the new moms take the hardest hit, especially during those first few weeks postpartum. For some reason, we’ve created this ridiculous expectation that moms have to have their shit together – you know: shower daily, keep a clean house, and get their body back – all with a grateful smile on their face.
It hasn’t involved belts, wooden spoons, or yanking of hair. So get ahold of yourself, calm down, and above all, do not cry. He hates that. He says it’s manipulative and that he’s way too smart to fall for what he calls crocodile tears.
I knew all the classic dirges by heart and sometimes found myself unguardedly humming “Blessed Assurance” or “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” The Protestants really have it going on when it comes to funeral hymns.
Scrappy made me think of a shaggy little dog. Scrappy made me think of the pugilistic kids I knew back home, kids who showed up uninvited to parties, straggly kids, kids who tried too hard. Scrappy was not on my list.
These versions of ourselves, like our timelines, exist concurrently—overlapping, and intertwining. What haunts us may have passed or may not have even happened yet.
The days turned into weeks, and one by one, we surpassed the timelines of our earlier miscarriages. We made no mention of a nursery, and didn’t dare talk baby names. My best defense against the fear of another failed pregnancy was to keep it out of mind, and John honored that.
Watching my father neither live nor die, yet slowly decline towards death for over a decade has been a privilege and a burden, the likes of which I never could have known. And on more than one occasion it has nearly broken me. On more than one occasion I have asked – begged – for him to die.
When he switched to formula and actually started to sleep through the night, I was terrified. Why was he sleeping so much? Was something wrong? Infants are supposed to sleep for most of the day, but not my baby! I slept on a cot in his room for months.
On the night of the presidential election, a breakup of mine coincided with Trump’s victory. I couldn’t help but notice the symmetry of two completely annoying things happening simultaneously: a win for a man known for objectifying women and a breakup initiated by a guy who had spent several months objectifying me.
Years later, Rosie told me they would get caught in the spider webs reaching through the thicket of branches to clip oranges and lemons for nineteen cents an hour. Only recently did I learn that perhaps a can of pesticides, not a bottle of tequila, took my nana’s life.
