Cold and Quiet But Bright.

This winter has been mild, but today was cold. We haven't left the apartment. I was up in the night with nightmares--the first about decomposing bodies in a theater and the other a kind of dystopian sci-fi mess. Josh played with Oliver in the morning so I could get a little more sleep after fighting corpse arms and robot mannequin guards all night.

The rest of the day has been peaceful. Josh brought me a leftover pumpkin muffin from the batch he made yesterday. He pinned a blue blanket with white snowflakes over the window, and Oliver slept in his swing. The snowflakes glowed with the cold sunlight behind them, and a purple ink stain darkened the center of the blanket. Josh and I got showered and dressed slowly. I wore the Revlon Diamond Lust Plum Galaxy (!) sparkle eyeshadow I bought at Ulta last week. I felt skinny in my new olive green top and jeans. I wore my favorite glittery purple striped socks. I wore them the day Oliver was born, so those glimmering purple stripes may have been what he saw first.

Josh lit a fire, and we opened the balcony door blinds to let in the sun and the view of the duck pond and the spindly, leafless willow. My dad came to visit, bringing Panera (still Josh and my favorite restaurant). Josh had half a Mediterranean Veggie sandwich and macaroni and cheese. I had broccoli cheddar soup and a Caesar salad. I'd been craving the salad. The croutons were soft, and the Parmesan was in thin, broken sheets. Dad ate a little souffle that came in a black paper cup. We also had Panera's new carrot cake--big cupcakes with cream cheese frosting cores.

Dad had brought us a card with funky turtles on it and Valentine's Day/anniversary gifts: Ralph Lauren candles, flowery Cottage and spicy Estate in Tiffany blue and forest green boxes and Paris Was Ours, a book of writers' reflections on Paris. I'm surprised I didn't know about the book since I've been interested in travel memoirs, especially about France. I'll probably read it soon.

This weekend, I've been enjoying Pink Smog, Francesca Lia Block's newest book and another part of the Weetzie Bat story. Just the crazy pink book jacket cheers me. I may finish it today. I'm also trying to finish my Bronte journal today. Next, I'll write in a flexible red faux leather journal with a silver heart and Dickinson's "Love is immortality."

I was craving popcorn this afternoon, so Josh and I watched an episode of Up All Night with a white bowl of popcorn and an upright baby between us.

Last Friday, I wrote the first poem I've written since Oliver was born (maybe the first since last spring). Over the weekend, I did our taxes, graded fifteen essays, and submitted two stories to journals--something else I haven't done in far too long. Josh patiently took care of Oliver while I reformatted and edited the stories. On Tuesday, I found out that one of those stories will appear in the next issue of a journal to which I've been sending stories for a couple of years. The editor's encouragement in the past kept me writing stories when I felt like mine must not be good, so I should stick to writing poems. I'll also be getting a check--a small one, but the largest I've had. This Friday, I wrote another poem--one for Oliver. I didn't think I could write a baby poem that wasn't trite. Josh read it and said, "The most magical part of you wrote that." He says he thinks I'm becoming more myself again. That comes from more than just the poem and from my wearing the bead choker I wore constantly at the time we began.

Just before Christmas, I was sitting in the car in the Chili's parking lot with Oliver while Josh ran in to get a gift card for his brother and his brother's girlfriend. I texted my closest friend, who had her first baby before I did. I asked, "When did you start to feel like yourself again?"

She said that happened as soon as she left the hospital. I knew that was fast, faster than most people. But even so, I said, "I still feel very fragile...physically, mentally, emotionally." I hadn't really acknowledged that directly to anyone, though Josh knew. My friend asked if I thought it could be postpartum depression.

I'd never thought of that. Though I've always been melancholy and have had a few major battles with depression, my knowledge of PPD didn't extend beyond something about Brooke Shields and something about Tom Cruise being rude. I looked it up and found a list of something like eight symptoms. I had something like six of them.

But for more than a month, I did nothing except tell Josh and my mom about it. It got worse. I didn't care about reading or writing, and the job I usually feel good about made me feel panicked and insanely lonely. I had to remind and push myself to eat. A couple weeks ago, I suddenly knew that waiting anymore was stupid and wrong. Keeping myself healthy is my responsibility, and that's even more vital now that I'm a parent. Obviously, I wasn't able to keep myself healthy alone. I had to find someone who could help.

I called my OB and hesitantly said, "Dr. W delivered my son four months ago. I think I'm dealing with postpartum depression. Is that something she can help me with?"
"Oh, yes," the voice assured me, immediately making me an appointment for the next morning despite a packed schedule.

I nearly cancelled the appointment when I realized I would have to miss a meeting. Mom and Josh told me that it was worth missing a meeting. I knew that, of course, but I felt so unsure about everything.

I texted my friend again, telling her that I'd made an appointment to get help for PPD.
"I'm so glad you called," she answered. I felt so relieved and validated when I read that. She told me that if this doctor wouldn't help me, I should keep going to doctors until someone did help.

The OB helped. She asked dozens of questions in the process but never questioned me. Matthews 7:7 ("Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.") kept playing in a Sunday school song form in my mind.

Josh has been keeping a log about the changes he sees. Oliver's complicated birth, my being sick and stuck at the hospital, my inability to work exactly as I used to, and my trying to deal with the sludge of hopeless sadness I couldn't reason away have made me feel so frustrated with and reluctant to admit my need for help. But suddenly, I write in my journal and read almost every day. I don't worry or even really think about the dishes or laundry or vacuuming--I let Josh do that. I'm cherishing the evening cuddles Oliver and I have even after my long days. I'm noticing how lovely my husband's hands are. I'm writing this. I don't feel the oppressive Sunday evening gloom.

Oliver sat up by himself this afternoon. Josh told me that this morning while I slept, Oliver held Josh's finger in one hand and stretched out the other hand to touch my shoulder. Oliver has been gazing at me and then at Josh, staring pensively until we each make eye contact and smile. Then he grins and turns to gaze at the other. This is the first day he seems to be aware of us as his two parents, the two people who are his very own.

Josh is holding him up right now next to me. Oliver is a little buttermilk elf in a diaper, grabbing his daddy's sideburns and gazing at me with wide blue eyes and brushstroke eyelashes. I am enjoying this day.