June had been fussing after most feedings.
At first I blamed the formula.
Then the bottle nipples.
Then the angle at which I held her.
I kept notes on everything.
I counted ounces.
I timed burps.
I watched for tiny changes in her face.
The pediatrician reviewed the feeding log without alarm.
June was gaining weight.
She was growing.
The doctor discussed reflux precautions and the signs that would require prompt reassessment.
I should have felt reassured.
Instead I asked another question.
Then another.
The doctor answered patiently.
Finally she turned toward me.
"How are you sleeping?"
"Fine."
She looked at the dark shadows beneath my eyes.
"How many hours last night?"
"A few."
"How many?"
I looked down.
"I don't know."
The truth was that I kept waking after the girls were quiet.
I checked their breathing even when the monitor showed nothing wrong.
I listened for noises I couldn't name.
I avoided taking the trash outside because the driveway was where I had once watched Mary reverse the car.
My own body felt like a house in which I'd left every alarm switched on.
The pediatrician set down her pen.
"It sounds as though you're carrying a lot. Have you told your doctor how you're feeling?"
"I have a counselor."
"That's good. Have you mentioned the sleep?"
"Not all of it."
She gave me a calm look.
"Please do. Caring for these girls includes taking care of the person caring for them."
I wanted to argue that the girls came first.
Then I thought about Mary making the same claim.
I went home and called my own doctor.
The next appointment wasn't until Friday.
I took it.
Ruth came to watch the girls.
She noticed my notes spread across the kitchen table.
"You need a filing cabinet," she said.
"I need to stop forgetting things."
"You haven't forgotten anything important."
"I forgot to eat lunch yesterday."
"That's important."
She opened the refrigerator.
There was soup, yogurt, and enough leftovers for three meals.
She put a plate in front of me.
"Eat this before you leave."
At the appointment, the doctor asked about sleep, appetite, concentration, and the way I responded to reminders of the hospital.
I tried to answer without apologizing.
She discussed grief and trauma responses.
She suggested we monitor my symptoms and coordinate with my counselor.
There was no instant solution.
No single test that could prove I was all right.
But she took my health seriously.
I had forgotten what that felt like.
That evening I told Evelyn about the appointment.
She didn't lecture me.
"Good," she said.
"That's all?"
"What did you want me to say?"
"That I should have gone sooner."
"You already know that."
We laughed quietly.
The next week I began following a more manageable nighttime routine.
Ruth helped me identify tasks that could wait until morning.
Evelyn took one afternoon shift with the girls.
I used the time to sleep instead of sorting mail.
The first nap felt like an act of disobedience.
I woke after forty minutes and reached for my phone.
There were no emergency calls.
The girls had been fed.
Evelyn had sent a photograph of June drooling on her cardigan.
I sat at the edge of the bed and stared at it.
Then I lay down again.
On Sunday, I took the girls outside in their stroller.
The weather was mild.
A neighbor walked her dog across the street.
She stopped to ask about them.
I told her their names.
She looked at my face.
"They're beautiful. You must be exhausted."
"I am," I said.
For once I didn't pretend otherwise.
She told me her husband could cut our overgrown lawn.
I said yes.
It was a small thing.
I had walked past that lawn every day, angry at myself for leaving it untouched.
The next morning, it was trimmed.
Nobody had judged me.
Nobody had asked me to explain why I couldn't do it.
It was just grass.
And I could finally see the path to the front door again.
My doctor also asked about the meals I was missing.
I had gotten used to making food for everyone except myself.
A small bowl of cereal would sit on the counter while I changed diapers.
Hours later I would find it soggy.
I told myself it didn't matter.
The doctor disagreed.
"You need enough food and rest to function," she said. "Not as a reward. As ordinary care."
She asked whether I had support with shopping and cooking.
I told her about Ruth and Evelyn.
"Then make specific requests," she suggested.
I called Ruth from the parking lot.
"Could you help me make a weekly meal plan?"
She sounded pleased.
"You mean one that includes you?"
"Preferably."
She came over the next evening with a pad of paper.
We started with meals I could prepare while one baby was crying.
Pasta.
Eggs.
Soup.
Sandwiches.
Meals didn't need to be beautiful.
They needed to exist.
Ruth put a second list on the refrigerator for shopping.
I began eating lunch before the afternoon rush instead of waiting for a quiet moment that never arrived.
When I told the counselor, she asked whether I felt better.
"Some days," I said.
"What happens on the days you don't?"
"I still eat lunch."
She smiled.
"That sounds like a useful habit."
I didn't suddenly become organized in every part of my life.
There were mornings when we ran out of clean bibs.
Once I forgot a daycare form and had to drive home for it.
Another time I arrived at the supermarket without my wallet.
I was embarrassed.
Then I thought about how often Mary had forgotten her keys and called me laughing from the driveway.
We had not considered her a failure.
I tried extending the same tolerance to myself.
One evening I burned dinner.
The smoke alarm sounded.
I opened the window while the girls watched me from their seats.
"Your mother would be disappointed in this performance," I told them.
June laughed.
I made scrambled eggs instead.
The next day I told Ruth about it.
She said that sounded like a real household.
I realized that for months I had been trying to make our house look like nothing difficult had ever happened.
Real houses have laundry on the couch.
Real families forget a shopping item.
Real parents need naps.
Ours was allowed to be real too.
There was one more thing the doctor asked me to do.
She wanted me to identify a person I could call when I felt overwhelmed.
I said Ruth.
Then I realized I had never told Ruth exactly what that meant.
That night I asked whether she would be comfortable being my emergency contact.
She said yes.
We talked about what kind of call would warrant coming over.
We also talked about things that could wait until morning.
I had spent months expecting people to read my mind.
Now I was learning to be specific.
Ruth wrote my doctor's number beside the girls' pediatrician's number.
"I'm proud of you for asking," she said.
I tried to make a joke.
She stopped me.
"You don't need to make this funny."
So I didn't.
"Thank you," I said.
She squeezed my shoulder.
Then we folded the laundry together.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: I Opened Mary’s Last Voice Message and Understood What She Wanted Her Daughters to Hear
The Morning Mary Laughed About Baby Names and the Night I Came Home Without Her
Part 7 of 16
