I sat on the padded table, Reagan propped on my knee. The appointment was for my four-month-old daughter. Our family doctor was about to bring the nurses in to inject Reagan with vaccines for polio, diphtheria and influenza. I shuddered at the thought. Medicine intimidated me, the sight of a syringe sometimes causing my arms and legs to tense up and my stomach to constrict until I nearly felt I would blackout.
“I’ll bring the nurses in to administer the shots.”
The doctor, a woman in her forties wearing a pristine-white jacket over a floral dress, held a clipboard with Reagan’s vital statistics written on it.
“Before I go,” she said, “is there anything you need to discuss about Reagan’s diet or sleep patterns?”
My infant daughter sucked on my index finger as she leaned her head into my forearm, her body not quite strong enough to sit up on its own.
“No,” I replied, “everything’s fine with her."
My husband’s voice entered my thoughts just then. “You need help. You need to talk to the doctor.”
While I held Reagan on the patient table, the “other” voice --- the one that kept me awake all hours of the night, the voice that haunted me during the day --- began shrieking its words.
‘Yes, you do need help but no one can help you!’
The doctor stood at the door to go.
“So everything is fine then,” she concluded, turning to jot down a note on Reagan’s chart.
Any minute, she and her white coat would be walking out the door, handing the chart to a couple of nurses waiting on the other side with syringes.
What was I doing? Why couldn’t I speak? Why couldn’t I tell her that everything is not fine with ME?
“Um, actually,” I stammered. “Well. It seems that, um, I may be, um …”
C’mon, spit the word out!
“I may be … depressed.”
The doctor lowered her eyelids. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, opening the door and closing it.
The room was quiet. All I could hear was the sound of Reagan sucking my finger. Where had the doctor gone?
Several seconds ticked by. My heart beat along with them.
When the door finally opened, the doctor was holding a box.
Inside were foil-lined packages with colorful photos of middle-aged people. They appeared to be laughing and smiling, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders.
The doctor removed one of the packages.
“It’s very common,” she said looking directly at me, her voice composed. “You are a new mom, and your body is going through a lot of hormonal changes.”
The doctor continued speaking, but I’m not really sure what she said. I was distracted by Reagan’s sucking, which was becoming fiercer with each sentence the doctor spoke.
Reagan released her grip from my finger and began twisting and turning her body. She was trying to free herself from my grasp.
With her little body attempting to wiggle away, she started grunting as the doctor spoke. The grunts and the doctor’s voice blended together, filling the room with obnoxious noise.
“What you have,” the doctor said to me, “is commonly called---”
Grunt!
“---baby blues. It’s really very common. I’d like you to take this package---”
Grunt, grunt!
“---and read the information on the back. These antidepressant pills are a low dose. I think they will help you get through the---”
Upset grunt!
“---winter months. I’d like you to stay on them at least through April and longer if you would like. You should notice yourself starting to feel---”
Grunt, twist, WAIL!
“---better within two to four weeks. Be sure to take one every day. Do you have any questions?”
I sat there stunned by all the noise.
Reagan was wrestling with my arms, and I had just been given pills to take once a day for the next few months. And the doctor wanted to know if I had any questions?
While I continued to struggle with Reagan, the doctor pulled a second chart with sheets containing all of my health information. Surely she would notice from the sheets that there was a family history of depression. I didn’t want to have to admit that again.
“Um, doctor,” I stuttered, holding Reagan firm to assuage her fussing. “Well. Um. I’m really not sure if I want to take--- well, maybe, um …”
Before I could stop myself, I nodded my head yes. I had agreed to take the lowest dosage of the tiny white pills. The ones encased in the package with happy people.
The doctor nodded back. With her eyes focused on my medical chart, she told me to call with any questions. Then she excused herself and left the room.
Reagan and I sat there alone, my daughter continuing to fuss. I set the package on the patient table. As I held my daughter carefully, an odd thought occurred to me.
‘It might be fine.’
For all I knew, it could have been the depression talking nonsense again.
Reagan’s grunts turned into soft, dull moans until all I heard or felt in the room was the ticking of my pulse. My feet began swaying back and forth in a rocking motion that I hoped would calm my daughter down.
‘It will be fine.’
As if a cool breeze had suddenly entered the room, the thought finally embraced my mind.
‘I will be fine.’
*Note: “Reagan” is a pseudonym.
