Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  I hum to my sweet child and vow that I will give her everything in my power. I will dedicate my life to her. I will nurture her, comfort her, teach her and beat up anyone who hurts her. I know at this moment that I won’t go back to work until she’s ready for school. Even then, I might just wait by the door and stare at it until she comes home to me.

  Chapter 46

  At three o’clock in the morning I wake in a blind panic. Where’s Sophie? I start hitting the nurse’s call button like my child’s life depends on it. When my daughter is finally brought to me, I grab her like I’m rescuing her from a sinking ship. What is going on?

  I try to calm myself enough to discern the root of my terror. Was it a bad dream, I wonder? Yet, I don’t even remember dreaming. Have I suddenly become psychic and am reacting to a real threat to my child? This is highly unlikely as I’ve never shown any propensity for having more than the requisite five senses.

  What in all that’s holy is happening to me then? The anxiety is not lessening. I wind up spending the entire night sitting up in bed holding my baby, wrapped in fear that something malevolent is lurking. By the time Elliot gets here, I’m beyond exhausted. I don’t explain what’s going on inside of me because truthfully, I have no idea what it is. I just command him to hold Sophie and not to put her down until I wake up.

  Three hours later, I open my eyes to find neither husband nor baby are in the room. The panic returns like a flip of the switch. I throw off my sheets, swing my legs over the side of the bed and tentatively try to stand. I must be behind on my pain killers because my incision stabs like I’ve just been attacked by a pack of wild dogs.

  I very gingerly begin my first real exercise since giving birth. I walk out the door of my room and take off down the hall. A few people pass me, nurses, doctors and random visitors. Everyone smiles pleasantly like I’m not in the middle of the worst nightmare of my life. I can’t find my baby!

  I must look normal enough because nobody offers to help me. I’m about to scream when I spy Elliot about ten doors down coming toward me. He’s alone.

  I yell out, “Where’s Sophie?”

  My husband picks up his pace and greets, “Good morning sweetheart, how did you sleep?”

  I don’t answer. Instead I demand, “Where’s Sophie?”

  Even Elliot doesn’t seem to be aware of how upset I am because he simply responds, “The nurse took her for a hearing test.”

  “Why?” I demand. “Is something wrong with her hearing? Are you sure it was a nurse? Did you check her ID?”

  My sweet husband is beginning to clue in that all is not well with me. “Mimi,” he starts, “are you okay?”

  “No!” I screech. “I’m not. I need to see my baby and make sure she’s okay.” Then I add, “Now Elliot, go find her!” He clearly doesn’t know what to do. I see that he wants to help me but the only way he can do that is to bring me my child.

  He finally seems to fathom my command and instructs, “Go back to your room and I’ll find the baby.” I nod my head like he’s explaining quantum fusion to me. The words eventually soak in and I begin to return from whence I came.

  I want to rip my head open and pull out this new interloper, fear. It’s a real thing, not just some fleeting sensation. This bitch appears to be digging in like an inoperable tumor.

  Once I get back to my room, I use the bathroom and then start pacing until Elliot walks in with our daughter. I demand, “Hand her to me.”

  As soon as she’s safely in my arms, my breathing starts to calm. Elliot helps me into bed and I nurse Sophie. It’s like I’ve just been given a shot of Valium. I immediately start to calm down, but I’m still not the person I was when I went to bed last night. That blissfully ignorant woman is nowhere to be seen and I miss her.

  Elliot finally asks, “Mimi, what’s going on?”

  I look at him wild-eyed and confess, “I don’t know. I woke up in the middle of the night full of terror that something bad was about to happen to the baby. I couldn’t sleep all night. By the time you got here I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. When I woke up and couldn’t find you, it was like the middle of the night all over again. Elliot,” I say, “something’s happening to me and I hate how it feels.”

  Completely missing the degree of my distress, he tries to sooth, “You’re a mother now, darling. Things are bound to feel different.”

  I let him think his words are profound and helpful but they’re not. I’m afraid if I try to convey the level of how crazy I feel, he won’t understand and will be afraid to leave Sophie with me, and Sophie is the only thing I can focus on.

  I ask, “Would you mind going out and getting me a hot chocolate?” I want a hot chocolate about as much as I want an enema, but I need to get rid of him so I can talk to a nurse and find out what’s going on with me.

  My clueless husband kisses me on the forehead and replies, “I’d be happy to, darling.”

  As soon as he leaves I ring for the nurse. When she arrives, she introduces herself as Carol and I explain, “Carol, I’m feeling a little crazy here.”

  She laughs, “Well, why wouldn’t you? You’ve just given birth and your hormones are all over the place.” She assures, “It’s normal, honey.”

  “Carol,” I begin, “I don’t just feel a little off. I feel completely nuts, like I want to rip my brain out through my nose. What can we do about that?”

  Again, missing the degree of my distress, the middle aged hospital worker replies, “Honey, it’s just the baby blues. They don’t last long, so you just have to hang in there with it. You’ll be fine in a couple of weeks.”

  Calling what I’m experiencing, something as benign sounding as “the baby blues,” is the equivalent of comparing Godzilla to a cute little monkey. This is no piddling little thing like feeling a tad weepy. This is a real monster and I have no idea what to do about it.

  When the doctor arrives later in the morning, I send Elliot on another fool’s errand, this time for graham crackers and cool whip. I approach her a little more intensely than I did the nurse. “Dr. Fermin,” I start. “I feel completely insane. I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic that something was wrong with Sophie and I can’t seem to shake that worry.”

  She smiles at me and responds, “Being a parent is a whole new world, Mimi. You’re bound to experience a plethora of new emotions.”

  I explain, “I feel like I have a fear demon in my head. I’m anxious, panicky and very, very afraid.” I clearly state, “This cannot be a normal reaction to motherhood.”

  My doctor replies, “Everyone feels something different. Look,” she explains, “you’re almost thirty-six years old. Two days ago you were filled with all of these wonderful pregnancy hormones that were approximately the equivalent of what your levels were when you were sixteen. In the course of twenty minutes, you gave birth and those hormones started to revert to those of a woman in her late thirties.”

  I want to point out that I’m most definitely in my mid-thirties, not my late thirties, but I realize in her eyes they’re similar enough, so I hold my tongue.

  She continues, “Most woman experience some level of postpartum, even if they aren’t aware of it. It’s bound to be elevated in your case. If you don’t feel better in a few weeks, let me know and we’ll figure something out.”

  “A few weeks?” I demand. I want to rip my head off now. “How in the world am I going to handle feeling like this for a few weeks?”

  She smiles, “With the help of your husband and family. You can do this, Mimi. You’re a strong woman.”

  The hell she says. I cannot do this, but sadly there doesn’t seem to be an alternative.

  Chapter 47

  When Elliot comes back with my snack, the one I have no intention of eating, I ask him to call everyone and ask them not to come to the hospital today. He seems a bit surprised but concedes to my wishes readily enough.

  I’m constantly thirsty. I know it’s because I’m nursing and my body craves fluids, bu
t I’m having the hardest time eating or drinking anything. I find the only way I can consume water is to close my eyes and take slow sips. The liquid can’t be too cold or I feel panicky, it can’t be hot or I feel panicky. It’s like the three little bears, on crack, playing it out in my head. Everything has to be just so or I can’t handle it.

  I start to feel a little calmer with no visitors. Elliot doesn’t leave my side all day and he holds Sophie when she’s not in my arms. It’s just the three of us in our sterile hospital bubble. I’m lured into the false hope the anxiety is decreasing. Maybe this is just a fast moving thing and my hormone levels are almost balanced again, and maybe I’m about to sprout wings and fly.

  The nurse comes in and suggests I take a shower. This sounds like a lovely idea. I’ve been sweating like a pig for two days and my hair feels like a bucket of grease has been dropped on it. Suddenly, I want to get clean more than I want to draw breath. She helps me out of bed and into the bathroom before leaving me to my business.

  The water feels heavenly spraying down on my scalp. I lather myself like I’m trying to wash away raw sewage. That’s when it hits. I become dizzy, so I open my eyes to catch my balance and realize the walls of the tiny shower stall are closing in on me. It’s like I’m being sucked through a straw. My heart starts racing and I can’t catch my breath. I try to call out to Elliot to help me but I can’t get enough air in my lungs to make a sound.

  I wind up sitting on the toilet, soaking wet, and covered in suds for a good five minutes before I can talk myself into returning to the shower to rinse off. Even with the curtain open, it is the singularly hardest thing I’ve ever done. That includes the ten mile marathon I ran in high school and staying up all night to cram for tests in college. I would have much rather gone for an excruciating uphill run, barefoot in the snow with a boulder on my back or spent eight agonizing hours immersed in German verb conjugation, than go back into the minuscule capsule of a shower for even a minute.

  By the time I’m finally clean and cross the threshold of my room, I’m in tears. I sob to my husband, “Elliot, I’ve started to feel claustrophobic.” I hiccup and shake as my shoulders convulse, “The walls were closing in on me. I , I , I …” but I can’t catch my breath to go on.

  He stands up, puts Sophie in her bassinet and welcomes me into his loving embrace. I let him hold me until I process he’s no longer holding the baby and I scream, “Elliot, pick up Sophie! Remember our deal?” I remind him, “If I’m not holding her, you are. Got it?”

  His lovely lordship has no idea what’s going on with me and looks a bit frightened by my latest outburst. I would love to console him and tell him not to worry, that I’ll get over whatever’s happening, but the thing is; I’m not sure I will.

  Yet, I don’t want him to think I’m insane and worry about Sophie’s safety with me, so I try to put his mind at ease and relay, “Dr. Fermin says this is all normal and falls under the scope of a postpartum reaction to rebalancing hormones.” I call bullshit on that nonsense but it seems to make Elliot feel better.

  The only time I don’t want to smack my head into the wall in hopes of killing the fear monster is when I’m nursing my baby. I’m sure my body is producing some lovely chemical that works as a tranquilizer. I only wish someone would bottle it so I could supplement whatever I’m making, because it doesn’t seem to be quite enough.

  Elliot stays in the hospital with me that night so I can sleep. We keep Sophie in the room with us. Just knowing he and the baby are right there seems to quell my anxiety enough for me to surrender to unconsciousness. Elliot brings my daughter to me when she wants to nurse and then changes her diaper and puts her back into her bassinet.

  The next morning, Dr. Fermin comes to make sure that I’ve had a bowel movement. Pooping seems to be the holy grail of surgery. Once your body can perform that basic function, you’re well on your way to recovery.

  Sophie will visit the doctor in four days to make sure all is well. My first appointment won’t be for six weeks. My doctor instructs me to call her in three weeks to let her know how my anxiety is. I was thinking a daily check-in would be better, but I reluctantly agree to her schedule.

  Elliot loads the flowers, gifts and bags into the car while I sit and feed the baby. It’s 11 a.m. by the time he comes for us and I don’t want to leave. This tiny little nothing of a hospital room feels like my new home. I’ve bonded with it. It’s the only residence my daughter’s ever known. I burst into tears like I’m being forcibly removed from my childhood home. I feel like a total lunatic.

  Once we get Sophie all buckled into her infant car seat, I get into the passenger’s side next to Elliot. Before he can pull out, I stop him. “I’m going to sit in the back with the baby.”

  As soon as I get out of the car, I start to scan the parking garage like I expect suicide ninjas to attack. I hurriedly climb into the back and yell, “Lock the doors and step on it!”

  There’s nothing you’re thinking that hasn’t already crossed my mind. I’m eighty-seven percent sure no one has hired ninjas to come after us. I fully know how idiotic my thoughts are, but there’s nothing I can do to stop them. It’s like someone else has moved into my brain and they’re forcing these ridiculous feelings.

  Elliot has forewarned his family, Richard, and Abbie to make themselves scarce when we get home. I do not want to see anyone. I take Sophie straight up to my room and shut the door. I crawl into bed and lay her next to me before falling into a deep sleep. When I wake up I’m not even sure who I am, yet alone where I am, although my first instinct is to reach out for my baby.

  Elliot comes in and asks if I want to eat. I don’t, but I know I need to in order to keep my milk production up, so I ask him to bring me what everyone else is having. He arrives a short while later with a goat cheese and fennel salad and a steaming bowl of lentil soup. It looks and smells wonderful but still manages to have the appeal of a bowl full of raw slugs.

  The Englishman sits next to me on the bed while I pick at it. “Mimi,” he says, “I know you’re having a rough time. I want you to know I’m here for you. Anything you need or want, just tell me.”

  I fear I need a padded room and want the fear monster to die, but I know he can’t help me with those, so I merely thank him.

  He asks, “Everyone would like to come in and welcome you home. Is that okay?”

  I shake my head, “No. No one comes in.” Then I throw him a bone, “Maybe tomorrow.”

  I can imagine my husband trying to explain my behavior to our families, and I know how I must sound to them, but the reality is so much worse that I can’t seem to care.

  Chapter 48

  Abbie knocks on the door the next morning and asks to be let in. I don’t want to let her, but I reason she’s probably not going to kill us, so I respond, “You can come in, but only for a minute.”

  She peaks her head around the corner before walking over to the bed. She sits down next to me and declares, “Mimi, you need some exercise.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t. The doctor says not for two weeks.”

  She responds, “You can’t actually work out for two weeks but you have to get out of bed and walk.” She promises, “It’s the only thing that’s going to help fight the demons in your head.”

  I look up at her in surprise, “What do you know about the demons in my head?”

  She answers, “My mom had horrible postpartum depression with her last baby. It was bad, Mimi. I know you’re terrified and I know you don’t feel like yourself. I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out of this bed and start moving.” She continues, “Your body will produce some righteous chemicals as a reaction and those are what’s going to get you through this.”

  She’s so sure of herself and so forceful in her belief that I trust her. I believe her enough to have her get Sophie’s stroller ready, because God knows I’m not leaving my baby behind. I quickly get dressed in some yoga pants and a heavy sweater and venture out of my cave.

  The house f
eels bigger than I remember and I worry I won’t feel secure ever again. Without drawing any attention to myself, I bundle Sophie into her stroller and walk out the front door. At first, I just stroll around the circumference of the fountain. I do this about twenty times before venturing down the length of the driveway. I manage that about ten times before I start to feel a little better. Twenty more laps around the drive and I feel nearly as normal as I did before the baby was born.

  When I finally go inside, I’m ready to see people. Victoria is the first person I run into. She stays at a distance and doesn’t crowd me, just greets, “Mimi, welcome home. How’s Sophie?”

  I reply, “She’s fine and thank you. I’m glad to be home.” Not. But our relationship is already weird enough. I don’t want to add fuel to her fire.

  She smiles and declares, “Maybe we’ll see you at supper.”

  I make a noncommittal sound and walk by her on my way up the stairs. By the time I get back to my room, I realize I don’t feel as anxious as I expected to, talking to someone other than my husband. Maybe I really will join them.

  I make three more trips outside to walk off the looming crazies. I worry about the most insane array of things. I’m constantly scanning the grounds to make sure there are no snipers hiding behind shrubbery. The same goes for the trees. I keep looking up to prepare myself for a drop attack.

  I remember the woman from the support group who incessantly worried about terrorist attacks and I decide to adopt her fear as my own. I believe I’ve already mentioned how susceptible I am to suggestion. So I now scan the horizon for low flying airplanes, and God help me, missiles.

  I know you’re thinking, Mimi you need to go back to that support group. You have to let them help you get through this. Yeah, well that’s not going to happen. If I go back, I’ll hear fifty things that haven’t occurred to me to panic over and I will, once the idea is introduced. No outside commiserating for me. I’ve got to do this on my own, in the relative safety of my home.