It’s time to go back to work, and you still don’t have a nanny. You spent the last two nights sobbing on the floor of Caroline’s room. You call your boss. You consider telling her you need a medical leave, that you’re sick. Part of you knows this is true. But another part of you knows what’s really wrong—you are simply in touch with the truth, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. Caroline has hollowed out a vast grief within you. You boil with pain for the whole world. Mothers lose their children every day, and they always have. You’ve been oblivious your whole life. But now you can think of nothing else.
These are not things you can say to your boss, so you tell her you’re not quite ready to come back. She reluctantly agrees to two more weeks. There’s a conference at the end of the month, and you’re presenting. She emailed to remind you a few weeks ago. You haven’t been logging in like you said you would. You hang up and find the email among hundreds waiting for you. You can’t remember anything about the program you’re supposed to present on, never mind everything that’s probably changed since you’ve been out. These conferences used to be no big deal. A little stressful speaking in front of all those people, but you always knew the material inside and out. Because you put in the time. Often twelve hours a day. There’s no way you’re going to be able to do that now. Not when Caroline needs so much from you.
You need to figure something out, but your thoughts feel weighted. You stare blankly over the top of your laptop screen for what feels like a very long time. A not entirely unwelcome state of mental fog sets in, accompanied by a heaviness in your forehead. You feel the same heaviness in your feet. Then everywhere. Creeping up your arms from your fingertips. Soon you can no longer hold up the growing weight of your shoulders and head. Your left arm drops to your side and pulls you down toward the floor. Your hands are so heavy you can’t even lift them to catch yourself. The side of your face hits the floor, hard. Then the dead weight of your body slides you forward. Your cheek burns as it drags along the carpet.
Caroline is asleep in her bouncy chair. At this level, you’ve got a clear view of her across the living room, and you lie there and stare at her. The carpet beneath your face grows wet with tears silently spilling from you. “I’m so sorry I brought you here,” you say out loud, looking at her perfect face. “I wanted you so badly, but it was selfish. I didn’t want to be alone.”
Caroline stirs and blinks her eyes open. “What was it like before you got here?” you ask. “Did you feel nothing? That’s what I want.”
She moves her mouth and scrunches her face. Her little tongue comes out to lick her lips. She’s hungry. Your breasts tingle and ache in response and soon you feel milk seeping through your bra. But you still can’t move. She’s crying now and kicking her legs, and you lie there as still as you’ve been the whole time. It’s like your blood has thickened and pooled inside you against all the spots touching the floor, securing you there with your own mass. As the minutes pass, and you stare helplessly at Caroline, you become vaguely aware of your full bladder. Not long after, you feel warmth seep through your pants and into the carpet beneath you.
You have no idea how long you’ve been on the floor when Drew comes home. He rushes in quickly, calling for you over Caroline’s shrill cries. He nearly trips over you in his hurry to get to her. Then he’s kneeling down and shaking you. “Honey, can you hear me?” There’s panic in his voice. You can’t make your lips move to say anything. He’s checking your breathing and pulse. He calls 911. You want to tell him to stop. You don’t want an ambulance. You don’t want the hospital. Not again.