Our first child was born December 29th, 1967. She was full term,
but underweight, 71 ounces, and whisked off to an incubator without
even letting Linda touch her. They don't do that nowadays, didn't
even do it seven years later when our second weighed in at 3-11,
but things were different then. Don't even ask: fathers were most
definitely not welcome in the delivery room December of 1967.
We did get to see her, of course. Through glass, a forlorn little
bundle of clothes in a box, tubes stuck in impossibly tiny arms.
It was hard; I could see that Linda wanted so badly to hold her
baby, and we both were frightened by the Doctor's cautious responses
to our questions about her health.
A few days later I took Linda home. We had expected to come home
with our Debby; we had her crib, and diaper service, and clothing,
and lotions and bottles and pins and everything we could think of
and more, but no baby. A strange and sad homecoming.
We visited her every night. Disappointing because we still were not
allowed to touch her, but we had nothing else to make her real, and
staring through a glass window was better than staring at each other
at home.
The good news was that she was strong, and took to her formula well.
She gained weight quickly, and after 30 long days they said we
could take her home. The nurse handed our Debby to Linda in the
car (no car seats then) and for the first time she held our baby
in her arms and touched her fingers and that soft little face
and I was so damn proud of them and myself and it was just
more than I can say here. Linda talked to her and told her her name,
and I think that was the same day she gave her the other name,
Doobles, that stuck somehow, and even today we refer to her as
The Doob.
Babies need to be fed pretty regularly, and they have no respect for
time, but Linda took most of the late night bottles because I had
a job to get up for and she didn't. Still, you could have stood
outside our apartment some early, early mornings, and, attracted
by the light from our window, have stolen a guilty peek and found
the two of us entranced by the little greedy milk-sucking machine
in Linda's lap. If you had ever had kids of your own you wouldn't
have wondered why two people who looked so tired still looked so
happy.
But something went wrong. Months went by, and Debby didn't seem
to catch on to the sleep through the night thing. We mentioned
it to our pediatrician, because our friends had babies that slept
through after a few months, but he said it was normal.
Six months. Seven months. Still waking up crying several times
every single night. Usually she didn't even want a bottle. The
only thing that seemed to sooth her was to be carried and talked
or sung to. Rocking wasn't enough, it had to be walking. In
spite of the fact that I had a job, it was too much for Linda
to do alone. Debby was growing quickly, she was actually a good
chunk to lug around, and Linda just couldn't take it hour after
hour, night after night. So we took turns, and Debby snuffled
in our necks as we walked and walked and walked in the still
hours of the night.
It's vague to us now. This was to go on for a little over two years!
It's no wonder we can't remember details, we were both physically
and emotionally exhausted. It wasn't just the strain of missed
sleep. There is also the emotional drain from a distressed child
that you cannot seem to comfort. At some point we switched
pediatricians, and a formula change was ordered, but neither of
us can remember if that did much good. Because things got worse.
Debby became an irritable and whiny child. She bit her fingernails
constantly, and was always fidgeting. She did not get along well
with other children. The nighttime crying continued, and the
strain on both of us mounted higher and higher.
I came home one afternoon and found that Debby was napping, but Linda
was just sitting in a chair, sobbing. She would not or could not
talk to me, she just sobbed. I soothed her, and got her to the point
of being able to stammer words, but her hands were shaking and she
wasn't making sense.
I can't recall exactly what happened then. I called our family doctor,
he might have come to us (they still did that, then) or I might have
taken Linda to him. Maybe he gave her a shot, maybe a pill, but the
final result was that he suggested and she agreed to commit herself
to a State psychiatric hospital.
A psychiatric hospital. A mental breakdown caused by too little sleep,
too much stress, too much worry. I look at Linda now and I see this
strong, confident women, tough in body and mind, and I cannot imagine
that she was ever this broken, incoherent person. But she was.
I can't remember taking her there; I can't remember leaving her; I
can't remember going home to sleep alone. My mother took Debby,
I'm sure. I do remember visiting her later, and trying to find my
wife in drugged eyes, and hugging a barely responsive stranger goodbye,
and then sitting in the parking lot, pounding on the dashboard of my
car with my fist, pounding, pounding, pounding to make noise and pain
and more noise and pain to drown out the helpless anger inside.
I don't know how long she was there. A week, ten days, maybe longer.
She doesn't remember either, but she remembers that it was hard for
her to fight the easy slide into dependence that was so temptingly
available to her. But she wanted to see her Doobles, and she wanted
to be with me, and she fought that weakness and she did come home to
us. I wish I could tell you how I felt that day. I just do not
remember, but it must have been something grand nonetheless.
We changed pediatricians again after that. It seems so stupid now.
Our poor child was suffering from worms. Initially her distress was
probably trouble with the formula, but when she was finally diagnosed,
they said she had been infected with the worms for a year or more. Why
the first two doctors didn't know this, didn't check for this, didn't
listen to our constant worry about her, I just don't know.
The Doob, by the way, is now 5-10 with a 36 inch in-seam. Our first
pediatrician said that she would be tall. I guess he had to be right
about something.
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