The unfixable problem

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The unfixable problem

I understand why those doctors, sisters, friends, thought I needed therapy. I was filling out those questionnaires at every postpartum appointment.. “How many times in the last two weeks have you felt down, depressed or hopeless…Little interest or pleasure in doing things…” According to these forms, something was wrong with me. It was quantifiably pathological how sad I was, how I sat for days on end crying and staring at the wall.

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First rites, last rites

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First rites, last rites

We were in shock, and we had no obvious religious or cultural traditions to follow in this situation. What was offered to us was either a religion we didn’t believe in, or nothing at all. We didn’t have the energy or creativity in that moment to invent our own tradition, so it was nothing. No one around us stepped in, maybe because our entire community lacks a clear set of rituals or guidelines for how to respond to serious illness or death. 

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The time machine fantasy

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The time machine fantasy

I have a recurring daydream. The details and logistics vary but the core fantasy is the same: time travel exists. Sometimes it’s a new scientific discovery like a time machine that people can opt to use within set parameters.  Sometimes it’s a secret ability that only I access for some mysterious reason like in Back to the Future. Always my goal is to prevent my daughter’s death.

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Like a ship

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Like a ship

We spent months carefully curating a birth playlist, each song imbued with meaning, hopes, future plans communicated through song. Each one was a specially chosen message to my baby, my way of expressing my visions of our love. They were mostly joyful songs about the promise of a life about to unfold, as I anticipated seeing the world anew through her eyes. Music was a way to express a feeling that transcended words.

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