Day Nine by Amanda Munday

Author:Amanda Munday
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2019-03-29T16:00:00+00:00

Part II

Sleep, Please

June 28, 2014

A NURSE WAKES ME UP in the morning. I must have fallen asleep. It’s 6:30 a.m. Now that I’ve had a few hours of disrupted sleep, the last thing I want to do is wake up. How does being awake serve me? I’m locked in a hospital room waiting for my husband and baby to arrive and keep me company.

I’m overcome with sadness when I imagine how Gordon and my sister are navigating the morning. By this time, they have likely already been awake for hours. He now has to pack the little one up in her car seat again and come over, this time racing around our home looking for items of comfort and a change of clothes for me. I’ve asked for too much.

After the morning bed check, a frazzled Gordon arrives with coffee. My sister comes in behind him, looking like she’s been through war.

A nurse drops off a schedule of the day’s activities, and I look to Gordon and yell, loud enough for everyone outside of my room to hear, “I’m not interested any of these programs! I’ll do what I’m forced to and opt out of anything more. I am not leaving this room!” If I go, I’ll be admitting I’m a permanent resident here. I do not want to be an active participant in this hellish place. I’m tired. I look up to Gordon with a quivering lip and say, “I didn’t ask to be here. This wasn’t what I thought would happen when we came to the hospital.” He nods in agreement, encouraging my resistance.

I do kind of want to talk with others, especially other parents, but maybe the programs here aren’t intended for mothers who think about hurting their children. Art therapy sounds like a reward not a treatment. I don’t deserve gifts. What will others think of me if they find out why I’m here? Given how adamant everyone in my family is that I don’t belong here, it seems wrong to do anything but shuffle around in my hospital room. After being told I can’t opt out of the one-on-one sessions with medical staff, I head off to a session with a friendly hospital psychologist wearing a sleeveless rainbow dress. Her outfit reminds me that it’s Pride weekend in Toronto. My weekend schedule doesn’t include barbeques and street parties, but it does include a lot of new people, from all over the city, coming together in one common space.

This new psychologist explains to me that at this hospital, they do a mix of cognitive behavioural therapy (returning to the work of “what is the likelihood of that bad thing happening to you?”), exposure therapy (“what do you fear and can you confront it?”), and group programs, though she cautions me about how I might speak about my intrusive thoughts, as they would most certainly be triggering to others. She invites me to imagine myself back at home, alone with my baby. She hears me when I say that planning helps me feel safe.

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