Page 59 of Open Net

I shook my head. “I haven’t since I had him.”

“Do you ever think of harming yourself?”

“No. Never.”

“Or Jackson?”

I watched his peaceful face. “No.”

“Okay.” She sat up straight. “I’m not a doctor and I never went through this myself, but your aunt Becky did.”

I was shocked. She understood what I was saying? And I wasn’t the only one?

“I think you have postpartum depression, Emma.”

My shoulders sagged. “But the doctor said-”

She cut me off. “I don’t think the doctor took the time to really talk to you.”

The appointment was about Jackson, she had just asked me in passing how I was. “He didn’t.”

Mom nodded. “I think you should go to your OB GYN or family doctor and talk to them about what you’re feeling.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I didn’t want to have to discuss it with someone else. It was hard enough talking about it with Mom.

“Won’t it just go away on its own?”

“I don’t think so honey. At least not for a long while. Do you really want to keep feeling like this when there’s something that could help you now?”

She had a point. If what I was feeling was postpartum depression, then there was a treatment. I’d read about it in my pregnancy books, but I never thought I’d end up having it. I’d never had depression before. Maybe that’s why I didn't recognize what it was.

“Okay.”

She nodded. “I’ll call and make an appointment.”

I smiled while she got up and went to my phone. I hadn’t had someone make an appointment for me since high school. I felt like a child again with my mom taking care of me, and I didn’t mind one bit.

* * *

Mom said she wanted to come to the appointment with me to help with Jackson if he got fussy, but I was pretty sure she came to make sure I told the doctor the truth.

With each question I gave a brief, vague response and Mom would elbow me. I ended up admitting the thoughts and feelings I’d been having.

The doctor said, “I’m going to go ahead and say you do have postpartum depression and I think it was most likely caused by the trauma of the birth.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Really?”

She nodded. “Emma, you went through labor only to have a C-section and then you almost died. Add that to having to care for a newborn and recovering from everything your body went through...not to mention the hormones. I think you have PTSD.”

I wanted to argue with her. Tell her that was something soldiers or plane crash victims had exclusive rights to, but I’d heard enough stories to know the brain was a mysterious thing. It could happen to anyone at any time.

I finally nodded. “What can I do?”

She seemed pleased I accepted her diagnosis. “I’m prescribing you anti-depressants.”

“Can I still pump?”

She smiled reassuringly. “Yes, of course.”