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When I put the mug down, Elaine shoves a handful of crumpled-up tissues at me. The room is silent, save for my sniffs and heavy breathing, and it's beginning to make me feel awkward. Not to mention embarrassed.
What kind of person breaks down at work? I feel humiliated at my little display, knowing everybody must have seen it. I've always taken pride in my professionalism. In being in control. But now I've managed to blow that out of the water, and let them all know what a wreck I am.
“I'm so sorry.” I blow my nose loudly. “I don't know what came over me. It's just that Max has been poorly, and neither of us got any sleep so I feel pretty rubbish.” I'm not going to tell her about me and Alex. I have to draw the line somewhere.
Elaine shoots me a brief smile. “There's no need to apologise. I've seen much worse, you know.”
“From clients, not staff.”
“Oh, you'd be surprised at the things that go on around here. A few tears are the tip of the iceberg.” She almost looks disappointed that I've stopped crying. “Anyway, I want you to take a look at this.” She passes me a piece of paper. Printed on the front are ten questions. Four answers per question. I glance at the first:
1. I have been able to laugh and see the funny side of things.
Swallowing hard, I look up at Elaine. “This is the Edinburgh test.”
She nods. “I know.”
“But that's to help diagnose post natal depression. I haven't got PND.” I try to give it back to her.
Patiently, she hands me a pen. “Humour me for a moment.”
Neither of us say a word as I answer the questions one by one. I realise I can't remember the last time I looked forward to things, or felt comfortable and carefree. As I get to the end of the test I hand it back silently to her, knowing I've scored well over the requisite ten that's needed to indicate PND. It feels like a personal failure that she's even considering I might have something wrong. I want to cry all over again, this time because she must think me an unfit mother.
“I love Max,” I tell her.
“Of course you do. We both know PND doesn't mean you don't love your baby. All it means is that you need a bit of extra help.” She hands me another tissue, noticing I've managed to use the first bunch she gave me. “Anyway, this isn't a diagnosis, only an indicator. What I want you to do is go and see your doctor now, and then take the rest of the day off.”
I roll my lip between my teeth, worrying, fretting. “I won't get in on short notice.”
“I'll call them. You go out and ask Janine to cancel your appointments, and I'll speak with your doctor. Then maybe you can pick up Max and spend the day together.”
The thought of more time with Max does perk me up. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You look like the walking dead, there's no way I'm letting you near any of our clients.”
For the first time today, a ghost of a smile passes over my lips. “Thank you.”
11
It's almost lunchtime when I walk out of the doctor's surgery, clutching a leaflet about a local support group and a card for a follow up appointment next week. This one lasted for nearly half an hour—unheard of in my surgery where patients are usually shuffled through like cattle into an abattoir.
Mild depression is how the doctor described it, with the potential to become more severe if it isn't treated. I sat there as he explained the consequences of non-intervention, finding it hard to believe the person he was describing was me.
Walking to the bus stop, I'm hit by a feeling of frustration. The streets are full of workers in their lunch hour; people with determined strides, with somewhere to go, things to do. I feel adrift among the sea of them. It's hard to admit that after everything that's happened, perhaps there is a kernel of truth in Alex's accusations.
So instead of calling my husband, I pick Max up from the nursery, signing him out early. After his sleepless night exhaustion has finally taken its toll, and he naps all the way home.
We make it there a little after two. As I turn the corner into our road, a van driver presses his horn and the loud, short burst of sound wakes up Max. Even though I can't see his face, I can hear his whine, and see his legs as he kicks them, trying to pull off his socks. Though I hate to think it, I'm fed up that he's woken up so soon, spoiling my plans of us both napping all afternoon, trying to catch up on that elusive, lost sleep.
Predictably, his cries become louder, reaching a crescendo when we get to the front door. Loud, repetitive screams, followed by noisy gulps as he fights for air. Pulling him out of his buggy, I see his face is angry, nose streaming, eyes wet.
“Come on, Max.” I hug him close. But I'm tired, so tired, and it's an effort to hold him. I lean on the front door, my eyes closed, while Max empties his lungs, his fists gripping at my shirt, and it isn't simply tiredness anymore, it's fatigue. Draining me of energy, it weakens my muscles, makes my bones feel loose and floppy. It takes all I’ve got to keep standing, let alone hold Max in my arms.
“Stop crying.” I bite my lip in an effort not to join in. “Shh now, come on.”
Then the door opens, and David is standing there, looking slightly perplexed. “Did you forget your keys?”
I shake my head, afraid if I say anything I'll start all over again. Sleep, I really need sleep.
