When Stefka leaves the kitchen I follow her. I carry Rocky on my hip and lean on the doorframe of whichever room she’s in, sometimes talking, sometimes not. She tells me a lot about her boys. Her pain and pride are palpable. I show her my trick for using vinegar to get the hard water stains off the chrome in the bathrooms. She shows me how to change a duvet cover in one fluid motion, without struggling to make it fit. We do the pillowcases together. I gather up more laundry and start a new wash and I mop the kitchen while she vacuums the hall. The mess I’ve allowed to accumulate—it’s not a one-woman job.
Then it’s time for her to go. I’m relieved that the house is livable again, but I panic when I see the stacks of papers and clutter and toys that remain. I can’t face the rest of it without her. “Wait, um, so, what do I owe you for today?” and I prolong the conversation with questions that have obvious answers so that she doesn’t leave. If she leaves I’ll be in here alone again.
“Meesus Gigi,” she says, holding both my hands in hers, “I come back next week. Please do not worry so much. And you do not have to clean before I come. Also, you do not have to clean wis me. Is my job, OK?” She winks at me. “You are good mother. Is happy boys. Baby is small, is hard time. Very soon you will do what they say in America—push your shits together. I see you next week.”
I hug her. It’s probably not very British to hug the cleaner on her first day but I do it anyway. She hugs me back. I pass Rocky over to give her a baby hug. He slaps his hand a little too hard on her face the way babies do. I close the door and put Rocky in a playpen in front of the TV. It’s just him and the smell of Dettol to keep me company now. I admire the clean kitchen and pour some wine into a teacup.
London, June 2016; Baby, 6 months old
“I thought we should review your progress and set some goals for the coming weeks as today is our penultimate session,” Lorraine says to me, as if I was expecting this. As if I’m fixed now, postpartum depression all cleared up.
Lorraine. The kind of older woman who looks like an ad for age-defying skin cream, one where they show three generations of women, and she’s the last one, representing mature skin, except she thinks she should be the one in the middle. In her M&S wrap dress with her glasses on a string, I watch her check off the details of my postnatal crisis on her little NHS form.
“What does that mean?” I say, as I push Rocky’s stroller back and forth with my foot, trying to focus on the wall above her head in this windowless, dingy examination room in the community surgery that serves as her “office.”
“It means that next week will be our last session.” And she pulls out the anxiety/depression questionnaire that I have to fill out every week. The anxiety scale asks me on how many days have I felt nervous, anxious or worried; had trouble relaxing; been so restless that I can’t sit still; and, finally, felt afraid that something awful might happen. OK, all of those, every day, but that’s because, hello, I’m a mother. So they should really just condense this shit down to: Do you have children? OK then, you have an anxiety disorder.
Then I do the depression scale. Do I feel tired; have little energy; overeat; feel bad about myself; or have trouble concentrating? Um, for answers see above. But my favorite question is: Have you been moving or speaking so slowly that other people have noticed? I feel like if that was my problem then I would be having a stroke and getting here to see Lorraine wouldn’t be my first priority. And let’s not forget the last question, about suicide. Because if I was contemplating suicide, definitely one of the things I’d want to do is fill out this questionnaire.
“But I still need help, Lorraine, I’m not done.” I keep my foot on the stroller, nudging it rhythmically while I circle the numbers on the scales.
“Yes, well, you’ve been allocated six sessions and unfortunately you missed two of those as you canceled with very short notice. We cannot reallocate those sessions to you if you do not adhere—”
“Lorraine, the baby was sick. You’re taking sessions away from me because my baby was sick?”
“Part of our work has been helping you to find people you can rely on.”
“But I’ve explained that I don’t have any family here.”
“We’ve discussed that [audible sigh] at length,” she says, trying not to roll her eyes. “We’ve also discussed that you need to look for support in other places.”
“That’s why I come here, Lorraine, for support.”
Lorraine turns to face me, pulls her glasses down on the bridge of her nose so I can see her eyes, a gesture of her great understanding of the human condition.
“Gigi”—she leans in, elbows on both knees—“I see many women in this area who are just like you, they’ve had their first baby, sometimes traumatically, and that can be diffi—”
“He’s not my first baby. Have you listened to me at all?” I close my eyes, foot still on the stroller, keeping it in motion like an extension of my leg. Then I turn down her volume. She’s still talking, something
