Learning To Laugh

This is Oliver's Halloween costume. I wanted to find one that seemed to fit his personality, like a cheeky monkey or a sweet teddy bear. A lobster outfit was not what I had in mind. What kind of a personality would kid have to have to be a lobster, anyway? Quiet and creepy? Shy? Slow? One might wonder what we were thinking. It was cute, and it made us laugh, that's what we were thinking. We stuffed him into it yetserday for the first time, and it made us laugh even harder than when we first saw it on the hanger.

How appropriate, then, that Oliver began to laugh last night. Oh, he's given us a happy "hmmm!," smiley gurgle, and joyful noises. But last night as I tickled him and tackled him with kisses, he laughed for real. There would be a pause, he would look to me in anticipation, I'd tickle-tackle again, and he'd laugh. One of the funniest things about this is that the laugh he is practicing sounds like a fake little cough. It's as if he's giving you a sympathy laugh and not hiding it very well that your joke is not that funny. Instead, though, I'm going with the idea that I really am funny, and he just needs to refine his chuckle to reflect it.

I'm learning to laugh, too. This past weekend, I found myself being silly. Not just in a good mood, not just cracking a joke or two, not just being low-key. I was being the kind of ridiculous that you only let your spouse and closest friends see. I'm not really even sure what I said or did, but I remember thinking, this reminds me of somebody: me. Post-partum depression, even though I anticipated it from all of the pregnancy-prep materials you read, surprised me. Throughout my hospital stay, I found myself feeling a myriad of things: happy. Sad. Tired. Thankful. Angry. Scared. Scared some more. Frustrated. Discouraged. And after coming home, I still felt most of those things from time to time, and on top of it all I felt depressed.

Hearing about post-partum depression, I always thought it odd that such a joyous moment in life could be hallmarked with sadness. And in a lot of ways, that made me feel more depressed. What kind of mother was I to have this gorgeous, healthy baby with the sweetest countenance, and be sad? So I felt sad about feeling sad. I remember one day watching a documentary on J.K. Rowling, who was talking about how the idea of dementors in Harry Potter were born from her experience with depression. I knew exactly what she meant. For what makes the dementors of Harry Potter so terrifying is that they make everything cold and dark, and to be around them makes you feel as if there is no more happiness left in the world. There were times when I felt that cold sadness, and an apathy that was so intense and foreign to me. I didn't recognize myself; sometimes all I wanted to do was lie on my bed awake, simply because any idea that was presented to me, whether it be watching a movie, going out for ice cream, or playing a game, didn't sound enjoyable enough for me to get up and do. It was in these moments when I couldn't seem to find joy in anything.

At my two-week post-partum check, I filled out a survey about depression which the clinic gives to all of their patients. I had to circle the frequency of when I felt sad, lonely, how often I cried, etc. I scored within the expected range, which was yes, depressed, but not yet "bad" enough to need to seek counseling. I cried when the nurse asked me about feeling depressed. Who was I? I felt as fragile as tissue paper in front of total strangers. The nurse went from charting on her computer to handing me a box of Kleenex, and said, "those feelings can be quite surprising, can't they?" I nodded and let the tears go. At least she didn't seem taken aback. There must be other women, I thought, who have fallen apart like me. I promised to let the nurse know if I was feeling worse so I could maybe see someone about it, but it didn't get worse.

It did, however, last a bit longer than I thought it would. There were days when I felt loads better, happier, lighter. And then the next day I would be falling apart again. There was no quick healing. Eventually the ligher days outweighed the heavier ones, and I felt the dark grey cloud over my head, like the one that always followed Charlie Brown, thin out a little day by day. When I found myself happy without inhibition this past weekend, it occurred to me that yet another layer of that residual sadness had peeled off. I certainly don't feel depressed like I used to, but I didn't realize that some parts of my personality still needed to squeeze all the way through to the surface still.

So having come up for more air and sunshine, I found myself tested today. I went to Caribou in a very good mood on my way into work. I ordered my favorite java, a Mint Condition Cooler. Per my routine, I removed the domed lid to lick off the whipped cream and pieces of Andes mints, because I'm healthy like that. Then, driving, (sorry Dad,) I tried to put the cover back on. And tried and tried. It wasn't lining up with the cup. All of a sudden, under the pressure of my hands, cup and lid went their separate ways and I was wearing my cooler. I looked like I had just splashed around in a winter mud puddle. I had frozen coffee all over my new pink-and-white striped shirt and grey courderoy pants. Do you think I picked up napkins before heading out of Caribou? I needn't answer. But I will anyway: no, I did not. Mind you, I am a very organized driver- I am always at half-an-arm's reach of chapstick, hand sanitzer, Tylenol, hand lotion, hair binders, CDs, pens, post-its, and at least one cell phone. None of these were of help to me now. Desperate, I opened my glove compartment in search of something more absorbant than a post-it. I found it. A maxi-pad. It was stored in there after a procedure that was done when I was pregnant-oh, never mind. Like I said, I was desperate. I blotted my coffee and made a very deliberate note to myself to throw away the pad, now soaked in brown, right away before wandering eyes could spot it on the passenger seat. Luckily, I did not have any patients to see today. Which made it a lot easier to laugh at myself. After pulling into the parking ramp, I did find in my collection of sundries a Tide stain remover pen. The pen tip was the size of a permanent marker and my stains were the size of handprints, but I colored away. It took away some of the offensive look, but added a most offensive smell. If you've ever used this thing, you know what I mean when I say that it smells hideously of sour milk. I went into the office anyway, and with a spring in my step, sipping the remainder of my caffeine.

It's good to be back.