A Mother's Unbearable Reality

I slowly open my eyes, blinking for a moment as I try to orient myself. I look around and realize that I am no longer in the shared room; there's only my bed, a chair, machines around my headboard, one of which is connected to the electrodes on my body, and a breathing apparatus in my nose. On the other side of my bed, there's a small crib. I try to raise my body, but my arm is tangled in the IV, or whatever I believe it to be. I attempt to get up and walk towards the crib where my daughter could be, but to my disappointment, I can't.

As I slide my hand to remove all those wires, I hear the door open, and my husband walks in... without Marisol. Something doesn't feel right to me.

"Hi, love, how are you?" my husband asks, approaching me.
"Where's Marisol?" I manage to ask him.
"The nurse will be here soon," my husband replies, helping me lie back on the bed.
"With our daughter, right?" I inquire, concerned about my husband's evasive response.
"Yes, of course," my husband says. "But Rúbia wants to talk to us first."
"About what?" I ask, worried.
"Good morning," Rúbia greets as she enters my room. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. What happened to my daughter?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "Is Marisol okay?"
"With Marisol?" Rúbia asks, "She's fine. We were concerned about you. Dália, you had a syncope during labor; I had to use forceps to continue. After clamping the umbilical cord, I administered an intramuscular oxytocin injection... Do you feel anything right now?"
"Just the urge to see my daughter," I reply.
"Alright, but I'll ask to extend your stay for one more day to observe if there are any aftereffects," Rúbia informs, going to the door and calling the nurse.

The nurse approaches with a large pink blanket, carrying my daughter. She places her in my arms, and I admire that beautiful baby with black hair and still-pink skin. I smell her little head, touch her hand, and she remains asleep.

"You need to wake the baby for feeding," the nurse advises.

I open my gown and place my nipple near Marisol's lips slowly, still recalling how it was with Juan. She starts sucking, and the feeling I had was... different. A profound sadness engulfed me while my daughter nursed. It was so painful that tears started streaming down my face and falling onto Marisol.

"Honey, turn this way," my husband requests, holding his phone and taking a picture of us. "So beautiful and emotional. Wait, I'll call your parents."

"No, you don't have to. Marisol has just finished nursing," I practically rip my breast away from my daughter's mouth.

"No, ma'am. She needs to stay on the breast for a while longer; she's just started," the nurse informs, looking at me suspiciously.

I put Marisol back on my breast, but that sadness wouldn't leave me, and I couldn't stop crying. My family entered the room, and I was crying; they stayed for a while, and I was crying. I knew something was wrong with me.
***
Despite this episode during Marisol's first feeding, I no longer wanted her to go back to the nursery. I forced the nurses to let her stay with me and took care of her day and night until my discharge. I was always on alert next to her crib, scaring my husband many times as he took turns with my mother between the hospital and taking care of Juan. The biggest problem for me was during breastfeeding, when I felt unwell and cried for no reason, but I convinced myself that it would be different when we returned home. That's what I was thinking in the backseat, watching Marisol as my husband drove back to our house.

I entered the house with her in my arms and noticed that all the windows were open, and panic struck me. I shouted to my husband, "Are you trying to kill our daughter? These open windows can cause her to catch a cold, be infected by some mutant virus... Close everything, now."

"Calm down, Dália," Carlos pleads, not understanding anything. He goes to the windows, the doors, and closes everything. "It was just for some ventilation. Are you okay?"

"I'll be better when I'm sure Marisol won't get sick," I say, taking our daughter to her prepared room.

I place Marisol in her crib, play the lullaby music, and admire her. I had to admit to myself that I didn't recognize her as my daughter; I felt absolutely nothing for her, and she seemed like a stranger to me.
Days went by; I took care of her, bathed her, fed her with a bottle because I couldn't stand nursing and the dependence she had on me – a feeling much different from what I felt the first time. I changed her diapers, put her to sleep, but it was all out of obligation; I had no love for her. This absence of love was devastating. I felt terrible, like the worst mother in the world for not loving my daughter, whom I had loved when she was inside my belly, but at that moment, I was completely indifferent to her. Besides, I lost my appetite, couldn't sleep, and lost almost 10 kg in twenty days.
All this under the watchful eye of Carlos, who is now unemployed and stays at home full-time. Although he saw that something was wrong, he didn't talk to me; instead, he filled in the gaps with Marisol. It reached a point where I didn't change my pajamas, went over a week without a shower, didn't trim my nails, and occasionally brushed my teeth. When my parents came to visit me, it was the perfect opportunity to hand Marisol to them and leave to do anything else, even to clean the bathroom. Anything seemed more interesting to me than her.
After one of these visits, my parents left, and I continued washing the dishes, hearing Marisol cry as Carlos comforted her. Her crying grew louder; I knew my husband was approaching with her in his arms:

"Marisol wants her mama," my husband says.
"Tell her I'm busy," I say coldly, not even looking at them. "The bottle is on the counter."

I wait for any response from my husband, but all I hear is him grabbing the bottle from where I indicated and leaving the kitchen. I take a deep breath and then grip the edge of the sink, feeling nervous. I am not well, definitely not well.
Later that same day, after putting the children to sleep, Carlos invited me to sit in the patio; it's a little chilly, so I grabbed a blanket and lay on one of the sunbeds. He sits next to me with a glass of wine, running his fingers along the edges and then says:

"Alright, we've been home for a month now, and I've noticed that you're... different."
"Different how?" I ask coldly, looking up at the sky.
"Okay, I'll be straightforward: you know that amazing mother you were with Juan? You're not even close to being the same with Marisol. Something is happening; tell me what it is."
"Carlos, I'm very happy to be a mother for the second time, but yes, something is wrong with me," I reply, sitting up on the sunbed. "I don't know, but I feel... I feel that maybe... Maybe Marisol was a mistake."
"What?"
"That's how I feel, Carlos. I don't want Marisol anymore," I reveal, nervous and wiping my face, as tears are already streaming down. "I feel like... I keep imagining what it would be like if she disappeared. When I'm near her, I hear her crying, and it causes panic... I feel like running away, disappearing. Carlos, help me because I'm on the verge of doing something crazy."
"Dália... This makes no sense. None of what you're saying makes any sense," my husband says, horrified. He holds my hands and continues, "We need to seek help. We'll get through this together, as always, okay? I promise you'll get better."