Baby Blues

I was in the middle of haggling with a tomato seller when she called me. A pretty, young woman holding a toddler. She looked vaguely familiar.

She hugged and greeted me warmly and I felt embarrassed as I replied her with a faux smile painted on my face. She seemed to understand my predicament and said sweetly: ‘U don forget me, abi? No worry, e don tey! 5 years no be joke!’

I smiled to hide my embarrassment and she replied by calling the name of the hospital where I had met her. Memories, like an avalanche, came rushing back. I hugged her again.

I first met Sarah** a few years ago when she presented to the clinic with her husband who was cradling a 5-week-old baby. She had this dejected look that made me warm up to her, despite my heavy schedule. I was a new registrar seeing a large number of patients but was immediately drawn to her story.

She knew there was something wrong with her, she just could not pin-point what. She woke up in the mornings feeling overwhelmingly sad, with a sense of foreboding as she faced the day. There were days when she locked herself in the bathroom and cried herself hoarse, coming out only when her mother-in-law insisted she breastfeeds the baby. ‘The baby’. That was how she referred to him. This pink human creature that everyone came to congratulate her over, cooing and marvelling at how beautiful he was and how lucky that God had finally answered her prayers. Or had he? Was this child not a punishment for all her bad deeds? Yes, she had prayed hard for God to give her the fruit of the womb, especially after her sister in law had called her barren at a wedding ceremony they met at, two years ago. The women of her lineage were well-known for their fertile prowess, spewing baby after baby, year after year until menopause grounded them. What then was wrong with her?

They were probably right, but why didn’t she feel lucky. Why didn’t she feel the way her husband felt whenever he lifted the baby, love swelling in his eyes? Why did she feel indifferent to this human she had carried in her womb for 9 months? These questions plagued her at night, denying her of the little sleep she desperately yearned for since the baby arrived.

When her crying spells became too much for her husband to handle, they had consulted a marabout. Evil spirits, he said and prayed over her. He brought out a special cane and whipped her legs for emphasis, vowing to flog the djinn away. When she flung the baby from the couch in anger, her husband realised he was dealing with a much bigger problem than he bargained for.

This was the textbook description of Post-partum Depression. When a consultant reviewed and confirmed my diagnosis, I was suddenly burdened with the task of educating the couple. Her husband seemed not to understand at first- was I saying his wife was mad? Why should she feel depressed when she had just had a baby after fours years of infertility? I tried my best to explain until they understood. She was given a prescription of antidepressants and a referral to the psychiatrist which they flatly declined.

She continued to come monthly, and as time passed, I noticed she had started calling the baby by his name and was carrying him on her back. Her mother-in-law had perceived the changes as well and had started leaving her alone with the baby at night. Things seemed to be progressing well.

I remember receiving the call early one morning from a colleague in the emergency paediatric unit. He had recognised my name on the patient’s folder and wanted me to come to the ward immediately. I arrived and met Sarah in tears. Sarah and her husband had brought their baby at dawn. He was not breathing. There was no preceding history of any ailment. Sarah remembered breastfeeding him at night until she herself fell asleep. She could not remember returning him to his cot or placing him next to her as she normally did. The call to prayer at dawn had woken her up, when she noticed he was not lying next to her. She felt something uncomfortable poking her side and realised it was her baby. He had rolled off her laps and fell into a crevice at her side. She had lifted herself from the bed and attempted to adjust him when she noticed he was still and not breathing.

I remember the painful way she howled when the doctor explained that her child had died from suffocation. She had killed her child, she lamented. Her husband walked out of the ward, in anger and never returned. Her family was called and arrangements made.

As the memories of Sarah’s battle with post-partum depression and grief came rushing back, I observed her quietly. She looked happy and I told her so. She had re-married and had two children. She was started on her medication immediately she delivered and so the baby blues had been minimal.

We were both so happy that day. She even paid for my tomatoes!