“Post Partum Depression takes many forms…” The doctor’s voiced droned off into a distant buzzing. My husband sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair wringing his hands, his glances alternating between the Doctor and myself. The fluorescent lights of the patient care room we were in were starting to give me a headache. Our two week old daughter was thankfully cooing quietly rather than telling me to smash the lights that were bothering me. That’s how I got here. I told my husband about how our little angel told me to put the dog in the blender. He scheduled the appointment immediately. I managed to tune back in as the doctor handed my husband a slip of paper.
“It might be best if you could take some time off to help out around the house,” he said. My husband mumbled something non-committal and then we were driving home. Signs and trees blurring past us as our little angel gurgled and cooed in the back seat. Conversation over dinner was strained. His words felt carefully chosen like he was scared of breaking my fragile mind. The thing that hurt the most was that neither he nor the doctor believed that my daughter had talked to me.
That night when I woke up to feed our daughter as she proclaimed her hunger with fitful gales of wailing she spoke to me again. As I burped her over my shoulder she whispered in my ear that I should smother my husband with my pillow. I carefully swaddled her and placed her back into her Ikea crib. I stood over my husband’s supine form, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edges of my down pillow. Birds started chirping. I came back to myself and returned to bed next to my husband. Soon he was up and about, preparing to head to work. He kissed me good-bye and I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to my little angel calling me over the monitor. The day started off innocuous enough as I fed her and went about cleaning our family’s little ranch style home.It wasn’t until I was making myself a banana smoothie that she insidiously started whispering again. She repeatedly urged me to stick my hand into the blender and turn it on at its highest setting. I didn’t realize that I had started to follow her instructions until our little dachsund jumped up on my leg and started whining. Shaking, I pulled my hand out of the blender as our cat eyed me quizzically. I emptied the blender’s contents into the trash and deposited it in the sink. I resumed my cleaning.
My husband came home. I’d prepared one of his favorite meals, my special szechuan stir-fry and had it waiting on the table. It was my way of apologizing to him for making him worry. The dog was hiding in her kennel and didn’t come out to greet him. As I opened a canned meal for the cat no jingle of bells sounded. When my husband expressed surprise I didn’t know what to tell him. I realized I hadn’t seen the cat since my incident with blender. Our baby beamed at me happily as we sat down to eat the stir-fry. My dear husband even asked how I managed to make it taste so authentic. I told him I had some help from my little angel.
Apropos of: This Prompt