A Scream, a Crack, an Unspeakable Tragedy

Photo by Terra Thurgood on Unsplash

A content warning: this post contains talk of postpartum anxiety and child death, and won’t be comfortable reading for everyone. Please take care of yourself and only read on if you’re able.

The baby — Roman, aged six weeks, not to be confused with Atlas, three years and some months old, and henceforth to be referred to as the toddler, or by name in serious matters — has a high-pitched scream he employs more often than is relaxing.

It’s usually while he’s nursing; I have an abundance of breast milk, and what they call a fast let-down, which means that, when he latches on for a little drink, he receives instead a torrent of milk, more than he’s able for. He un-latches and screams a shrill death rattle. I turn him over. I pat his back. He recovers. I resume feeding him, all the while the milk that started to flow before the choking, before the screaming, before the un-latching and the back-patting and all the ensuing drama, soaks into my bra and clothes and cools to an uncomfortably chilly temperature.

Last night, he emitted such a scream around 2am. We were lying in bed — we are co-sleeping, which I did with Atlas because he would not sleep anywhere else, and which I swore I wouldn’t do with Roman, but here we are — and I was nursing him as I lay on my side, gazing, bleary-eyed at his adorable face, trying my hardest to banish any thoughts of frustration from my mind.