Page 31 of All of Me

I’m sitting in the doctor’s office after my shift, the room feels cold and impersonal, designed more for efficiency than comfort. I suppose that makes sense. The pale blue walls are bare except for the generic beach print fromHobby Lobby. I know this, because my mother has the same one in her bathroom. The scene is supposed to be calming but it seems out of place here in the Hawkeye State.

I sit on the exam table, my fingers nervously twisting the corner of the paper hospital gown. The paper beneath me crinkles loudly with every movement, making me feel exposed in this space. My nerves are coiled so tightly it feels like I might lose my shit.

A knock at the door, and Dr. Everett steps in, her familiar smile putting me at ease. “Hi, Callie. How are you feeling today?” she asks. She sits on her rolling stool and flips open my chart.

“Tired,” I admit, forcing a small smile. “And kind of… off.”

Her brow furrows, as she leans forward slightly. “Off how?” Her voice is concerned. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I take a deep breath and force myself to get the words out. “I don’t think the mini-pill is right for me. I’ve been on it for a few weeks now and I just feel… low. Like really low. My boyfriend mentioned that I don’t seem like myself. I thought it might just be baby blues or whatever, but now I’m not so sure. It’s been weeks since I had Ruby. I feel like I should be back to normal by now.”

Her concern deepens. Dr. Everett is aware of my history. It’s one of the first things I told her when we met. “Callie, even though it’s common for postpartum depression to start within the first week or two after giving birth, it can last for months, sometimes years, if it’s not treated properly. It might be time for you to look into an antidepressant,” she urges.

“I don’t want to take anything like that when I’m breastfeeding Ruby. I don’t trust it.”

Dr. Everett nods, her expression patient. “I understand your hesitation. There are safe options for breastfeeding mothers, but you don’t have to make a decision today. If you’d prefer, we can try adjusting other factors first. The mini-pill seems to be amplifying things, especially when it comes to mood swings, and I know you’ve had some sensitivities in the past.”

That’s putting it delicately. I bite my lip, a memory flashes in my mind from high school when I passed out the first night I started birth control. At the time, I thought it was because I’d been in a hot tub for too long, but looking back, now I’m not so sure. “Do you think being on birth control could have played a factor for why I struggled with self harm so much in high school?”

“It’s likely that the birth control amplified feelings and desires you were already having,” she says. “We can’t know for sure, especially because I wasn’t your doctor then, but birth control can increase the risk of depression for some.”

I’m so glad she actually listens to me and doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy.

“Your concerns are valid,” she continues. “If your body doesn’t respond well to birth control, you might have to consider alternatives for now. Have you thought about trying condoms?”

I can’t help but scoff. I can’t remember the last time I used a condom. It’s not that I think people shouldn’t use them. I’ve just always hated them. Owen and I haven’t used them and I didn’t use them with Adam either. Although, I probably should have with him considering he would stick his dick just about anywhere he could.

I try to rearrange my face before I respond. I know my expression has been a dead giveaway. “I mean… I guess we could. It just feels so… I don’t know.”

“I get it,” she says with a small chuckle. “You’re not alone in feeling that way, but this would just be temporary. It would give your body time to adjust without having some sort of medicinal intervention. We can always revisit other options later. How does that sound?”

I exhale, my shoulders slumping. It’s not what I want to hear, but I know she’s right. Having two girls under two is hard enough. I don’t want to risk having another baby until after the girls are a little older.

“Okay, I’ll talk to Owen about it. I’m sure he will be fine with whatever I decide, but it still feels a little awkward to talk about.”

“Communication is key,” Dr. Everett encourages. “You and Owen sound like you have a strong partnership,” she pauses. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I was incredibly impressed with the way he handled things at the hospital. It’s clear that your… situation is unconventional, but I’ve never seen a non-birth parent so actively involved in the labor and post-labor processes as Owen was when you had Ruby. It was nice to see.”

I smile, pride swelling inside me. I’m glad other people see how wonderful he is to me.

She looks over my chart. “While we’re on the subject, do you see yourself wanting more children someday? If not, we can look into a more permanent solution. But you’re so young that I’m hesitant to recommend something like that.”

The question takes me by surprise and, if I’m honest, her words annoy me a little. Why does my age have to come into play here? I’ve had two children. Why shouldn’t I be able to make that judgement call if I wanted to? I try to shove my dismay aside. More children? I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, but I don’t want that anytime soon. Maybe I could answer more clearly when I am not so sleep-deprived or wading through this fog of emotions that keeps fucking with me.

“I think so,” I finally admit. “But maybe in a couple of years when I feel more like myself again.”

Dr. Everett nods. “That’s a healthy outlook. Taking time between pregnancies is important, not just for your physical health but also for your emotional well-being. For now, let’s keep you focused on getting back to a place where you feel balanced and comfortable.”

Her words are kind, but they stir up an ache in my belly. Balanced and comfortable seem so far away–two words that I can see in the distance but can’t quite reach. Still, I nod and manage a small smile. “Thank you.”

Dr. Everett sets my chart aside and snaps on a pair of gloves. “Before we wrap up, let’s take a look and make sure everything is healing well. Let me know if you feel any discomfort.”

I nod, lying back on the exam table. I do my best to relax, but the paper crinkling beneath me is so loud it feels like my every move is being amplified. Great. Just what I needed—more noise to remind me that my dignity is already hanging by a thread.

She gently examines me, her movements careful and clinical. “Everything looks great,” she says after a moment, pulling off her gloves. “Your stitches have fully dissolved, and your uterus is returning to its normal size. You’re healing beautifully.”

Beautiful? Yeah, right. I bet my uterus looks like a deflated balloon, and the rest of me isn’t faring much better. Still, I manage a polite smile because what else can you do when someone tells you your internal organs are apparently thriving? “That’s good to hear.”

She washes her hands and sits back down, jotting a few notes in my chart. “I’ll clear you for all activity, including intimacy, but I want you to listen to your body. If something doesn’t feel right, take a step back and give yourself more time.”

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