Clare Fergusson had chosen her pediatrician based on the fact that the practice had weekend hours, which gave her some much-needed flexibility with her oddball schedule. The downside? It seemed she never saw the same physician twice. She liked this one well enough so far. He reminded her of Master Sergeant “Hardball” Wright, her air force survival trainer; tall, lean, bald. Dr. Underkirk did not, fortunately, look as if he could kill you with his bare hands.
“I agree with Dr. Mason,” he was saying. “It’s simply too soon for a diagnosis of fetal alcohol effect. Difficulty sleeping, a high startle reaction, fussiness—it’s all within the normal developmental parameters so far.”
“At four months?”
“At four months.” He glanced to the carrier on the examination table where her little bundle of joy was watching the colorful mobile overhead like a tiny, placid Buddha. Sure, now you calm down.
“I don’t want to minimize your concerns.” The doctor flipped open the file again. “You were binge drinking throughout the first three months of your pregnancy, correct? As well as using…” He thumbed over to another page. My faults are too many to list. “Amphetamines and hydrocodone.”
Clare clenched her teeth against the urge to justify herself and nodded. “But I stopped the moment I found out. I saw an addiction counselor until last March.”
“And now?”
“I’m in group therapy. Well, more of a support group. It’s a veterans’ group, actually, but we deal with a lot of the issues that were involved with my drinking—” She stopped herself.
Dr. Underkirk gave her a look of kindly understanding that had undoubtedly never appeared on Hardball Wright’s face in his lifetime. “I meant the drinking. Are you still…?”
“Sober? Yes. I’m nursing.”
“How about the pills?”
“No pills.”
“Do you ever want one? Or a drink?”
Every day. Sometimes she could feel the glass in her hand, a little condensation wetting the surface, that feeling right before she took a swallow. Or the slow pulse of warmth spreading through her veins as the Percodan kicked in, not getting high, not feeling fuzzy, just making life a tiny bit easier.
“Sure,” she said. “Of course I do. But believe me, after screwing up so badly at the beginning, I’m not passing on any more drugs or alcohol in my milk.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dr. Underkirk crossed his legs. “I’m going to suggest that part of your baby’s behavior might be environmental rather than innate. That means—”
“It’s a reaction to my behavior? I’m causing it?”
The doctor held up a hand. “I’m talking about the total environment, not just you.”
But I’m included. She wondered when she would stop feeling like the worst mother ever.
“It sounds like you have erratic work hours, and your husband’s a police officer, right?”
“Chief of police.”
“Nine-to-five job?”
She snorted a laugh. “No. I mean, he tries, but it’s a small force and when he’s needed, he goes.”
“What do you do for childcare?”
“My mother-in-law helps out several days a week, morning or afternoon as I need her. And we’ve hired my husband’s oldest niece as a mother’s helper. At the church offices, it’s just me and the secretary and the deacon, so it’s a very baby-friendly environment. You know, unless I’m doing counseling. Or holding a meeting. Or taking a service.” She shut up again.
“So you and your husband have irregular schedules, with childcare plugged in here and there when you need it. I don’t know about the life of a minister, but I’m guessing your husband’s job is pretty difficult.”
She nodded. “There’s a town measure coming up for vote this fall. Whether or not to replace the police force with state troopers. It’s incredibly stressful—everyone’s livelihood is on the line.”
“I read about that in the Post-Star.” Dr. Underkirk flipped open the file and jotted something down. “And in your case, in addition to the usual strains on a new mother—lack of sleep, hormones, that scary weight of having a human being entirely dependent on you”—he flashed her a brief smile—“you’re dealing with fairly new sobriety and some issues with your military service. Do you have any PTSD symptoms?”
Clare had been about to say I’m not an alcoholic, for heaven’s sake but was diverted. “Symptoms? Yes. Sometimes.”
The doctor sat up straight. “You and your husband are living with a great deal of stress right now, Mrs. Fergusson. Babies can be very affected by adult stress, irregular schedules, and too many transitions—going from home to your office to grandma’s house to back home, say. It may eventually turn out to be fetal alcohol effect. You may also simply have a sensitive child. My suggestion? Find some good, consistent childcare and use it. Being able to work, uninterrupted, having time to exercise and not having to be constantly thinking about who has to be where each day of the week will do more to bring down your stress levels than any pill. Or drink. In the meantime, I suggest some calming meditation. It doesn’t take long out of your day for some mindful breathing and a positive suggestion, like ‘I am at peace’ or ‘Be still.’”
“Mindful breathing. Right. But my issue is that I don’t want to hand my child off to strangers.” She took a deep breath. Mindfully. “I feel like … I already failed at my first job as a mother. Keeping my baby safe. I want to do better, now.”
Dr. Underkirk gave her his kind-and-understanding look. She would have preferred Hardball Wright staring her down. “Obviously, it’s entirely up to what you and your husband think is best. But—and this is as a dad as well as a doctor—I subscribe to the airplane emergency rule in life.”
“Um … always sight your horizon before attempting a powerless landing?”
He laughed. “No. Always secure your oxygen mask first before attending to your child.”