I’m really not crazy. At least, I’m not technically crazy. I don’t hear voices telling me to do odd things, and I don’t think the government is attempting to read my thoughts or that I alone have some piece of information that will save the world. I’m well groomed, I live in a nice house, and I manage to leave that nice house every day without fanfare. As a social worker, I am well acquainted with crazy, and I don’t fit the bill.
But since my twins were stillborn, I think I have lost a just little bit of my mind. I walk around all day pretending that I’m fine, and I don’t think anyone can tell that I am not, other than those very close to me. I put a lot of effort into convincing people that I’m okay. I talk freely about how my husband and I are trying again, and give the appropriate little smile when people tell me that they’re praying for us (instead of rolling my eyes and launching into how hard I had prayed for my babies).
Occasionally I’m even able to convince myself that nothing is wrong. If I’m in the right company where nobody knows about my sons, and I am doing something I really enjoy, I’m able to look at myself as someone else would. I think, “See? I’m really going to make it. I’m really okay.” It never lasts for long; someone always makes an innocent remark about nothing, and somehow about half the air is sucked out of the room. I feel hairline fractures in my psyche again, but I continue to smile and pretend that I’m not crazy, and nobody can tell any difference.
But I found myself doing something the other day that made me realize that I really have lost my mind, just a little bit. It was surreal,as if I were watching someone else performing. In my professional world, we call this “dissociation”. The fact that there was a name for what happened to me is disturbing in and of itself, but I digress.
I was at the salon for a haircut. It was the first haircut I’d had since before the twins died, even though they had been gone for almost eight months. I could not go back to my old salon, so I found a new one where nobody knew me. The hairdresser was about my age, and,like most hairdressers, she made idle chitchat while she worked.
“So what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a social worker,” I replied. ”I work with children and families.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said. “Do you have any children?”
I didn’t miss a beat. I expected this question; it was de rigueur, and everyone asked it. They were just being polite. I had always said that yes, we had twin sons, but they didn’t survive. Some people took this answer more gracefully than others, and sometimes my husband and I giggled later about the remarks we received after depositing this elephant into the middle of the room.
“Yes, we have twin sons.” I stopped there. I knew what was about to happen, and felt utterly unable to do anything to stop it.
“Oh. I always wanted twins! How old are they?”
“Almost eight months. They were born in May.” I could feel myself rapidly sliding downhill into someplace I had never been. I clawed at reality and tried to turn back, but it was too late. “Their names are Billy and Beau. It’s funny how identical twins can be so different.”
My hairdresser told me about her four month-old daughter, and we commiserated on how difficult it was to care for infants while working full time. I pulled it off remarkably well, considering that I had absolutely no experience caring for infants whatsoever. We discussed sleeping habits (my boys are great sleepers; they have been sleeping through the night for months now), and eating habits (Beau likes anything and everything, but Billy is much more picky), and diapers and baby sitters. We discussed mother in-laws and husbands, and how our respective dogs adjusted to our new arrivals.
And then it was over. I was perfectly coiffed and it was time to go.
I stood up and handed the hairdresser a tip. She told me to take good care of my babies, and to enjoy this time with them. I felt like I was going to vomit. Instead, I smiled and nodded and said, “You do the same. Give that little girl a hug for me! See you later.”
I paid the receptionist as quickly as I could and left the salon. Sitting in my car, I asked myself, “What just happened in there? Who was that person talking to the hairdresser?” I had no business discussing diapers or giving tips on how to get a baby to sleep through the night.
I tried to think about the situation as if someone had told me about it. What would my professional opinion be? Hmmm. Well, if someone else did what I had just done, then I would question their grip on reality. But I had a firm grasp on reality, never once believing anything that was coming out of my own mouth. In that case, this kind of behavior could be indicative of a personality disorder. But I’m pretty high-functioning to have a personality disorder. Okay then…I didn’t know what to think. I wouldn’t call it normal behavior by any means, but I couldn’t exactly say it was maladaptive either. I didn’t know what it was. It didn’t hurt anyone: no harm, no foul…right?
Right?
I thought about this incident frequently over the next few weeks. I didn’t tell anyone, not even the other dead baby moms I had met online. It just seemed too…well…crazy. I didn’t want people to look at me the way they look at my clients. I know what crazy is, and I’m not it. Maybe losing my children gives me every right to lose just a little bit of my mind.
It’s like that Matchbox 20 song: “I’m not crazy/I’m just a little unwell.”
____________________________________________________________________
Jennifer Schaefer’s twin sons were stillborn at 24 weeks in May 2008. She and her husband had been trying to get pregnant for 1.5 years before conceiving their sons, and have been trying again since October 2008. They are currently pursuing fertility treatments.
Jennifer is 32 years old and lives in East Tennessee, where she works as a social worker and lives with her husband, pit bull named Flowers, and lab named Rocky. Jennifer is a frustrated marathon runner (running marathons tends to interfere with getting knocked up) and long-distance cyclist.