Badass

How long does postpartum last for? I google it. 6 to 18 months, or even longer.

Even longer.

I sit with that for a moment. How can this be measured, I wonder. What are the factors considered. Every person has a completely different set of circumstances. Partner relationship. Environment. Work. Previous disposition. My mind drifts to my previous disposition, back to a memory of being a kid, around 7 or 8 years old. I was upset over something, seemingly trivial to others. My mother saying to me, you’re just very sensitive Karen, don’t worry about it.

Was that meant to be reassuring?

What did it mean, to be very sensitive. I wish I had thought of it as some kind of positive attribute. A superpower, if you will. Hyper senses that could detect emotion from great heights. But I didn’t. I took it as a burden. Something that I had to manage.

Now, over 18 months postpartum, even longer, I find myself wondering if those same over-senses are impacting my rebounding.

I think about all of this as I sit in the waiting room of a women’s clinic. Well, a pelvic physiotherapy clinic more specifically. I had already spent about ten minutes lost, walking around the block trying to find the entry. The instructions didn’t help.

Look for this building. We are the one opposite. But don’t enter there. Go around the back, under the sign, take this elevator, down the corridor. You should find us.

You should. Clearly they hadn’t met me.

When I finally arrive, no one is there. A sign says if the clinic is unattended, help yourself to a cup of tea. It feels very trusting. I’ve just done multiple rotations of corridors and elevators and there is no one to greet me or congratulate my persistence.

The space is open, with a kitchenette tucked into the corner. There is an incense machine pushing out mist and scent, paired with glowing lights. It feels like a bit much. I decide against the tea and just sit down, pulling out my phone instead.

Doom scroll.

I wonder how I would go about explaining the meaning of this phrase to my grandmother if she were alive. Well actually I wonder how I would go about explaining it to my mother in that regard. Five minutes past my scheduled time. I glance at the clock, dismiss it, and go back to scrolling. I check again. Ten minutes. Typical.

I find myself staring at the time, waiting for it to tick over to the next minute. Eventually the door opens and two women walk out. One in a headscarf, hoodie and jeans. The other in business attire. I have no idea who is the patient or the clinician until the woman in the headscarf apologises for the delay. She’s the doctor.

Of course.

I respond instinctively with a, no, no, no, it’s all good. She turns to the other woman, calmly confirming a follow up appointment and seeing her out. All very warm and unhurried. It strikes me how calm she is. No rush. No panic.

No wonder she’s late. I could never be a doctor, naturally for this reason solely alone. Any time there is even a hint that I’m running behind, I spiral. I speed up, shorten my sentences, trip over my words. Speaking in fragments that barely make sense. Just go, get the thing, off the counter, the item we need. Classic me adding undue stress in any given moment.

She introduces herself. Samah. I repeat it silently in my head, trying to land on the right pronunciation. Which part do I stress? I’m still thinking about it when I realise she’s already asking me questions. She ends with, “I should say congratulations on your baby. Well done.” I tell her it’s been a while. Nearly two years now.

“Oh that doesn’t matter,” she says. “The congratulations still stands.”

She explains that we need to deep dive into what has brought me here. There will be questions. They may feel invasive. “They are,” she says plainly, “but they’re necessary.”

I reassure her that nothing is too nosey. It makes me think of my friends and how we talk. What we share. Or overshare, who can say. Mental health. Bowel movements. Sex. Everything. Nothing untouched.

She opens her laptop and so it begins.

What feels like a rapid fire round unfolds, but I keep up. I talk through my son’s birth, the physical impact, the recovery time. Or lack of it. The attempts to repair my ability to function that didn’t quite land.

I talk about the public moments. The failed functions. The embarrassment they caused.

What I did. How I felt. How I feel. What I want. The hope. And if I’m honest, the desperation underneath it all.

I tell her I’m here because I want her to fix me. To get me back to a place where I can go for a proper run without cause for alarm or a change of clothes. To not feel anxious about feeling sensations. I ask her if I will ever go back to being normal again, you know, pre-baby. I suppose I just want her to tell me that I am normal, now. Layered into all of that is everything else. Returning to work full time. Getting a promotion. Landing a high intensity role. Did I mention full time. Moving house. Daycare sickness. Day to day life. It all comes out more naturally than I expect. She types as I speak, occasionally asking for more detail. Nodding. Reacting. Adding in an occasional:

Woah.
Oh my.
Wow.

She finishes typing, looks up and says, “I think I understand why you’re here.”

Then, without hesitation, she says “you’re quite badass. You’re a no nonsense person who has come here for answers.”

I’m badass? The word lands harder than I expect. It wakes me up.

Bad. Ass.

It feels like something a younger version of me might have said. Not something I would say now. Certainly not about myself. I try to think of when I would have used that word. It wouldn’t be at work. There, I am too busy worrying that I will be found out; that I don’t have the right pedigree. Whatever that even means. That I am just bluffing my way through it all. Maybe I would say it with friends. Even then, I would probably test it before saying it out loud. She said it so casually. So confidently. I smile. Nod. Thank her. Slightly unsure, but not dismissing it.

Because the truth is, she doesn’t know half of it. Not even a third. And yet, from what I have told her, she has labelled me as badass. So maybe I am.

I sit with that for a moment. I think about everything else. Immediately I have a reel of moments flick through my consciousness. The highlights and lowlights reel. The times of personal growth, which came from moments of darkness and despair. I think about all of it. I feel something shift.

You’re right. I silently agree with Samah. I am badass! The confidence wavers for just a moment. So why do I feel like such a basket case? I’m determined not to lose this awesome high feeling, and give myself a pep talk. Maybe you need the self loathing to balance out the badassidness. So you don’t just end up an ass.

We continue through the appointment and she was right, it does get invasive. I take it in my stride. For obvious reasons. (Said status of my Gluteus Maximus.) She gives me exercises to do at home. I assure her that I will do them and in the moment, I truly believe it. As we step back into the waiting area, I check the time. We are seventeen minutes over. She apologises to the next woman, but doesn’t rush me. Her attention stays with me until the very end. I almost feel like I should hug her. What a skill that is. I take her business card, not entirely sure why. Maybe to practise her name. I walk out, take a wrong turn, double back, and eventually find my way to the lift.

Press the right button this time. I smile. I may be badass. But I am still completely hopeless with directions.