Story #57 - Postpartum Pandemic Stories - Ariane, Reston VA (USA)
This post is an excerpt from last Sunday’s newsletter. I hope it finds a gentle way into your homes.
xx.
The following images are part of a series I shot in 2015 while traveling around the world with Mike. In these particular photographs, we are in Buenos Aires and I’m going through one of the many panic attacks we had to deal with while on our trip. The series is (ironically) titled “Confinement”.
I can't sleep, can you?
I'm writing from my bed. It’s Saturday morning, and it feels like time has shrunk since the last time I talked to you. The world got smaller—the air thinner. My focus is micro and my attention span, scattered at best: one foot in front of the other, goldfish for snacks, the prints I received for a client are shit, is FedEx even open for business? Goldfish for dinner. Insomnia.
Repeat.
Mike and I have been adapting to this new life: him at home, working in our bedroom/makeshift office, and me, going through the same motions each day, but with a dark cloud over my head.
His workload hasn't slowed down and his employers are expecting the same level of productivity; they're demanding fast pace, quick delivery, and deep concentration. As if our mind isn't already running 100mph, gobbling Washington Post notifications like instant candies. We are hungover from the abundance of information and abuse of numbing alcohol. Since the urgency of the situation underwhelms our world, let our domestic space become the headquarter of overreactions.
More tears, more meds, more laughs, more screens. Not to mention sugar, flour, and yeast. My family is diving into this pandemic WWII style, while middle-aged white men are playing golf in groups of eight next door. Sharing carts and chest bumps.
I'm anxiously waiting for the state to shutdown. I’m anxiously waiting, point.
What does it have to do with (faces of) postpartum?
Nothing. And everything.
I know many amongst us are wondering what will happen to the most vulnerable. That includes new parents, pregnant people, and NICU babies. Doulas have been banned from delivery rooms, OBGYNs will soon be intubating ER patients as ICU beds are becoming scarce. Our maternal mortality rate is already one of the highest in the civilized world. We're not taking mothers seriously when it comes to advocating for themselves when the world is well. What about now?
I’m concerned, paralyzed by the apathy of our leaders and the nonchalance of certain groups of people. So instead of flipping tables, I find myself—like most— obsessively reading the news, analyzing colorful charts with moving dots, and consuming op-eds about wellness, connexion, anxiety, and being present for one another.
I read about parenting anecdotes, delighted by our shared adventures: we mend our children for five minutes alone on the toilet, screens are finally back in style, and so is frozen food. We revisit our beloved irony and don’t find it as appealing anymore. Suddenly, the mocked stereotypes of our daily #momlife aren’t that clichés. We simply want them back: the soccer practice on Saturday morning and the grocery shopping without surgical gloves.
[…]
[But] here I am, writing to you this morning despite this shit show of a week. A feeble but stubborn attempt to climb out of darkness, grab that darn buoy, and make my way back to shore.
Thank you, lovelies.
Be kind. Be safe.