Simple things fueled my growing ecstasy: deliveries of congratulatory post and bouquets. I felt increasingly important and blessed, buoyed by the nurses’ praise after being induced and giving birth without pain relief. I reveled in quirkiness, telling the midwife I was feeding my mushrooms after suckling W. Before he discharged me, the midhusband put his fist in the cavity where my stomach had divided. Motherhood shocked me. I believed W had special qualities.
Although I slept well, I stayed up after the 5am feed, preferring to reorder the airing cupboard or under the sink. I fizzed with energy. Hand-painting announcement cards and recording a flood of creative ideas. My list-making became obsessive. Every feed and bodily function was noted.
Uncharacteristically, I started to spend and donated large amounts to charity. Everything scintillated and colours became super-bright. A picture of Clint Eastwood suffused into life. I started hearing voices from the dead, and music. Pleasant auditory and visual hallucinations followed.
I sniggered to myself to keep my psychic abilities quiet or else be thought mad. Sixteen days after the birth I had an epiphany. I was in heaven on earth. I had solved the meaning of life. I screamed at my discovery.