So long, Summer

On Heatwaves and Postpartum Rage

Me and Jaad at MSY airport in New Orleans before our return flight to Portugal last summer

Summer used to be my favorite season.

But this year it seems like everyone, everywhere was talking about how hot it’s been.

And as though to make its mark just before taking off, the final weeks of August brought in a heat wave that smothered us here in Lisbon.

I’m almost certain I had a mild case of dehydration, though my husband Rodrigo often accuses me of prematurely self-diagnosing.

At any rate, the heat made me think back on our last summer living in central Alentejo, the hottest region in Portugal. 

We were situated in Ponte de Sor, a small town where Rodrigo was a part of a team of pilots fighting forest fires, which are notorious in Portugal. He had warned me for months that Alentejo would be extremely hot, but I still wasn’t ready. 

I was busy fighting my own fires. 

When I returned to Portugal mid-summer, my son Jaad was a mere four months old. 

I was struggling with postpartum depression and suddenly thrust into a small, unfamiliar town with no family or friends nearby, and where very few people speak English. And my Portuguese is rough.

In the past, friends have often described me as calm and peaceful, but that was upended when I became a mom. My postpartum depression had begun to morph into what I would later learn was postpartum rage. I didn’t recognize who I was in those beautiful and brutal months of new motherhood.

It wasn’t until over a year later that I would begin to process that transformative experience, and attempt to write about it.

Me and Jaad hiding inside from the heat last summer in Ponte de Sor

I later submitted an essay titled Incêndios, or ‘fires’ in Portuguese, to a literary journal, and though it wasn’t accepted, I was encouraged by a wonderful community of writers I’d met to put it out there anyway. 

For months I had been thinking about what could be the right home for it, and when the heat wave hit me, so did the idea that I might share it here with you all.

So, in an ode to the hopeful end of this horrendous summer heat, here is Incêndios.

This is a rough and unedited version, and in retrospect I can see that it needs revising. But then I thought why not share the raw, unpolished version with you, my trusted readers? Isn’t that what our experiences are anyway?

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Incêndios

My voice trails off as I softly sing the same lullaby over and over. I stifle a sob as I cradle my son’s tiny body to my chest. My bleary eyes blink slowly as I listen to the dreary hum of the old electric air condition box that is meant to keep the blazing temperature outside at bay. 

I drowsily stare into his almond brown eyes, as though I could will him to sleep with my mind. He steadfastly resists. As I sink down to relieve my achy bones, the old wooden bed in the bare room creaks beneath me. 

Outside, heat blankets the crackly cobblestones and concrete, stretching its arms wide and wrapping around everything it can reach. 

There will be no respite this summer. 

For weeks we take refuge inside. I do not know the curves and winds of these roads. I am too afraid to lose my way. For if I did, I would not know how to say the words ‘I am lost’ in Portuguese.

The whole world feels distant.

I want my mother. But she is an ocean away. There is no one for me to call here. No friend to say, ‘Let’s go have ‘um cafezinho.’ (a little coffee)

So, I wait for my beloved - my only lifeline - to return home. He rises at the light of day to rush to the call of sirens and returns in the night. I wait and listen for the clinking of keys in the door.

I am bewildered by the woman I have become. 

The forest fires are nefarious in this land. They have scorched acres and acres. Rows of charred pine trees line hills that were once lush. Billowy, black clouds of smoke swirl in the sky. Where do all the people flee when the flames do their wicked dance, I wonder? 

On the old, gray TV set, bright orang fire blazes beneath bold, red letters: INCÊNDIOS. 

At the dinner table, the phone rings. A call that bears bad news - a colleague lost to the fires. I feel my throat tighten, hold back tears. Did his wife wait for him to return home too? 

The people here say the fires are especially bad this year – that they are unpredictable.

But I am fire too.

An unfamiliar rage roils inside of me. Small things vex my spirit. I used to easily laugh these things away, and remain unbothered. But now, passive comments, small inconveniences, unexpected interruptions - everything feels like a trigger.

Sleep evades me as I stumble through the motions of the days. This splendid being grows right before my eyes, but exhaustion blurs my vision.

Prolonged sleep deprivation will test even the gentlest of souls.

At the most unexpected moments, my eyes burst with tears like broken dams. I lash out at my husband. I discover how loud my voice can reach. I want to hurl things at the wall. Sometimes I want to hurl things at him.

At night, I rise instantly to the sound of my son’s cries, and stumble sleepy-eyed in the dark towards him. 

I am riddled with questions that I never ask.

Where is the joy they promised me? 

Who does my body belong to? 

Is this what it means to be a mother?

Why am I the one who always rises?

When fall finally arrives, the fires slowly descend around us. The damage is done.

Suddenly, as if on cue, my son begins to sleep through the night. At last, relief comes.

The air cools, the leaves turn rusty orange and red. My breath eases, and I begin to remember things about myself again. Who I was before the fires.

But like the land around me, I am altered forever.

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Did you experience postpartum rage or have friends or family who have? What were you most surprised by when you became a mother? If you have an experience you are willing to share with me, I would really love to hear from you.

As always, thank you so much for being here with me.

Warmly,

Summer