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I was healthy, I was in love, and at 29, I was seemingly the youngest pregnant person in Manhattan. But a few days after I delivered a healthy baby boy, there was a problem. Between every breast-feeding session I was rushing to the bathroom. I had expected all sorts of postpartum aches and pains, but diarrhea? Within two weeks, I weighed less than I had pre-pregnancy. My world shrank to the size of my bed and my bathroom: all day I alternated between caring for my baby and caring for myself.
I was exhausted, in pain and afraid. Above all, I was humiliated. There was no logical reason for my shyness about my body. My bachelorette weekend devolved into a therapy session on sharing a bathroom with a boy. Now here I was, trapped with that boy in a tiny New York apartment, living my worst nightmare. There was no hiding my humanity. A gastroenterologist on the Upper East Side explained that the antibiotics I received during delivery had killed bad bacteria, but also all of the healthy bacteria that I relied upon to digest properly.
I ate gallons of yogurt with no results. The plastic cartons piled up on my kitchen counter next to the menacing breast pump equipment. On the ride home, I looked up C. Medication kept my symptoms at bay for a few weeks, but the C. He wrote me a different prescription, with no promises. If I was an aspiring Kate Middleton, delighting in the storm of teacups and thank-you notes that our wedding precipitated, my husband was a double for Mitt Romney. A string-bean financier with a 4.
But whatever calculations had gone into the match of a priss and a perfectionist were now deconstructed. My moment with seduction—at least the physical kind—was long gone.
