The signs of depression a husband almost missed

An excerpt from Live for Me, Nkem.

We fall into silence for a while before she says, “So what has Nkem done this time?”

My eyes meet hers. She crosses her arms, watching me like someone bracing for a fight.

I rub my face and breathe out. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“Hmm. You are not here to complain about her like you did before? Wasn’t it around this time last year, right after your mother’s surgery?”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“You said she wasn’t cooking, wasn’t picking your children up from school.”

“I was worried about her. I am still worried about her.”

“This is all your fault, Chima. No. Don’t look at me like that. You could have avoided it years and years ago. Instead, you were at work all day, and Nkem was suffering.”

“Nkem didn’t suffer. You know I was trying to build my practice then. It was very busy for everyone.”

“Why don’t you ask that practice to cook for you, eh?” She lifts a well-painted brow. “My daughter was working a full-time nursing job with two small children and also running around doing errands for your mother, who had other people who could have helped her. It was always Nkem do this, Nkem do that.”

I think of Nkem smiling and saying, “Of course. Obi m. I can do it.” Had I chosen not to see her fatigue? Or had she hidden it well, until she couldn’t any longer?

“I agree that I might not have handled things well, but that was ten years ago. We can’t blame everything on that. After all, some of Nkem’s problems were there before that time.”

She pauses her knitting to glare at me. “Don’t even try it, Chima. When you married my daughter, she didn’t have any problems.”

That is what you always say, I think.

“Well, occasionally, she has a spiritual attack. Our enemies in the village are strong, but God is stronger.”

I sit up in my seat, thinking I’d misheard her. “A spiritual attack?” This is new.

“What you should do is take her for prayers. Instead, you let her sit there and miss Sunday Mass. How will she feel better if she doesn’t go anywhere apart from work? Hmm?”

She might have a point. When was the last time Nkem and I went out together to do something fun, or anything at all? It’s embarrassing that I can’t remember. Maybe I got tired of hearing her say no every time.

“Has Nkem ever tried treatment?” I ask, steadying myself.

How long will it take this time?

“Oh! Chima, you’ve come again! Ibiakwa!” She flings her knitting pins on the couch beside her, standing and pointing at me.

There it is.

“If Nkem needs any treatment, it’s from your family’s stress,” she yells. “Do you know that your mother came here a few years ago to complain too? Chima is doing everything. Why didn’t she complain when Nkem was doing everything? What is wrong with a man taking care of his family?”

“Ma.”

“Of course I told her off!” She strikes her chest. “Me, Ego. I cannot lie down and take nonsense!”

I watch her warily, remaining seated. “Nobody bothers Nkem these days, Ma. I’m not trying to accuse anyone or point fingers.”

“Asi! Lies! Last year, when you came here, you pointed all your fingers at me.”

I’m not very proud of our verbal sparring last year, or all the previous times. I had said, “I’m sure you have something to do with why Nkem is like this. I will make sure to keep her away from you!”

And she had answered, “Chima, you must have been born yesterday if you think you can keep my daughter away from me.”

“I’m trying to help my wife,” I say. “That’s why I’ve come to you.”

“And when was the last time you called me or came to see me? Now you show up here today, calling me Ma and talking about Nkem’s dad.”

I wince.

“You used to have a smooth tongue, didn’t you, Chima? Then you called us Mom and Dad.”

I blow my breath out slowly. When had I stopped thinking about them like that?

“It’s OK.” She shrugs. “These things happen. But when I told you that my daughter had a lot on her plate, what was it you said?”

I turn away, as if I can avoid her words by doing so.

“You said, ‘It’s fine. Nkem and I know what we are doing.’ So why are you here now?”

I had asked Ijeoma to help pick up my kids and had driven here straight from work after changing out of my work clothes into blue jeans and a T-shirt. It was not a planned trip, and I wish I could say that I knew what I hoped to accomplish.

After all, I’ve lost count of how many times Nkem’s mother and I have had this conversation. The last time was a year ago, when I’d been forced to give up my solo dental practice in favor of having partners because of the demand on my time from home. I can’t say that I’ve fully let go of that disappointment.

“Things are different with Nkem now,” I say. “It’s much worse. It’s happening more often. She’s more forgetful. These days, it feels like she lives in the closet.”

“Does she eat?”

“Yes, but she’s been eating less.”

“Does she go to work?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s exactly the same.” She takes her seat, picking up her knitting pins again.

Won’t you ask if she’s OK?

This article is discussed on The Podcast by KevinMD: Signs of depression families miss, and the stigma behind it.

Nneka Oluoha is an internal medicine physician.