Why I can relate to Lindsay Clancy

I've been following the Lindsay Clancy case, the labor and delivery nurse who strangled her three kids, Cora (5), Dawson (3) and baby Callan (8 months), and then attempted to commit suicide.

The prosecution claims Lindsay was a monster who didn't want to be a mother anymore and therefore deliberately planned and executed the killings, just after conveniently sending her husband Patrick out to run errands.

Her defense lawyer, on the other hand, wants to prove that Lindsay was a warm and caring person who loved her children but suffered from severe postpartum depression that, exacerbated by being overmedicated, progressed into postpartum psychosis, a rare condition that affects roughly 1–2 in 1,000 women. In order to help people visualize that number, he suggested that on a good day at Fenway Park, out of the 37,000 fans sitting there, 74 might suffer from it.

Not so rare anymore now, right?

We've been watching 13 days of testimony so far, and it's been interesting. I am inclined to side with the defense, but I still can't wrap my head around the fact that this horrible act happened at all, and, secondly, that it happened on what her husband testified was one of the best days they'd had in a long time, and within a less-than-an-hour timeframe when there would have been "better opportunities" if this had been her plan all along.

Anyway, I don't envy the jury. They have a really tough job.

It makes me, however, look back.

It's almost 18 years ago that I gave birth to my precious son Colin. I didn't have an easy journey leading to this pregnancy, and I had been looking forward to meeting my baby. The birth itself was traumatic, to say the least, and when I finally held him in my arms, I expected angels to sing and happy tears to stream down my face.

Instead, all I felt was pure physical - and probably mental - exhaustion.

A few days later, still recovering at the hospital, I was looking at my beautiful boy's deep blue eyes when, out of the blue, I started to cry. I had no idea why, but I couldn't stop. I called my husband, who was at work.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, concerned.

I didn't know. Something must have been wrong, but I couldn't name it.

He offered to come to the hospital, but I declined, always being in "I can handle anything on my own" mode.

That day, the sadness passed, and we went about our day.

When we came home from the hospital, reality hit in terms of what it meant to care for a newborn, day in, day out, and even more so, night in, night out. The one thing everybody warns you about is that you won't get enough sleep. What they don't tell you, though, is how it affects you, and how it gets worse every day.

Having lost a lot of blood during delivery, and probably being not only anemic but also iron-deficient, certainly didn't help.

Hubby had taken two weeks off, and together we managed our daily challenges. But I need to be honest: when Monday morning came and he had to go back to work, I was almost in disbelief.

"You can't leave me here alone. How am I supposed to do all of this on my own?"

Me, Ms Independent, businesswoman, solo traveler, solution-oriented person!

While I was pregnant, I always had this big day, the ultimate end goal, that I was looking forward to: the birth and meeting the baby. I didn't give a lot of thought to what was going to happen "after this."

I know that other future moms spend a lot of time decorating the nursery, buying cute clothes and meal-prepping for the freezer.

I was more like, "I don't even know what clothing size the little guy is gonna need, or what colors look good on him, so I'll do the shopping once he's here."

Of course, I didn't get to do that.

One, people gifted me so many clothes in so many sizes, and two, I barely made it out of the house at all.

Do you know what it takes to take a shower, dress yourself and the baby, feed the baby, change the baby? And in between, do laundry? Lots and lots of laundry?

I remember one particular afternoon. Colin and I were at home, and on the radio they were playing ABBA's The Winner Takes It All. One of my favorite songs, and yes, it may be a tad sad, but it certainly wouldn't normally cause me to cry.

On that particular afternoon, it did.

I was holding my baby and crying. I remember telling him it wasn't his fault, Mommy was gonna be OK in a minute.

Was I, though?

At that point, I remembered having read about Brooke Shields' experience with postpartum depression, and I started wondering whether I might be suffering from it, too. I did some Googling, but frankly, it was frightening.

Symptoms include:

1. Feeling empty, sad, or hopeless
2. Severe fatigue and lack of energy
3. Changes in sleep and eating habits
4. Loss of interest in regular activities
5. Trouble concentrating

I had all of them!

Add to the list above the fact that I felt guilty for not being able to breastfeed. Plus the anxiety.

When I got pregnant, I was afraid I would lose him in the first trimester. Before the birth, I was afraid something could go wrong. When he was a newborn, I was afraid of SIDS. When he was a toddler, I was afraid he could bump his head really badly or fall down the stairs.

I had, however, also very high expectations of myself.

I mean, I asked for this!

I could have continued to work long days and weekends, travel for work, troubleshoot and be at several places at the same time, help Starbucks grow by yet another 30% every year, feeling like I was needed.

Now this little person that I had wanted so desperately needed me, and I was overwhelmed?

I didn't think so.

Did I tell my husband? Apart from the episode at the hospital, I always put on a brave face.

Did I tell my parents? God, no. They raised me to help myself.

Did I tell my friends? I didn't even see my friends! And what friends was I gonna tell? The ones whose kids were already in elementary school by now? The ones who had no children?

Did I tell my gynecologist? I had so many medical complaints after the episiotomy I required. Did he ask about my mood? I can't remember.

Looking back, I think what helped me get out of this situation was something that at first glance seems like yet another burden: Colin didn't sleep.

Not at night. Not during the day.

I had to take him out for long walks in his stroller, preferably somewhere with pebbles or cobblestones.

How was this helpful?

I had to get both of us ready and out of the house every day. We both got fresh air, and I had a chance to gather my thoughts. It was a time before smartphones, so I wasn't tempted to use social media either.

Hubby worked five minutes from home, so I had to have lunch on the table at noon. While it was stressful at times, it gave me structure.

I had to have a plan, have or get groceries, get everything ready.

I had to function.

And I did.

I am grateful that I never had trouble bonding with Colin. That must be so hard for new mothers. On the contrary, we've always been a good team, even before the birth.

I used to talk to him about things, just so he knew.

"Mommy has to attend a budget meeting today, and she may get upset, but it has nothing to do with you!"

Now Lindsay did tell her husband, her parents, her friends and a handful of psychiatrists and therapists.

She was offered medication that she ended up not taking—or, when she did take it, took reluctantly and not for long enough for it to really kick in. She told people she had thoughts of harming herself and the kids. She called suicide hotlines and presented to the ER, but apparently, if you don't have a "plan" and the means, i.e. a weapon, you don't qualify to be admitted.

She spent a few days at a locked ward of a reputable psychiatric institution, but because it was New Year's, staff was reduced, and her husband's perception was that "patients just hung out, watched TV or played with clay."

And then, on January 24, 2023, it happened.

She must have decompensated, I imagine.

I wonder what must be going on inside the mind of a person with a mental illness for the lines between right and wrong to become so blurred.

Will her lawyer, Kevin Reddington, bring in experts who can clearly explain this process?

Do you follow the trial? What are your thoughts?