Lindsay Clancy, The Odyssey and Getting Real
When I saw someone’s post about Lindsay Clancy and I had no idea what she was talking about, I found myself googling the name and then spiraling into a rabbit hole of reading everything about the story. For the record, I don’t do this with news, and certainly not news not about Israel. What intrigued me so much about this story? (Like so many others!)
Maybe it’s because I get it, sort of. After losing a baby right before Rosh Hashanah in 2022, at 21 weeks, and birthing the baby, holding the baby, saying goodbye to the baby and mourning the baby… I wanted another one so badly. Exactly one year later, in the very same week of finding out we lost our baby, we had Ezra Rachamim, who just turned 3 this week.
Ezra was born September 1st 2023 and I had a lot going on in my life at that point, besides having a newborn. Then just 5 weeks later, came October 7th. And like everyone else, I was shattered and shaken. I was in a constant daze and maze of trying to figure out how to make sense of this world, and humanity, and how to help. Everyone was doing, helping, cooking, donating time and effort, and the most I could manage was “just” keeping up with nursing my newborn. As the weeks went on, I knew I was feeling depressed. I started not getting out of bed and not showering, but I “blamed” my feelings of despondency on October 7th. Everyone in my life was in a state of trauma! What made me special?
I remember at some point my husband brought me my baby to feed and I didn’t want to open my eyes or sit up to feed him… and that’s how the bottles started. Sleep was more important than keeping up my milk supply. My husband ran the house while I slept and slept and escaped and hid.
One Friday in January my husband came into our room and asked if I wanted to come have breakfast with him. No. A few hours later he asked me if I wanted to help get ready for Shabbat. No. Leave me alone. A few hours later he came in and asked if I wanted to shower. No. Go away. Some time later he came in and asked if I wanted to light Shabbat candles. NO. STOP BOTHERING ME!
And that’s when it hit me. I couldn’t even get out of bed to light Shabbat candles. This was more than October 7th, although I’m sure it had a big influence and impact on my deteriorating state.
I knew I needed help. I reached out and was told about Machon Hila in Hadassah Ein Kerem, a program that helps women with postpartum depression. I made an appointment and began treatment that included medication. Slowly, slowly I started to come back to myself. By March I was sitting in the park with friends I hadn’t seen in months.
Was this psychosis? Was I hearing voices? No, I did not. But I know what postpartum is. I never had it with my 3 previous kids, but looking back, I can tell you that was a very dark, scary place to dwell in. My thoughts were murdering me for weeks and months.
The only thing I can say about this case of Lindsay (and if you don’t know what I am referring to, you can Google it), is that real postpartum is very real. The image that keeps creeping into my mind is actually from The Odyssey, which I saw last week with my husband. (Highly recommend!) Without giving spoiler alerts, there is a scene where Odysseus, the king, and his men need to travel through some difficult waters that most people don’t get through alive because there are mysterious songs that cause people to jump in the water towards the island nearby. It’s a bit cryptic, but without giving too much away, let’s just say that the voice, the song, is impossible to fight against. It possesses someone in a way that is irresistible. The men come up with a creative way to get through the water passage without succumbing to the call, but one man was so curious and he didn’t do what he was told. When he hears the illicit song, impulsivity overtakes him and he jumps into the waters and starts swimming towards the island. Whatever he heard gave him no choice but to jump into the frigid water, leave his men, give up on ever getting home to his family, and swim towards the irresistible unknown. And when you watch the scene, you don’t think “he’s crazy”… you feel bad for him because you see that whatever was calling him was much bigger and stronger than his rational will.
I keep picturing Lindsay in that scene. Jumping into the water.
Psychosis is real. Voices are real. Breakdown is real. Depression is real. A mother who spent 27 months pregnant, and gave birth three times, and loved her children like any mother typically does, is punished forever and for eternity by her own act. Whatever the verdict is, she is in her own jail of guilt, pain, embarrassment, anguish… not to mention the jail of being in a wheelchair forever.
Her actions were horrific and beyond tragic. But her punishment was already written in stone the moment she understood what she did. Maybe that is enough?
In court, she’s been reported as visibly emotional, wiping away tears while listening to testimony. Lindsay was overtaken by a power bigger than her rational will. And now we are left to wonder… should she be held responsible?
