Four days ago I walked into an operating room. 45 minutes or so later, they rolled me back out, drugged, stitched, and now finally able to look at the unexpected turn life took awhile back. His name is Oliver, and he's awesome.
Sure. I admit to bias. But it's all true.
There are relevant details... 20 inches long. 8 pounds, 13 ounces. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Interestingly, all these details change. He's already lost a pound. His hair color and eye color may change. The fact that he's awesome? Not budging on that one.
Awesome, as in awe inspiring. He reminds me of good things. Love and patience and light. He reminds me to look at my other children and savor, even when I'm frustrated and angry and overwhelmed.
Despite some sound advice, I spent as much of the first 24 of his life out here in the scary world as I could just being with him. A smart person probably would have sent him on down to the nursery and get some sleep. And the following day, my body was screaming at me. But my heart needed to cushion the transition from being pregnant to having an infant. It did my soul good to stare into that tiny face and breathe it all in.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
Like most people, I revert to old habits while under stress.
It was a rough weekend. There's really no getting around that or hiding it. Being involved in a significant car wreck at 36 weeks of pregnancy sets off all sorts of alarms and problems. And I've got the refrain down pat: we went to the hospital, we got checked out, we're all fine. And we'll be fine. Don't worry. We're fine.
Only, I'm not fine. And the best I can seem to do about it is lie to everyone. It's so easy to say that I'm fine. Except at 2am last night, when I just sat there broken and sobbing, hiding in the dark.
Physically I will be fine. Seat belts can leave a bad bruise and mine did, so I can't lift anything or move too quickly or even sleep comfortably. But it will go away and the laundry can wait until it's better. And that's about it. A nasty, hurts when I breathe, bruise across my chest.
Emotionally, however, I'm just broken. It's not the accident, not really. Yes, it sucked and yes it ruined my weekend and yes I feel horrible that my friend's brand new car may be junkyard bound. But realy, I think this experience is just enough to push me beyond my limits. I was already operating at maximum capacity. Now, we're on overload.
Having some measure of control over things like laundry and housekeeping was keeping me sane. And those things are beyond my ability to impact right now. I felt like I could keep going a few more weeks until things are radically different, and then I could blame hormones and exhaustion and all of it on major surgery and a newborn. And that was ok. Because no one expects you to be all together after major surgery and a newborn, not even me. But I'm falling all apart, with no good excuse, and I'm pretty sure that I can't just keep going anymore. Which is making the whole situation so much worse.
Despite all that, when well meaning people ask if they can help, I tell them "we're good." In part, I say this because there's nothing they can do. Sure, the house is a mess but asking them to clean it would make everything unbearable for me. In part, I say this because I cannot face that level of weakness at this time or I might never recover. It feels like the fake persona I'm letting everyone see is the only thing that's saving me from going over the edge forever.
I'm tired of my own drama but I'm not sure how to change it. So I'm just going to keep trying to ignore it all until it goes away by itself. Or until I hit the point in a few weeks when it's acceptable for me to be an emotional wreck.
Only, I'm not fine. And the best I can seem to do about it is lie to everyone. It's so easy to say that I'm fine. Except at 2am last night, when I just sat there broken and sobbing, hiding in the dark.
Physically I will be fine. Seat belts can leave a bad bruise and mine did, so I can't lift anything or move too quickly or even sleep comfortably. But it will go away and the laundry can wait until it's better. And that's about it. A nasty, hurts when I breathe, bruise across my chest.
Emotionally, however, I'm just broken. It's not the accident, not really. Yes, it sucked and yes it ruined my weekend and yes I feel horrible that my friend's brand new car may be junkyard bound. But realy, I think this experience is just enough to push me beyond my limits. I was already operating at maximum capacity. Now, we're on overload.
Having some measure of control over things like laundry and housekeeping was keeping me sane. And those things are beyond my ability to impact right now. I felt like I could keep going a few more weeks until things are radically different, and then I could blame hormones and exhaustion and all of it on major surgery and a newborn. And that was ok. Because no one expects you to be all together after major surgery and a newborn, not even me. But I'm falling all apart, with no good excuse, and I'm pretty sure that I can't just keep going anymore. Which is making the whole situation so much worse.
Despite all that, when well meaning people ask if they can help, I tell them "we're good." In part, I say this because there's nothing they can do. Sure, the house is a mess but asking them to clean it would make everything unbearable for me. In part, I say this because I cannot face that level of weakness at this time or I might never recover. It feels like the fake persona I'm letting everyone see is the only thing that's saving me from going over the edge forever.
I'm tired of my own drama but I'm not sure how to change it. So I'm just going to keep trying to ignore it all until it goes away by itself. Or until I hit the point in a few weeks when it's acceptable for me to be an emotional wreck.
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