Friday, January 25, 2013

Things I Know

I think one of the worst things in the world is knowing things when people don’t think you know them.  It’s part of the reason I’m as open and honest as I am; I feel worse when I find out later and then I feel like everyone was getting one over on me.  But that’s when I genuinely don’t know something.  When I do, and have to pretend I don’t…well, it’s difficult to say the least.

I don’t know why humans do this to one another.  I want to say to my husband, “Hey, I know about X, Y and Z, and while I’m at it, let me tell everyone you trash-talked me to certain people, oh, and there are things I know about you, and then we can see where we’re at.”  It’s hard…I’ve never defended myself whenever anyone confronted me because I don’t believe I should’ve had to; my marriage is just that, a union between TWO people, and the fact that so many people became so intimately involved with what they think happened within it is just sick. 

I want this to be over.  I want to feel better.  I want to move on.  Certain things are a matter of respect.  Certain things.  Certain things I know of but am not supposed to know of, so I feel foolish. 

I hope that one day, when something real happens, he will finally understand what he did to me this year.

Also, when is it appropriate for me to delete half of my Facebook friends so that I don’t have to see any ridiculous updates on his life?  (And so that I feel less like I need to censor myself?)

So, sometimes I become completely overwhelmed with what happened, and then other times I’ll think of such random things that put it into perspective; like, that I’m going to die one day.  That Brandon was born PERFECT.  He is a big, strong, healthy baby, and that is a fucking miracle.  My biggest hope is that I never know a day without him.  That he grows up, gets old, and lives a good life for years after I’m gone.

Sometimes I think of how big the world is.  How there are feet on every corner of it and we are all sort of the same.  Sometimes I think of certain moments, like getting lost, or highway driving, conversations, and not the big ones, but random ones, sometimes with random people, that I might never see again.  Looking out a window.  Taking a breath.  Thinking a thought.  Everything still happens.  Still continues.  Whether or not life is how I planned it, it is how it should be.

It is very hard to do this alone though.  Especially with a newborn.  I mean, every night, all night.  All day.  I don’t have another person to pass him off to so that I can even run to the bathroom.  It gets to be a lot.  I get tired.  Emotionally and physically.  I get frustrated.  I get scared.  And Brandon is getting more and more attached to me because I’m the only consistent person caring for him. 

Overnight, on the nights he won’t sleep, I literally feel like my body is going to fall apart.  I came out of the hospital in terrible pain, and had to go it alone from the beginning.  I never had a chance to catch my breath.

I just want to catch my breath.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013


This past year has been an ordeal and half, to say the least.  It’s strange though; one aspect of it has officially come to a close.  My baby is here, I’ve packed away all my maternity clothes, and I just went for my postpartum checkup yesterday; all was well and I got the, “See you in a year for your yearly checkup.”  It’s just…done.  My pregnancy.  Over.  Sometimes when I’m just sitting, I think about when I was still in the hospital and how oddly magical it was; you go in alone and leave forever changed.

I’m am still distraught by the fact that I didn’t even get so much as a smile from my husband after everything I went through.  The fact that, as far as I can tell, at the time of the birth he already moved on without telling me so.  That our child seemed to hold no weight in regard to “us.”

I feel at moments like this can’t be real.  Tonight for instance.  I can’t get anything done.  I understand this.  But some things I need to do.  And so when I get Brandon to sleep for a bit, I have to do those things first: preparing bottles for him, laundry, cleaning…and things like writing get pushed to the wayside.

(I am typing this with one hand while I hold Brandon.)

He is starting to sleep longer at night, which is amazing.  But I never get deep, restful sleep.  I am always slightly awake, listening for his every movement and sound.  My sister spent the night last Saturday into Sunday, and I went out with a friend for the first time since the baby came home.  She let me sleep alone in my room and she stayed with the baby downstairs.  Afterwards she talked about how difficult it was to be the only one to be up and down caring for him.  And it is.  I am already burnt. 

I’m kind of tired of saying it, but it seems to need repeating.  The whole “I’m better off this way” might be true and I might even believe it myself.  But that doesn’t mean I’m happy, that this is anywhere near what I imagined for my life, and that I’m not still completely distraught over the series of events that happened this past year.

This also doesn’t mean I’m weak, pathetic, or anything of the sort.  It means I have a fucking heart.  I’m sorry that the ideal situation would have been a partnership with my husband, the father of my child.  Shame on me for thinking so I guess.

You learn things about your child everyday.  I’m still trying to calm his fussiness; it seems to be getting better, but he still has his moments.  “New Slang” by The Shins calms him down almost immediately.  I basically put it on repeat if I’m trying to get something done.  Right now, for instance.  I keep replaying it and I was able to calm him enough for him to lie in my lap as I write this.  I have to be quick though.  If I let too much dead air go by after the song ends, he wakes and starts crying again.

The writing thing I knew would kind of fall to the side.  But, well, it’s important to me for a variety of reasons.  I’m starting to finally send out my work, and this is important to me because I was never able to do that while with my husband.  Everything else always came first.  And there would be no greater kick in the face than to actually accomplish what I was never able to try for before.

This is why I’m so obsessed with the fact that I’m already back in my pre-pregnancy clothes.  Not because I’m vain; I just had a baby and I would personally be fine if my body was permanently changed.  But my husband, before we split, made a very sarcastic comment to me about me getting my body back, and I was beyond hurt by it.  Honestly, I don’t even know where it came from, because I’m extremely petite, I am active and eat healthy, and just by my build it was safe to assume I would get my body back.  But 3 ½ weeks after the birth of my son, I was back in my old clothes, and it thrilled me to pieces, because, well, he doesn’t get to enjoy my body anymore (and it is pretty damn enjoyable).

Also, he was so strange with work/career, and when I return from my leave I’m getting a promotion and a raise.  My boss even called me directly to ask in desperation when I was returning.

The point being, he always seemed to paint me as pathetic, and now some people I know continue to do so, because I’m sad at the way things turned out.  But the only thing my feelings should tell you is that I had a heart in the first place that could be broken.  Pathetic I am not.  This was the biggest struggle of my life and I still managed to excel at work, have a beautiful son that gives me the biggest smile and most adoring look every morning, and I look extremely hot while doing it all.

I don’t know exactly what I want right now, beyond immediate things: I want sleep, I want Brandon to stop fussing, I want to get my own place.

Anyway, despite the struggle with Brandon today, I managed to write this blog entry, and also this poem.  Enjoy:


i ate your skin with a side of bone; you know i am beyond hope, beyond repair.  it never went all the way down: i choked on your hair; your hair looks darker in photographs.  remember how the brick looked in the background?   i used to pour my tea from the cup into the saucer and drink it down; i used to sink into pools of your tears and drink them; i would keep bottles of air beside my bed and breathe them like smoke.  you know how i would cough,

my lungs turned black black black;

still, there is something very real about this
kind of sex; i like to take and be taken.

you are supposed to know when to do which.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

The "D" Word

I think I’m going through post-traumatic stress from the delivery of my son.  I randomly throughout the day will have flashbacks of the pain and the helplessness and I become overwhelmed.  And the inadequacy I feel from having had a c-section after all of it…it’s difficult for me to bear.  I do feel like I failed in some essential way.

That then leads off into me feeling immense guilt for not breastfeeding my son.  I had my reasons not to.  Including the fact that I was prescribed (and am supposed to be taking) Zoloft, but…I haven’t taken it.  I was taking it before I was pregnant and had to come off of it right away once I found out I was, but I could’ve come off it long before that.  My sadness now I think is just that…sadness.  And my OCD hasn’t reemerged despite the sadness, nor has the anxiety.

My biggest fear right now is that my son will hate me and blame me for the fact that myself and his father aren’t together.  (My husband – “J” as I call him in most poems – has officially told me, among other things, that he has a lawyer and so us divorcing is definite at this point.)

After my experience with him at the birth of our son, I couldn’t see us reconciling anyway.

But does anyone, anywhere, understand that we have only been apart since the end of June?  And that I can’t help but remember things with him that happened before…before I even knew most of the people currently in my life?

The day I first met him, it was autumn; we had mutual friends.  I was 14.  What do you do at that age but hang around outside and act like a hooligan.  We were on my friend’s street.  I knew that J was going to be joining us.  I saw him as he emerged, rounding the corner in a kind of crazed dance-walk.  And he laid down on the sidewalk.  No one introduced him, or said anything to him, so I walked over and I told him my name.  And he told me that his dog Shadow had just died a few hours before.  I told him I was sorry, that I had a dog and I understood that it’s not “just a dog.”

And I went home that night and called my friend Iana (still one of my dearest friends).  And I told her I met someone and I thought I loved him.  And I explained our exchange and she told me I was crazy.  And I said I know it wasn’t much.  And I knew I had just met him.  But I felt something was there.  Something I didn’t know how to describe.  Like comfort.  Something that made me unafraid.

We dated for a little while.  It didn’t last.  We were very young and dealing with a lot of outside issues.  He 16 when I met him, just about to turn 17.  He was dealing with his coming high school graduation, and not knowing where he could go or what he could do.  So he joined the Army without talking to anyone.  He was going to be leaving after graduation.  We stayed together into January.  I didn’t really speak to him for the next few months because although I did love him, we just couldn’t be together based on a million other things at the time, and it was too difficult.

The following July, the week before he was going to be leaving for boot camp, he asked if he could see me before he left.  He took me to the city on a Saturday and we went to this little restaurant which, I don’t remember what it was called but I could paint it from memory.  We spent the day together.  On the ferry boat on the way home, he kissed me, and I kissed him back.  He told me no one would be around that coming Tuesday, the day his recruiter would be coming to pick him up to take him to the airport.  I’ll never forget the sound of his voice when he said, “Please don’t let me be alone that day.”

So I didn’t.  I spent the day with him.  Walked out of his house with him and watched him get into the car that was waiting for him.  Watched the car drive.  Do you know what I did then?  I ran.  (Bear in mind I was 15 at this point and not driving.)  But I ran.  I felt like the air was crushing me.  I ran to the train station, hopped on, and got off at my stop.  But I realized I couldn’t go home.  I felt destroyed in some way.  I called my mother from a payphone.  (Do you see how long ago this was?  A fucking payphone!)  I told her I would be getting dinner with friends.  Then I walked from the train station to the water, and sat on a bench and watched the boats moored in the harbor.  And I just stared and stared until the sun had almost set and I just started crying.  A man walked by and asked me if I was ok.  I remember smiling weakly at him.  He told me to go home; that it was getting dark and I shouldn’t be out there alone.

There are a million stories.  There are all the things I’ve done for him.  And all I ever wanted from the moment I first saw him round that corner was to marry him, have children with him, be with him forever.

Just having Brandon is in and of itself a miracle.  He is a healthy, strong, amazing baby.  And now I just feel anger when I see him hold our son, after having been so alone the past few months.  We both made some bad choices.  But nothing was ever perfect with us…but it was perfect in its imperfection, which is why I was so in love.  Why was I the only person in the entire universe not eligible for a second chance?  I’ve given him many.

I know he’s not the same person I fell in love with.  He doesn’t wear those ridiculous shirts that are 4 sizes too big.  He cares what people think.  He never wanted to just sit and listen to music with me anymore.

I couldn’t make him laugh anymore.

Anyway, part of what’s been upsetting me is the nonchalant way many people in my life expect me to move on.  I just mean, I’m not a flipping idiot.  I know it’s been bad.  But I should not be made to feel guilty/stupid/pathetic for actually having loved the person I married and for wanting to try to make it work with him.  I didn’t get married with the intention of getting divorced.  It’s not something I want[ed].  And now I’m going to be stuck with the stigma of being a divorcee, and I don’t want the judgment.  But what are you supposed to do when your husband leaves you?  It’s beyond my control.  You can’t make a person stay, and honestly, why would one want to?  I married him because I loved him.  But if he didn’t feel the same way about me, then why should I suffer the rest of my life with someone that loves me less than I deserve?

I’m sorry Brandon, that it didn’t work out the way I wanted.  I loved your dad.  And if nothing else, he gave me you.

P.S. – On an entirely different note, I have this strange problem that makes me want to forget everything/everyone I know and start over somewhere else entirely.

I wish this was a viable option.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Merry Christmas

I’m a fucking wreck.  My husband came to pick up my son for little while today so his family could see him for Christmas.

I’ve been crying since yesterday thinking about being apart from him.

It’s only been 11 days since he was born.  Being separated from him is the worst kind of torture imaginable.  It’s my son’s first Christmas, and I can honestly say it’s one of the worst Christmases I’ve ever had.

I’m looking out my window, the same window I used to stare out of when I was younger.  The sun comes and goes, and the bare branches on the trees match how empty I feel without being able to look into his eyes.

I don’t care that my husband is his father.  I want[ed] to work things out.  It’s not my fault he’s not around.  If I had my way we would all be together.  I carried Brandon for 9 months.  I took care of myself while I did it.  Now Brandon’s here and after months of what seemed like pretending that there was no baby, I’m supposed to share him willfully?

It’s only been 11 days.  I had surgery.  Did I not deserve a chance to rest before this?  It should be him that tells me for sure what he wants, since he was the one so adamant about “waiting to see until the baby comes.”  Reality is he won’t say a fucking word.  So I’m going to have to.  And I guess I’m going to have to do it now.  Because I can’t take this.  I can’t take the not knowing.

I’m so confused about everything.  I’m learning how to be a mom.  I mean, for me, it actually did come naturally, as far as practical things go.  But the amount of love I have for Brandon is something that I can hardly control.  I have to learn how to feel this, and how to leave room in my heart for someone else (new?).

I’m confused about love.  I have felt real hatred towards my husband over the past few months.  I have felt sorry for him too.  I have missed him.  I have missed perhaps not him, but just companionship.  I know how alone I was/felt when we were together.  And when everything that eventually split us up went down, I didn’t know I was pregnant.  If I had known, things would’ve been different.  Because the kind of alone I feel now without my son is worse than anything I have ever felt.  Like someone asked to borrow my vital organs for awhile.  And I would have dealt with the aloneness with my husband, to never have to experience what I’m going through now.

Is that fair or good?  Probably not.  But I would have tried.

I’m confused about the reckless, emotional, person I met so many years ago.  The boy that hurt me, that I hurt, but that I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.  I think about how he first told me he loved me.  I think about how he has cried in front of me.  Has cried to me.  I think about how when things were good, how good they really were.  I think about making love to him and laughing laughing laughing the whole way through.  Probably one of the happiest memories in my lifetime. 

I don’t know now though.  I also think about how things had changed.  How he never came to me anymore.  How he never seemed happy to see me.  How we so rarely touched each other let alone made love.  How often I ate and slept alone.

(I just put my hand to my face, and I smelled my son on my hand.  Please God let today move quickly.)

And I don’t want to be alone like that ever again.  And I don’t want to go through the motions just because it’s easier.  I want to be kissed and touched by someone who wants to kiss and touch me.  I want to cook for someone that appreciates it.  I want to know that when I go to bed at night, there will be someone there to hold me.  Or fight with me, even.  Just acknowledge me. 

I want to watch Game of Thrones with someone, and The Walking Dead.  I want to have a person to go to the movies with.  I want someone who doesn’t think it’s silly that I [still] write poems.  I want someone that wants me to be happy.  That believes in the search for happiness above all other things, including how things appear to others.  I would like money and “things” of course, because I’m a human and I’m entirely willing to admit that I get jealous when I see other people with things I don’t/can’t have, but when it comes down to it, I cried for days leaving my old, tiny, broken-down one bedroom apartment to come live with my parents.  I still close my eyes and dream of my old kitchen.  And I would give anything to be back there now, taking care of my baby in my own place.

I miss Chester too, second after my darling baby.  I miss my family.

It’s hard though.  With the baby.  I am alone in that no matter how I look at it.  If I’m with a different man, he did not get me pregnant.  The baby is not his responsibility.  Especially if my husband is still somewhat in the picture.  It’s complicated, and uncomfortable, and all I really want is what’s best for my son.

And I just don’t know right now if that is the stability of keeping our family together, or trying to establish a new (stronger?) relationship with someone else.  Not that the choice is all mine, or mine at all.  It’s really up to my husband whether or not he wants to work things out.  At least, originally, that’s what it was.  He knows that what I originally wanted was to stay together.  That was because I changed the second I heard my son’s heart beating.  I wanted to remain a family.  I have never lived under the delusion that things are perfect all the time.  Problems, even big ones, don’t equal divorce for me.  They are just problems, like everyone has (and anyone who says otherwise is lying, perhaps to themselves more than anyone else).  We didn’t try for a baby to fix things, he just happened.  Kind of under a miraculous series of events, too.  And I’m big on signs. 

When I look at my Brandon, I honestly can’t begin to describe the things I would give up for his sake.  Including, perhaps, the chance to be kissed by someone who wants to kiss me, held by someone who doesn’t want to let me go.

Just so that there is never a morning that I can’t kiss my son.  So there is never an evening that I can’t tuck him in and tell him I love him.

But I’m good at reading situations.  In fact, this exact situation I’m in I predicted back in June.  So, I don’t think we’ll be “working things out.”  I think I have to start coming to terms with this awful mess.

On top of trying to decide: look for a new job, or stay at my current one?  I really like my current job.  I want to stay there.  I like my boss.  I’m close to home.  But I need to make more money.  For my son and for myself.  I need health insurance.  (Assuming I’m getting a divorce.  At least I know Brandon is still covered by his dad.)

I think I’m going to look for a new job and see what happens.  In the meantime, plan on returning to my current job at the end of my leave and see what I can arrange to make more money.  On top of my [hopeful] promotion.

Then I have to look for a new home for Brandon and I.  A place to call our own.  Where I don’t feel like I have to constantly run around and pick up all his things.  I want to live comfortably, in a young home where my son can spread out and play all over.

All I know now, is that I am completely overwhelmed.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

My Baby

So I haven’t written in quite some time.  Not since before my last prenatal checkup.  Mostly this is because I had my baby.  (!!)

This is a long entry about the birth.

Not this past Monday, but last, December 10, was my due date.  I went for an appointment to see one of the doctors at my practice.  He examined me and said there was a definite change from the previous week.  The baby was lower, and I was dilated even more.  As he had instructed the previous week, I called the hospital to schedule a biophysical profile, which is a test they do when you are overdue in your pregnancy to make sure that it is safe to leave the baby inside without inducing.  When I had called, they gave me an appointment for Friday the 14th.  I told my doctor and he said he wanted me to go sooner, so he called the hospital himself and had them take me in immediately.

So I go to the hospital and, to make it short, the women at the office gave me such a hard time about me being there; about how I was only full-term as of that day and other such nonsense.  Which is crazy, because it’s not like I took it upon myself to show up; my doctor had told me to go.  He saw some calcification of the placenta, and most importantly, was concerned about the baby being much too big for me.

So finally, after a good long argument with the girls at the desk in the hospital, I was let in for my appointment.  They said everything looked good and the estimated fetal weight was 6 lbs ¾ oz.  So then the ultrasound technician said that the baby was actually “small” and just big for me (ridiculous…I know so many babies born less than 7 pounds).

So, I took what I could from it; the baby was healthy, I was still healthy, and what did it matter anyway, I wasn’t in labor.

So, as I’m driving home from the hospital, I receive a call from my doctor, not the one I had just seen, but my regular doctor.  He said he spoke with the hospital about my results, and that he and the other doctor spoke with each other and decided that if I didn’t go into labor during the week, they were going to induce me that coming Saturday, because they were still concerned about the baby’s size, regardless of what the hospital said.  My doctor said he was going to be there on Saturday evening, so he would be there to get the induction started.  He asked that when I go in, to tell them my due date was 12/9 instead of 12/10 because he “didn’t want to hear it from them.”  (He was assuming that if the induction would start on Saturday night, I would have the baby by Sunday night at the earliest, and if I told them my due date was the previous Sunday, that would mean I would give birth at 41 weeks which is more desirable to the hospital.)  It’s stupid though, because I’ve been his patient for so long; he would obviously know what’s best for me as opposed to the hospital, and I can’t get over people just obsessed with keeping women pregnant when there is no unhealthy reason to induce.

Anyway, I was happy, in that as uncomfortable as I was, there was an actual light at the end of the tunnel.  No matter what happened, I was going to have a baby within the week.

So for the next few days things moved as usual.  I was uncomfortable.  I had my periodic, painful, but otherwise seemingly useless contractions.  Tuesday evening my sister and brother-in-law came by to hang out for a little while, and to have dinner.  While they were here, I noticed my contractions become noticeably stronger, and more frequent, maybe about 20 minutes apart.  They left, and I spent an uncomfortable night and the next day, with the contractions getting closer and closer together.

I went to bed on Wednesday night but didn’t sleep.  Instead my contractions became so close together and so painful that I couldn’t even sleep through them.  I was also bleeding.  By 4:30 am on Thursday morning, I called my doctor’s office.  My doctor called me back and said something was definitely starting; he asked how long I could labor at home.  I told him I wasn’t sure I could for much longer, and that’s why I called.  The hospital is also not exactly super close to my house.  So he told me to come in, get looked at, and worse comes to worse they send me home.

I woke my parents and told them we had to go, I jumped in the shower, got my stuff together, and headed out the door, not without hugging Chester through tears.  On the ride there, I called both my husband and my sister to let them know the time had most likely come.

By the time I got in to the triage area the pain was really bad.  When I was examined, I was contracting regularly and dilated 4 cm, so I was admitted and “officially” in labor. 
They immediately hooked me up to the IV so that I could get started on the epidural sooner rather than later.

Basically everything went haywire from there.  I received the epidural, but all I am left to assume is that it was placed incorrectly.

I don’t even feel like going through the rest of this detail by detail.  All I can say is that I had to ask repeatedly for the epidural to be topped off/moved/etc., (they only ever topped it off) but it never really took.  When I would ask for it, the pain would be creeping up slowly, and it would take a good hour or so for the anesthesiologist to show up to top it off.  At one point he asked if I felt a cold sensation when he was administering a top off, and told him I didn’t.  So, he walked away.  I asked Jen, “Did he not hear that I said I couldn’t feel it?”  It’s a blind procedure, so they have to go by what the patient says.  Also, when I first had the epidural inserted, they told me that where I felt the cold sensation helped them to determine whether or not it was placed correctly.

So basically, that lasted the entire 20-something hours of my labor, me basically feeling everything, except my legs.

At one point my nurse came in and TURNED OFF my Pitocin drip, which had been given to me to help my contractions get stronger and closer together.  She said hastily that she was the only nurse on the floor and she can’t watch everyone.  So she came in and snapped it off.  My doctor walked in shortly thereafter and when he saw the Pitocin level and we told him what happened, he stormed out of the room without a word.  Later on, when I was almost through with labor, he came in to apologize profusely that the Pitocin hadn’t been administered at faster rate, and that it had been turned off.  He was about to go into a c-section, and had been working for an ungodly amount of hours, so he wasn’t going to be able to deliver my baby after he was out.

I ended up with the female doctor in the practice.  When it was all said and done I pushed for 3 hours.  I was fully dilated, (at one point there was a “cervical lip” in the way but even that was gone after awhile) but then they decided I needed a c-section, not because I wasn’t dilated or progressing, but because my pelvic bone wasn’t big enough to allow the baby to pass through (which is crazy…because my pelvic bone is a bone…it wasn’t going to change with how far my labor progressed; that was something that should have been addressed much earlier).  I ended up with a 101 fever that lasted for hours.  And the two other doctors did try to address it; but the one that ended up delivering the baby was insistent.  I wanted more than anything to have my baby vaginally.  For many reasons: practical, emotional, and otherwise.  But at that point I hadn’t eaten or drank anything in a day, and since I had been pushing, I had them turn down the epidural so I could feel myself push.  My doctor decided suddenly to bring me in for a c-section, after over an hour of the epidural being off.  I was fully dilated and desperate to push the baby out, but was told to stop.

I’m not even going to talk about the c-section itself.  I remember the prep; I remember some of what was said.  I remember hearing the baby cry.  I really came to when the baby was brought to me, and I kissed him, and pressed my face against his, and I told him I was his mommy and that I loved him more than anything.  Then they took him from me, and put me out completely to stitch me up.  He was born at 4:26 am on Friday, December 14.

I woke up in recovery, and my doctor came by to say everything was fine.  I remember my husband saying that he was leaving the hospital and would be back.  I must have passed out again, because the next thing I remember is a nurse asking me if my husband was coming back because he needed to handle the cord blood banking right away.

I remember feeling confused and angry that she would even ask me; why not ask my husband to do it before he left earlier?  I called him but couldn’t get through.  I asked where I was, what time it was; I was told I couldn’t leave recovery until I could bend my knees and lift my hips on my own. 

Once I finally got to the maternity ward I was dying of thirst and had to fight for 5 ice chips.  I was told my baby was in the NICU because of the fever I had while I was in labor, and that when he was first born there was an issue in which he stopped breathing and turned blue.  Then I was told I couldn’t see him until I could “get myself to the NICU.”

In bed all day Friday I struggled to move each joint in a desperate attempt to get out of bed to see my baby.  They got me sitting in a chair by the end of the night, but by the next morning I was bedridden again because I had lost too much blood and needed a transfusion.

I managed to get up there in a wheelchair to see him, but I couldn’t hold him.

Finally by Sunday I was able to hold him and feed him.  I was released on Monday morning, and waiting around all day for him to be discharged as well.

The whole time I was in the hospital I would ask for pain medication and they would bring it to me 2 hours after I would ask for it.  At one point I asked to see my doctor and I was asked, “Why?”

By the time I left, I was so swollen from having the IV on for days and days that I couldn’t walk.  I still can’t get up stairs without using both my hands to pull myself up, so there is no way I can carry the baby.  I’ve basically been living off the couch.  Trying desperately to keep it together.

Wishing I wasn’t alone through this.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Unnecessary stress

Well.  Sorry about my somewhat crazy rant last night.  I needed to get it out; if I kept it inside it would have clogged all my other thoughts and driven me insane.

Basically, my father is extremely upset.  I guess I could say about the situation in general, and perhaps that’s it.  But I don’t really know because he never says a word unless it’s him snapping over something ridiculous.

Yesterday he snapped over 1 – I was given a second activity mat as a gift.  I thought I might give it to my husband; if we aren’t staying together, and he doesn’t have one, and he’s going to have the baby sometimes, should I deny my son a toy (it’s not like I paid for it myself) to spite my husband?  Come on.  I have to sit there and listen to implications that all this is childish (as if I have a choice in the matter) when that is what you’d rather me do?  Ludicrous.  He flipped and said I shouldn’t give it to my husband, as if I bought my husband a new car or something that he doesn’t deserve. 

And 2 – we were sitting eating dinner and Chester was laying at my feet quietly.  I don’t even know how it started, because my brother and sister-in-law were there as well and the last thing I remember is my brother telling a funny story about something that happened to him at work this past week.  And then suddenly, my father asked me, “What is he still doing here?” (meaning Chester).  My husband usually picks him up early on Saturdays and drops him off again on Tuesday evenings.

So, to make a long story short, my husband was going out last night so I told him he can come get the dog today.  I knew my dad would think that was stupid, that I should’ve made him come get the dog, etc., but I LIKE having the dog with me, and rather him be with me than know he’s alone because my husband isn’t home with him.  Anyway, I figured, let my dad be angry at me; he always is anyway.  (I can’t have him flying off the handle on my husband over every stupid little thing, because the baby is going to be living solely with me in the beginning due to him being so young and small and not able to safely travel back and forth.  So he is going to have to come here to see the baby, and I want him to feel comfortable enough to do so.)  So I just said, “I told him he can come tomorrow for the dog.”

Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, my dad flew off the handle again.  My mother, who knew about my conversation with my husband and in an attempt to stick up for me, said, “He’s going out tonight.”  Well, I really don’t know what happened after that, but suddenly I was getting screamed at for…I don’t even know what.

I know other people are stressed out.  I know I know I know.  But come on, seriously.  I’m going to be 40 weeks tomorrow.  At this point, even if I was being a complete raging maniacal bitch, the exact opposite of what anyone should be doing right now is yelling at me about it, getting me to the point of a hyperventilating cry.


Well, to add to this, my mother just came into my room crying because she and my father are fighting now over this stupid crap.

I can’t really go into it because as I said when I first started this, I’m not going to talk about the situation with my husband directly.  I don’t feel comfortable doing so.  So I can’t really go into detail as it stems from that.

Why oh why can’t people just let me be?  Let me dream of nothing else right now but the way my baby will look?  Of holding him?  Instead my head is swirling with the most ridiculous crap imaginable.

I have my next checkup tomorrow at 11:45 am.  I can’t wait to go.  I’m hoping to find out I’m dilated more.  I’m hoping the doctor examining me will get things started.  I have a lot to talk to him about too, and being that I’m 40 weeks I’m hardly the patient that they will rush out of the room so should have the opportunity to do so.  Since this is the third doctor in the practice that I’m seeing (and the final possibility of who might be delivering my child) my sister was asking me if I had gone over certain things with him yet.  And I just said, “Well the last time I saw him he shoved his hand up my vagina so I didn’t think it was the right time to bring certain things up.”  (She thought that was funny.)  Tomorrow he will also have his hand in my vagina, but I’m prepared this time to catch him before he does.

I’m also just excited to get out of the house.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Short and sweet.

I haven't cried as much as I have today since the start of this whole fucking disaster.

I'm a day and a half away from my due date, so my options of solace are limited.

What I hate the most is IT IS NOT ME keeping me from trying to keep a semblance of normalcy and happiness.  I was just eating dinner quietly when YOU started in with me.

I should not have to answer for the fuck ups of anyone else.

I'm in this mess because I admitted to my own mistake.  So I might be many things, but among those is honest, and remorseful, and I HAVE MORE THAN PAID MY PRICE.

So honestly, if it's that much of a problem to help me, DON'T.  I have friends that will drive me to the hospital.  I have brothers and a sister that will take Chester while I'm there.  A sister that I was staying with until I was told to come to you.  And I will get the hell out of the house as soon as I go back to work, which could be as soon as February.

If I'm not worth the sacrifice, I'm glad I at least know it now.

You are INSANE if you think I am happy about this, and comfortable enough to stay here long term.

If it's not clear the amount of things I've already given up for my son, I don't know what to say to you.  I am even willing to go back to the career that made me sick in the first place because I know I will be able to make more money for him doing that.

Because he is not a burden.  I'm in love with him.  I have since I first saw his tiny speck of a body on the ultrasound screen.  And it doesn't matter if he is a day old or 28 years old.  I will always sacrifice for him.

I'm sorry I don't incite the same emotion in you.