I was not alone

March 20, 2009

I'm sitting at the airport waiting for my flight to board. I'm headed to Chicago this weekend. I'm so excited to see my family (especially the little ones!).

So this is it folks. This weekend marks a year since my health crisis really began. It was a year ago this weekend that I was in Chicago and ended up in the emergency room (on Easter Sunday). The next day, Monday the 24th I was back in Tucson and was hospitalized. I was so sick. I honestly didn't think I would see this day. Here I am now, on the other side.

There are still so many things to sort through in my mind about all of this. Questions I've asked before and tried to answer. I've been through some strange things in the past year. Those experiences have changed my world. They've transformed how I view things and how I feel. More than anything I want to know if other people understand.

Do you understand what it's like not to know if you're going to live much longer and how that changes your will? Do you understand what it's like to have your body go through dramatic physical transformations in short periods of time and how you look at physicality differently after that? Do you know how fragile and resilient we are and how the knowledge of both those things creates fear and courage? Do you know what it's like to live in the balance of those things? Have you experienced the embodiment of parenthood and how that changes your capacity to love?

How do people navigate daily life with all these questions going unanswered? I want to share with other people what my experiences have been so I can know that others understand. I want to know I'm not alone. I'm certain I'm not alone in that experience. Everyone wants to know they're not alone.

I've been so wrapped up in my own processing of things that I forget that my family and friends also went through this crisis with me. The other day I asked Jeremy, "Do you remember when we ended up in the ER and I passed out on the commode because I was dehydrated and losing blood. You and the nurse lifted me off the commode and put me back in bed, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he said somberly.

"What was going through your head then Jeremy?"

"I thought you were dying Abby." I remember sitting on the commode and passing blood clots and feeling myself start to lose consciousness. I fought to hold on and then finally let go. I couldn't hear and couldn't see. When I came to I could hear Jeremy and the nurse yelling at me, trying to get my attention. I just wanted to rest. I could feel people trying to move me, but I didn't know what was going on. I thought I was dying. My husband thought I was dying.

What was it like for him? To watch his wife pass out cold with blood coming out her butt. My heart starts racing just thinking about what it must have been like for him. I never want to be in that situation. No wonder he hardly left my side. I've asked my family members questions about their reactions to hearing "life or death" on the other end of the line. I can't even really go there emotionally. It's not something I even want to try to imagine. But there is this awareness I have that this wasn't just my experience. Family members tell me about how they've experienced the grief of losing Harper too; moments that tears have overtaken them. I have not been alone in this. Not for one second was I alone.