My bitter enemy

August 4, 2009

I talked with my brother last night on the phone. Hmm . . . "talked" isn't exactly an accurate description of what transpired. I did a lot of crying. He did a lot of listening. I told him I still feel so alone in all of this. I think the need to talk about it all is growing from that place of feeling alone.

On my drive home from work yesterday I was suddenly back at NW Hospital, there in the bathroom attached to my room. I could see the color of the floor and all the tiny little flecks of pattern. I could see the one tiny red fleck that was in the shape of a heart. I focused so much of my attention on that tiny little fleck when I was in that bathroom. It was all I could do. Thinking about it now, I can physically feel it all again. I can feel the weight of the fluid beginning to collect in my body. I can feel the pain in my skin as it stretched. I can feel Harper moving inside of me, fluttering every now and then, reminding me why I was fighting so hard. I can see myself lifting my legs out of the bed with urgency, reaching for the IV pole to drag it along with me, barely making it to the bathroom. I can feel my stomach cramping up as I pushed, the gooseflesh covering my body. I can feel the stool passing through me. I can see the blood in the collection hats in the toilet. I can see myself writing the time on a scrap piece of paper where the list of times were collecting and then climbing back into the bed, pulling my legs up, closing my eyes and trying to sleep, my body exhausted, but knowing that in another 20 minutes, I'd be doing the same thing again.

And that was it. That was all my mind thought about. That was all I could think about. My body had nothing. Everything was going through me, right through me. There was no energy to think about anything else. Except the fear. But even the fear was something I had resigned myself to. I thought I would be there for months, if I ever left. It was March. I wasn't due till August. I tried to imagine her surviving it all. I had visions of her as a little girl - it was what I held on to desperately. I was fighting. Do you know how hard I fought?! No. Most people don't know. I fought so hard for my little girl. I don't know. Maybe it doesn't sound so hard, laying in bed and then going to the bathroom. Big deal, right? I just don't know if you can imagine how hard it was though. Have you ever had the flu? Where you run to the bathroom? Imagine doing that 17 times a day. Imagine blood coming out when you do it. Imagine a baby growing inside of you.

And now. Now I have to let go of those visions of her that I held so tight to. Those visions that got me through. The little girl with the loose brown curls in a karate uniform running around the house with her bare little feet, showing off for mommy and daddy. She was fully flesh in my mind - flesh and spirit and laughter and personality. I have to let go of what kept me going. How do I do that? She was why I held on. Yes, as time has passed my grip has loosened, but when your starting place is a place of holding on for dear life, it's hard to let go.

Oh August. Maybe some day we'll be friends, but today you are my bitter enemy.