November 29, 2009
Yesterday I was home alone all day long. I decided to go out to the Mission for a little time of solitude, reflection, and prayer. I'm not Catholic, but there's something about the place, the reverence and beauty of it that centers me rather quickly. Little did I know there was some sort of event going on outside the Mission and that the place would be buzzing with tourists. No matter. I walked into the church and sat down and started to pray.
As I prayed, I realized the words I was using this time were much different than other times I'd gone out to the Mission to pray. There was desperation in my pleading with God in the past. I wasn't asking for things I wanted. I was begging with him, telling him what I thought my limits were, letting him know I was barely holding on. Not this time. And honestly? I felt a little silly this time. Oh God, you know I want a baby so badly. I have so much love to give. And then the thought hit me, Then why aren't you giving it? You don't have to wait for a baby to give the love you have.
Something has happened to me recently, my experience at the Mission being only one part of the realization process. I've realized that I am going to miss out on a huge chunk of goodness in my life if I keep focusing on what I do not have, because really, I have SO much.
Today I went to the grocery store and as I was getting out of my car, there was an elderly couple, I would guess in their 80's, getting out of their car too. I looked at the woman and thought, She could have had a stillbirth. I'm sure she has seen more heartache and tragedy in her long life than I could imagine. Life goes on. It does. And I can choose to feel sorry for myself and the losses I've experienced, the things I don't have, or I can be grateful for the goodness in my life. Today I choose to be grateful.
My heart feels so full in choosing gratitude. Right now I'm sitting in front of the fireplace, laptop on my lap, sleeping dog by my side, (husband in the other room watching football), Christmas music playing and a cranberry apple crisp in the oven. Oh, such buttery sweetness filling the room! I don't want to miss the goodness any longer because I'm distracted by what I think should be.
Isn't this called the acceptance stage of grief?
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Peeking through a cracked door
November 27, 2009
On Monday Jeremy and I attended my appointment with Dr. G, my GI doc. Dr. G always makes me smile when he enters a room. He's a rather short man, which always surprises me because in my mind, he's larger than life. Back when I was first sick, when other hospitals were turning me down because they wouldn't/couldn't treat a pregnant woman in my condition, Dr. G said he would treat me as soon as a bed opened at his hospital.
He shakes our hands and smiles, then jumps up on the examining table and talks with us as his feet dangle. We sit in the chairs against the wall. "So how're you doing?" he asks. I tell him I'm doing well. "Yeah? Then why'd you bring him with you?" he asks, motioning with his head to Jeremy, a cocky smile on his face.
"We wanted to talk to you about pregnancy," I say. "What would you say about me getting pregnant?" I feel myself start to flush, the anxiety creeping up red around my neck. Here we go.
"I would recommend that you have the remainder of your rectum removed before you get pregnant." Well don't beat around the bush now Dr. G (sarcasm intended).
"Really?" I ask, pleading as if my disappointment can get him to change his mind.
"Granted, you only have a small portion of your rectum left, but even a small portion can cause a lot of problems. Sure, some women go into remission with the disease during pregnancy, but because of your history of the disease flaring and not responding to medications during pregnancy, we could expect that to happen again if you were to be pregnant again." He pauses. "Have you talked with anyone else about this?" he asks.
"Yeah, we talked with Dr. T and with my OB."
"And what did they say?" he asks.
"Dr. T said that if I wanted to get pregnant we should start trying right away because every surgery increases the chances of infertility because of scar tissue and whatnot. My OB said that I would be considered high risk and they would watch me closely. She talked about how she would want me to deliver and told me that I would have to be on a medication other than Cipro," I explain.
"Yeah, I didn't even think about that part," he says.
Jeremy chimes in, "She said especially during the first trimester the Cipro would not be good."
"None of the medications would be good during the first trimester," Dr. G agrees. "We could try you on probiotics. I can't remember, have we tried probiotics yet?" he asks. I tell him we haven't. "I wouldn't be as worried about the infertility piece. Yeah, scar tissue can cause problems, but maybe you have scar tissue, maybe you don't. There's really no way to know for sure until you get in there. And as far as being high risk is concerned, you definitely wouldn't be as high risk as you were last time. We know that. This is just my opinion. You could go to another doctor who would tell you to go for it and that there's no reason you shouldn't get pregnant."
He goes back to talking about having my remaining piece of rectum removed. "It's something that's on my list for you eventually anyway. Because of the severity of the disease in you, you're high risk for rectal cancer. I'd like to see it come out." And then the part that I'm dreading,"Of course, any time you go in and make changes after your j-pouch has been created, you risk ending up with a permanent ostomy. The j-pouch is pretty delicate and revisions aren't always possible, so you'd have to think about that too in deciding whether to have the surgery or not."
Any other information he gave us is lost on me. I've gotten as much as I can digest. He shakes our hands again and I say, "Thank you. You're one of the people we're thankful for this year," and I start to get choked up. "Well I'm glad you're my patient," he says with a smile and leaves.
Since then, I've started on one of the probiotics he recommended. After I've been on it for about three weeks I'll go off the Cipro and see how I feel. I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. G again January 25th. Till then, much to process. But please know that even though I'm asking questions about pregnancy, we are still proceeding with the adoption process. We're still waiting for the orientation and classes to be scheduled, which probably won't happen until the beginning of the year. It's just I haven't been able to close the door completely on pregnancy yet (smile).
On Monday Jeremy and I attended my appointment with Dr. G, my GI doc. Dr. G always makes me smile when he enters a room. He's a rather short man, which always surprises me because in my mind, he's larger than life. Back when I was first sick, when other hospitals were turning me down because they wouldn't/couldn't treat a pregnant woman in my condition, Dr. G said he would treat me as soon as a bed opened at his hospital.
He shakes our hands and smiles, then jumps up on the examining table and talks with us as his feet dangle. We sit in the chairs against the wall. "So how're you doing?" he asks. I tell him I'm doing well. "Yeah? Then why'd you bring him with you?" he asks, motioning with his head to Jeremy, a cocky smile on his face.
"We wanted to talk to you about pregnancy," I say. "What would you say about me getting pregnant?" I feel myself start to flush, the anxiety creeping up red around my neck. Here we go.
"I would recommend that you have the remainder of your rectum removed before you get pregnant." Well don't beat around the bush now Dr. G (sarcasm intended).
"Really?" I ask, pleading as if my disappointment can get him to change his mind.
"Granted, you only have a small portion of your rectum left, but even a small portion can cause a lot of problems. Sure, some women go into remission with the disease during pregnancy, but because of your history of the disease flaring and not responding to medications during pregnancy, we could expect that to happen again if you were to be pregnant again." He pauses. "Have you talked with anyone else about this?" he asks.
"Yeah, we talked with Dr. T and with my OB."
"And what did they say?" he asks.
"Dr. T said that if I wanted to get pregnant we should start trying right away because every surgery increases the chances of infertility because of scar tissue and whatnot. My OB said that I would be considered high risk and they would watch me closely. She talked about how she would want me to deliver and told me that I would have to be on a medication other than Cipro," I explain.
"Yeah, I didn't even think about that part," he says.
Jeremy chimes in, "She said especially during the first trimester the Cipro would not be good."
"None of the medications would be good during the first trimester," Dr. G agrees. "We could try you on probiotics. I can't remember, have we tried probiotics yet?" he asks. I tell him we haven't. "I wouldn't be as worried about the infertility piece. Yeah, scar tissue can cause problems, but maybe you have scar tissue, maybe you don't. There's really no way to know for sure until you get in there. And as far as being high risk is concerned, you definitely wouldn't be as high risk as you were last time. We know that. This is just my opinion. You could go to another doctor who would tell you to go for it and that there's no reason you shouldn't get pregnant."
He goes back to talking about having my remaining piece of rectum removed. "It's something that's on my list for you eventually anyway. Because of the severity of the disease in you, you're high risk for rectal cancer. I'd like to see it come out." And then the part that I'm dreading,"Of course, any time you go in and make changes after your j-pouch has been created, you risk ending up with a permanent ostomy. The j-pouch is pretty delicate and revisions aren't always possible, so you'd have to think about that too in deciding whether to have the surgery or not."
Any other information he gave us is lost on me. I've gotten as much as I can digest. He shakes our hands again and I say, "Thank you. You're one of the people we're thankful for this year," and I start to get choked up. "Well I'm glad you're my patient," he says with a smile and leaves.
Since then, I've started on one of the probiotics he recommended. After I've been on it for about three weeks I'll go off the Cipro and see how I feel. I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. G again January 25th. Till then, much to process. But please know that even though I'm asking questions about pregnancy, we are still proceeding with the adoption process. We're still waiting for the orientation and classes to be scheduled, which probably won't happen until the beginning of the year. It's just I haven't been able to close the door completely on pregnancy yet (smile).
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thanks for listening
November 23, 2009
I worry that something's wrong with me, mentally speaking that is. It seems like I think about my time in the hospital all the time. I don't know why. It frustrates me. I can't seem to let it go. I woke up in the night Saturday night, Jeremy happened to wake up at the same time. I whispered to him, "I can't stop thinking about the hospital. I feel silly." He reached over and smoothed my hair and said, "It's not silly. You lived there for a long time." I think part of it is that yes, I was there for a long time. I spent almost three months in the hospital in 2008. Three months. That's equivalent to an entire summer. Have you ever spent the entire summer someplace other than home?
I think the other part is that there were very few people who shared in the experience with me. My family - they were there for parts of it. Jeremy - I think there was only one day he missed that whole time. But for the most part, I was alone in the experience. My friends didn't hang out with me while I was there. I'm sure many of them would have if I had been in any kind of shape to have visitors, but I wasn't and actually requested that people not come and visit for the majority of the time. And who wants to hear about the gory details now? Once in a while I'll explain my experiences to people in conversations. Once in a while.
I drove by the hospital at night last week on my way home from a friend's house. Hmmm . . . the hospital at night. I was transported. When things were rough, I had Jeremy or my mom or my dad stay the night at the hospital with me. Many nights though, I was alone. It makes me want to sob right now just thinking about it. I was stuck in that room for so long. Very few times did I actually get outside to even see the sunshine in person.
My nights were so long. I couldn't let myself fall asleep until I had been given my last insulin shot and heparin shot for the day. I hated getting the shots, and there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep knowing they were yet to come. I usually turned on the television and tried to watch some mindless crap to pass the time. But it was hard to focus, both visually and emotionally. Sometimes I laid there in the silence. Sometimes I cried. Before I lost Harper I would also often get a visit from someone from maternity who would come to listen for her heartbeat. I usually liked that, hearing her heartbeat, but there were times that I didn't. There were times that it just reminded me of how helpless I was and times that it felt pointless to me because I had this foreboding about her.
Things would go wrong in the night sometimes too, when I was alone. Something would cause them to worry about pneumonia or blood clots so they would take me down to the lab to have a chest x-ray done, or bring in the technicians to my room to do the x-rays right there. And there was the changing of the guard every evening. It wasn't till almost 9:00 p.m. sometimes before I would get to know who my night nurse would be. If it was someone new, I would have to explain everything to him or her about why I was there.
Sometimes in the night I wouldn't be able to sleep. Imagine that. So I would pull myself out of my bed, wrap a robe around my shoulders, grab my IV pole, and attempt to walk a lap or two around the nurses station. Saying walk kind of makes me laugh though. It was more like I went for a scoot or a shuffle than anything else. I wasn't always able to do that. For a good few weeks there walking was too difficult for me and I required assistance.
The nights I was able to sleep were interrupted all night long by trips to the bathroom and the night sweats. When I would wake up, my bed and clothes were wet with sweat. Sometimes I would ask someone to change my sheets before I went back to bed, sometimes I didn't want to wait so I crawled in and just tried to position myself so I was on the dry parts of the bed. I hated that. The IV machine beeped off and on all night. It beeped when it was time to change my meds. It beeped when there was a kink in the line, and usually it beeped for a reason that no one could figure. I don't even remember any more how frequently they came to check my vitals during the night. Was it every two hours, or every four? I tried to sleep through that sometimes. And every morning at about 3:00 a.m. they came to draw blood. Because I had a PIC line that didn't require that they stick me, so I was lucky that way, but it usually woke me up anyway.
It's hard you know. It's hard to have all these experiences that I keep to myself. And I don't know when it's okay to purge them. And I don't know if I should be past the needing to purge stage. I really don't know. Anyway . . . thanks for "listening."
I worry that something's wrong with me, mentally speaking that is. It seems like I think about my time in the hospital all the time. I don't know why. It frustrates me. I can't seem to let it go. I woke up in the night Saturday night, Jeremy happened to wake up at the same time. I whispered to him, "I can't stop thinking about the hospital. I feel silly." He reached over and smoothed my hair and said, "It's not silly. You lived there for a long time." I think part of it is that yes, I was there for a long time. I spent almost three months in the hospital in 2008. Three months. That's equivalent to an entire summer. Have you ever spent the entire summer someplace other than home?
I think the other part is that there were very few people who shared in the experience with me. My family - they were there for parts of it. Jeremy - I think there was only one day he missed that whole time. But for the most part, I was alone in the experience. My friends didn't hang out with me while I was there. I'm sure many of them would have if I had been in any kind of shape to have visitors, but I wasn't and actually requested that people not come and visit for the majority of the time. And who wants to hear about the gory details now? Once in a while I'll explain my experiences to people in conversations. Once in a while.
I drove by the hospital at night last week on my way home from a friend's house. Hmmm . . . the hospital at night. I was transported. When things were rough, I had Jeremy or my mom or my dad stay the night at the hospital with me. Many nights though, I was alone. It makes me want to sob right now just thinking about it. I was stuck in that room for so long. Very few times did I actually get outside to even see the sunshine in person.
My nights were so long. I couldn't let myself fall asleep until I had been given my last insulin shot and heparin shot for the day. I hated getting the shots, and there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep knowing they were yet to come. I usually turned on the television and tried to watch some mindless crap to pass the time. But it was hard to focus, both visually and emotionally. Sometimes I laid there in the silence. Sometimes I cried. Before I lost Harper I would also often get a visit from someone from maternity who would come to listen for her heartbeat. I usually liked that, hearing her heartbeat, but there were times that I didn't. There were times that it just reminded me of how helpless I was and times that it felt pointless to me because I had this foreboding about her.
Things would go wrong in the night sometimes too, when I was alone. Something would cause them to worry about pneumonia or blood clots so they would take me down to the lab to have a chest x-ray done, or bring in the technicians to my room to do the x-rays right there. And there was the changing of the guard every evening. It wasn't till almost 9:00 p.m. sometimes before I would get to know who my night nurse would be. If it was someone new, I would have to explain everything to him or her about why I was there.
Sometimes in the night I wouldn't be able to sleep. Imagine that. So I would pull myself out of my bed, wrap a robe around my shoulders, grab my IV pole, and attempt to walk a lap or two around the nurses station. Saying walk kind of makes me laugh though. It was more like I went for a scoot or a shuffle than anything else. I wasn't always able to do that. For a good few weeks there walking was too difficult for me and I required assistance.
The nights I was able to sleep were interrupted all night long by trips to the bathroom and the night sweats. When I would wake up, my bed and clothes were wet with sweat. Sometimes I would ask someone to change my sheets before I went back to bed, sometimes I didn't want to wait so I crawled in and just tried to position myself so I was on the dry parts of the bed. I hated that. The IV machine beeped off and on all night. It beeped when it was time to change my meds. It beeped when there was a kink in the line, and usually it beeped for a reason that no one could figure. I don't even remember any more how frequently they came to check my vitals during the night. Was it every two hours, or every four? I tried to sleep through that sometimes. And every morning at about 3:00 a.m. they came to draw blood. Because I had a PIC line that didn't require that they stick me, so I was lucky that way, but it usually woke me up anyway.
It's hard you know. It's hard to have all these experiences that I keep to myself. And I don't know when it's okay to purge them. And I don't know if I should be past the needing to purge stage. I really don't know. Anyway . . . thanks for "listening."
Friday, November 20, 2009
Prison yard scene
November 20, 2009
I get to wondering about her sometimes. It's a wondering without sadness. No tears, no ache, just thoughts, pictures, conversations. We're sitting across from each other at a table. The kind of tables you see people sit across from each other at during visiting hours at the prison in the movies. Strange, I know, but that's what I see. We're outside in the prison yard, only there are no fences. Just us sitting across from each other at the table. Unfamiliar with each other, but still wanting to talk, to visit, to get to know each other.
There are three versions of this scene. In one, she is a young adult body, a spirit, a soul, but there's a blank look on her face. There is no knowing. She just is. And she sits across from me and we take each other in.
In another she is the same body, spirit, soul, but she is able to articulate her experiences. And that's what I'm hungry for. Tell me more. Tell me more. I'll sit and listen until the guards say we have to stop. And this is what she tells me:
Yeah, for a while there were just sensations, you know, energy surges and ebbs, rocking, bouncing, floating. But then there were sounds. Oh sure, I knew your voice, and dad's too. I'd know your voices anywhere. And there was a dog too. He'd bark and it would make me jump and then I'd feel you jiggle with laughter. I knew your voice the best. I could feel it vibrate inside me. I shuddered when you would cry. I heard dad singing to us. I felt the warmth of him through your skin. I knew it was him. I knew something was wrong mom. I knew it. I could feel things slowing down. They slowed down, but they stayed steady, so I tried to stay steady too. I wasn't scared. It's just that things reached a point when I thought, It's not right. Now's not the time. And so I decided to let go.
In the third, she is also the same body, spirit, and soul, but she is all knowing. She understands. She is wise beyond anything this world knows. She does the listening. And she comforts me. And she answers all my questions. She's bright, like the sunshine, and she's strong. But I know her so well, even though we've never consciously met. She has all these mannerisms that I know intimately. Her humor - I know her humor so well. It delights me and mystifies me. And I think that she is more beautiful than anything - she's so unspoiled, untouched. That's her brightness - the shine she would have lost in this world. And so it's okay. You know? It's okay.
I get to wondering about her sometimes. It's a wondering without sadness. No tears, no ache, just thoughts, pictures, conversations. We're sitting across from each other at a table. The kind of tables you see people sit across from each other at during visiting hours at the prison in the movies. Strange, I know, but that's what I see. We're outside in the prison yard, only there are no fences. Just us sitting across from each other at the table. Unfamiliar with each other, but still wanting to talk, to visit, to get to know each other.
There are three versions of this scene. In one, she is a young adult body, a spirit, a soul, but there's a blank look on her face. There is no knowing. She just is. And she sits across from me and we take each other in.
In another she is the same body, spirit, soul, but she is able to articulate her experiences. And that's what I'm hungry for. Tell me more. Tell me more. I'll sit and listen until the guards say we have to stop. And this is what she tells me:
Yeah, for a while there were just sensations, you know, energy surges and ebbs, rocking, bouncing, floating. But then there were sounds. Oh sure, I knew your voice, and dad's too. I'd know your voices anywhere. And there was a dog too. He'd bark and it would make me jump and then I'd feel you jiggle with laughter. I knew your voice the best. I could feel it vibrate inside me. I shuddered when you would cry. I heard dad singing to us. I felt the warmth of him through your skin. I knew it was him. I knew something was wrong mom. I knew it. I could feel things slowing down. They slowed down, but they stayed steady, so I tried to stay steady too. I wasn't scared. It's just that things reached a point when I thought, It's not right. Now's not the time. And so I decided to let go.
In the third, she is also the same body, spirit, and soul, but she is all knowing. She understands. She is wise beyond anything this world knows. She does the listening. And she comforts me. And she answers all my questions. She's bright, like the sunshine, and she's strong. But I know her so well, even though we've never consciously met. She has all these mannerisms that I know intimately. Her humor - I know her humor so well. It delights me and mystifies me. And I think that she is more beautiful than anything - she's so unspoiled, untouched. That's her brightness - the shine she would have lost in this world. And so it's okay. You know? It's okay.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I am going to do this
November 18, 2009
"Hello. This is Abby."
"Hi Abby. You had called and left a message asking for information about the Footprints group?"
"Yeah. I just wanted to be sure of the day and time the group meets because I've read a couple of differing schedules on-line."
"Oh sure. The group meets on the first Tuesday of the month at 7:30 p.m. Can I ask if the group is for yourself?"
"Yeah it is."
"Do you mind if I ask about your loss?"
"Of course. We lost our daughter at five months. She was stillborn." I started to get a little choked up here.
She asked if it was due to a certain disease that I had heard of before, but that I couldn't name for you now. I told her it wasn't. I gave her the brief sketch of what happened and the other loss (of my colon) that has complicated the grieving process. She was kind and respectful. She sympathized with me and all we've been through.
"So, are there just women in the group, or who all attends?" I asked.
"Anyone who has been touched by the loss. You can bring any of your support people. We have grandparents that attend, parents, family members. Anyone is welcome."
"How many people do you typically have?"
"Anywhere from three to eight. Of course the holiday season tends to have more people attending. The holidays are hard for people."
"The holidays are hard for me," I said. I wanted to tell her that Harper was conceived at (if not on) Thanksgiving in 2007, but I kept my mouth shut. The tears were starting to well up.
And then she asked the sweetest question. "What is your daughter's name?"
A small smile came across my face. Thank you. Thank you for asking me about my daughter. "Harper Lee Cashman."
"Oh that's cute."
"We named her after Nelle Harper Lee who wrote To Kill A Mockingbird."
She welcomed me again to attend the group. She said she understood how hard it was to start attending a group. I agreed. I told her I was going to plan on attending in December.
And now? Now I have a sense of relief. It's time for me to do this. Not because the grief is unbearable. It isn't anymore. But because I need to be around people who have shared this experience. I need to feel understood. I need to be around people who will normalize what I've been through. I have friends who have been through it and are supporting me through cyber-space, but I need it in person right now. 2000 miles is too far away right now. I need another woman who has been through this to put her arms around me and cry with me.
So this is my commitment to make myself go, no matter how hard it is to drive the almost hour across town by myself and to walk into the room full of strangers. I am going to do this. I am.
"Hello. This is Abby."
"Hi Abby. You had called and left a message asking for information about the Footprints group?"
"Yeah. I just wanted to be sure of the day and time the group meets because I've read a couple of differing schedules on-line."
"Oh sure. The group meets on the first Tuesday of the month at 7:30 p.m. Can I ask if the group is for yourself?"
"Yeah it is."
"Do you mind if I ask about your loss?"
"Of course. We lost our daughter at five months. She was stillborn." I started to get a little choked up here.
She asked if it was due to a certain disease that I had heard of before, but that I couldn't name for you now. I told her it wasn't. I gave her the brief sketch of what happened and the other loss (of my colon) that has complicated the grieving process. She was kind and respectful. She sympathized with me and all we've been through.
"So, are there just women in the group, or who all attends?" I asked.
"Anyone who has been touched by the loss. You can bring any of your support people. We have grandparents that attend, parents, family members. Anyone is welcome."
"How many people do you typically have?"
"Anywhere from three to eight. Of course the holiday season tends to have more people attending. The holidays are hard for people."
"The holidays are hard for me," I said. I wanted to tell her that Harper was conceived at (if not on) Thanksgiving in 2007, but I kept my mouth shut. The tears were starting to well up.
And then she asked the sweetest question. "What is your daughter's name?"
A small smile came across my face. Thank you. Thank you for asking me about my daughter. "Harper Lee Cashman."
"Oh that's cute."
"We named her after Nelle Harper Lee who wrote To Kill A Mockingbird."
She welcomed me again to attend the group. She said she understood how hard it was to start attending a group. I agreed. I told her I was going to plan on attending in December.
And now? Now I have a sense of relief. It's time for me to do this. Not because the grief is unbearable. It isn't anymore. But because I need to be around people who have shared this experience. I need to feel understood. I need to be around people who will normalize what I've been through. I have friends who have been through it and are supporting me through cyber-space, but I need it in person right now. 2000 miles is too far away right now. I need another woman who has been through this to put her arms around me and cry with me.
So this is my commitment to make myself go, no matter how hard it is to drive the almost hour across town by myself and to walk into the room full of strangers. I am going to do this. I am.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
My to-do list
November 15, 2009
Things have been rocky for Jeremy and me lately. I'm going to be honest with you here. You hear me gush about how much I love him and how thankful I am for our marriage, so I figured it's only fair that you also know about the work that goes into getting there.
When we have problems, I so want to be able to pinpoint where they came from, first of all so we can avoid dealing with the same issues again in the future, but I would by lying if I didn't also want to be able to blame someone, particularly Jeremy and not me. That's not so much the case this time though.
I would say the rough patch started almost a month ago now. I think the biggest contributing factor was that I went off my anti-depressants. This time I didn't get all weepy like I did last time I tried to go off them. No, this time I got incredibly irritable. And when I say incredibly irritable, I mean it. The smallest irritation or infraction turned into full blown temper tantrums or telling-off episodes in my mind. It took all the restraint I could muster not to allow what was playing out in my head to become a reality. I noticed it happening right away. This is not who I am. I am normally a pretty patient, calm person. The change was quite apparent to me and it happened in conjunction with going off my anti-depressants.
Of course Jeremy noticed what was happening and we talked about it. If my anti-depressants didn't have certain side effects, I would take them forever. But I reached a point where the side effects were no longer worth the benefits, at least so long as this irritability piece was something that would pass. So we agreed that I would ramp up my exercise routine to help with my biochemistry and see if in a month or so my body could find a balance on its own. Meanwhile, Jeremy agreed to be patient with me and I agreed to seclude myself if the world was irritating me too much. (It wasn't just at home that the irritations happened - it was everywhere.) Things have been improving too. For the most part the short-fuse has passed, though I don't think completely.
Okay. So that's one part of the formula. With the irritability I began to pick, pick, pick at Jeremy. All the little things that irritated me I made known with a vengeance. Of course, it was beginning to wear on him. Add to the irritability piece the grief process. Oh these two do not mix well, let me tell you. There is a big gaping whole in my life right now where I wish there was a child. There was supposed to be a child. There is no child. And so emotionally speaking I'm flailing about the house, dissatisfied with what we've got going on. Nothing is filling the void. And quite frankly, instead of being sad about it, it was pissing me off. With this too Jeremy was on the receiving end of the verbalized dissatisfaction. I've been throwing at him all kinds of things we should be doing, trying to blame him for my dissatisfaction. Oh Abby, it's a wonder he hasn't left you yet.
And the final piece to what has been our bit of hell on earth lately (at least the final piece I've been able to sort out) is fear. I am hypervigilant about how we both have dealt with the tragedies that have come our way. If I'm not always watching how the grief and the fear and the loss is affecting us, I'm afraid it would carry us away to places far apart from each other; to a place where recovering our marriage would not be an option. Have you ever been sideswiped before? Have you ever seen someone be sideswiped in their car? BOOM, out of nowhere impact happens; terrifying, life changing impact. Nothing you saw coming. It takes a long time to recover from that kind of thing happening.
Our sideswipe was major. What was supposed to be the happiest time of our lives turned into loss and life threatening circumstances with what seemed like the flip of a switch. Have you been there? Do you know what I'm talking about? How the fear is there afterwards? Just when you think you've got a handle on the fear and you find yourself not looking over your shoulder so much, something good happens and you remember how quickly you can lose the things you hold dear. You struggle to find a way to control things in a world that is out of control. Well, all of this is still happening for Jeremy and me. I think we're doing well with processing it all, each on our own and also together, but when there are other things (such as the things I've been writing about) that take my attention, I start to panic because I've lost track of where we're at. Are we doing okay? Have we been letting the fear dominate?! I haven't been paying attention! Oh no!! It sounds almost silly, I know. But it's where we're at. What can I say?
We've had quite a few intense conversations lately. Yesterday being one of them. And I realized that I need to take responsibility here. We create our own hell. I have been working pretty diligently on my very own one right here. Enough of the should thinking. That only gets me in trouble. No more I should have a baby; We should be living a different life right now. No more dissatisfaction with what we've got. Gratitude. Yes, gratitude for what we do have. No more FEAR! Or at least no more allowing fear to guide me. We will be able to work through whatever we face, because we are both committed to doing so. So those are all on my to-do list right now. No problem, right (smile)?
Things have been rocky for Jeremy and me lately. I'm going to be honest with you here. You hear me gush about how much I love him and how thankful I am for our marriage, so I figured it's only fair that you also know about the work that goes into getting there.
When we have problems, I so want to be able to pinpoint where they came from, first of all so we can avoid dealing with the same issues again in the future, but I would by lying if I didn't also want to be able to blame someone, particularly Jeremy and not me. That's not so much the case this time though.
I would say the rough patch started almost a month ago now. I think the biggest contributing factor was that I went off my anti-depressants. This time I didn't get all weepy like I did last time I tried to go off them. No, this time I got incredibly irritable. And when I say incredibly irritable, I mean it. The smallest irritation or infraction turned into full blown temper tantrums or telling-off episodes in my mind. It took all the restraint I could muster not to allow what was playing out in my head to become a reality. I noticed it happening right away. This is not who I am. I am normally a pretty patient, calm person. The change was quite apparent to me and it happened in conjunction with going off my anti-depressants.
Of course Jeremy noticed what was happening and we talked about it. If my anti-depressants didn't have certain side effects, I would take them forever. But I reached a point where the side effects were no longer worth the benefits, at least so long as this irritability piece was something that would pass. So we agreed that I would ramp up my exercise routine to help with my biochemistry and see if in a month or so my body could find a balance on its own. Meanwhile, Jeremy agreed to be patient with me and I agreed to seclude myself if the world was irritating me too much. (It wasn't just at home that the irritations happened - it was everywhere.) Things have been improving too. For the most part the short-fuse has passed, though I don't think completely.
Okay. So that's one part of the formula. With the irritability I began to pick, pick, pick at Jeremy. All the little things that irritated me I made known with a vengeance. Of course, it was beginning to wear on him. Add to the irritability piece the grief process. Oh these two do not mix well, let me tell you. There is a big gaping whole in my life right now where I wish there was a child. There was supposed to be a child. There is no child. And so emotionally speaking I'm flailing about the house, dissatisfied with what we've got going on. Nothing is filling the void. And quite frankly, instead of being sad about it, it was pissing me off. With this too Jeremy was on the receiving end of the verbalized dissatisfaction. I've been throwing at him all kinds of things we should be doing, trying to blame him for my dissatisfaction. Oh Abby, it's a wonder he hasn't left you yet.
And the final piece to what has been our bit of hell on earth lately (at least the final piece I've been able to sort out) is fear. I am hypervigilant about how we both have dealt with the tragedies that have come our way. If I'm not always watching how the grief and the fear and the loss is affecting us, I'm afraid it would carry us away to places far apart from each other; to a place where recovering our marriage would not be an option. Have you ever been sideswiped before? Have you ever seen someone be sideswiped in their car? BOOM, out of nowhere impact happens; terrifying, life changing impact. Nothing you saw coming. It takes a long time to recover from that kind of thing happening.
Our sideswipe was major. What was supposed to be the happiest time of our lives turned into loss and life threatening circumstances with what seemed like the flip of a switch. Have you been there? Do you know what I'm talking about? How the fear is there afterwards? Just when you think you've got a handle on the fear and you find yourself not looking over your shoulder so much, something good happens and you remember how quickly you can lose the things you hold dear. You struggle to find a way to control things in a world that is out of control. Well, all of this is still happening for Jeremy and me. I think we're doing well with processing it all, each on our own and also together, but when there are other things (such as the things I've been writing about) that take my attention, I start to panic because I've lost track of where we're at. Are we doing okay? Have we been letting the fear dominate?! I haven't been paying attention! Oh no!! It sounds almost silly, I know. But it's where we're at. What can I say?
We've had quite a few intense conversations lately. Yesterday being one of them. And I realized that I need to take responsibility here. We create our own hell. I have been working pretty diligently on my very own one right here. Enough of the should thinking. That only gets me in trouble. No more I should have a baby; We should be living a different life right now. No more dissatisfaction with what we've got. Gratitude. Yes, gratitude for what we do have. No more FEAR! Or at least no more allowing fear to guide me. We will be able to work through whatever we face, because we are both committed to doing so. So those are all on my to-do list right now. No problem, right (smile)?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Why I run
November 10, 2009
"Oh sweetie, why don't you wait for me to run and we'll go together when I get home from work? I wanna run too," I implored.
"Okay. But it's not gonna be one of those 'I'm too tired to go,' when you get home is it?"
I laughed, "No. I seriously want to go for a run." And so it was that when I walked in the door he was sitting there in his running clothes waiting for me.
We started off walking through the neighborhood until we got to the park that's about a half a mile away. When we got to the park we both began to ran at our individual speeds around the track. I turned on my music, a Los Lobos mix Jeremy had made for me years ago of my favorite LL tunes. I found a nice pace and let my body settle in.
The sun was beginning to set. The colors were brilliant. I didn't want to turn on the path and leave the beauty behind me. Ahh yes, and then Saint Behind the Glass began to play:
"Baby in his arms, baby in his arms, Saint behind the glass has a baby in his arms."
"Watches me sleep, watches me sleep, Saint behind the glass watches me while I sleep."
"Mother don't cry, mother don't cry, Saint behind the glass tells mother not to cry."
I could see it! I could see it there in the stained glass sky in front of me. The saint behind the glass, in the colors of heaven, holding my Harper Lee. The same saint who watches over me while I sleep, telling me not to cry. My heart welled up with relief and joy. And I opened up and flew. I ran as fast and as hard as I probably ever have. I felt as if I were opening my entire being and letting all the ache fall right out of me. Let go Abby. Let go. And I did. I let go.
"Oh sweetie, why don't you wait for me to run and we'll go together when I get home from work? I wanna run too," I implored.
"Okay. But it's not gonna be one of those 'I'm too tired to go,' when you get home is it?"
I laughed, "No. I seriously want to go for a run." And so it was that when I walked in the door he was sitting there in his running clothes waiting for me.
We started off walking through the neighborhood until we got to the park that's about a half a mile away. When we got to the park we both began to ran at our individual speeds around the track. I turned on my music, a Los Lobos mix Jeremy had made for me years ago of my favorite LL tunes. I found a nice pace and let my body settle in.
The sun was beginning to set. The colors were brilliant. I didn't want to turn on the path and leave the beauty behind me. Ahh yes, and then Saint Behind the Glass began to play:
"Baby in his arms, baby in his arms, Saint behind the glass has a baby in his arms."
"Watches me sleep, watches me sleep, Saint behind the glass watches me while I sleep."
"Mother don't cry, mother don't cry, Saint behind the glass tells mother not to cry."
I could see it! I could see it there in the stained glass sky in front of me. The saint behind the glass, in the colors of heaven, holding my Harper Lee. The same saint who watches over me while I sleep, telling me not to cry. My heart welled up with relief and joy. And I opened up and flew. I ran as fast and as hard as I probably ever have. I felt as if I were opening my entire being and letting all the ache fall right out of me. Let go Abby. Let go. And I did. I let go.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Update
November 9, 2009
I have been doing really well physically lately. On the 23rd I have an appointment with Dr. G, my GI doc. I decided to keep track of my bowel movements (frequency and consistency) for a couple of days to get a more objective idea of how I'm doing in preparation for that appointment. They always ask me questions about that, "So how many bowel movements are you having a day now?" And, "What is the consistency?" It's always so hard for me to answer because it depends on so many things. Also, I might have an evening where I've gone once an hour, but the rest of the day I went every four hours, so it's been hard for me to gage because what I remember is that I had gone every hour one evening. Of course what I eat plays a big factor in all this too. I've also been keeping a food journal - writing down everything I've eaten. But I'll tell you, writing down my bowel movements is much, much harder for me mentally than the food journal.
People who were with me when I was in the hospital know why keeping track of my BMs is so difficult. My mom stayed with me overnight in the hospital when I was going to the bathroom sometimes every 20 to 40 minutes. She knew I couldn't bear to write it all down, it was so discouraging, so she would wake up with me (as if she ever fell asleep), and write down the time, all night long. And then it reached the point where my hands were too swollen for me to write, so Jeremy or my dad or whoever else was stuck there in the hospital room with us would write it down for me. We didn't just do this for a day either, mind you. It was basically the entire time I was hospitalized that we had to do this, and there was a lot riding on how frequently I was going. Like whether I was going to need surgery to have my colon removed or not, which also, at one point, meant whether we might have to risk Harper too. We scribbled little notes next to each time entry too: blood, watery, soupy, lots of blood, cramps, etc. Every single day we went over the entries with the GI docs.
So when I track my BMs now, some of those memories come drifting back. But as I was saying before, things are going well. I would say on average I have 8 bowel movements a day, at least one if not two of those is during the night. And what has been surprising to me is that many of my bowel movements are actually pretty solid in consistency. When I had my colon removed, my doctors and surgeons told me not to anticipate having solid bowel movements again. Granted, one serving of salsa or an apple and my next BM will not be solid, but the fact that I can have solid BMs is quite an accomplishment, I'd say! The more solid they are, the less I have to worry about dehydration too.
In addition to all that, for the most part, my body feels normal to me. There is no more pelvic pain (except when I ovulate, which never used to happen to me - so maybe there's some scar tissue there now, but that's okay). It does feel different when I have BMs. Not to go into too much detail (but we're already there now, aren't we?), but when I do have BMs, they are much smaller in shape and come out differently than they did before. I don't really know how to explain it to you, except that it feels different to go too. But even that I'm getting used to now.
I have a couple of concerns to address with Dr. G at my next appointment. I feel pain in the area of one of my surgery scars when I cough or sneeze, and there's a spot on my abdomen that pops out a little when I do those things - so I'm guessing I have a hernia, but it hasn't concerned me too much. I just want to talk with him about that. I haven't been doing my nightly enemas lately and there has been no blood in my stool, so I'm really happy about that. I'm wondering about going on oral medications for that now since it seems like I'm in remission with the remaining UC in my body. I also just want to talk to him about my long term prognosis as far as whether I'll need to have my remaining rectum removed or not. And then both Jeremy and I really want to go over my Cipro use and whether I in fact have chronic pouchitis or not. Finally, I do want to talk to him about what he thinks about my ability to carry a baby. I know, I know - we've started the adoption process, but I still want to have some questions answered. I've had my surgeon and my OB talk with me about it, but realized I had never really talked with Dr. G about it. We're still moving forward with the adoption though - it's just that I need to have some questions answered. Don't worry!
So that's the update on my physical being. I'm grateful that a year post-j-pouch creation I'm doing this well. I honestly did not think I would ever get to this place. And it hasn't even been a year yet since I had my takedown surgery! (Again, for more information on what a j-pouch is, go to http://www.jpouch.org/ and click on the "illustrated pouch" section - you'll learn a lot!)
I have been doing really well physically lately. On the 23rd I have an appointment with Dr. G, my GI doc. I decided to keep track of my bowel movements (frequency and consistency) for a couple of days to get a more objective idea of how I'm doing in preparation for that appointment. They always ask me questions about that, "So how many bowel movements are you having a day now?" And, "What is the consistency?" It's always so hard for me to answer because it depends on so many things. Also, I might have an evening where I've gone once an hour, but the rest of the day I went every four hours, so it's been hard for me to gage because what I remember is that I had gone every hour one evening. Of course what I eat plays a big factor in all this too. I've also been keeping a food journal - writing down everything I've eaten. But I'll tell you, writing down my bowel movements is much, much harder for me mentally than the food journal.
People who were with me when I was in the hospital know why keeping track of my BMs is so difficult. My mom stayed with me overnight in the hospital when I was going to the bathroom sometimes every 20 to 40 minutes. She knew I couldn't bear to write it all down, it was so discouraging, so she would wake up with me (as if she ever fell asleep), and write down the time, all night long. And then it reached the point where my hands were too swollen for me to write, so Jeremy or my dad or whoever else was stuck there in the hospital room with us would write it down for me. We didn't just do this for a day either, mind you. It was basically the entire time I was hospitalized that we had to do this, and there was a lot riding on how frequently I was going. Like whether I was going to need surgery to have my colon removed or not, which also, at one point, meant whether we might have to risk Harper too. We scribbled little notes next to each time entry too: blood, watery, soupy, lots of blood, cramps, etc. Every single day we went over the entries with the GI docs.
So when I track my BMs now, some of those memories come drifting back. But as I was saying before, things are going well. I would say on average I have 8 bowel movements a day, at least one if not two of those is during the night. And what has been surprising to me is that many of my bowel movements are actually pretty solid in consistency. When I had my colon removed, my doctors and surgeons told me not to anticipate having solid bowel movements again. Granted, one serving of salsa or an apple and my next BM will not be solid, but the fact that I can have solid BMs is quite an accomplishment, I'd say! The more solid they are, the less I have to worry about dehydration too.
In addition to all that, for the most part, my body feels normal to me. There is no more pelvic pain (except when I ovulate, which never used to happen to me - so maybe there's some scar tissue there now, but that's okay). It does feel different when I have BMs. Not to go into too much detail (but we're already there now, aren't we?), but when I do have BMs, they are much smaller in shape and come out differently than they did before. I don't really know how to explain it to you, except that it feels different to go too. But even that I'm getting used to now.
I have a couple of concerns to address with Dr. G at my next appointment. I feel pain in the area of one of my surgery scars when I cough or sneeze, and there's a spot on my abdomen that pops out a little when I do those things - so I'm guessing I have a hernia, but it hasn't concerned me too much. I just want to talk with him about that. I haven't been doing my nightly enemas lately and there has been no blood in my stool, so I'm really happy about that. I'm wondering about going on oral medications for that now since it seems like I'm in remission with the remaining UC in my body. I also just want to talk to him about my long term prognosis as far as whether I'll need to have my remaining rectum removed or not. And then both Jeremy and I really want to go over my Cipro use and whether I in fact have chronic pouchitis or not. Finally, I do want to talk to him about what he thinks about my ability to carry a baby. I know, I know - we've started the adoption process, but I still want to have some questions answered. I've had my surgeon and my OB talk with me about it, but realized I had never really talked with Dr. G about it. We're still moving forward with the adoption though - it's just that I need to have some questions answered. Don't worry!
So that's the update on my physical being. I'm grateful that a year post-j-pouch creation I'm doing this well. I honestly did not think I would ever get to this place. And it hasn't even been a year yet since I had my takedown surgery! (Again, for more information on what a j-pouch is, go to http://www.jpouch.org/ and click on the "illustrated pouch" section - you'll learn a lot!)
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The dreams of you
November 7, 2009
I am becoming my mother. It's 1:10 a.m. and I am awake and so I write. My entire life I have memories of waking up in the night to find a light on in a room somewhere in the house and there is my mom curled up in her robe, writing in her journal. Like mother like daughter.
It was 6:00 p.m. The sky had just turned dark, but streaks of hot pink floated in the darkness leftover from the sunset. I took the back roads home through the reservation, past the San Xavier Mission. The sight of the white mission softly lit against the dark sky caused my chest to tighten. The coolness of the night air washed over me with the windows down and moon roof open. Emmylou was whispering in melodies to me, words that caught my ears. She sang of a lover, but I think of you, my daughter:
"In my imagination, you are my dear companion, and I'm the one you cling to, and your voice still calls my name . . ."
"In my dreams you are the swallow, coming back to Capistrano, and I'm the sound of the bells you follow, but in this world dreams don't come true."
"Still when you're lost out in the desert, when your fire's a dying ember, the last light you'll remember will be the light I shed for you."
"Mine's an ordinary star love, I see exactly where you are love, and no one else could shine that far love, to bring you safely through."
"And though you say you do not want me, and made no promises to haunt me, I will dream my dream of you."
"The sorrow's low down like a fountain, over the miles beyond our counting, more than the flowers of the mountain or the raindrops in the sea, but if heaven's just a dreaming, surely my love will be redeeming, and you will dream your dream of me."
Only I was your mother. You were so much more than the tissues growing inside me. After all, aren't we all more than the tissues so tentatively strung together? Am I not a compilation of thoughts and dreams and feelings and memories to the people who love me? We shared a battle, didn't we? We fought together. I survived. You didn't. As your mother sometimes I wonder, though you had no language or memory, what did you know? Did you know I was your mother? I think we were probably more alike during that time than we could have ever been at any other time. The battle had me whittled down to my core, down to that instinct written in my DNA to survive. That was all my energy allowed. You were like that too, weren't you? Sweet little girl, did you go softly? It's all I can bear sometimes to think about a life dying inside me. It breaks my heart that I couldn't do more. And I miss the dreams of you.
I am becoming my mother. It's 1:10 a.m. and I am awake and so I write. My entire life I have memories of waking up in the night to find a light on in a room somewhere in the house and there is my mom curled up in her robe, writing in her journal. Like mother like daughter.
It was 6:00 p.m. The sky had just turned dark, but streaks of hot pink floated in the darkness leftover from the sunset. I took the back roads home through the reservation, past the San Xavier Mission. The sight of the white mission softly lit against the dark sky caused my chest to tighten. The coolness of the night air washed over me with the windows down and moon roof open. Emmylou was whispering in melodies to me, words that caught my ears. She sang of a lover, but I think of you, my daughter:
"In my imagination, you are my dear companion, and I'm the one you cling to, and your voice still calls my name . . ."
"In my dreams you are the swallow, coming back to Capistrano, and I'm the sound of the bells you follow, but in this world dreams don't come true."
"Still when you're lost out in the desert, when your fire's a dying ember, the last light you'll remember will be the light I shed for you."
"Mine's an ordinary star love, I see exactly where you are love, and no one else could shine that far love, to bring you safely through."
"And though you say you do not want me, and made no promises to haunt me, I will dream my dream of you."
"The sorrow's low down like a fountain, over the miles beyond our counting, more than the flowers of the mountain or the raindrops in the sea, but if heaven's just a dreaming, surely my love will be redeeming, and you will dream your dream of me."
Only I was your mother. You were so much more than the tissues growing inside me. After all, aren't we all more than the tissues so tentatively strung together? Am I not a compilation of thoughts and dreams and feelings and memories to the people who love me? We shared a battle, didn't we? We fought together. I survived. You didn't. As your mother sometimes I wonder, though you had no language or memory, what did you know? Did you know I was your mother? I think we were probably more alike during that time than we could have ever been at any other time. The battle had me whittled down to my core, down to that instinct written in my DNA to survive. That was all my energy allowed. You were like that too, weren't you? Sweet little girl, did you go softly? It's all I can bear sometimes to think about a life dying inside me. It breaks my heart that I couldn't do more. And I miss the dreams of you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
And still I yearn
November 6, 2009
I've been in a funk lately, emotionally speaking. I'm noticing a pattern to this funk too. Every month when I ovulate it happens to me. The other night I came across a journal that I bought when I was pregnant with Harper. Such a pretty journal. It has flowers along the edges. At the top in small print is the word "BEGIN." There's a butterfly at the bottom outlined in hints of gold. I sat looking at the journal and traced the gold with my fingers. I remember picking it out. I was so excited that this journal was going to be my pregnancy journal. Now the word "BEGIN" just mocks me.
I opened the journal and started reading, only to slam it shut a few moments later. Nope. Couldn't do it. I wish I didn't know what I was missing out on. I wish I had never been pregnant. Ignorance is bliss. Instead, I know. Before I was pregnant there wasn't the deep, deep desire that I have now to carry a baby. My whole world changed when I was pregnant. A deep contentment came over me. The world was full of such vibrant colors. I marveled at everything. Everything was beautiful. I know, it sounds sappy, doesn't it? But that's what happened to me. And that was how I felt even when I was getting sick!! Oh, not to mention what feeling Harper move inside me was like.
It doesn't just go away, the desire. I feel like an addict sometimes the way I think about it, the way I want it. I think about how my body was denied the completion of the process it had started. My body was cheated, I was cheated. Drops of milk escaped from my breasts for a while after I delivered Harper. Oh that was hard. The fibers of my being knew it was not fair or right what happened.
And still I yearn . . .
I've been in a funk lately, emotionally speaking. I'm noticing a pattern to this funk too. Every month when I ovulate it happens to me. The other night I came across a journal that I bought when I was pregnant with Harper. Such a pretty journal. It has flowers along the edges. At the top in small print is the word "BEGIN." There's a butterfly at the bottom outlined in hints of gold. I sat looking at the journal and traced the gold with my fingers. I remember picking it out. I was so excited that this journal was going to be my pregnancy journal. Now the word "BEGIN" just mocks me.
I opened the journal and started reading, only to slam it shut a few moments later. Nope. Couldn't do it. I wish I didn't know what I was missing out on. I wish I had never been pregnant. Ignorance is bliss. Instead, I know. Before I was pregnant there wasn't the deep, deep desire that I have now to carry a baby. My whole world changed when I was pregnant. A deep contentment came over me. The world was full of such vibrant colors. I marveled at everything. Everything was beautiful. I know, it sounds sappy, doesn't it? But that's what happened to me. And that was how I felt even when I was getting sick!! Oh, not to mention what feeling Harper move inside me was like.
It doesn't just go away, the desire. I feel like an addict sometimes the way I think about it, the way I want it. I think about how my body was denied the completion of the process it had started. My body was cheated, I was cheated. Drops of milk escaped from my breasts for a while after I delivered Harper. Oh that was hard. The fibers of my being knew it was not fair or right what happened.
And still I yearn . . .
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Nice and easy
November 3,00 2009
I don't quite understand why when I wake up in the night, memories of being in the hospital are the images that are there with me. It's like they've moved from the forefront of my mind to the edge of my subconscious and they just hang out there waiting for my reality to be unclear to pounce. This morning at 3-something I struggled with memories of the 100 pounds of fluid weight I carried while I was in the hospital. All these frustrations came to mind that made going back to sleep difficult for me.
There are still unanswered questions. There are unanswered questions that I have to let go of. For the most part I have, but at 3-something in the morning, they find their way back to me. I could list for you what the questions are, but I know that won't be helpful for me. Why do I want answers? Why do any of us want answers? Because with answers comes responsibility: someone or something to blame. It gives us a sense of control over tragedy and the randomness of it all. With answers comes protection: we can keep horrors from happening to us again if we know why they happened to begin with. But things just don't happen that way. So I'll keep on learning to let go of my desire to control everything around me so bad things don't happen again. I'll let go of the questions, as hard as that may be, and trust that if (or should I say when) bad things happen, I will have the strength and support to deal with them.
Oh Abby, it all sounds so nice and easy, but you know it's not. No it's not easy, not when your heart has broken. Blah, blah, blah - just words.
If I keep telling myself that's what I want to believe, maybe it will make it easier to believe it.
I don't quite understand why when I wake up in the night, memories of being in the hospital are the images that are there with me. It's like they've moved from the forefront of my mind to the edge of my subconscious and they just hang out there waiting for my reality to be unclear to pounce. This morning at 3-something I struggled with memories of the 100 pounds of fluid weight I carried while I was in the hospital. All these frustrations came to mind that made going back to sleep difficult for me.
There are still unanswered questions. There are unanswered questions that I have to let go of. For the most part I have, but at 3-something in the morning, they find their way back to me. I could list for you what the questions are, but I know that won't be helpful for me. Why do I want answers? Why do any of us want answers? Because with answers comes responsibility: someone or something to blame. It gives us a sense of control over tragedy and the randomness of it all. With answers comes protection: we can keep horrors from happening to us again if we know why they happened to begin with. But things just don't happen that way. So I'll keep on learning to let go of my desire to control everything around me so bad things don't happen again. I'll let go of the questions, as hard as that may be, and trust that if (or should I say when) bad things happen, I will have the strength and support to deal with them.
Oh Abby, it all sounds so nice and easy, but you know it's not. No it's not easy, not when your heart has broken. Blah, blah, blah - just words.
If I keep telling myself that's what I want to believe, maybe it will make it easier to believe it.
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