Sometimes, it all just builds up. I can only be strong and separate myself from the reality of my life for so long. Saturday, it just seemed like the world came crashing down around me. All week I had been doing well. Facing the giant. Peaceful.
And then Thursday I had a doctor's appointment. Apparently no one actually reads your chart before they come in to see you. I don't expect it from the nurses. Or the poor little lab girl of the day. It wasn't her fault that she didn't know. Most ladies that sit in her chair at 6 months pregnant are excited, planning nurseries, gathering baby clothes. So when asked the standard questions you get asked by anyone-- "OOO, when are you due? What are you having? You must be so excited! What do you have at home? O, 3 little boys! That's going to be so much fun!!" Then you watch the blood and color fade from her face when you tell her. You watch her want to crawl in a hole as you gently explain that 2 weeks ago you found out that you would indeed have 3 little boys, but the littlest baby-- the unborn baby-- has massive complications internally and will not make it. But you are choosing to carry him to term. You watch her heart sink.... and she stabs you a little in her embarrassment, leaving you a week long reminder of that moment in the form a gigantic bruise in your elbow. And your wall of pseudo-strength is temporarily damaged. Then you move on to the room to wait for the doctor, and you assume whoever is seeing you read the file. Read the notes.
But when she walks in, she has no idea. She asks super cheerily (in her typical fashion) "How are you feeling? Things going well?" And you watch her gather herself as you say politely, "I'm not sure if you read my file" (she interjects, I thought I did but nothing stuck out really majorly, let me get my computer) and you just say as she slinks back in with the computer, "Two weeks ago we found out that my baby, Everett, has multiple defects (you list the big ones in the medical terms she recognizes) and will likely not make it to his due date, but if he does, he will likely not survive the trauma of delivery." While you hold yourself together, you watch her (professionally and personally) fall apart and quickly regain herself. You watch the tears well up. While you hold your own back. You steady your voice and ask the questions you were instructed to ask about delivery at the local hospital versus the baby factory downtown. She offers all sorts of condolences. She admires your strength (to which you laugh internally because inside you're absolutely losing your mind).
You leave, go back to your office. Breathe a sigh of relief-- you won't have to talk about it again today. And then the person you're interviewing wants a little better understanding of what's going on. And, as if you're discussing a study you read in a medical journal, you explain it. Again. This time, keeping yourself out of the equation completely. Stating the facts only. Just... get it over with. Help her understand what might be expected of her and why if I take a leave of absence in the office. Totally impersonal.
Friday, you basically avoid the public. The boys make a great excuse. You just go about your business. But yesterday weighs heavily on your heart. And all the tears you want to cry. But can't. Because you can't fall apart everyday. There's too much at stake. Including your own health and sanity. And you wonder all day about your health and Everett's health because you just don't feel.... 'right'. Exhausted doesn't begin to cut it. Sharp pains come and go, a heaviness in your stomach just... weighs down on your pelvis as you stand. And you wonder... Everett.... are you ok? Cold water. Still no movement. M&Ms. Still no movement. Cold tea. Still no movement. Everything in you sinks. Just like you watched happen twice on Thursday. You lay down. Frozen in fear. Begging for.... you have no idea what. Just.... pleading with the ceiling for anything. Finally. A kick. Small. But a kick.
Saturday. Saturday was even worse. Public is a necessity because you want to keep the schedule normal. Park. Trader Joe's. The "knowing" smile of moms with three young kids that find you. The friendly check out clerk who asks the normal questions. You answer politely, holding back the tears that sit just behind your eyes. Your husband just smiles at you. You get in the car and head home. The exhaustion hits so hard you can barely move. Finally you just give in. You lay down in the room with your little boy, on the floor, again, just so you can rest. And you rest... for hours. But it doesn't feel like it's enough. There hasn't been much movement today and you feel incredibly crappy. And again, you plead with the ceiling for anything. Anything. You take the kids to the school sponsored 'parents night out' and then head to Target for the few things you need. Familiar faces. Warm embraces. And you hold back the tears you've been fighting all day. Because you can't just fall apart all the time.
You go home and play an embarrassing number of rounds of "word score" on your phone because its the best distraction you've found yet. And you plead again with the ceiling. What's wrong? What are these sharp pains? Is Everett hurting, because God, you don't want him to feel an ounce of pain. You don't want him to struggle for anything. Can he feel you loving him? Can he feel you wondering with every moment if he's okay? Or does he wonder why you don't love him? Why you won't help him stop hurting? Why you won't end his pain? Why you're not protecting him? Can he feel the anxiety when you don't feel him? You beg. You plead. With the ceiling. Playing that stupid word game. And finally... a kick. Another. Small. Few and far between. But a kick. And this time, you pray. Please don't let him be hurthing, God. It's your only wish. It's your only wish. Don't let him hurt.
Somehow you rest, despite your emotional exhaustion and the sharp pains in your abdomen and back. Sleep might be an overstatement, but you rest.
Sunday seems a little easier. More movement, so there's less anxiety. Still, the sharp pains. More friendly smiles and warm embraces. It seems easier, for some reason. Almost.
Takes forever to put the boys to bed. You just decide to lay down with them. After an hour, still not asleep. You get up to give up. And then. Keith starts playing his guitar. Eric Clapton. You can't hold it together anymore. Every once of strength you had over the last week just melted away. With two chords. You stand, for a minute, just outside the boys' door, silent tears streaming down your face. You can't walk in to your room where Keith is playing, so you just go curl up between their beds. Somehow, they feel you sobbing, not understanding. But they know. They just... know. And they go to sleep. While you listen to "Tears in Heaven." And sob. And you wonder, Everett... do you know I'm weeping for you? Do you know these tears are for you? Everett, do you know how much your mama wanted to watch you learn to walk? Do you know how much I wanted to rock you to sleep? Do you know how much she was looking forward to the three of you wrestling in the yard? Everett, do you know my tears are for you?
And you plead with the ceiling.
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