Reality Pounding

Some days it feels like there's just not enough time. I am not unique in feeling this. If I was,there wouldn't be so many books about time management, songs about time flying by, proverbs from all cultures encouraging us all to seize the moment or count your blessings. I don't think you can fully know just how much MORE time you need until you face the reality of the death of your child. I don't think it matters how the death comes: cancer, accidental death, disease, genetic screw ups. And the moment doesn't fully hit you until you think it's upon you. And then you've never been so scared in your life.

Three weeks ago I was there. Sitting in the tub at my parents house. Praying for more time. Sobbing. With Mama at my side. Sobbing.

To that point only a few people had SEEN me be upset about it. About Everett.

I couldn't stop myself. I was going into labor. At 33 weeks. And I just wasn't ready.

I thought all the writing and the explaining and the 6 weeks to know would somehow make me prepared to feel the telltale labor signs. I've never been so wrong.

I had felt 'off ' all day. Tired. Restless. Stuffed. Hungry. Achy. A few little cramps here and there. Keith was exhausted and had put Aiden to sleep. Gigi put Kipton to bed. Papa woke up in the chair and decided it was time to go to bed. Keith slept in the chair then headed to bed. I tried. No luck. Super uncomfortable, I headed back to the living room to watch some mindless tv. And it started.

That telltale rumble in your stomach. That moment you realize this is not just an upset stomach, this is total evacuation. This is what happens (for those who don't know) just before your contractions really begin to kick in. I fought it. Drank a boatload of water. Put my feet up. And waves of contractions began. That feeling of tingles from just below your -ahem- all the way up to your boobs. I pretended it was Braxton Hicks, but those contractions don't get harder. I decided to get in the tub-- and another glass of water. Only getting stronger. The panic set in.

As I prepared the tub, the tears started. I'm just not ready, God, I'm just not ready. I repeated it over and over. I prayed over and over, God please let this stop. I'm just not ready.

Mama heard the water and came to the door and asked, Baby,is everything ok? I started shaking. My voice quivered... I dont know. I don't know. She came in. We both cried. I told her I just wasn't ready. I didn't think I could do this. Not yet. There's still so much stuff that had to done. And I...I just wasn't ready to do it. I wasn't ready to hold him and give him up. I wasn't ready to let go. We cried. Hard. As any mother would, she begged and pleaded to be able to take it all away. We cried.

The contractions kept getting worse. It was time to wake Keith up. We needed to find a hospital. We packed as much as we needed, left the sleeping boys with my parents, and headed to Macon, the closest hospital that would accept a delivery of this nature. Keith and I barely spoke. Seems that's just how it is. I guess no matter how loving, men simply can't handle the emotional hurt of their wives. Especially if they are hurting too. Particularly in the midst of going through the checklist of things to do. And the list of things that had not been done. All at 5:30am.

We figured out how to get there after a few circles, parked in deck, got in, and got sent to OB assessment.

Then we had to tell them. Had to ask for the Palliative Care team. Had to tell them. Watch their faces.

And somehow reality gets even worse. Because you're there. In the hospital. Having contractions. And even though I kept telling myself this can't be REAL labor for a host of reasons, all rational and medical in nature, I sat there, petrified, of what might actually be happening.

I got all hooked up. Yep. Real contractions, further apart than they were before. But growing in strength. I hadn't slept all night. I was exhausted. I was terrified. I cried silently every time the nurse left the room. It took the doctor about 45 minutes to come and check if there was any progress. And again, reality just pounded in my face as we recanted the details again in the sterile, unwelcoming, cold atmosphere of a hospital. At shift change.

I will always believe my prayer, and the prayers of those who read my fast request on Facebook before we left that early Sunday morning, stopped my labor. Because by all accounts, I should have been dilating. That night should have capped off the crazy screwed up mess that our lives have been for the last four years. A hospital we didn't know. A set of doctors we'd never met. Shift change... so no one... no one... wants to see you. The boys at Gigi's house. The Minicks two and a half hours away. No change of clothes. No toothbrush. No rest. No funeral home picked out. No living will. No set plans for how to ...*oh god-- dispose* of the body. No service planned. No maternity shots. No photographer. No peace. Not enough time. For any of it.

But God was graceful to us that morning. He gave me more time. However, in that setting, I learned something very valuable for the short road ahead. No amount of plans. No amount of blogging. No amount of recanting. No amount of stuffing feelings. No amount of knowing. None of it will prepare me for that day. There will never be enough time. Enough plans. Enough knowledge. I will never be ready for that day.

There will never be enough time.