Today is not a day I want to write. This part of the story is still painful and the idea of revisiting it makes me extremely hesitant and resistant to the idea of writing. Up until this point, it has been an exhilarating journey, waking to find words to express what is inside my mind.
Since starting the path of this tale, I knew I would have to face some of the worst days of my past. There are several moments I am ashamed of, embarrassed by, or just want to go away so I can keep them secret. If I had not committed to writing every day this year, today would be the day I would stop writing.
Every morning, I rise with worry of delivering a premature baby girl. The joy of continually passing the doctor’s estimates and expectations doesn’t do much to lift my spirits. The unwarranted comments of those lending me support leave me crying in a corner, wallowing in my fears of being alone and bewildered.
My precious little son, turning four and living his life as King of the World, his world, should, in theory, give me appreciation and encouragement that things are going well. Instead, the helplessness, loneliness, anxiety and stress plays tricks on my brain and uses my hormonal proclivities against me. Each day, I feel my mind wandering further and further from the truth of my situation. It burrows itself into the depths of darkness and I see no light pulling me out of the black hole I fell.
At 35 weeks, my husband is ‘home’ and my brother-in-law, his wife and their littlest one stop through DC on a returning trip from overseas. The next morning, I find myself lying awake, restless and nervous at two a.m. I convince myself to relax and fall asleep, that I’m just being paranoid. How I wish I would have listened to my warning and taken a shower, though. Just a few short hours later, I stood in the kitchen trying to be the dutiful hostess and make french toast for my guests. The next minute, I’m adjusting myself onto a gurney and getting pushed into an ambulance on it’s way to the hospital for an emergency c-section.
The shift in my mood of the prior weeks held me captive in the operating room. Not only did the anesthesia not localize to find myself screaming in horror as the blade touched my skin, but I remember screaming to the nurse, “I FEEL IT. IT HURTS. I FEEL THE KNIFE.” Unable to move my body even as little as an inch, my eyes were all that was left to speak for me. I felt like they would burst from their sockets. Sudden movements, the rushing of my husband out of the room, the counting down, my wish to never wake again, the mask closing in on my face, and the lights go out.
Until tomorrow –