Posts filed under 'BeBe'
I certainly feel like a rodent, with all the nervous scurrying around I’ve been doing. I’m behind with my pictures, and I will update at some point today. This week could mean big new things for us, and all of my time and attention has been directed on these developments. We live in a teeny tiny house right now (300 square feet, oh my!). It’s essentially a one bedroom, so DS got the room and DH and I sleep on a futon in the living room. We found it quickly upon arrival and it’s very charming, so we snatched it up as fast as we could. After all, we were sleeping in our car until we found something, so time wasn’t exactly on our side. I get pretty cranky without a shower. ANYWAY.
So, yeah, 300 sq. ft. for a family of 3 is pushing things to the brink of where they can go. On one hand it was super, because we purged almost everything and now we’re not trapped in a house full of useless clutter that I have to find the motivation to dust and hide when company comes over. However, here, there is no company coming over. Where would they fit? For Mormons, this is a big issue. People always want to come over.
So I’ve been halfheartedly looking around for an apartment. We’ve never lived in an apartment before (although I lived in plenty of them in my single days), and I was trying to avoid it, because neighbors a yard away can be bad enough, much less being on the other side of your wall or on top of you. But the California market being what it is, we simply can’t afford a larger rental house right now, and we certainly cant afford to buy yet. Through my searches for a new place, I realized we actually found a pretty spectacular deal on the place we have. This was not good.
Saturday evening I found an ad for an apartment with two whole bedrooms, an amazingly reasonable price for this area, and they were having an open house on Sunday. So after Church, we headed over to check it out. It was perfect. And HUGE. Based on my quick measurements, it was just under 1,000 sq. ft. We won’t even know what to do with so much space, we have so little now. But the pure joy on our son’s face of being able to just run around and have room to play was enough. We filled out an application and left a deposit.
Now I’m in this horrible mode, because as the spouse I’m required to be on the application, even though DH is the financially responsible one. My credit sucks. I made some stupid, stupid, STUPID mistakes when I was a teenager and thought I was in love with a boy who was only taking advantage of me - and my credit, without my knowledge. When it became impossible for me to pay it back, not to mention have a clue on how to fix it, , I just had to let it go. Enough time has passed that I’m finally able to begin cleaning up my credit report, but it’s a tedious process. I was too young and too stupid to do what I should have done then, and have that jerk arrested for fraud and a myriad of other things, but I didn’t, so the blame and responsibility stayed with me. Not to mention that identity theft laws and reactions were far different ten years ago than they are now, and even now they’re sorely lacking.
So here we have this great apartment, it’s almost too perfect, and we may not get it because of my credit. I was honest with the lady and told her what she’d find on the report, and she said that if everything checks out as I say, then we shouldn’t have a problem because everything is so old. I sincerely hope that she was telling me the truth. I am trying to stop myself from wanting this place because it’s not a done deal, but it’s difficult. I want our baby to have a bedroom where he actually has room to play. I can keep sleeping on the couch forever, no biggie, but he needs more than what he has, which isn’t much. I feel guilty for taking him from a huge house into a teeny one on our whim and hopes and dreams, and never giving him the choice or even much of a warning.
So there’s the new place, and then there’s also the new job that DH interviewed for last week. If we get the apartment, and he gets the job, he’ll be working a half mile from our house. No more bus pass to buy and no more bus to ride! For him, that will save him 4 hours per day of public transportation commute, which is HUGE. The new job will come with more money, which will cover the increase in rent. The new place also puts DS in the best schools in our district, which is a bonus I won’t overlook. I’m scared poopless of him mainstreaming into kindergarten. I’m elated about it, because - HELLO - major progress and hard work on his part, but I have a healthy fear of how cruel kids can be and I don’t want anything to make him lose his love of school.
Oy. Prayer is the word of the day.
July 28th, 2008
In a previous post, I mentioned how I have a bit of the crazy going on this year. I know this is going to sound silly, maybe even bizarre, but it is what it is for me, and I’ve not yet figured out how to stop being afraid of things are, frankly, borderline ridiculous.
When I was 5 years old, my Dad died after a long battle with lung cancer. It was the first day of Kindergarten. I’ll keep a long story short by saying the rest of my school experience (yes, all the way through HS graduation) thoroughly sucked.
Somewhere along the line I decided that I’d never get married or have kids, because I saw what it was for my Mom to lose a husband, and I never wanted my children to go through the pain of losing a parent. But I also worried about an uglier twist of fate, and that would be losing a child. Then, of course, I grew into adulthood and that whole “falling in love” business shattered my plans. Go figure.
I battled cancer myself as a young adult, and I cursed God for his cruelty and wondered what I had done to deserve it. I was afraid of going to sleep, afraid of not waking up. Although my cancer was caught early and I knew I was going to make it, chemo will easily make you feel as though you are definitely going to die, and I could not shake the fear. I was told by numerous doctors that I’d never have children, and I found that I was actually glad. I thought if I ever desired kids, I’d simply adopt. End of story.
I met my now husband. He married me knowing I couldn’t have children. He said he didn’t care, and he meant it. We conceived our son on our honeymoon. He is an amazing kid, healthy, full of joy. He loves life. I am a better person for having him.
However. He just turned 5 years old. He will begin kindergarten in August. I am terrified that something will happen to DH. No matter what I do I can not shake the fear of losing my husband, and my son losing his father. I understand that my fear is irrational, unfounded, even pointless. The knowledge does nothing to ease the fear and panic. It makes me angry with myself for disallowing my common sense to take over. It frustrates me that I’m so… superstitious? Would that be it?
So there it is. I even feel weird typing it out, but it’s true, and I don’t run from truth anymore. I just need to figure out how to better deal with it, I guess.
July 10th, 2008
It must still be Monday, because today is just full of SUCK.
I went to bed last night with a strange pain in my hip. It hurts like crazy when I bend down, like someone is pinching me internally, and they want to hear mercy before they let up. It was annoying when I went to bed, but by the middle of the night it was pretty bad and I actually woke up a few times from the pain. This morning I am a little limpy, and the nagging pinch is still there. I can’t figure out if I pulled a muscle or what, but I really don’t want to have to find a doctor for this.
I awake at 6:38 a.m. to the phone ringing. No one calls that early. I assume it is DH and that something is wrong (or at the very least, irritating, and he needs to vent). I can’t find the phone amidst the covers, and I miss the call. I dial DH’s cell phone. No answer. I am still groggy from sleep, and manage to fall into a restless slumber for another half hour. I jolt awake, and dial DH again. No answer. I text. No response. I wait for fifteen minutes, because since the move our cell reception has been spotty at best. Nothing.
I enter a minor state of panic that quickly evolved into on-my-knees prayer in the middle of the kitchen floor, complete with waterworks. I have this thing I’ve dubbed the “5 year phobia” that went into full effect within minutes - but more on that in another post. I pace the house and cry and worry, trying not to wake our son. He finally calls a bit after 8. He is fine, at work. His cell is working as well as mine, which is close to not at all. I feel a little foolish, but the relief outweighs it.
I get the baby off to school without incident, but get a little lost on the way to pick him up. Supposedly, the A/C compressor in our car is going out, but thanks to the $700 cost for replacement, we will forgo that repair for awhile. It has been pretty darn hot the past few days, and when I drive with the windows down it’s hard to hear the GPS. I missed at least 6 turns and was 5 minutes late picking him up. I arrive and they are getting ready to load him onto the bus. Nevermind that they haven’t called me to finalize his bus service and probably had no idea where he lives.
Ah yes, while we’re on that subject, it is Wednesday and the bus company has not called me to work out his bus service. DH needs the car for a meeting 50 miles away on Friday. If the bus service hasn’t started by then, we have a mess on our hands.
On the way home from school, the check engine light comes on. In Texas, our engine was covered by a 10 year/10,000 mile warranty for engine issues. In California, apparently they’re only required to cover it up to 7 years/70,000 miles. We have 71,000 miles on the car. *Insert a vicious stream of profanity here.* It costs $105 for them to plug their stupid code reader into my car. I bought my own reader off the internet for less than $20, and I can Google the codes it comes back with, and probably fix it my damn self. We’ll try that route first. I just finished spending $800 for new tires and a complete brake job. I am loathe to sink any more money into a car we barely use.
I bought $500 worth of organization heaven from Ikea while DS was at school. A bunch of men stand around and watch me load several 100 pound boxes by myself. Not one of them offers a hand, and they are all employees. I lock eyes with one man and he says, “Sorry, no speak English.” As if speaking the same language has anything at all to do with common decency/manners/helping me load this crap onto this runaway cart. I give them a healthy dose of stink eye and manage to get it all done myself. In the loading area, the men are very nice, but also do not speak English. They lift everything for me, but shove it into our car in such a way that I can only hope no corners are damaged. I realize when I arrive home that getting this stuff into the house alone is going to be hell. The cart I cursed before I now long for. I manage, and break quite a sweat getting everything inside. Now I have to put it all together. It was much more fun picking it all out. *sigh*
We sleep on a Beddinge futon from Ikea that has actually been pretty comfortable (if you’re lucky enough to sleep on the right side, because the left side for some reason won’t lay flat so you’re sleeping on a slight incline that makes you feel like you’re clinging to the bed for dear life), but today I somehow broke it. I clicked it up twice and prepared to push down so it would convert into a couch, and I hear a weird springy snap. Now it won’t fold up. Ikea will take it back for an exchange, if I can figure out how to get it into the car without taking it apart. Apparently that’s one of the rules.
My first bad day in Cali, and it was a doozy.
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Edited at 5:30pm to add: Attempted to do some laundry, but the change machine at the laundromat was out of service. We have no more clean towels.
I somehow failed to buy an integral piece at Ikea for the armoire, now they are out of stock. One week until it’s in.
I forgot to turn off the stove burner and completely ruined a pan and a ladle that was filled with (once) delicious nacho cheese dip.
I had our brand new boogie board in the trunk and I somehow managed to rip one of the corners loading and/or unloading crap. We haven’t even had a chance to use it yet.
I pulled into our driveway and was ready to give in to tears again. Every single aspect of today has been a struggle in some way, and I have had enough. My son asked me something about playing video games tonight, and I snapped at him about having more important things on my mind than his video game allowance. His response? “Aw, Mommy. You are my sweet girl. Thank you for trying so hard.” Then I got a big, undeserved hug. One that I really needed.
June 18th, 2008
I’m having a heckuva time getting back into the swing of things. I’m so accustomed to working day and night on the computer, and now that I don’t have to our routine has drastically changed. I forgot my scale picture this morning, although I did not forget to weigh. I was 206.5 - OUCH.
We had FHE last night, for the very first time. We have been married almost 6 years and have a 5 year old son, and have never had an actual FHE. So we rented the first Indiana Jones from ‘81, and sat down with a huge bowl of popcorn and loads of “movie” candy we bought on sale at Ralph’s. Big mistake, for a few reasons: Indiana Jones somehow obtained a PG rating. Interesting, considering in the first 5 minutes a man is gruesomely impaled on spikes from head to groin. Oh yes, let’s not forget the ghosts that melt your face off and make your head explode at the end. Oh! And of course we also have thousands of snakes suitable for your little one’s greatest nightmares to date. PG my ass.
I hadn’t seen the movie since I was a small child and couldn’t remember anything about it. DH did remember but for some reason thought our little guy could handle it. Just because our parents allowed us to be terrorized when we were small doesn’t mean we need to return the favor. Looking back on some of the things I was allowed to watch (and my Mother was an ultra-conservative evangelical Christan), I think I’d rather my son hear “damn” in a PG movie these days than see so much violence. We’re going to stick to the Lego version of Indy on PS3 from this point.
Actually going to the movies out here costs twice as much as Texas (but I still think Kung Fu Panda was worth it), so we’re loving Netflix even more now. Not to mention that we know absolutely no one yet, so there are no date nights in our near future, which would have been for movies like The Happening and Wanted. *sigh*
So the candy was not nice to me, but I deserved it. I have a weakness for Hot Tamales. Given what they do to the scale, I can see myself becoming a lot stronger and resisting their evil goodness from this point on.
I biked my pitiful 5 blocks with the boy in tow, and now I’m sitting here huffing and puffing, cursing Hot Tamales and my general fatness. I can only hope that that 5 blocks will give me a little loving on the scale tomorrow morning. That and my trusty carrot sticks.
Hey - a girl can dream.
June 17th, 2008
I’m finally in the home stretch. Our plane leaves early Saturday morning, and my family will be whole again by the early afternoon.
I badly miss updating this daily, and I’m not at all certain where my weight stands, which is terrifying. It can’t be too bad, because my clothes still fit and are actually a little looser than before… but I don’t feel lighter. All of this labor has probably built up some muscle, because I have been working it.
Our entire 1700 square foot home is now empty of everything. I had hundreds of auctions listed and they were immensely successful. We’re now 100% out of debt and for the first time in our marriage, we have a healthy savings account. Now if I’d just start on our food storage, I could change my name from Jill to Molly, eh? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. 
For now, back to the grind. When hundreds of auctions end, they must be shipped. Woo-boy, is this going to be fun. Or not.
May 26th, 2008
Continuation from a previous post. This is very long.
I have given birth, if you can call it that. I guess my shaking finally irritated the recovery nurse so badly that she got orders for a sedative. I awake later and I’ve been moved into my private room. I wasn’t expecting a private room, but it appears that under the circumstances, my in-laws decided to pay for the upgrade. I love them for that to this day.
DH is sleeping on the couch, or the teensy brick-like thing that passes for a couch in a hospital. I am touched to look at his 6′5″ body curled up into the fetal position, worried dreams running across his face as he breathes. The fetal position. WHERE. IS. MY. BABY.
I attempt to sit-up quickly, and a staggering pain reminds me that this will NOT be happening. I cry out and DH shoots off the couch like a rocket, full of apologies for falling asleep. I can only say the same thing again and again, “bring me my baby bring me my baby bring me my baby”. He rushes into the hall to find someone, and I finally find the call button and push it like a mad woman.
They try to reason with me that it is too late at night, he is sleeping, wait until the morning. A nurse mentions they have given him a BOTTLE, and I begin to feel something I can only describe as manic rage. Everything that has been forced upon me in the past 12 hours has all pulled together into one coherent stream of thought, and I am a fury. Hysterical, screaming, still trying like a fool to get out of that damn bed.
My birth plan is still attached to my chart; my chart at the foot of that damn bed. Why can’t anyone read? Bold, all capital letters blazed across the front: BREAST. NOT bottle, you stupid bitches. I am warned a doctor will be called to sedate me again. I call their bluff. My baby is brought in.
He is tiny pink perfection. I hold him close, even though the weight of holding him is oh-so-painful. I do the Mommy things you do… I count his fingers and toes, I coo at him, I make him promises and wishes and give him all of my soul that is left to give. I am in love. And I am afraid. Terrified. His sleepy eyes slide open the tiniest bit every now and again. He snuggles into me, and still I worry. I begin to cry, and I don’t know why. My sobs wake him before DH can rescue him from my arms. He begins to cry.
DH doesn’t know what to do, and calls the nurse to take DS back to the nursery. And something begins to gnaw at me. It felt like a rescue, like he is not safe with me. Logic begins to leave, and irrationality takes its place. This little person is a stranger, and he will not be happy with the Mother he was given. The Mother who could not even bring him into this world peacefully, safely, securely. I have failed before I have begun.
The next morning it is time to try nursing. I am excited about this. I am desperate for the bonding experience that thus far I have been denied. The lactation consultants (I see 3 during my stay) all have conflicting advice. All of them are demeaning and make me feel guilty that he will not latch on. I am obviously not following their advice, they say. Just do what we say and he will nurse. I discard modesty and I try in front of them, over and over again. They ridicule my every move. I do exactly as they say, when it does not work, their advice changes. I begin to stress out, and they get frustrated with me and say bottle will be best for this baby. I am labeled a difficult mother.
One kind nurse comes in to take my vitals during the night. She asks if I would like the baby brought in when its feeding time, at least then I can give him the bottles and have bonding time. She tells me to try nursing again when my milk comes in, give it a few days, relax and not focus on how hard it is. I am grateful for her.
DH and I take turns feeding him, I begin to force movement and walking to get my body back into cooperation. I can give him bottles easily, but have a lot of trouble with diapers. DH is a diaper champ. I feel resentful towards the formula bottles. I feed my son, yet I do not. The disconnect startles me, but I don’t know how else to feel. I tell no one.
Coming home is a maze of insomnia and attempts at coping with new motherhood and the swirl of fear and anger within my head. I will sometimes pretend sleep when he cries so that someone else will handle things. The pretending is the closest thing I get to rest. I pace the house at night and wonder what will happen if I don’t find a way out. I am a bottomless pit of sorrow for the Mother I should have been. I cry constantly. I think I understand why I wasn’t to conceive. It wasn’t my body that rejected motherhood, it was my spirit. This was not to be for me. I will only fail. I give up.
My milk comes in a few days later. It is horrible. I sit on the couch with towels under and around me, leaking and weeping. Nursing is excrutiating, but he is a hungry boy, and he finally, finally latches on. There is massive nipple confusion, and it is not easy, but we manage a compromise of sorts and things work out the best way they can. I nurse him and pump bottles for 6 solid months, until I can no longer take the pain and give up. I refuse to stop until at least the 6 month mark. I had to do something right.
Slowly but surely, as the months roll by, my son and I bond. I am filled by his presence, but I firmly believe I offer nothing to him. I know how deep my love for him runs, but he could belong to anyone else, and they would love him better, care for him more, parent him as he deserves. And every day, I cry, I eat, I pace at night, and I look for ways to disappear from their lives.
I finally muster the courage to talk to my OB about the way I feel. He brushes my worries and fears aside as if they are silly, and says, “It’s just a touch of the baby blues. Every new Mom experiences this. You’re fine.” The entire ride home I wonder if driving my car off the interstate passover will kill me instantly, or if I will suffer. I don’t want to suffer anymore. I just want to be gone.
DH notices the changes in me. It is impossible not to. I am a shell of my former self. I am obese, lifeless, unkempt. Angry, irrational, sad, withdrawn. He does not know what to do. He asks what is wrong, I either plaster a fake smile on and say nothing or angrily turn away and invent an argument to redirect his focus. I recoil at his touch. I begin to ruin our marriage with my secrets and lies.
Years of this behavior have now passed. I invest all of myself into being the perfect mother. I know that nothing is good enough, but I try my damndest. Our son is so happy. He simply radiates joy. He is the best thing I have ever done. But I had no hand in it, or he would not be this perfect. I resent DH for being the better parent, although with his work and school schedule, I am the parent DS is with most. I can not see that I must be doing something right to have a child such as this. I allow myself to see a spark of light at the end of the tunnel.
I am afraid. I have noticed things for a long time about DS. Now he is beginning social interactions, and the things I see are prominent. Within 6 months of my gut feelings, he is diagnosed with autism. A bit later, Asperger’s is added on for good measure. All of my hope just dies, and I give up on myself yet again. I knew things would turn out this way anyway.
DS’s therapist notices something about me is off. She suggests I ask my OB for a counseling referral. Many parents of newly-diagnosed spectrum kids need help making sense of things. I make the appointment, but this time I choose a new OB. He is a little old man, with some very old-fashioned values, yet there is something about him I like. I bring my chart from my previous OB to our appointment. We sit and talk, he reviews my file, and then as I begin to explain the worst of who I have become, he touches my hand in a gesture of comfort. I break down. He hugs me and allows me to weep until I have nothing left. He assures me that I can he helped, and I will be helped, and he will make certain that my life changes for the better.
I leave his office and go directly to a psychiatrist’s office. I spill my 2 years worth of secrets. I am not crazy. I am sick. I have post-partum depression. I am praised for my bravery, and encouraged to go home to my spouse and communicate. I leave the office with a prescription and a knot of fear in my stomach so large that I pull over and vomit on the way home.
Over the following months, I change prescriptions a couple of times, and finally, something works. Little by little, I’m getting back to… something. Not quite myself, but no longer an empty shell. I still keep my secrets, and tell my lies. But as each day passes, I come alive again. I spent a long time on the medication, and attend therapy weekly, sometimes twice a week if a rough patch arises. The time comes and I am slowly weaned off the medicine. I am terrified, but nothing happens. Things stay the same - normal, balanced, happy.
2008 is fast approaching, and I vow to make all things old new again. Before I am able, everything blows up in my face.
to be continued…
January 17th, 2008
DH and I met, married, and had a baby within a year of knowing each other. That’s a whole lotta major life-changing stuff in one year. We were young-ish, but both felt ready. We were not patient people. Maybe we should have taken things slower, but we didn’t. So here we are.
I was told I’d never conceive, and to not waste my time and tears trying. I made peace with that, spilled my guts to DH before he took the plunge with me, and all he did was shrug his shoulders and say we’d adopt. He didn’t even blink. I fell more in love.
Then BOOM we were pregnant. Just like that. After the *ahem* first time. We lost that baby… I miscarried in WalMart (no wonder I hate that store so much), and I think the spiral down began right then. I couldn’t cope. The dreams I was never supposed to have came true, and then were ripped away. Was this what they meant? Conception, sure! Delivery, nope! At my OB/GYN appointment my doctor expressed profound shock that we were even able to conceive, and then my hope flared its silly little head again.
If he thought we couldn’t get pregnant, but we could, then he was an idiot. So we decided that we’d just do nothing. We wouldn’t try. We’d just be together and live life the way we wanted to, and if a baby joined us, then it would be the most amazing thing in the world. We’d handle another loss if it came our way, but a little voice told me that everything was going to be fine. And I believed.
So a baby joined us in June of 2003. He was everything I ever wanted, and nothing I expected. He was so much more. I had a pretty easy pregnancy, other than the whole beached whale feeling and constant nausea. He was good to me. He would stop playing soccer when I sang to him. He liked it when I read to him. He would follow Daddy’s hand across my stomach with his feet. Brilliant, even before birth.
I gained far too much weight and ate terribly. Frito Burrito Supremes from Taco Bell with extra extra extra sour cream, breadsticks and sauce from Pizza Hut, Sprite, and candy. I feel a bit of shame when I see that now, because there is no trace of healthy in there, but the smell of any other foods sent my stomach into dry heaves. I was a fat, jolly pregnant woman. I loved the changes in my body and the ultrasound visits where swishy heartbeats filled the room. I even got used to all the damn needles.
We had an amazing birth plan. I wanted a midwife. No drugs. Quiet, dim room, soft music, peaceful setting. I wanted to try water birth, because it sounded amazing. I was prepared for the hard work. I knew it would hurt. I knew I would get through it. At the end there would be a pretty great parting gift for all that effort. And so we waited, and looked forward to the arrival of our boy.
My only lingering nag was my choice in OB’s. Something about this man did not feel right to me, but no one else would take me in mid-pregnancy without extensive cost, and I’d already invested so much. We didn’t have any more. He was not pleased about my “hippie” birth plan, he went along begrudgingly… but he did finally agree. And so we had hope, we had faith, everything would work out.
About a week before my due date, things went terribly wrong. I had constant contractions the moment I’d lay down. Sitting, standing, I was fine. Laying was so intense they took my breath away. Into the hospital I went, on orders from my OB. He’s just a big baby, they’d say, putting pressure in the wrong places because he’s ready. They’d shoo me back home and tell me just wait for my water to break.
Due date came and went. Misery does not begin to describe my feeling. I could not lay down without the contractions, I can’t sleep without laying down. No position was comfortable. I was exhausted, and DONE. I went to his office and begged him to induce. He refused. I began to spot. Into the hospital I went. This time, they did an ultrasound.
If you are an ultrasound tech, let me tell you right now the words that NO ONE, especially an expectant mother, wants or needs to hear fly out of your mouth: “Oh. my. GOD.”
DS was not coming out the natural way. OB swoops in, looks at the screen, says, “Wow. You’d have been one of those women who died in childbirth in the old days! Aren’t you lucky we have this technology now. See you tomorrow at noon for a c-section.” He then just breezes out of the room, my tears and questions following him like the barrage of fear that it was. He never looked back. The ultrasound tech explains that he is a very large baby, he simply will not fit. She begins to terrorize me with shoulder dystocia stories, and says I’m an extremely high risk. “Your doctor won’t take this kind of chance with you. He can’t afford that kind of lawsuit.”
I was afraid. Cold, hard fear, that gnawed at me worse than any contraction could. I knew everything there was to know clinically about cesarean, and knew I didn’t want one. My calls to his office were met with, “Well, he won’t deliver you any other way. You can always try to find someone else, but why would you endanger your baby any further by waiting any longer?”
The next day at noon, I was cut from hip to hip (no 3-5 inch scar for me, no sir), and our baby boy entered this world. His father looked on in amazement. I reacted badly to the anesthesia. Everything was so blurry, all sounds were so foggy and far away. OB refused to let DH cut the cord, after many promises it would be OK. Strike One.
I could not hear him cry. I panicked and started to cry and beg for answers. DH’s mouth to my ear, his voice choked with happy tears, ”Baby, baby, he is fine. Can you hear him? He is here and he is so beautiful. He is crying for you now.” A brief red blur enters my left field of vision, it is DS, cradled close to me in DH’s strong arms, and then they are gone. I don’t even get to touch him. I still have not heard him. Strike Two.
I am wheeled into Recovery, where I shake violently for the next 8 hours. No one brings my baby to me. They do not allow my family to see me. I am alone, afraid, ignored. I beg for my child. No one answers. Strike Three.
… to be continued.
January 11th, 2008
