I’ve been going back and forth and trying to decide if I should talk about what’s been goin’ on (with apologies, of course, to Marvin Gaye) and I’ve decided that tentatively yes, I will do so. Between the precipitous drop in postpartum hormones that always leaves me sputtery, spineless and weak and the Very Real Fear that something is wrong with my newest daughter, I’m kind of a mess.
Okay, fine, you’re right Internet, just like you always are. I’m really a HUGE mess right now.
By trade, I’m not A Worried ™. I tend to be more cautious and careful while I’m gestating a crotch parasite, but after they pop out and are alive for about 6 or so months, I tend to stop worrying. I’d only invest in one of those video baby monitors to perform hilarious Stupid Human Tricks on it while Dave is on an Important Work Call and while I see the need for a bedside apnea monitor in many situations, having the damn thing in my house would freak me out and my thinking would get all skewed and I’d convince myself that because I had it, my baby would stop breathing.
See: not rational. So I ignore it.
I worry when I need to, like when Ben is dealing with a bully or a super-crazy-liberal private school, or Alex comes into the room holding an empty pill bottle and not usually other than that. It’s probably one of my better features, along with my shiny hair and impeccable powers of observation.
I fully expected to be worried from the start of labor until I pushed Amelia out, you see, because while she was cooking, I couldn’t SEE her. Once I could see her chubby face I knew I’d relax and begin to prepare myself for the inevitable poo I would have to take before I left the hospital to come home to Casa de la Sausage.
But it didn’t happen that way at all. Suddenly, the room was swarmed with neonatologists and specialists while I hung 34 feet in the air, crotch on display for all to see and I wept. I sobbed, I wept and I shook. Had The Lump been on her arm or leg or somewhere other than the back of her head, I’d have apologized to her for the plastic surgery she would invariably require, promise her a boob job–or a nose job–as a booby (get it!?!) prize and move the hell on with my day.
Over the following 12 or so hours, despite being filled with The Panic AND The Hormones, I managed to convince myself that it all was okay. That the cyst was full of fat or goo or hair or gold something.
Then the dreaded phone call post CAT scan prompted a flurry of people coming into my room and forcibly removing the baby from my boob. Which may or may not have happened quite like that, but you get the picture. From out of nowhere.
The NICU time wasn’t nearly as brutal as it could have been and I thank God for that each and every minute I breathe, but it served to remind me of just how not in control we are. I’d prophetically made a comment about that a couple of days before Amelia was born–how parenthood strips us of our control–and it rang true once again. Despite all of the ultrasounds and folic acid and all that shit, these things just…happen.
The neurologist, while seeing something unfavorable on the CT scan and thereby ordering an MRI without so much as seeing my daughter, has let us know remarkably little, save for the fact that he doesn’t accept our insurance. We have an appointment on Friday to talk about the MRI results–which he claims are not dangerous or urgent or anything else. But the whole time we were there, he appeared to be in surgery for patients with Real Problems.
Which reassures me more than it might someone else. As does the fact that she seems to have no visible neurological issues and manages to both eat, shit, and scream up a storm. Being home with her is awesome but waiting and seeing what the hell is going to be the next steps is sort of like torture. But I don’t exactly feel comfortable pulling the doctor–apparently an amazing MD–out of Real Brain surgery to hold my hand. Dave spoke with him while I was in a drug-induced coma and seemed to be reassured.
I’m aware that whatever is going on with her is not currently life-threatening, and while that does bring me some peace, not knowing exactly what is going on or what will be going on is slowly driving me bonkers. I’m hoping like crazy that I’ll look back on this and while I doubt I’ll laugh, be able to say, “Wow, Becky” *bitch-smacks self* “You have a degree in Freaking The Fuck Out!” Because that would beat the fcuk out of the alternative which is that something is really and truly wrong with my sweet and feisty daughter. Something I’m pretty sure I’d never recover from.
So now I sit here in Hermit Mode waiting for Friday and unable to do much besides care for my kids and my overactive boobies while avoiding talking on the phone or to anyone besides Daver lest I break down completely, unable to pull myself back out of the fit. Sleeping is not going so well–me, not her–as I seem to flip out and imagine Worst Case Scenarios, up to and including Daver getting arrested for human trafficking–and the fact that I’m not an emotional eater means that I’m literally forcing myself to eat fatty food.
If my dieting self could see me now…
Hold me, Internet? Don’t mind the spit-up on my shoulder–it’s dried. And ignore the boogers, Alex sneezed on me but I wiped it up as best as I could. Oh, and that smell? Probably more spit-up. Don’t worry, it’s not catching.
Oh, and BONUS!! for listening to me whine. Here’s Amelia!