I remember back to my mental health rotation in which we had to attend–in our scant off hours–a support group. While I have no idea what group we sat in on (nor would I tell you if I did), I remember that they had a motto: “Feelings aren’t facts.” It’s something that’s stuck with me and until my daughter was born, I’m not certain I could tell you if that were true or not.
I’m a fairly rational person, despite how it may appear on my one-dimensional blog here, and I used to think that after I finally came to terms with how I was feeling (having a mentally ill parent has given me a unique gift in which I am able to distance myself from my feelings and examine them to check for rationality), I was probably feeling something real. Only time this wasn’t true was when I was pregnant. Then I was certifiable, although less so with each pregnancy.
I had several nagging suspicions that proved to be wrong while I was pregnant, but if you’d asked me and I’d answered you honestly, I would have sworn up and down that I was Onto Something. In no particular order, I was convinced that I was going to go into labor early, not have to be induced, and have a c-section. All obviously not true. Once in labor, I was convinced that Amelia would not come out breathing on her own. She came out bellowing like her mother does.
These feelings obviously weren’t facts.
And yet I sit here, my 3 week old daughter sleeping blissfully on my knees (she refuses to sleep without being held which makes for some interesting sleeping arrangements) and I’m convinced that she is going to die. I’m convinced that she is only here on loan to me and will return to her maker on Thursday next. I know it’s not rational, the surgery carries only a 2-3% chance of problems–all bad, of course–and she’s the model of health. It’s not likely that there will be any long-term complications.
And yet. And yet.
I cannot break this feeling of doom and foreboding. I cannot imagine a life past next Thursday one way or another. I cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have this baby AND KEEP HER.
It’s an awful feeling. I have no idea how to combat it or change my mind or approach this with anything resembling a positive attitude. I can’t seem to stop crying or panicking and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drive my family members bonkers (if not myself) by the time Thursday rolls around. Any suggestions are appreciated (save for those telling me I’m an idiot. Because A) tell me something I don’t know and B) now is not the time to beat on me) for how the hell to get on with this. I have 8 more days of this agony before The Big One.
Today she is three weeks old and I wish I were celebrating instead of weeping.