Thursday, April 15, 2004
It's Thursday. I'm telling you this in case you thought it was Friday. I know it's possible, because I thought Tuesday was Wednesday, and "Thursday" I was so pleased at how fast the week was going that I blurted it out to my husband who cruelly informed me that it was in fact Wednesday.
I could have died.
At any rate, here we are, Thursday, fo' real, and I've today, tomorrow and Saturday left. Three days to go. And if you don't count today, I only have two days left. And if you don't count Friday and Saturday, I'm already off bed rest!
Two more days...
I don't know how to feel. Approach-avoidance? I am numb. Two days. What does that mean? "Off bed rest." What? I don't get it.
I feel like Spongebob when Squidward tells him he has never tried a Crabby Patty.
"Those words...used that way...I don't understand!"
And I really don't understand what it means to not be nauseous. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is this suggestion that one day soon there may be a day where things don't stink, my mouth doesn't taste like industrial strength roach killer and I actually experience no nausea. No nausea? "Those words...used that way...I don't understand."
Friday is Poodle-doo's last day of school. We're yanking him out because he's miserable, his teacher is miserable, we're miserable, and there's no point. Our home school will "officially" resume in a few months. Little-little has been talking about it and all the fun stuff we used to do:
"I like to do math things and get in the craft box and read stories and cook on Fridays and do science 'speriments.'"
My son, who hates school, loves to learn. His teacher doesn't believe this. He's a massive thorn in her side. He will not sit still, he will not shut up, he will not cooperate and participate in group activities because he's an extremely independent learner prone to self-isolation. He's sensationally social during play time, but wants nothing to do with it during learning time. Unacceptable, sayeth the teacher. He also thinks logically and has been encouraged to have a voice. And he's five, so he's a royal pain in the butt too. "Teach" has a military background. Oil and water. Friday is the last day of that. He has served his time; we all have.
Monday I'm taking him to a movie. A movie, I say! I don't know if I'll be able to sit that long, but by golly I'm going to try. We'll eat pizza and go to a movie! "Those words...used that way..."
Is this happening? Is this really happening? But I was just living in a toilet bowl, crying out to God with tubes in every appendage, pumps moaning and beeping, and an artesian well of vomit roaring out of my hyperemetic head day in and day out forever.
Part of me is still stuck there.
I'm going to need therapy maybe, because I still feel threatened by all of it. Maybe I'm a little angry. Maybe I'm a little scared, unnerved. Yes, perhaps therapy.
I could have died.
At any rate, here we are, Thursday, fo' real, and I've today, tomorrow and Saturday left. Three days to go. And if you don't count today, I only have two days left. And if you don't count Friday and Saturday, I'm already off bed rest!
Two more days...
I don't know how to feel. Approach-avoidance? I am numb. Two days. What does that mean? "Off bed rest." What? I don't get it.
I feel like Spongebob when Squidward tells him he has never tried a Crabby Patty.
"Those words...used that way...I don't understand!"
And I really don't understand what it means to not be nauseous. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is this suggestion that one day soon there may be a day where things don't stink, my mouth doesn't taste like industrial strength roach killer and I actually experience no nausea. No nausea? "Those words...used that way...I don't understand."
Friday is Poodle-doo's last day of school. We're yanking him out because he's miserable, his teacher is miserable, we're miserable, and there's no point. Our home school will "officially" resume in a few months. Little-little has been talking about it and all the fun stuff we used to do:
"I like to do math things and get in the craft box and read stories and cook on Fridays and do science 'speriments.'"
My son, who hates school, loves to learn. His teacher doesn't believe this. He's a massive thorn in her side. He will not sit still, he will not shut up, he will not cooperate and participate in group activities because he's an extremely independent learner prone to self-isolation. He's sensationally social during play time, but wants nothing to do with it during learning time. Unacceptable, sayeth the teacher. He also thinks logically and has been encouraged to have a voice. And he's five, so he's a royal pain in the butt too. "Teach" has a military background. Oil and water. Friday is the last day of that. He has served his time; we all have.
Monday I'm taking him to a movie. A movie, I say! I don't know if I'll be able to sit that long, but by golly I'm going to try. We'll eat pizza and go to a movie! "Those words...used that way..."
Is this happening? Is this really happening? But I was just living in a toilet bowl, crying out to God with tubes in every appendage, pumps moaning and beeping, and an artesian well of vomit roaring out of my hyperemetic head day in and day out forever.
Part of me is still stuck there.
I'm going to need therapy maybe, because I still feel threatened by all of it. Maybe I'm a little angry. Maybe I'm a little scared, unnerved. Yes, perhaps therapy.
Elise is squirming. This morning she woke me up with her dancing. She was on a roll. It was a little unsettling so early in the morning, a little uncomfy. I thought to sing to her, and the moment I began she cocked her tiny unborn ear to listen.
Her body relaxed, her movements slowed to a stop. Her mommy sang lullabies. When I ran out of those I sang a song of six pence. She began tapping her feet. Too upbeat. I sang Humpty Dumpty and Jack and Jill: still good beats to dance to. I repeated the lullabies, and rest again she did, until Daddy entered singing his infernal, high-pitched good morning song. She heard him right away of course and started dancing again. She is a mess for Daddy. Daddy leaned over my belly and told her so and she kicked him right in the mouth.
"You're a mess!"
BOOP!
We had a good laugh.
Behind the laughter and the happiness, shrouded thoughts linger on the life and death of my first little one. Equally loved; I just didn't know how to get through it. Didn't know how to sacrifice myself entirely or how to demand excellent health care. It's something I can't resolve. A massive burden I have to live with. I don't know how but here I am breathing. Day by day. I take it day by day.
And today is Thursday.
