I’m sitting here and I feel like I should write something but it isn’t coming easily. For one thing, there is this underlying layer of a word pulsing in my head–heart…heart…heart…that doesn’t go away. Second, there are these kids who need Mommy Mommy Mommy, a second layer of head noise. Third, there are the things I should be doing–picking up toys, loading the dishwasher, taking a shower, making a cup of coffee. Fourth are the extra-vivid dreams of last night’s awake-asleep-awake-asleep.
I sound like a basket-case, don’t I? I’m really not. All of this is going on inside my head but it’s sort of lulling me into a steadiness, keeping me from obsessing about things I can’t control.
Yesterday I finally felt a feeling about the procedure, the result of the procedure, the need for open heart surgery to correct the hole. I felt angry. Not like an anger at God or medicine or anything grand like that, but an anger that I can’t just keep this whole experience tucked inside until I am ready to feel it. I have to talk about it and report on it and make phone calls and acknowledge that in the future, I’m going to have to take my kid back to the hospital.
Does this make any sense?
Any response, no matter how well-meaning, reminds me that no matter how many people are there to support, this is something that is happening to MY family, MY kid, MY husband, and ME. It affects other people, of course, but at the end of the day, it’s something we have to deal with when everyone has gone home. It’s not bad news, it isn’t good news. It’s just news.
And I’m not ready to deal with it.
We go back to the cardiologist next week and talk through the results and the plan and all that, and then we move forward. We’ll keep checking the sites to make sure they are healing properly, hold Lucy when she sobs that she wishes this never had to happen, and laugh with her when she’s not thinking about how much it sucks to have all of these things she can’t do. I’ll keep trying to keep her comfortable and cheerful and loved. And we’ll take the next step when we know how soon we’re going to get there.
This may be the last time I write about this for a while, not because I want to pretend like it isn’t happening, but because it isn’t happening yet. I reserve the right to fall apart as soon as I’m ready, or to be thankful that it isn’t much worse. Right now, though? It just isn’t time to do anything but hug my kids and my husband (and cats).
I have nothing but thanks for everyone who has offered support and I love the feeling that I, we, are not alone in this process. I just can’t respond right now without having to exposit, and exposition requires too much analysis that I’m not ready to do.