I'm greasy and need a shower. I haven't groomed my face in, it feels like weeks. And now, after hooking the baby up on my own and trying to get him to sleep, I am bone tired. That feeling you get after sleeping in and forgetting your morning coffee? Like a vice is gripping the top of your skull? That's what my head feels like right now. It's not like this every day, but the gagging/retching/choking routine has returned, and with it that vice-grip on my brain. At this moment, I have an inkling of empathy for how substance abuse starts.
Bo is lying in his crib, an hour after his bedtime, silent but for a few soft moans punctuated by this loud, hair-raising retching. I've already spent an hour holding him, shifting to one shoulder, then the other, down to the crook of my arm and back up, chasing the pacifier with the bend in my elbow or my chin. We have this theory that if he's nauseaus and teething that maybe the pacifier will allow him to feel soothed without quite so much retching. A poorly studied theory. My back muscles instinctively grip my bottom ribs and my neck first flushes then grows cold.
New mothers everywhere are weary. I know this. But right now I am feeling sorry for myself, and wondering if any of them really feel as tired as I do. Then, immediatly, I know that they do. Duh. But when I hear the retching I simultaneously want to scream and pick him up to make it go away. I would cry, but that would definitely not be soothing. And then I quickly remind myself that his existence is a miracle. He is proof that miracles do happen. Then I hear him gag on the baby monitor and the whole cycle of emotions repeats itself.
Jose is at painting class, a time that is sacred to me. I want him to keep doing his work, too. And while my current work may not be as fulfilling as I had hoped, it is still a way to be in contact with the outside world, and earn our keep.
Gagging. PLEASE fall asleep. Fury at Jose. He calls and asks if he should come home. I practically scream, NO! I am sitting, but my mind is a frenzy. I can't even take a shower until I know he is asleep. What if he really starts vomiting and I have to run to the nursery all soapy? What if I'm too late? Or slip and hurt myself? So here I am, greasy, tired, anxious.
Gagging. PLEASE, please, if there is a God, if he is a miracle, why does he have to continue suffering?
More gagging. My eyes are welling and stinging with fresh tears. Please just fall asleep. I want to kill myself, momentarily. Then I wonder if maybe the U of M people were right. Then my fury and revulsion at that thought and that institution sober me back up, and I creep into the nursery to reposition the pacifier. Three beautiful, restful minutes of silence from the nursery. I check the blog of another short gut baby and feel like such an ass. This momma has entries that are all so positive. They are not forced cheerful, but genuinely, inspiringly positive. Even with her child much more severly affected than Bo (her daughter has some brain damage, requires a ventilator to help her breathe, and lots of OT/PT/ST). I am a jackass. They say that we should not compare suffering. But what if it reminds me to be better? Be more forgiving? Be more grateful? Ten amazingly silent minutes. I will never again take forgranted a quick and silent bedtime.
The vice around my head loosens up. I'm starting to feel human again. Almost jubilant. There is a God. Thank you. Thank you, Bo for being such a good boy. Thank you, God, for giving him some peace tonight. Thank you for giving us another day to witness this miracle, to kiss his fat cheeks, to tote him around to each window in the house, to hear him screech with joy, to nurse him at lunch, to feel his warm hand on my face... I am grateful for every day.
Is it greedy to hope for years? Is it morbid not to? Is it presumptuous to relax? Is my medical anxiety the answer to my professional ennui? Who really cares, if the baby is finally sleeping? Maybe I can finally take a shower? Or is that pushing my luck? It is St. Patrick's Day, and Bo is part Irish...
