Lately I wonder if I’m suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder.
My super spidey-senses can sense a knocked up lady from 50 meters. Anytime I see them, I wonder how far along she is, and if I would have looked like that. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is, is she going to lose that baby before it ever takes a breath apart from her. I’m angry that I’m not her. I have horrible thoughts about women who announce their pregnancies at the sign of a positive test, feeling them arrogant and hateful, personally spiting me. I avoid the baby aisle at the grocery store because I keep imagining ghostly versions of myself or The Husband, sleep deprived and frazzled, trying to figure out what size of diapers the baby has grown into, but those imaginary us-es fade before my eyes into nothingness. I don’t call anyone on the telephone because I can’t stand the pause as I decide what to say when they ask me how I am – do they really want to know, or is this a nicety? Everyday, I desperately tune into web logs about pregnancy loss and grief. I’m looking for solace, looking for answers to questions I can’t define, looking for the magic pill to make this intense emotion go away. Bloody hell, when will I go back to NORMAL?! When will a day go by when I’m not finding myself caught, breathless from the turmoil?
Time flies when the world descends into chaos. It’s been four point five months since the two pink lines on the pregnancy test, since the ER visits, since the “must be ectopic” diagnosis, since they took away the Amazing Tectonic Baby, since I was left in a hospital bed with taped up incisions, a shell shocked husband, and no idea what to do next.
Some days I’m not a good actress. Some days I feel so depressively numb that I’m afraid I’ll never feel anything but greyness again. Some days I wonder why I can’t be back to my pre-Tectonic Baby self. Some days I don’t want to be that pre-loss person anymore, but most days I really really want my innocence back. I want to be overjoyed. I want to be hopeful. When I think about the future or adding to our family, I don’t want anxiety attacks, dread and fear. What happened to that happy-go-lucky, independent, comedic and happy woman? Should I file a missing person’s report?
Where did I go, and when will I be back? I’m not sure who or what I am today, on this magical St. Paddy’s. Maybe if I find the rainbow and follow it to the end, the pot of gold will be peace? Pffft. I’m lost, defining myself by fallopian tubes that might just be overly-pissed about too many surgeries in their neighborhood. Can you believe I’m been under for surgery eight times? Eight times? Stupid appendix, stupid Crohn’s, stupid body that can’t work right, stupid surgeons that have to go back in to do repair work because they cut things that shouldn’t have been cut. You’d think after eight surgeries, I’d be thankful for what health I do have. I can’t bring myself to be thankful at this moment in time – I’m stubbornly demanding to never again see an IV hanging above my head, insisting I be issued a body that doesn’t need monthly shots or pills to keep it functioning. I want a body that works, for f*ck’s sakes.
With my luck, in my next lifetime I’m coming back so healthy that they’ll admit me to hospital to study.
It is the nationally celebrated death-anniversary of St. Patrick, so I’m going to deny any guilt that I’m declaring it a day of rage, sadness, and introspection in the House of Gypsyhick.
And in case you find it first, send that magic “make-it-all-better” pill this way, k?