I’ve hit a place where now I’m writing about things that I have a hard time talking about. It isn’t that I don’t want to talk, it’s that everything is so close to the surface now that if you ask me at the wrong time how I’m doing, you could just make me cry. Watchout. Because I’ll tear up but then laugh it away and the next few minutes with me may go something like this, “boo hoo hoo hahah hah HA HE hee hoo hoo boo hoo HA!” Yeh, I’m also wearing my sunglasses more, like Corey Hart suggested, at night. It’s my clever way of hiding my leaky puffy red eyes. And it occurred to me that the celebrities who do this – maybe they’re not aloof and pompous, maybe they’re sad? Celebrities – they’re just like me!
There’s also the matter of my Anson, who doesn’t much put his feelings out there for others to see. The things that we’re living with now belong to both of us, so in my writing I have to tread the line of not exposing things that he’s not ready now, or maybe ever, to put out there.
Still, I DO want to write. I think because it helps me get my head around all the circles that are being talked around me. So sit down, have a cup of coffee, put your feet up, and get an eyeful of what is the hardest thing I’ve encountered in my life, so far.
My doctors, and a lot of doctors are involved here, are talking to me about possibly terminating this pregnancy. So these conversations have landed me on a (so far) 3-day crying jag. I AM, however, proudly able to time these delaminating episodes while Roan is at school, Anson is at work, and I have full reign of the soundtrack to my sadness. I’ve been listening a lot to Rufus Wainwright, while sprawled out on my couch with a tissue box and a glass of water because I get really thirsty when I cry. Don’t be jealous, it’s not as fun as it sounds.
When I’m able to pull it together during the day, I alternate between talking to the Insurance Company, Receptionists, and also a robot who tells me again and again that my call is really important to her. I also clean my house. The women in my family do this – we clean when we are angry, sad, anxious, or on the telephone. I can’t help it. But at least my home is neat and tidy for all the people I’m isolating myself from. That’s another thing – I’m craving isolation. It could be depression, but it doesn’t feel like that. I just feel like sitting with my own questions now more than answering other people’s questions. Most likely because I don’t know any answers.
I have a deadline here – we need to know which way to go ahead within the next two weeks. And we won’t have all the information we need by that time. So I’m pretty sure no matter how this plays out, I will be full of self-doubt, guilt, feelings that I’ve failed this baby, that I’ve failed Roan, that I’ve failed Anson, and that I’ve failed myself. Believe me – I know these are not fair feelings for me to take on, but somehow I don’t seem to have much control over this torrent of culpability raining down. No one wants this baby to be with our family more than me (except maybe Roan, but that just breaks my heart all the more). And no one wants to protect him from a lifetime of being sick or as one specialist described it yesterday, “having a very bumpy and painful road to travel, from the moment he will be born”, more than me.
So. More appointments with new doctors and specialists next week, and maybe just maybe something hopeful will manifest with new eyes looking at this guy. Just as likely, or maybe more likely though, is the reality that all the authorities will continue to be confused with what’s happening, give me worst-case and best-case scenarios, and Anson and I will be left staring at each other again hoping one of us has something wise to say, or even better, the wisdom to make the right choice for our baby, our 5-year-old son, ourselves, and then whatever strength it will take to follow it through.