I Would Like to Reach Out My Hand

I mean, maybe we did. I’m not sure how it works and what controls or refusals you actually have. We were at their mercy, and spent three nights of seemingly needless worry at this hospital, and then he spent six nights at that hospital. See, NICU worry is amplified; NICU time is stretched. I was released as a patient, but my baby wasn’t. And then, days and weeks and months and even years of stress followed that time. The stress and worry and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It changed me. It made me so that I didn’t want to admit any symptoms or problems. I did admit them, once even calling the pediatrician when he had 12 dirty diapers all in one day. “Call back when he has 13,” the nurse on call said. What was the point of even calling at all? This changed me, and it was bad and it was good. It was bad in the way that I wanted to hide from all doctors forever. It was good in the way I gained my confidence as an advocate. Rider had jaundice, but it was the pandemic, and we only had to stay one night in the hospital. They wanted him retested.

And I was right, that time. His regular pediatrician even told me so. “Good for you. You know what you’re doing.” And I did, that time. With Des, I had been through worries that were LEGIT (blood pressure, heart scans, oxygen desaturation, lung scans or “is that just a coffee stain on the x-ray?), and Scarlet was so sick at home that she threw up in her hair in her crib and we didn’t even notice it right away. Or we didn’t have the time to deal with it before one parent or grandparent guardian had to rush her to the doctor’s sick hours. After all of that, it was way too much. She had such an endless cough that she was prescribed an inhaler (and hasn’t needed one since then). Scarlet and Rider have both had the kinds of toddler viruses that don’t require hospitalization, but are definitely severe and long. She got better, and then I got sick. I had a fresh-out-of-the-NICU newborn, a sinus infection, and a new allergy to penicillin. Des never got severely sick then/now. Even with how it changed me. I remember the first time we did errands.

I remember blinking into the Hadley, Massachusetts sunshine as we did our first normal thing since becoming a family of four. We went to Target. You can still go to Target after what I’ve been through? I remember thinking this. “Target is still here!” After all this time. It had been weeks, but might as well have been centuries. After all I had been through, I kept waiting for someone to celebrate me. Surely, someone would. I was young then, painfully young, and I didn’t realize that you have to celebrate yourself sometimes. No one can do it for you. It’s not that people don’t care enough, but they’re mired in their own sleeplessness and stress and distance and Hadley cornfield air obliviousness. Just like that Target in Hadley, Massachusetts.

After Sawyer, my even number postpartum mental health took a hit. For my odd number kids, it was just the physical pain. Breastfeeding pain for never having done it before (Scarlet) and new aches and pains, and mastitis pain for God knows why (Rider) and new/old aches and pains. My even number kids gave me mental health new/old aches and pains. With Des, it was of course, the bad postpartum anxiety. With Sawyer it was the kind of despair that can probably kill you if you’re not more careful (Sawyer was never in any danger and I really wasn’t either, for the most part). It’s not a noble act to move through mental illness on your own, like I used to think it was, but it’s not NOT a noble act either. You don’t get trophies for going to therapy, or not going to therapy. Or for going on medication, or not. Maybe you get rewards, and quite large ones, but they’re not without their own risks either. You pick and choose with the resources you have, the ones within reach, and to think about what it would take to reach a little further. A lot further.

I grieved more than I had ever grieved in my adult life; maybe my whole life. I allowed myself to cry and talk about it. And it wasn’t perfect, because it never is, and because it wasn’t necessarily to the one person (Cassidy) I should have talked to the most. That doesn’t mean it’s not a work in progress. And that doesn’t mean it’s not a noble act to heal, in whatever way you need to heal, because that’s what worked/works. So I find myself now 11 months postpartum and I find myself wondering when I’ll be celebrated, even though that’s not how it works. Everyone is mired in their own stress and joy; sleeplessness and obliviousness. And that’s ok. It’s my job to do it now.

I can take over. I’m thinking of taking a trip with Sawyer (maybe tagalong Rider too) and doing something special. Let me know suggestions! I’m not looking for solitude; just celebration. I’m picking and choosing with the resources I have, the ones within reach, and to think about what it would take to reach a little further. A lot further. He deserves it. And you know what? I do too.