The voice of pain. My pain. Not my voice. No, it has a voice all its own. Sort of a muffled scream clawing through my eardrums. I thought because there was no time for it that it meant I didn’t have to attend to it. But it called me back. When thigs were quiet. Later on when my world was much more settled and it wasn’t about me.
Friday. I caught a bad one. A family member had made it successfully through surgery. I was elated. Trust me I was. She’s very dear to me. Her doctor was awesome. The anesthesia worked as it should have. Last thing she recalled was talking about a cruise.
It was meant to be a note in passing. A simple comparison to declare my agreement with how wonderful the medical staff was. A quick recount of when I pre-labored my twins. I lost them. She knew, I knew, and honestly it wasn’t the point. When I was taken back for the DNC (where they clean out what’s left in you), the intent was to put me under. Maybe they thought they did it right. I mean just because the epidural only worked on half of my body during labor doesn’t mean if they give me more it won’t take me to la-la land, right? Only I remember everything. The look of my knees being held apart. My drowsy cries, “I’m not asleep, I’m not asleep.” The call for more anesthesia. The way it rendered every part of my body asleep, except my consciousness. I remember feeling hurt. A blessing to not recall the exact pain, I’m sure.
So I’m on the phone telling how happy I am for her and I start sobbing. Like WTF! It just catches me like a baseball to the face, dead center. Makes a mess of everything. She’s trying to comfort me, but good God she just came out of surgery that requires 6 weeks of recovery! So I’m babbling my apologies and assert that if we just don’t talk about it, I’m good. So we move on and my face clears and I can get back to being happy for her.
Off the phone and I’m like, “Whoa. What was that? Where did that come from?” I mean I’m not so ignorant that I don’t realize I never really dealt with this thing. I mean this happened in March of 2014. Four and half months later I was pregnant again and four and half months after that (December if math is not your strong suit) I’m pre-laboring my son. And who had time to grieve the year when three months later I’m finding out I’m pregnant? And then that’s finally a healthy pregnancy although labor had its own complications, but she’s here. She’s breathing and she’s an incredible, loving, clever, stubborn, funny, brave, willful, conqueror of an 18 month old.
And I’ve got this imaginary “they” that tell me I’ve got the blessing so what is there to cry tears over? I gave birth to a world changer. She encompasses the strength of seven babies (possibly from all that came before her). Why am I still so shaken by the process? I don’t know.
What I do know: I’ve got to heal. This little adventurer I’m raising requires it. For days I put off writing this post, thinking, “Well I did the first bit of crying. Maybe that’s what I needed.” No. I can’t risk it blurting its way out like it did. I have to tend to the screaming ghosts in the basement of my heart. Writing has always pulled out what I’ve kept in even if most unintentionally. Who knows what can happen if I acknowledge its purpose?