Chapter Menu
It is really hard to reconcile that the son that I carried in my body for almost nine months, talked to daily, loved daily, during that time period did not know who his mommy was. He did not get to hear my voice, he did not get to hear my heart beat; he did get to hear me tell him how much I love him. Even after returning home and being home for four days, I only held my son for a total of one hour, but at least he gets to hear my voice. Because of my heart surgery, I cannot lay him across my chest to hear my heartbeat.
I thought once when I got home that things would be easier – a little bit more normal than what it was lying the stupid hospital bed. Instead, things just got way more complicated. Thoughts about crappy hospital nurses, crappy hospital food, were replaced by: Why me? What about insurance? Am I going to be able to work next year? Am I going to be on disability? My leg – that was cut to the bone – will it ever heal enough for me to be able to run and play with my son? Am I ever going to be able to go to the restroom by myself and without assistance? Will I ever be able to walk by myself?
Since I arrived home I have realized that my baby and I share a lot of things. William needs help to eat. He needs someone to fix his food and bring it to him. So does his mother. William needs to be carried from room to room to make his life more comfortable. So does his mother. William needs help with changing his clothes. So does his mother. People wipe William’s bottom. People also do that for his mother. William is 29 days old – his mother is 29 years old. I don’t think the correlation should be so pronounced. Shouldn’t I be taking care of him?
MORE ON THIS TO COME SOON–which again is a relative term
—————————————————
Chapter Menu