So the countdown clock is set to 5 weeks. Five weeks until the sweet relief of a lovely epidural. Five weeks until there is 24/7 room service. Five weeks until I see if the NEW! REMODELED! labor and delivery suites that my hospital's website touts are for real, or just photoshop trickery.
I am praying for an easy birth: a time surrounded by family and friends, the graham cracker pudding room provided for the mothers, and happy memories of the birth of our last child. My lovely husband is quick to point out that I have not "given birth" to anyone, ever, so I cannot list that on my resume. But the surgery, perfomed by my lovely obgyn, will be on September 20 or 21, and I am looking forward to that.
What I am not looking forward to is the going home part. The part when you leave the hospital, with fanfare(in a wheelchair!), car loaded with flowers, baby blankets, and items from the little drawer under the baby bed(as one nurse put it, "you paid for it all, you'd better take it"). And then you arrive home. Maybe someone brings a meal. Maybe you have family in town to help. And maybe your baby decides that she has been keptawake in the nursery playing 21 and blackjack with the nurses, and let's just continue that tradition at home. No one tells new moms that the first night home might possibly the worst night ever. With Sheridan, it was like they switched our mild-mannered baby with an tiny irate cell-phone customer stuck in a 2 year contract. She wanted nothing to do with her basinett, her new home, her parents, and how dare we change her surroundings. I begged Larry to take me back to the hospital. And although he is nice and friendly and accomodating, he wouldn't. With Cale, the same thing. We thought bedtime should be about 10. We put him down, swaddling him like pros. And he made noises. He tricked us into thinking that he had fallen asleep. we would close our eyes. and them a noise. another noise. a night full of noises. Not loud enough to call in the pros. Just noisy enough to let us know that OH MY WORD THERE IS A BABY IN OUR ROOM WHO WILL NOT BE QUIET. Again, Larry refused to take me back to the hospital.
It went on like that for me for several days. The faint sound of the Haverty's commercial reminded me that the rest of the world was going on with their lives, while I was stuck at home in my sweatpants, getting barfed on. My life would never be the same. Everyone else got to get up, go about their days with no expectations, and I was stuck at home, trying to figure out what to do with a newborn. The only thing that really made me feel normal was the 2 am feedings, when watched the tivoed Late Night with Jimmy Fallon episodes. Because of that, Jimmy Fallon has a special place in my heart. And really? Yacht rock is pure genius.
The feeling of darkness and desperation and hopelessness didn't go away after the first few weeks. My world closed in on me, and nothing made me feel better. I begged God to make it stop. To make me feel like normal. To make me feel like not clawing everyone's eyes out. There is a lovely picture, taken of me on my 33rd birthday, just weeks after delivery. I am sitting on the couch, holding a baby, with tear stained eyes and a puffy face. Not my finest moment.
Finally, I swallowed my pride and made a phone call to my doctor. A phonecall wherein I told the nurse that things just weren't right. I wanted to lay down under my bed and never talk to anyone again. They told me to come in right away, which translated to me that I was indeed a freak, a menace to society, and they needed me off the streets. On the drive to the doctors office, I cried the whole way. I was a failure as a person. Why couldn't I get my act together? Why was the way the wind was blowing on the car completely freaking me out? Why had God let me be a parent, if i was such a disappointment to my family?
And then my doctor talked to me. She gave me advice. She gave me hope. And she gave me relief in a form of a prescription. On the way home, I cried some more. Because it felt like giving up. I took the easy way out. Maybe I should have tried to suck it up a few more weeks. And then things started getting better. I felt like more like myself than I had in a long time. The baby didn't stop crying. Spit up was still an hourly occurance. But the urge to run away subsided. The inclination to be kind to others came back. And two months later, Larry looked at me and said "You're the Caryn I married." And that was the reassurance I needed. A pill didn't change my personality. It didn't turn me into a zombie. It didn't transform me into little Suzy Sunshine(really, just ask LBoogie.) But it helped me cope with all of the hormonal, situational, and emotional changes flying around my head.
I'll be honest, with all the joy that comes with a new sweet baby and her cute little fingers and toes and sweet smiles that will be coming, i'm scared. Because I have been through this twice. The first time, I didn't fully recover for almost a year. For the second, it was a few months. And I can only pray that this time, having taken precautions and having gotten rid of my pride a long time ago, things will be different. The umbrella is by the door. And it's pink:)
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