"I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing." ~Anais Nin (I stole this quote from my friend, Janet.)
How do I feel?
I feel scared.
Not so much about the delivery; I've been down that road before, so I have an idea of what to expect. It probably consumes about 5% of my fear. I do worry about getting to the hospital in time. I don't want to birth my baby on the side of the 680 (albeit a cool story if all ends well).
I have questions.
I wonder if my supporters will have time to be there with me, or if I will be alone. Will Biscuit's daddy make it in time to welcome him into this life? I know the desire is there. Time and circumstances could be our enemy. Will that be OK?
Will the postpartum depression kick in right away like it has in the past? Can they inject me with estrogen and Zoloft to fight those demons off? I have to fight them off.
Can I do this? Again? Will I love him well enough? Give him the life he deserves? Do my three know how deeply I love them? Are we doing OK? Will we? We will. I know we will.
Where is the money coming from?
I want to heal. So much. To heal. To love. To press forward. The loss is still so overwhelming. Life still feels intensely foreign... and, is about to feel even more so.
Sometimes I feel so alien. Like no one in the world understands what I'm experiencing. Where's the, "Older, pregnant, financially destitute, mid-divorce mommies" play group? I don't fit. Not a soccer mom. Not a career woman. Not feeling real successful in the marriage department. I don't blend. Most of the time I'm at peace with that. I even appreciate some of my eccentricities. But, when I want... need... belonging. Support. I feel a million miles out in the middle of nowhere.
I don't mean to wallow. And, I know I'm not special. I know everyone has pain that sets them a part for a time. I do know this. BUT, I wish some of my traumas were a little more run of the mill. The kind books are written for. It's just that several of the major events in my life, which have left me altered, just don't have support groups named after them. And the sensational quality of some of my trials have left me wary of the motives of would-be supporters. Is it the "scoop" they want, or do they care? About me. Who can I trust?
Will life get better? Experience tells me that it will, eventually. But, I'll always be aware of the fragility of it all. I wish naivety could be restored. I would so love to recapture the spunk and optimism of 17-year old Cherie.
I'm here now. 37 years old. A mother. I'm looking for hope. Light. I am learning. I am finding some of my own beauty. Creating it. I'm scared.
Years ago I was scheduled to speak in front of a large group of people. My nerves were eating me alive. A good friend at the time said, "you don't have to feel calm, just go scared."