5 weeks (& my last postpartum checkup)
So today I went to what is my last postpartum checkup. It was the most bittersweet thing I've done in a while. I'm not really sure why, but it hit me as I was leaving, like a ton of bricks.
I was called back, they weighed me, took me back to a room, and then got my vitals. We waited for about 20 minutes, then Dr. Sink came in finally. He asked me how I was doing. If I was ready to go back to work, I answered "I guess I am as ready as I will ever be." and then explained that sitting at home proves to be menacing at times for my psyche. Then, after checking my incision and listening to my lungs, he sat me up and then began talking to Shade for a few minutes. Then, as we were leaving the exam room, he asked me if I was having more good days than bad, in which I answered "yes", which... I am not sure if that was the truth, but its what came out. As we walked up toward the front desk, it was an awkward silence, that I broke with "So, I don't need another appointment, I'm done, right?" And he said "yes, well except your regular yearly well woman exam, which you can do around this time next year." And it was then that I realized I wouldn't be stepping foot back in there for what might be, a whole year, or forever. Whichever comes sooner. He followed up with "Well, hopefully we will see you in here sooner than that." I replied "I sure hope so. Well, thank you all." He awkwardly patted me on my left shoulder, as if he wanted to hug me but Shade was tugging on my right hand toward the scales trying to weigh himself, so it turned into a pat on my shoulder instead. I almost made it to the door before I turned back around and reminded them I needed a work release and asked about the thrombolytic testing that I needed to have done. We stood for a minute while he printed off my paper and I was told to come back and get the order form for the blood testing sometime this week and then it would need to be done in the next week or so. Then, we were finally off toward the door, and we exited through the 2 sets of glass and metal doors, onto the sidewalk, out into the rain and to the car.
It was raining, and the sun was trying to peek through the grey storm clouds. It was like the world was trying its best to give me some hope, a reason to smile, other than the one that was holding on to my hand, but grief is such a nasty monster that it forced me to focus on what I should be carrying in my empty left arm. Not an umbrella, not a purse, not my phone, not my keys...but her... Emma, should be nestled in my left arm, and I should be gladly having a seriously difficult time making it to the vehicle with two kids attached to me in the rain.
I truly think sometimes grief is the devil in disguise. Forcing me to obsess over what I've lost, rather than what I still have. Grief is the bitter aftertaste that's left behind from every one of my favorite foods that I no longer enjoy. Grief is the sunshine on my shoulders that I should be letting in to warm my bones before its long turned into grey winter skies and snow on the ground, but can't because I'm thinking of instead who should be here with me enjoying this sun and how such a big piece of me is gone. Grief is the tune of every song that should be happy and uplifting, but instead just sounds sad and melancholy. Grief is the gravity that should be holding me to the earth, but instead drags my knees to the ground whenever I walk past the paper bag from the hospital that still holds some memoirs they gave us, and her little newborn hat and shirt they put on her at birth, her diaper bag still packed and ready containing wipes, a baby health kit, 5 or 6 newborn diapers, and a few articles of clothing just laying there, in confusion, wondering why they haven't been wrapped around her yet. I am left wondering the same thing, why aren't my arms wrapped around her yet? Why was it cut so short? How do things like that happen? Grief is the reminder of every time I look down and see my feet instead of a big belly sticking out, that there's no baby in there, it didn't shrink, it didn't come out and scream its first cry... it just got yanked from me like something I wasn't ever supposed to have.
Grief is the cold hearted son of a bitch that just won't let me live right now. It won't let anything be the same.
I was called back, they weighed me, took me back to a room, and then got my vitals. We waited for about 20 minutes, then Dr. Sink came in finally. He asked me how I was doing. If I was ready to go back to work, I answered "I guess I am as ready as I will ever be." and then explained that sitting at home proves to be menacing at times for my psyche. Then, after checking my incision and listening to my lungs, he sat me up and then began talking to Shade for a few minutes. Then, as we were leaving the exam room, he asked me if I was having more good days than bad, in which I answered "yes", which... I am not sure if that was the truth, but its what came out. As we walked up toward the front desk, it was an awkward silence, that I broke with "So, I don't need another appointment, I'm done, right?" And he said "yes, well except your regular yearly well woman exam, which you can do around this time next year." And it was then that I realized I wouldn't be stepping foot back in there for what might be, a whole year, or forever. Whichever comes sooner. He followed up with "Well, hopefully we will see you in here sooner than that." I replied "I sure hope so. Well, thank you all." He awkwardly patted me on my left shoulder, as if he wanted to hug me but Shade was tugging on my right hand toward the scales trying to weigh himself, so it turned into a pat on my shoulder instead. I almost made it to the door before I turned back around and reminded them I needed a work release and asked about the thrombolytic testing that I needed to have done. We stood for a minute while he printed off my paper and I was told to come back and get the order form for the blood testing sometime this week and then it would need to be done in the next week or so. Then, we were finally off toward the door, and we exited through the 2 sets of glass and metal doors, onto the sidewalk, out into the rain and to the car.
It was raining, and the sun was trying to peek through the grey storm clouds. It was like the world was trying its best to give me some hope, a reason to smile, other than the one that was holding on to my hand, but grief is such a nasty monster that it forced me to focus on what I should be carrying in my empty left arm. Not an umbrella, not a purse, not my phone, not my keys...but her... Emma, should be nestled in my left arm, and I should be gladly having a seriously difficult time making it to the vehicle with two kids attached to me in the rain.
I truly think sometimes grief is the devil in disguise. Forcing me to obsess over what I've lost, rather than what I still have. Grief is the bitter aftertaste that's left behind from every one of my favorite foods that I no longer enjoy. Grief is the sunshine on my shoulders that I should be letting in to warm my bones before its long turned into grey winter skies and snow on the ground, but can't because I'm thinking of instead who should be here with me enjoying this sun and how such a big piece of me is gone. Grief is the tune of every song that should be happy and uplifting, but instead just sounds sad and melancholy. Grief is the gravity that should be holding me to the earth, but instead drags my knees to the ground whenever I walk past the paper bag from the hospital that still holds some memoirs they gave us, and her little newborn hat and shirt they put on her at birth, her diaper bag still packed and ready containing wipes, a baby health kit, 5 or 6 newborn diapers, and a few articles of clothing just laying there, in confusion, wondering why they haven't been wrapped around her yet. I am left wondering the same thing, why aren't my arms wrapped around her yet? Why was it cut so short? How do things like that happen? Grief is the reminder of every time I look down and see my feet instead of a big belly sticking out, that there's no baby in there, it didn't shrink, it didn't come out and scream its first cry... it just got yanked from me like something I wasn't ever supposed to have.
Grief is the cold hearted son of a bitch that just won't let me live right now. It won't let anything be the same.
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