(N) S T
So, sleep is pretty elusive lately.
And I don't mean in the normal, uncomfortably pregnant way. I don't mean because my hips are killing me and I can't lay on my back, or my stomach, or one side for too long. I don't mean the hourly bladder issues either, although all of these reasons exist.
I mean it in the sense of the terror that becomes the notion of letting down my guard. For one second? No, for eight hours.
In my class we talk of tumor suppressors: sequences of DNA whose sole purpose is to stop the progression of abnormal cells from dividing. The cancer police. The guardians of the genome.
As we discuss mutations, someone inevitably asks what happens when these genes don't work anymore. Who watches the watchmen?
Last week I went to the hospital. There were no labor pains, no imminent concerns. I cried the entire way there and as they took my blood pressure. The nurse offered a gown but I asked if she could attach the monitors instead. Just hook me up. Just so someone else could watch. Just for an hour.
I wish I could adequately describe what this feels like. What a fourth pregnancy feels like. What pregnancy after loss feels like. What pregnancy after third trimester loss feels like.
I guess maybe, like a hand who always shakes. Like a pause button, or a lamb being potentially lead to the slaughter they know well. Like an enormous question mark in every crevice of your life, for nine months.
Every night I wake in a panic, over and again. Sometimes I dream in real conversations, people saying things like, "Oh, what a beautiful baby!" and when I open my eyes she isn't there.
Sometimes it's a song. And it's soft, calming even as they wheel her away down the hall. And I'm still behind the door and I am calling to the nurse but she doesn't turn around, and when I'm awake I can never remember the words.
I wrestle with cold aloe vera at midnight, static echoes in the kitchen in the dark. I steady my hand and my heart as I search, eyes fixed on the neighbor's lone basement light. I half convince myself that she has left me, every time, and then I wonder what they're doing at this hour.
My husband assures me that the Doppler is a decoy; that there is no realistic way I could "catch" something in time to save this baby. Of course I know this to be true. The first thing my doctor told me as she entered the room that morning was that it wasn't my fault. "I'm going to say something, Nora, and I want you to hear me. You could have been sitting in this chair and it would have been too late. Do you understand? This was not your fault." And the Pitocin lurched and I nodded but in my head it was so very loud. How do you know how do you know how do you know.
So I listen. I watch my stomach dance and I tell myself it's make believe and I still listen. The only moments I am certain of her existence live within that sound, and there are never enough of them.
The nurse analyzed the strip with me, every "perfect" acceleration, lovingly explaining why she'd chosen such a word. Before I left she kissed me on the forehead, "Come back anytime", she said. I managed a laugh. "You'll regret saying that to me." She shook her head gently.
"Never."
And I know I'll be back. It's inevitable. I'll be sitting somewhere when the panic strikes, and there is nothing I can do but remember and tremble and cry, again and again for the next seven weeks until someone places her safely in my arms. Hopefully. I have to add the word. In this life, nothing is certain anymore.
On the drive home there was a dialogue in my head. Who signs up for this, knowingly and willingly, again? Who is this naive; this hopeful? Who does such a thing?
But then there isn't much to say, because I already know the answer. Because it's me. I am.
I have.
And I don't mean in the normal, uncomfortably pregnant way. I don't mean because my hips are killing me and I can't lay on my back, or my stomach, or one side for too long. I don't mean the hourly bladder issues either, although all of these reasons exist.
I mean it in the sense of the terror that becomes the notion of letting down my guard. For one second? No, for eight hours.
In my class we talk of tumor suppressors: sequences of DNA whose sole purpose is to stop the progression of abnormal cells from dividing. The cancer police. The guardians of the genome.
As we discuss mutations, someone inevitably asks what happens when these genes don't work anymore. Who watches the watchmen?
Last week I went to the hospital. There were no labor pains, no imminent concerns. I cried the entire way there and as they took my blood pressure. The nurse offered a gown but I asked if she could attach the monitors instead. Just hook me up. Just so someone else could watch. Just for an hour.
I wish I could adequately describe what this feels like. What a fourth pregnancy feels like. What pregnancy after loss feels like. What pregnancy after third trimester loss feels like.
I guess maybe, like a hand who always shakes. Like a pause button, or a lamb being potentially lead to the slaughter they know well. Like an enormous question mark in every crevice of your life, for nine months.
Every night I wake in a panic, over and again. Sometimes I dream in real conversations, people saying things like, "Oh, what a beautiful baby!" and when I open my eyes she isn't there.
Sometimes it's a song. And it's soft, calming even as they wheel her away down the hall. And I'm still behind the door and I am calling to the nurse but she doesn't turn around, and when I'm awake I can never remember the words.
I wrestle with cold aloe vera at midnight, static echoes in the kitchen in the dark. I steady my hand and my heart as I search, eyes fixed on the neighbor's lone basement light. I half convince myself that she has left me, every time, and then I wonder what they're doing at this hour.
My husband assures me that the Doppler is a decoy; that there is no realistic way I could "catch" something in time to save this baby. Of course I know this to be true. The first thing my doctor told me as she entered the room that morning was that it wasn't my fault. "I'm going to say something, Nora, and I want you to hear me. You could have been sitting in this chair and it would have been too late. Do you understand? This was not your fault." And the Pitocin lurched and I nodded but in my head it was so very loud. How do you know how do you know how do you know.
So I listen. I watch my stomach dance and I tell myself it's make believe and I still listen. The only moments I am certain of her existence live within that sound, and there are never enough of them.
The nurse analyzed the strip with me, every "perfect" acceleration, lovingly explaining why she'd chosen such a word. Before I left she kissed me on the forehead, "Come back anytime", she said. I managed a laugh. "You'll regret saying that to me." She shook her head gently.
"Never."
And I know I'll be back. It's inevitable. I'll be sitting somewhere when the panic strikes, and there is nothing I can do but remember and tremble and cry, again and again for the next seven weeks until someone places her safely in my arms. Hopefully. I have to add the word. In this life, nothing is certain anymore.
On the drive home there was a dialogue in my head. Who signs up for this, knowingly and willingly, again? Who is this naive; this hopeful? Who does such a thing?
But then there isn't much to say, because I already know the answer. Because it's me. I am.
I have.
Comments
Post a Comment