It’s Chin Up Until the Sun Goes Down

I kept wondering when I would cry. From emotional pain, not from physical. The surgery went perfectly. I’m surrounded by family and friends who’ve brought meals, desserts, flowers, cards, and even offers to clean my home. My husband has been my rock and comforter, tending to me with such a gentle nature. I am blessed. And for a long time, from yesterday morning before the surgery, until just half an hour ago, not one tear fell. I felt at peace, and I knew God’s grace was allowing me to focus on physical healing, before licking my raw emotional wounds.

I was not expecting my body to feel this rough. A D&C and laproscopic cystectomy aren’t fun to recover from separately, but together they were a real whammy. The Lortabs first prescribed took away maybe 20% of the pain, and left me feeling like a mindless blob. A feeling I cannot cope with. So, my doctor switched me to Tramadol, which has been a lifesaver. And just when the abdominal pain was in check, my shoulder burst into flames. Trapped CO2 found its way into my tissue, and isn’t leaving anytime soon.

Add on top of all this, my toddler has been sick with a fever off and on, and doesn’t want anyone but momma. While it feels good to be needed, and it breaks my heart to see her hurting, I am getting no rest. Four hours last night, and only one hour today. She’s on the couch beside me watching Curious George at the moment, as it’s the only thing that calms her.

All of these things, these physical and exhausting things, haven’t allowed me time to grieve. And I knew it would come. After laying down and another round of pain meds, I felt well enough to take a shower. My mom and husband were putting the girls down for bed, and I was actually alone. I closed the bathroom door, relieved for some quiet, and began to undress…the first time since my surgery. Standing there in front of the large mirror, I took in my unpregnant body. Three bandages stuck to my slowly shrinking belly, marking the places where the tiny incisions had been made. My breasts, still swollen from lingering pregnancy hormones, looked out of place. And for the first time, I felt it. The loss. Although the soul of my sweet baby had left this earth four weeks ago, the body had been mine. And now, it’s gone. My little companion is no longer with me. I’m all alone.

I felt the warm tears welling in my eyes as I stepped into the hot shower. The water instantly relaxed my muscles, and mercifully, for the first time since waking up in recovery, I felt no pain. And once my body was free from physical distractions, my heart could finally overflow. I missed my baby. Like most mothers, I used to crave some alone time in the shower, but now, it was almost unbearable. I let the tears fall, salty drops mixing with the steaming stream pouring over my head. I cradled the tiny infant in my mind, and held the last image captured of my baby in my heart. A delicate little body, tiny hand held to tiny face, floating peacefully, yet lifelessly in my womb.

It’s easy to stay positive during the daylight hours. Easy to chin up and focus on the blessings and the beauty of the life I’ve been given, and not the life that was lost. But when the sun goes down, and the loneliness rises, I break down.