I don't even know how to feel, what to think, what to say, what to do. I want to say everything, to write everything to just let it spill out, but nothing seems to be right. I type and it feels wrong, I peak and I stumble over what I mean. Blah, it is frustrating.
It is back to work on Monday, work with its own set of frustration and hurt. Work, where the doctor was so callous and egotistical. Work, where patients will know and look. Some will say kind things, others will say things they mean to be kind but will wound, and still others will say nothing at all, but will still look. The pity. Oh how I hate the pity. Just say you are sorry. If you are a chick, give me a hug and say nothing. But, please, please don't look at me with pity. I am not a child that lost my bag of candy on Halloween. I didn't fall and scrape my knee. I lost my baby, my baby died and he won't be coming back. Don't give me a pitying look because if you do I might just turn into a crazy lady.
Sometimes I sit and think about how different things are, and others I feel no change at all. I feel hollow inside, I feel tired and raw. Yet I feel the same. I have four children, wait, no Caroleigh counted and I have five, she said so, 'mommy you have five kids, but my baby brother, he died.' And she is right, I have five children, but people will only see four. When I talk about my births, I have had 4 vaginal births, four VBACs, but how do I tell people that? When they count my children they will see just four. Will I want to always tell them about Colm? Will I want always to see their sadness, their pity, the fear? But, if I don't tell them, then I deny my son. I abandon him and then does he begin to not exist, even in my heart?
So back to work. I used to sleep fine, then the doctor said I was able to work. And his attitude, his mannerism, his lack of professionalism, all of them sent me into a downward spiral. Knowing that others felt they knew better, never asked me but made decisions for me anyway. Knowing I was being treated as less than the person I am. The emotional punch was profound, and since that day sleep has been difficult. How frustrating, for the first two weeks i escaped the sleep issues and then the person who should have been helpful and compassionate kicked me int he gut and sent me deeper into the difficulties associated with stress.
So back to work Monday. I am not ready, I may never be, but this Monday is still just too soon. It hasn't even been a month. Not even four weeks, and it is still just too soon.