Hard.

I hate being pitied. I also hate being "fixed." So as I send the following thoughts into the internet void, I do so with the wish that no one will feel sorry for me or offer solutions. I share only because I'm human and I hope my words might connect me to other humans.

That said, I'll confess being home is hard. Harder than the hospital. Granted, I don't miss the daily monitoring, the schizophrenic water temperatures in the shower, the food that (try as hey may) got really redundant, or the uncomfortable bed. But in a strange sort of way, being far away from everything I was missing at home made it seem not so bad.

Now that I'm close enough to hear Brynn all day, I only end up feeling farther away. It's kind of like having a really tasty treat dangling in front of your face while your mouth is duct-taped shut and your hands are tied behind your back.

Everyone keeps saying Brynn must be so excited I'm home; and truthfully, she's had some great big smiles for me that made me feel incredibly happy. But she's also learned that I'm still no more fun than I was at the hospital. She reaches for Grandpa B and Grandma H instead of me. They take her on outings, to play groups, and for walks like I used to do.

It's very strange to watch your child grow up in front of you, without you.

However, if I try be more involved, I start having contractions and have to take more pills--pills that give me headaches and make me feel dizzy. So I just keep telling myself . . . only a little longer, only a little longer. I can do hard things for Heidi's health and safety. I can be strong for just a little longer.

Even still, I'll confess I miss being Brynn's #1--regardless of my enormous gratitude for grandparents or the knowledge that I'll get my role back soon enough.

I also miss my husband, who normally goes out of his way to fill my needs the best he knows how; but who is so exhausted himself that he, quite frankly, doesn't have much left at the end of the week for me. And that's okay. But I still miss him.

I even miss the hospital's awesome rolling table with a mirror and drawers. Ha! As if that's important!

Given all my blessings, God's miracles, and how close we are to the finish line, I was tempted at first to feel guilty for feeling sad and jealous.

But then I reminded myself that feelings aren't always rational--so who needs to feel guilty for that? Besides, it's possible to feel the pain without minimizing my gratitude for the good stuff. In fact, it's usually more effective to just immerse myself in the sorrow than to tell it to go away because I "shouldn't" feel that way.

So I let it in--really let myself be absorbed in it--and had a good, hard cry.

And now I feel better.


Natalie

PS Thanks for listening, internet void . . . and all you wonderful human readers.