We had our first post-hospital meeting with Zion and his parents. It was great. It was awkward. Too short. Too long. I wanted to hold him forever. I keep saying it, but it continues to be true, my sense of time has been all messed up. I know that according to the calendar he's 6 weeks old, but when I held him, it was like he was 4 days old.
His baby head smelled just like I'd remembered. I almost cried right then, when I first held him I was okay, but then I got my face near his, and suddenly I was back at the hospital, in the middle of the night, holding him and dreading the morning.
I'm so tired. It seems I won't ever stop crying. Everybody expects me to be okay by now, well, maybe everybody but our counselor. I should be doing well in school, at work, at being a friend, at being a mommy to my other two. And I feel like such a failure some days. Like I'm trying to pull myself out of quicksand; some times I make a little progress, I almost catch my breath, feel the sun on my face and smile the smile of someone blissfully unaware of what's ahead. But then it sucks me in again, it's cold and lonely, and my throat closes up. And sometimes I just want to give up and let it take me all the way down. Let it bury me, let me cry until my tears choke me. Let me sleep. Let the laundry pile up, and the dishes wait. Let me fail at school and lose my job. I just want to be alone with my pain.
I don't know how to win this. Or just break-even.
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