I don't really want to write this post but I feel a strange obligation to my future self to be completely honest about what I went through. And maybe someone out there might appreciate reassurance that the path to recover is not straight and predictable. So here it is. I'll let it out of my head.
It was 12 days after the operation and I was feeling extraordinary pain. Again.
And I was tired of it all to be honest. So very tired in my bones and my mind and my spirit.
But instead of hiding like I wanted to, I went to the doctor. Oh yes, I have Learnt My Lesson about soldiering on.
The doctor called the ambulance. I cried and cried and cried because I'd promised Remy that I wouldn't leave him again. And he cried because he couldn't understand what was happening. He looked at me and asked "Happy? Happy?".
I had had another internal bleed. Apparently it had been going on for several days, and had all collected in some obscure spot and formed a ball the size of an orange.
I overheard a doctor reassuring a nurse that, yes, these things are painful, and yes, she is genuine, and yes, she will be admitted into your ward.
This time in hospital I was overwhelmed with insomnia. Mostly my nights were spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the nurses, and thinking about death. But this time I barely thought about our dead baby; it's like the imprint of her has been beaten out of me by the constant and rapid fire medical jargon.
This time I thought about what my death would mean for Remy.
And even though I convinced the doctor that I was fine and to send me home much earlier than he'd planned, the thoughts about death followed me home. So did the insomnia.
And that's where I am now. Trying to be comfortable with the fact that, by sheer accident, I am alive. That my continued existence is a result of mistakes and successes.
But maybe that's the case for all of us?