When people say that they were up all night long, I usually take that to mean they had intermittent periods of sleep. I assume they got some sleep. Some type of rest to re-energize them even if it were a few scattered, interrupted moments.
I was up all night.
By 2am, my restless body and busy mind gave up. I sat up in bed and began to cry, loud enough to wake up Ryan next to me. It was the deafening-type cry when your shoulders tremble and your chest shakes. The ugly, uncontrollable cry.
By 4am, I was downstairs. My bed had become crowded with a husband, a preschooler, a dog and a cat. There was no space for my jittery, anxious body.
I laid on the couch staring up at the shelves above me. Once again and unsurprisingly, I cried. Quieter this time, but heavy. The previous day’s events replayed over in my mind.
I deleted pregnancy apps off of my phone to avoid the weekly “Your Baby is the Size of a…” alerts that I had become so accustomed to receiving on Fridays.
12 weeks is a lime. 2 inches long, half an ounce in weight.
I circled the kitchen, periodically stopping to devour a frosted snowman sugar cookie. There was nothing on TV other than infomercials and televangelists.
I texted friends, selfishly not caring if my middle-of-the-night text woke them up.
“I can’t sleep. I want my baby.”
By 7am, the house was stirring. I had to get Caroline on the bus, braid her hair, force feed her pancakes and disregard the fact that mom being in her pajamas on a Friday at 7am wasn’t weird. Ryan told them the night before. Caroline, full of compassion and intuitiveness, is much too smart to lie to. She wanted a baby. We all did.
I did some writing while listening to a stranger’s uploaded playlist literally called “Songs for Sobbing.” They were right; I sobbed. Johnny Cash, Coldplay, Bon Iver, Fleetwood Mac…an eclectic mix of melancholic melodies and pained lyrics.
The day moved like I was walking through molasses, but I guess that’s how it feels when you don’t have a night’s sleep to splinter your days. Days and nights have no discernable beginning or end. I felt like I wasn’t counting minutes, but was counting down to the next meltdown.
The worst meltdown came in the bathroom. The most mundane task of peeing turned into an unexpectedly painful reminder of why my day felt so long. I was bleeding and even though I knew the source and the outcome, I was blindsided by its presence. I’m a woman after all. This is commonplace. Monthly.
Not this time.
Outside the bathroom, the kids were playing Legos and Ryan was preparing them dinner. I tried to stifle my cries, but Ryan slipped in to console me. This isn’t how I envisioned our marriage, even on our bad days. He’s seen me on my worst days, in my most vulnerable of moments, but this was different. Unflattering. Unpretty. Raw. Painful.
It’s getting worse. It’s happening.
It was as if my body heard the doctor’s confirmation and kicked it into high gear. Every ounce of denial disappeared.
I still have two and a half more days of this.
This is Day 2.