Пятница (PYAHT-nee-tsuh): Friday in Russian
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Grief is an interesting thing. It can come and go in waves. You think it's gone. You think you've dealt with it and processed it, but years later, it shows itself again.
The Doctor and I went to visit a friend in the hospital last weekend. I've been to the hospital many times in the last 25 years. For myself, for my family, for my friends. There was nothing to indicate that this experience was going to be any different than the last one.
But it was. We were going into the cardiac care unit. An ICU where we had to call to have the doors open. Those patients in that unit were all there because they had received heart surgery.
And I never could have imagined the effect that being there would have on me. We visited with our friend for a few minutes and when the nurse came in to do a procedure, I stepped out and The Doctor stayed. And I silently fought a panic attack in the hallway.
25 years ago, we spent three weeks in the NICU with The Boy after his open-heart surgery. And I thought I had worked through so much of my emotions regarding that experience. But, I hadn't. The day of The Boy's surgery, we didn't go to the hospital until after it was over. And as we walked into that post-surgical unit, we saw The Boy. All 8 lbs, 11 oz of him. Lying in a bassinet, covered in bandages and wires and tubes. And while I had to see him and know he was alive and recovering, it's a sight I will never, in my life, forget.
But I had pushed it aside. And Sunday, in that adult CCU, seeing our friend--a larger than life adult--post-surgery, with the same bandages and wires and tubes, brought it all back, along with other emotions I thought I had processed.
As we left, The Doctor, always perceptive to my emotions, knew that I was in emotional distress. We had mentioned to each other as we walked in that it was weird being back in an ICU. So, he knew I was struggling.
I fought back tears as he asked me what I needed. I said, "I just want to hug him." And The Doctor's reply? "He's only 10 minutes away, we can stop by his place on the way home." So, he called The Boy and explained what had happened and that Mom just needed to see and hug him and The Boy said, "Of course! Come over."
When I knocked on his door, he opened it and he was there: tall, handsome, strong, and healthy. And he opened up his arms and just held me while I cried. He gives really good hugs. And I could hold him and know that he was ok. He simply held me and murmured reassurances. And I was better.
But I still cried in the car on the way home. And throughout Sunday, I cried. And The Doctor held me and let me talk. And I talked about memories of those days in the hospital. Of Baby Julian, in the crib next to The Boy, who passed away one evening. And my guilt over knowing that I would take my baby home. And Baby Sebastian, who's mom let me sit in her room and pump while I was at the hospital. I have always wondered what happened to them. I wish I remembered her name.
I talked about my anger at the fact that this had happened to our child, as at the time, I didn't feel like I could acknowledge that anger. Because when you grow up in a high demand Christian religion, you are supposed to be grateful. Always. Even for the bad things. Because if you aren't, you are aren't trusting enough. Your faith in God is wavering. If you are sad, you are not looking at the big picture: The Eternal Perspective. And so, I had to be grateful that everything would be ok and not acknowledge my anger at it all happening. And that isn't healthy.
Grief has stages. And one of those stages is Anger. And it needs to be dealt with and processed. And mine hadn't been. And even though The Boy lived and is now a healthy adult, I had grief to process. Grief at the fact that I didn't give birth to a healthy baby. The belief that it was all my fault; that I had done something wrong during his early fetal development. The anger that it happened to my son at all and that the joy of giving birth and nursing my newborn was taken away from me. So many things. But I had to push them all away, and simply be grateful. Which I was and still am, because I know it could have been so much worse.
But, as The Doctor pointed out to me, minimizing what happened because it all worked out isn't healthy. I have to acknowledge those feelings and process them to truly move on. But, I couldn't. Not completely. Not then.
I was a new mom with a post-surgical baby. Trying to take care of him, manage my post-partum issues and settle in. And gratitude was the only appropriate emotion to allow myself to experience, because you can't question God. And 2 months later I went back to work. And I had to manage working, with a baby, with a husband in school, and another baby a couple of years later, and a move out of state. And so it goes. And over the years I have had flashbacks to those three weeks in the NICU and I have processed those thoughts and experiences. But, I obviously hadn't dealt with all of it.
And last weekend, it came back. And none of us saw it coming. But fortunately, I was in a position to stop and feel it all. And talk about it. And cry about it. And hold my son. And heal a little bit more.
Grief is an interesting thing. And, I know that it will likely come with another wave at some point, but with time, and a toolbox of emotional support, it can be processed.
And in the meantime, I will hug my son every chance I have, because I am so very grateful he is here.
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