I was going to write a post here about the steps I have been taking in the right direction.
I was going to talk about how I got the courage to go into Peyton's room, and to wash the unused baby clothes in there in preparation for the snowflake's arrival.
I was going to say how big a deal this was for me.
How I must be healing.
How having this beautiful positive event in my very near future was bringing a sense of closure to my pain and anxiety.
I was going to say all of these things, and then tonight I went in to grab the last few items from her dresser, and I came close to the plastic bag - the one on the floor with her clothes in them.
The bag that has sat untouched,
unwashed,
unattended to,
since the day she died.
And I started to panic.
To panic about things that no one else panics about.
To panic that in being in the room with clothes that had chemo on them, maybe I had exposed myself and the snowflakes to something I shouldn't have.
To panic that the chemo on the tiny clothes in that secured bag may have somehow gotten onto other items in the room.
To panic over fears that wouldn't make sense to anyone else because people don't have babies born with cancer.
People aren't forced to start their child on chemo when they are just 6 days old.
They don't know what it looks like and feels like to hold a 28 day old little girl as she draws her final breath because the chemo has ravaged her body beyond repair.
People don't have to wonder two years later if using items that have been in the same room as a bag of clothes with chemo on them are going to equal some devastating exposure.
Exposure.
Exposure.
Do you see a theme here?
Exposure.
How am I supposed to relax when I am afraid of everything?
I see dangers in everything and feel so much pressure.
Pressure to protect them.
Pressure to keep them safe.
I am responsible.
I am their mother.
But how can I protect them when I couldn't protect her?
I tried my hardest, and it still wasn't good enough.
I didn't lose Peyton to some condition that the risks of can be ruled out at some point.
I lost my child to cancer.
EVERYTHING has been linked to cancer.
P.A.L. might as well stand for Paranoia and Anxiety after Loss because that is where I am tonight.
I was going to write something uplifting here about facing forward with a renewed faith in the future.
I was going to,
but then the triggers and the fears came for me instead.
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I was going to write a post here about the steps I have been taking in the right direction.
I was going to talk about how I got the courage to go into Peyton's room, and to wash the unused baby clothes in there in preparation for the snowflake's arrival.
I was going to say how big a deal this was for me.
How I must be healing.
How having this beautiful positive event in my very near future was bringing a sense of closure to my pain and anxiety.
I was going to say all of these things, and then tonight I went in to grab the last few items from her dresser, and I came close to the plastic bag - the one on the floor with her clothes in them.
The bag that has sat untouched,
unwashed,
unattended to,
since the day she died.
And I started to panic.
To panic about things that no one else panics about.
To panic that in being in the room with clothes that had chemo on them, maybe I had exposed myself and the snowflakes to something I shouldn't have.
To panic that the chemo on the tiny clothes in that secured bag may have somehow gotten onto other items in the room.
To panic over fears that wouldn't make sense to anyone else because people don't have babies born with cancer.
People aren't forced to start their child on chemo when they are just 6 days old.
They don't know what it looks like and feels like to hold a 28 day old little girl as she draws her final breath because the chemo has ravaged her body beyond repair.
People don't have to wonder two years later if using items that have been in the same room as a bag of clothes with chemo on them are going to equal some devastating exposure.
Exposure.
Exposure.
Do you see a theme here?
Exposure.
How am I supposed to relax when I am afraid of everything?
I see dangers in everything and feel so much pressure.
Pressure to protect them.
Pressure to keep them safe.
I am responsible.
I am their mother.
But how can I protect them when I couldn't protect her?
I tried my hardest, and it still wasn't good enough.
I didn't lose Peyton to some condition that the risks of can be ruled out at some point.
I lost my child to cancer.
EVERYTHING has been linked to cancer.
P.A.L. might as well stand for Paranoia and Anxiety after Loss because that is where I am tonight.
I was going to write something uplifting here about facing forward with a renewed faith in the future.
I was going to,
but then the triggers and the fears came for me instead.
What's the point?
I mean seriously, what * is * the * point?
I eat all this natural and organic food.
I have stayed on bedrest (with the exception of the rare outing here or there) for the last 140 some odd days!
I won't allow myself to indulge in anything that has ever been even remotely linked negatively to pregnancy/children/fetuses/cancer/fertility/development/etc. etc. etc.
I do these things and I just can't help but wonder, what's the point in trying when my house has decided to go to total sh*t over the last month, and every day it seems I am finding myself being exposed to something else?
Something harmful.
A few weeks ago it was the gasoline fumes.
Then the mercury.
Now today we had a plumber, and an incompetent one at that, who decided that even though I was out of the house ALL day so as to avoid any fumes, dust, etc. as he was working, he should hold off on doing any of his gluing or soldering until I got home.
So really, what the hell is the point to even trying?
Clearly this universe is amused at the joke it is making of my sanity.
Amused - and cruel.
I was at my NST yesterday, listening as the nurses explained to the woman beside me that her child's fluid was low because of all the soda she was drinking.
I sat quietly as they called in a dietitian who detailed for her and her husband/partner/boyfriend why it was NOT okay to eat only junk food and that she needed to take a vitamin. Yet, when asked if this baby was her first, the woman (who I am sure has always exercised the same level of care in every pregnancy) told them that no, she already had two children at home.
Two living (and yes I know I am assuming here) healthy children despite the fact that she has done NOTHING to try to provide them with good prenatal care.
Exhausted.
