Tuesday, January 29, 2013

All Aboard the Crazy Train

I'm so tired of doctors. They sit on their twirly stools, in their unassuming scrubs and with my medical records in hand (which they DON'T BOTHER TO READ).

And they talk.

And talk...

And talk...

Occasionally they even throw in a question that they don't really want the answer to like, "How are we feeling today?"

So, if I tell them about the aches and pains that have just about ripped my body apart - with this being my EIGHTH pregnancy - they pat me on the head and say, "Well, I hate to tell you this my dear, but that's just part of it." Cue the placating smile and pat on the leg.

And what if I tell them I feel a deep fear and desperation to have my child now, while I know he's alive and would be healthy? "Well, I have two patients...I feel that's a decision you would regret...I don't have the authority to induce you..." Try the rueful smile this time, and the concerned brow wrinkle.

What if, after nine months of waiting and praying and holding it all together, I cried in my doctor's office - twice?

What do you think that would get me?

Apparently it gets my husband interrogated. Because, APPARENTLY, this means I must have lost my marbles! I must be contemplating hurting myself...or my family. "Is she really ok?" they want to know.

And as he relays this conversation to me on the way home, I have to laugh. It is a laugh that is weary, and tinged with tears, but a laugh nonetheless.

Because who are these men?

They may have faced hundreds of mothers to tell them their babies have died, or delivered a thousand stillborn children to their mothers' hands. But do they go home with them? Can they, in any fashion, conceive what it is to carry a child? To have your body fail you so completely? To turn, bewildered, to medicine, only to find no answers?

Where they there when I made birthday pancakes for Diva...the morning after delivering Nathanael? Or when I had to explain to my daughter that her baby sister was safe from worms and bugs? When she cried in fear that her baby sister might be hurt - and I had to explain that she feels no pain where she is?

Did they hold my hand through the first baby shower I went to after holding that tiny perfect person?
Or help me fight my demons through each successive pregnancy? Did they see me pray over a struggling nurse in the hospital as I delivered Isaac?

Who exactly do they expect me to be? What do they expect me to be?

Because I can only be what I am - a mother, with a mother's heart..for all her children.

Somehow, in the hustle and bustle of their books and tests and charts, they lost sight of something very important.  

Love cannot be quantified. And where there is great love, there is also great Loss. Great loss cannot be dismissed with the wave of their hand. Tears and grief, even fear, do not mean crazy.

At least, no more crazy than I have every right to be.

What they do mean is that I am human, with a rather large capacity for both Love and Loss.


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