One day until my sister has her C-se.ction. Yup, it's scheduled for tomorrow. 28 hours from now, actually, my little niece or nephew will be born. My dad will call to tell me the news.
28 hours and 30 minutes until I lose it. (Or is that just cynical?)
I knew from the beginning there would be tears. My sister and her husband's, my dad's, even my brother's. And we all knew that I would be bawling. (I am a crier, after all.) With happiness for her as much as sadness for myself.
As much? Well, okay, that might be wishful thinking.
Had a little mini-breakdown last week. I'm sure it was all the stress from making plans to see her and help out, and managing expectations (hers and my own) about how that would go, excited tears about the fact that after 6 years of a brutal struggle with infertility, my sister is having her baby. Her living, expectedly healthy, 8 or 9 pound baby.
Really, I don't think I could be happier for her. Yes, tears now. She's been through hell, and I love her so much. And I love this little one already.
So there's all of that, plus 2 independent readings at school, prepping my own section of class for the fall, as well as getting ready for a full load in the fall, too.
And the fact that we decided to go ahead and get the ce.rclage, the TAC, this summer so I would have time to recover from it, and we would have a little more flexibility with TTC. The way we initially planned it had us in Chicago over winter break, and meant we could only try one or two cycles so the timing would be right for the surgery. And that I"ll be 6 months older when I do have the surgery.
And the fact that I'll be, --er, cough, cough, another year older in 9 days. 39. Tick tock. Just as it did for Capt. Hook, that clock just gets louder and louder. It hurts even to say that I'll be 39. All of a sudden I feel old and grown up and washed up all at once. And childless.
I just got the statement from my loan servicing agency and, I will admit it. I have no idea where I'm going with this degree anymore. Yes, I'm interested. Yes, I'm passionate and yell about things I think are wrong. I just feel so disconnected from what I was connected to before. TWO years ago.
C is awesome at compartmentalizing. Just pushing through. That's how he got his dissertation written and defended the semester after we lost the boys. He tells me I need to try to do this. Just trust that what was important to me then will be important to me again. It IS important. But,... But.
It's like I don't know how to be a student anymore, don't know how to care about this stuff. Don't know how to really engage in it again. I was just getting my feet under me. How many times have I written that? Even I'm tired of hearing it.
I haven't been writing, not here, not in my journal, not for school. I haven't been reading, not the stuff I signed up for at school, not even cheesy mysteries, not O.bama's memoir about his dad. Just blogs. Comments, here and there. Freaking fb.
I did start exercising, though the gym was closed over the weekend and I can't seem to make myself get over there. At least not today. I tell myself, I can't go because I have work to do, but does the work get done? Surely you jest. That's what I'm supposed to be doing right now.
So I'm doing laundry, I'm bitching about the house being a mess, but not doing much about it. I look friendly and approachable, make small talk with strangers, but what comes out of my mouth is often so angry. Sad. Negative.
Sad. Really, really sad. It feels different from the initial grief. Like pure sadness, boiled down from the loss, and the fear, and the anger. I don't know how to describe it. When I try to, I kind of picture crystals, or something sheer, clear, hard. Cold.
I don't know.
I think I'm kind of pulling C along with the TAC thing, with trying again. I'm a little worried that once we get started again, he's going to be really sad again, and resent me. That he's going to be ready to stop, and I'm not going to be ready. But how could I put him through it? The trying, the risk of loss, pain.
I'm scheduled for surgery on the 23rd of this month, in Chicago. Dr. H, the TAC guru will be doing the procedure, and I'll be in the hospital over 2 nights. Normally it's just one night, but C won't be able to come with me because he'll be teaching. So I'll stay an extra night in the hosp, just to make sure everything is okay before he sends me home. I'll take a car to the airport, and a car back. And I'll have some time to myself. People (both my sibs, actually) ask me if I'm scared, or if I'll be lonely. Nope. It's weird, I've been spending a lot of time by myself lately.
So, one more day, I'll be an aunt, again. My dad's first living grandchild. He is flying out there tonight, and I'll be flying out a week from tomorrow, for 5 days.
It occurred to me the other day that something could still go wrong (please, please, let nothing go wrong) and this child may not make it. I think we are all counting on this child to be healthy. I think that if it weren't, it would be the end of us all. Well, it would take an awful lot to come back from that. We are all acting like everything is going to be okay.
And so it will, right? She is 39 weeks, and a couple of days. It will all be okay.
One day until her C-section. 27 hours, now.
One day, I'll be where she is, right?