A Dose of Anxiety

And, it’s done.  Just like that.  Sophie had eye surgery this morning.  A simple procedure, but one that required her being put under. 

This was the real issue.  Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve been a wreck.

The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.  Then, a call late last Thursday wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.  It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah, blah, but yes, let’s move it up.  Less time to think about it.

And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was fine.  Then, the nurse called on Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof, thankfully).  It was going well until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.  And bring her favorite stuffed toy or blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re frightened.”

The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was enough to turn on the instant tears.  The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.  “She’ll be fine.  Really.  It’s so much harder for us parents then it is for them.”  

I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a clue what was coming and I did.  I was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.

We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.  I had experienced this long before ever having children.  However, after having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.  And not just stronger, but ferocious, too. 

There have been several instances when I have felt threats to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face (please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.  Things of that nature.

Never before have I had to turn over either of my children to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.  This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.  Because really, at the end of the day what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility. 

Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with the utmost care.  I don’t doubt their intentions or capabilities.  But, mistakes happen.  Unpredictable reactions can occur.  There is an unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say, “yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”  It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the slight possibility of that even happening. 

Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten myself up over signing such a document.  Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.  She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose (poor girl), but she was a total champ today.

And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit by a truck.  I’m exhausted.  I forget how we hold fear and anxiety in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we robbed it of rest and peace of mind.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do differently.  Saying, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.  There are some things I cannot force my body to do.  It’s okay.  Sometimes surrendering to the emotion is much less tiresome than fighting it.

In this instance it didn’t matter.  It drained me.  It won.  But I don’t mind.  Even when Sophie could barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your tickies (our term for her toes)?”  She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her toes in the air.  Somehow, that one small act reassured both of us that she was fine.  We needed it.  Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us with a smile.

The day has only gotten better.  We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either: One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.  I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have come along with a woozy Sophie.  You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.  

I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain

It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant). 

In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight, something I had never done in the sixteen years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr. Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head on the pillow.  That is, until I became pregnant.

Hello, Pregnancy Brain.  Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).

Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would have gotten pregnant.  Sure enough, after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain, that’s all.”

So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that kid out all would return to normal.  I was wrong.  Not only has my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie. 

For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand this.  You won’t be able to fathom what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen? 

It goes on.  And on.  And on.

You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they take away your car keys and put you in a home.

The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses. 

No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.  I’m not talking tough, life-changing decisions.  I’m talking…

Vinny:  “Babe, do you want some cheese?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Babe?  Cheese?

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Umm, it’s a yes or no question?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . . I don’t know?”

It’s annoying, for everyone involved.  The questions are “easy,” and yet, my brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.  I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese. 

Every decision feels momentous.  Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!” regardless if it’s what I want or not.  At least it’s an answer.

Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt that Pregnancy Brain exists (go here).  They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up.  

As is often the case, I try to find something positive in the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished mental capacities.  Sure, it makes for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember most of those moments…

But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.  I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.  If it isn’t written down (and sometimes, even when it is), it doesn’t exist.  If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays, reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal level in our house.  But if I can’t…

So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday, anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know each other.  It’s not personal.  I promise.