Saran Wrap

Today started off a little better than the days prior. When I arrived this morning, Cora was sleeping peacefully and her breathing looked less labored and her color looked good. I was so optimistic that she finally had her turning day. But as the day wore on, and into tonight, I'm not so sure.

The problem is that whenever she is awake she's so upset and struggling so much that you either have to spend an hour calming her down, or (more usually) the nurses have to give her painkillers or sedatives so she doesn't fall off the cliff.

It's just gnawing at my insides. Something isn't right.

Despite all the medical challenges she's faced, Cora has always maintained her calm demeanor. She's almost always content, if not happy, and that's why, despite current circumstances, I always refer to her as my easy baby. Something is agitating her or causing her pain and I don't know what it is. Of course it could be explained by any one of the things that have happened to her in the past week, but it seems to me like it's something else.

I don't know. I just don't know what to say.

The bright spot of today was getting to hold Cora for an hour or so. During that hour, she slept deep and comfortably, and she just radiated her goodness into me. I fell asleep in the rocking chair with her within about two minutes of getting a hold of her. It felt so good to hold her little body and keep her safe, if only for a short time.

This past week has been hard to walk through. I feel like I'm trapped in saran wrap, trying to find a way out and having difficulty breathing. It's like I can see "normal" life out there, but I just can't reach it. I'm so uncomfortable and I just want to get out of it, but there's no getting out, and nowhere to go.

I remember when Dominic was a baby and the whole motherhood journey was brand new to me. As an infant, he hated the car. Every time we put him in his car seat he would scream. Not just whine, but four alarm bloody murder scream. For the first four months of his life, every car ride was like that, and there was nothing I could possibly do about it. The sound of that shrill screaming and my inability to end it would feel to me like someone was tweezing out little parts of my spinal cord, one by one. It was torture. I would arrive at my destination and feel like shouting at someone, or better, punching someone in the face.

That was my perfectly healthy child whose only issue was that he was incredibly high-maintenance and has always demanded that I stand at full attention.

But that's what I have to remember when I wonder why Cora's pain and discomfort is driving me crazy. I just have to sit there and watch things be done to her, and see her struggling, and listen to her cry, and I have to accept and accept and keep on accepting because, again, I am without any real power whatsoever. I can love her infinity, but I can't figure out what's wrong with her or make it any better. I can't even live in the same city as her. It makes me feel like screaming. And, just for the record, I really think it could feel good to punch someone.