I just need to let this out, and move on
Jack got home early this morning after several days of working night shift up north. He slept until lunch time and had a couple of short naps throughout the day. I know that he didn't sleep well while he was away and he drove all night to get home, but I needed him to be present with me today, before the calendar changes to June and before I go and face NRP.
I've been busy today; going out in the cold rain to drive Kim back and forth to work, I've been doing laundry and dishes, made supper, started packing a few things, baked brownies, prodded Julia to do her homework, balanced our bank accounts and paid bills, made plans for Charlotte's birthday, studied NRP....you get the idea. On top of all that, I've made pathetic attempts at parenting two bored little girls who are only temporarily entertained with their dolls, puzzles, coloring pages I've printed off. And Charlotte has been un.REAL today. Every response from her is a resounding "NO!", she has turned up her nose at lunch and supper, threatened to spank Julia and been a miserable little shit. When I finally snapped and had a Mommy Dearest moment, Jack got pissy with me and said, "Well don't worry, after today you're off for two days of fun in the sun."
It felt like he slammed me in the chest when he said that, laying on mommy guilt about me leaving them for three days and more guilt about losing my temper. I was so shocked that he would think that this would be 'fun'. There is NOTHING fun about NRP. NOTHING AT ALL. Spending two whole days reviewing proper resuscitation techniques on a life-like doll is a fucking nightmare for me right now. Every sentence I read in that damn book reminds me of every moment of Abby's life.
Secondary apnea? Check.
Umbilical cath? Check.
Epinephrine? Check, check, and check.
ET tube and ventilating by hand? Hellz yes.
Successful resus? no.
It's like a powerpoint of my worst nightmare playing over and over in my head while I'm trying to keep my shit together, appear somewhat professional, and remember exactly WHAT I'm supposed to be doing. And what's even worse than reliving that nightmare, is that doing this damn course buys me a ticket on the Crazy Train; the trip I take when I start questioning what happened during Abby's resuscitation, if everyone did everything right, if we had done "A" instead of "B" at certain points in time, if there was anything I could have done to change the outcome. Crazy Train, ticket for one. Thanks.
This is only the third time I've renewed my NRP since Abby died. Maybe by the 5th or 10th time I won't cry and vomit during or after the course. Maybe.
Jack is trying to watch the Stanley Cup Final and while I should have put both girls in the tub to let him watch it in peace, I've locked myself in my bedroom (literally) to review the NRP DVD, read through the book, eat a brownie, and keep the kleenex box beside me. I know that if I let myself fall apart here, in safety and without judgement, then I can probably get through the course without freaking out (too much). I've gotten very good at pushing my grief away when I need to. I can easily disassociate from the part of me that wants to crouch in a corner and let the pain crush me. As long as no one touches me, asks me "Are you ok?" or asks me to speak when I swallowing the lump in my throat, I'll be ok.
Abby, as painful as this is to be reminded of your life and death, I know that I need to learn this inside out and backwards so that I can help other babies who may need it. I do this in honour of you.
I've been busy today; going out in the cold rain to drive Kim back and forth to work, I've been doing laundry and dishes, made supper, started packing a few things, baked brownies, prodded Julia to do her homework, balanced our bank accounts and paid bills, made plans for Charlotte's birthday, studied NRP....you get the idea. On top of all that, I've made pathetic attempts at parenting two bored little girls who are only temporarily entertained with their dolls, puzzles, coloring pages I've printed off. And Charlotte has been un.REAL today. Every response from her is a resounding "NO!", she has turned up her nose at lunch and supper, threatened to spank Julia and been a miserable little shit. When I finally snapped and had a Mommy Dearest moment, Jack got pissy with me and said, "Well don't worry, after today you're off for two days of fun in the sun."
It felt like he slammed me in the chest when he said that, laying on mommy guilt about me leaving them for three days and more guilt about losing my temper. I was so shocked that he would think that this would be 'fun'. There is NOTHING fun about NRP. NOTHING AT ALL. Spending two whole days reviewing proper resuscitation techniques on a life-like doll is a fucking nightmare for me right now. Every sentence I read in that damn book reminds me of every moment of Abby's life.
Secondary apnea? Check.
Umbilical cath? Check.
Epinephrine? Check, check, and check.
ET tube and ventilating by hand? Hellz yes.
Successful resus? no.
It's like a powerpoint of my worst nightmare playing over and over in my head while I'm trying to keep my shit together, appear somewhat professional, and remember exactly WHAT I'm supposed to be doing. And what's even worse than reliving that nightmare, is that doing this damn course buys me a ticket on the Crazy Train; the trip I take when I start questioning what happened during Abby's resuscitation, if everyone did everything right, if we had done "A" instead of "B" at certain points in time, if there was anything I could have done to change the outcome. Crazy Train, ticket for one. Thanks.
This is only the third time I've renewed my NRP since Abby died. Maybe by the 5th or 10th time I won't cry and vomit during or after the course. Maybe.
Jack is trying to watch the Stanley Cup Final and while I should have put both girls in the tub to let him watch it in peace, I've locked myself in my bedroom (literally) to review the NRP DVD, read through the book, eat a brownie, and keep the kleenex box beside me. I know that if I let myself fall apart here, in safety and without judgement, then I can probably get through the course without freaking out (too much). I've gotten very good at pushing my grief away when I need to. I can easily disassociate from the part of me that wants to crouch in a corner and let the pain crush me. As long as no one touches me, asks me "Are you ok?" or asks me to speak when I swallowing the lump in my throat, I'll be ok.
Abby, as painful as this is to be reminded of your life and death, I know that I need to learn this inside out and backwards so that I can help other babies who may need it. I do this in honour of you.