on bad things
Bad night.
This pregnancy has been pretty plain awful, physically. I think I mentioned that. Everyone asks a pregnant lady how she's feeling, but I don't think anyone really wants to hear "This is torture and my due date can't come fast enough and, oh, by the way, thank the GODZ my husband got snipped because I'm never getting pregnant again, ever."
I was actually fantasizing about premature labor for a minute there, until I googled pictures of thirty-week-old newborns, all skinny and desperate-looking. Forget that. Now I'm calling on all my zen-powers to get me through the next six to nine weeks so this little chicky inside me can get fat and healthy. No more than that, though, so help me godz.
But I'm not exaggerating about the torture thing. Nighttimes are hell. I can't lay down for very long because of reflux - anything in my stomach crawls back up and tries to get out. I can't even keep water down, which is fun because I'm drinking water all night long. I'm perpetually congested - haven't breathed properly since November - and I have to breathe through my mouth. Mouth-breathing dehydrates, so I drink, and then I have to puke... and pee. A lot.
I spend half the night in the recliner downstairs, but that's no great relief... though it helps keep the acid down, it tends to pinch nerves and make my circulation/restless legs worse. I usually manage to nod off for a few hours at a time, but last night I couldn't get any relief at all, and no amount of zen-type thinking would help. I ended up packing the Kinglet's lunchbox early and setting out dishes for breakfast, then watched Angel/Buffy episodes while pacing the floor until about 3AM, only to be up again at 6:30 to feed the boy, argue about shoelace, and get him on a bus.
I napped until lunchtime today. I did it because I needed it, and I am embracing this whole "rest when you can" philosophy of early maternity - but still, not ideal. Who knows how that is going to impact tonight?
Bad Dream
In my nap, I dreamt that I pulled up to my house, which used to be my parents' house, with my mother in the passenger seat. She was wearing a white fuzzy robe. Getting out of the car,Mom said, "pick up that third foreclosure notice for me and bring it inside, will you?" There was a package on the grass. It said "SUBMISSION", along with a bunch of official and ominous-looking writing.
"What do you mean, third foreclosure notice?!?" I picked up the envelope. It was bulky and hard to carry while trying to get inside. Our driveway is steep, and for some reason the flower garden, sidewalk, and front porch were all torn up and flooded over. I had to tuck the envelope under my arm and nudge planks of plywood in place so that Mom could get to the front door.
"Why didn't you tell me about this?!?" I demanded.
"What could you have done?" she said.
"I could have paid you rent!" I said. "I could have done something!" Though what, indeed.
"What do you think is going to happen to me now, if you lose this house?" I asked. "Where am I going to go?"
She had no answer to that.
"You can't lose this house," I moaned, as I put the key in the door. "This house means everything to me."
I opened the door and looked up. The vestibule was narrow and white, with a ceiling so high I couldn't even see it. Above us were vistas of mosaic, cerulean tiles with gold stars, going on forever. "Oh, Mommy," I said, as the dream dissolved.
Bad News
I woke thinking the symbolism of this dream was pretty hammer-over-the-head. When the phone rang, I dreaded it was someone calling to tell me my mother had died. It was Mom, though, with that voice that says "something's up."
Turns out that, in a shocking reenactment of scenes from the life of my lunatic brother and his lunatic wife, my 18-year-old niece was arrested from a hotel room with her abusive on-again-off-again boyfriend for breaking a mutual Protection From Abuse order that each had placed against the other without ever bothering to show up for court. Since her self-absorbed, drug-addicted loser mother had no cash, they woke up my sick and elderly parents in their state-assisted old people's condo in the middle of the night to beg for bail. Of course my parents agreed - they've been bailing crazy people out of drama with money and energy they don't have for years - why stop with the grandkids?
I'm bubbling over with rage, hot like stomach acid. The knowledge that my parents are not long for this world is hard enough to deal with. Having them go through this drama with a whole new generation! - is infuriating. I have hate in my heart for my brothers and their baby mamas for all the years, all the late-night phone calls, all the money thrown into a void, all acts of selfishness and craziness and pain they wrought. I have hate for my parents, too, for putting so much energy into putting band-aides on the gushing wounds of their children but so little into being role models in the first place, or making proactive choices. For letting themselves be victims.
I've had hate on behalf of my nieces and nephews, having to watch from the sidelines while they suffer for the bad choices of their parents. But the oldest is an adult now, making her own bad choices. This is where the buck stops. No one is making her stay with a man who uses her. No one is keeping her from finishing high school and getting herself on a road to somewhere or something better than where she came from. No one put her in that hotel room other than herself - and no one put her on her sickly grandparents' doorstep begging for cash.
This is where love starts to get all mixed up with hate. I love her dearly - and I hate what she's doing. To others, to us - but mostly to herself. I hate that there's not much I can do but sit on the sidelines and pass judgement. I hate that this is where I come from. I hate the choices i've had to make in life to save myself, and I hate watching people I love refuse to make them.
I wish they'd left her ass in jail.