Our New Normal

Laugh at yourself but don't ever aim your doubt at yourself.

Alan Alda

Ladies and Gentlemen... I am home.
And I am not wearing any pants.

I am not wearing any pants because I do not have to worry about a nurse, or doctor, or technician, or consultant, or housekeeper walking in on me every fifteen minutes. So... I am wearing Hello Kitty underwear.. and a t-shirt... and NO PANTS.

I would also like to point out that my blood pressure has stayed at least 20 points lower than it did at any point in the hospital- in spite of all the medication. Home is healing; home... and lack of pants.

On Tuesday night the doctor showed up around 10:00 p.m. and said I could go home. He also said he does not usually like to send people home so late but it is not often that he has a patient in the hospital for 8 days and so he wanted to give me the option. It was tempting to get the heck out of there... but it was not entirely practical. Nothing was packed up and we would have to go get my prescriptions filled and I was already tired because... apparently being sick and having major surgery can really wipe a person out. [Who knew?] So we waited until the morning.

I was very excited to be going home... but then.. it dawned on me: I would have to leave my baby here. I would be walking out the door without him and... you know what? That really sucks.

Everyone is constantly reminding me that things could be so much worse and that I am leaving him in good hands and that this is the best place for him to be and at least he is doing well and I am doing well and again, things could be So. Much. Worse. And, trust me when I say, I know this. I get this. It is completely and totally understood by my brain. It does not make it any easier to walk out the front door of a hospital while your brand-new (and oh so tiny) baby remains behind to incubate... because for whatever reason your body decided to betray you and now he is having to suffer the consequences long after you get to go home to your nice comfy bed and continue on with your life.

This entire situation occasionally feels like the practical joke from hell. Almost as if someone, somewhere sat around [performing the evil finger tap of contemplation] and came up with something they could throw at me that would leave me scratching my head.

Hmm... bizarre pregnancy induced illness leading to a micro-preemie! GO!

I have always wanted to raise my children naturally and organically. I wanted cloth diapers and homemade baby food and as little medical intervention as possible. And now my son is being nourished by lime green mystery fluids pumped into his veins through an IV.. and being lulled to sleep by the beeping of heart monitors and the voices of nurses reading off the stats while a box keeps him warm. Not my arms- not a cozy blanket.... a box. Yes, it is a very fancy box... it is the Cadillac of boxes as far as boxes go...but it is a box, nonetheless.

And I can only touch him for a few minutes a day. And there are so many things that could go wrong at any given moment. And... he is just so very tiny.

It is just a very strange thing to wrap my head around. And it is a very strange way to start our family.

As my mother likes to point out on a regular basis: Ryan and I do not do "normal." But it is never our choice- life just keeps happening to us without our permission. Sometimes I think that when we decided to get married, we signed some sort of contract that states that we will allow life to bend us over and make us its... *ahem* woman.... whenever it so desires.

So, today is the first day of, once again, recalibrating normal. I am not sure what it will look like.. but we have to start somewhere. And... I am quite happy to be home.