*******Trigger warning: traumatic birth story*******
A few days ago, something happened. It wasn't out of the ordinary, though it wasn't expected. It wasn't horrible and, in fact, was easily fixable. A few claims in my son's name from our hospital stay and subsequent pediatrician visits immediately after his birth had been denied coverage by his insurance. This is, unfortunately, not uncommon; but, as mentioned before, solved fairly easily. It would only take a simple phone call to his insurance and have the activation back-dated to his birth.
But I couldn't do it.
Instead, I spent the rest of my day in tears, sobbing and cuddling my sweet boy, my little Bean.
You see, I couldn't get it out of my mind, the circumstances of his birth, and how I still wish so desperately that they could be different, the way I had planned for so long. Imagined him born naturally at home, that rush when I would hear, "It's a boy!" Holding him to my chest and hearing his first cries. Resting after birth in our own bed, quiet. Cocooning with Bean and Papa Bear in the days after, all 3 of us snuggling into our little family unit.
And, instead, being left to imagine his first cries as he was cut out of me. Him, surrounded by strangers and bright lights and cold air and needles everywhere. Being told the day before we're to be released that we have to stay a whole week so that he can continue an antibiotic regimen due to an infection contracted in the hospital. Myself confined to a narrow, hard hospital bed and Bear sleeping in the visitor's chair that entire week, together but separate. Being dependent on a catheter to empty my bladder. Being unable to walk without the assistance of my IV pole, or pick up my tiny son if he was crying, or even shower on my own. And to this day, three and a half months later, having pain and a strange numbness both radiate from my incision sites.
These bills would take a single phone call (okay, maybe two) to resolve. It's not the money that's an issue. But every time I went to pick up the phone, the tears would start flowing again. So instead, I snuggled my boy and breathed in his sweet baby scent and thanked God we're together still.
I kicked myself so hard for allowing myself to feel this way. Told myself I needed to get over it. But I couldn't help it, and that's okay. I've been doing really well, and am so blessed to not have Post-Partum Depression. I can't help what could trigger my grief, though, and I'm learning to allow it to work itself out.
Maybe tomorrow I'll be strong enough to make the call.
There will probably be many more triggers in my future, but already they are becoming fewer and further between. And when they come, I will hold my son and thank God that we're still together.
Mama Bear of one Baby Bear, Bean, who both love Papa Bear, and live in a crafty, gluten-free cozy den.