, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Welcome to the suck. I believe that Sue might have coined that phrase several months ago… funny how it still applies occasionally. Not all the time… but sometimes. And today would be one of those times.

  • My head feels like there’s a little monkey in there dancing an Irish jig. I’ve taken 600mg’s of Advil, and it didn’t even touch it. As I type, I’m sitting in a dim room with my eyes squinted because the light feels like it’s shearing off brain cells. Freakin’ hurts to the point of nausea.
  • Today is Daddy’s 54th birthday. Jennifer and I took him to Cracker Barrel for brunch, and we’re heading over to Townville in a few hours to make him dinner and a b-day cake. I took a picture of him and his Maggie.

    A widower at 54. What the hell’s up with that?

  • Today at 2:30pm was supposed to be Baby Rettew’s first prenatal appt. We were going to hear the heartbeat and have the first ultrasound. Instead, I have a lovely little antiqued brass plaque sitting here next to me, engraved with the inscription:
    Sweet Baby Rettew
    June 28, 2008
    Sleep, Baby, Sleep

    Didn’t exactly think we’d be planning a memory garden for the first prenatal appt. Just sucks and makes me cry.

  • Jennifer told me a long, involved story this morning that I’m not even going to go into… Bottom line is that my blog has been discovered by one of my illustrious relatives, and they’re “concerned about me, and think that I might really need some help.” Um, thank you for your concern… if you’ll read back just a little further, you’ll see that I’m a regular attendee of “Therapy Time with Dr Jerry.” Oh, and they also forbade their 20-something-year-old kids from reading it because of “the language.” And I haven’t even said the f-word lately!! My first impulse was to pull a card from Bobby’s bag of tricks and jump up and down and yell “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” over and over… yes, my husband actually did that once during a fight when I told him not to curse at me. Immature, but very effective. But then I realized that recounting “The Tale of Bobby-Stiltskin” would serve the same purpose, so I’ll consider this bullet point to be complete.
  • The car saga continues. Had the BMW towed to Greenville for a second opinion, and yes, the engine is dead, dead, dead. The G-ville guy recommended that we have it rebuilt rather than replaced because of the age of the car. Quote is pending. Oh, and the Honda (which is now our primary and ONLY means of transportation except for our footsies) has some sort of issue that’s going to cost $500 to fix…. Argh.
  • I’m behind on my phone calls. People who I love, and who love me have called and I haven’t called them back. I feel guilty, like a horrible, undeserving friend – and yet I still don’t just pick up the damn phone and call. In the time that I’ve spent writing this post of issues, I could have called at least one person back. Whiner.
  • And last but certainly not least, Sue’s sadness is overwhelming me. And if it’s overwhelming me, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to her. I’m not going to go in-depth because it’s an invasion of her privacy. But I do know that we have to come up with a plan, because the current roller-coaster isn’t working for anyone. Lovely how the ripples from Mama’s death just keep going and going… will they ever stop? Will we ever feel “normal” again? Or is it always going to be this up-and-down-and-up-and-down existence?

The whole “Sarah really needs help” thing made me think. Maybe I really do have a problem. Sometimes I forget that other people don’t take Zoloft and have a weekly relationship with a therapist. That for some people, probably MOST people, it’s not normal or ok to do those things. This morning, Jennifer caught herself singing an operatic version of “We’re Off to See the Wizard” to Maggie, who was gazing at her, just soaking it all in. It’s not normal, I tell you. Of course, random operatic urges are definitely preferable to unexplained crying spells, which is what we have at the Rettew residence.

I’m so tired of feeling like I’m scrambling for control. Why can’t I just let go? That’s where this anxiety is coming from… the need to control things that are completely uncontrollable. What was that Serenity Prayer – something about changing the things I can, accepting the things I can’t, and wisdom to know the difference. Acceptance is what I struggle with – acceptance that things never go according to plan. Acceptance that my normal isn’t what other people perceive as normal. Acceptance that what seems to come easily to other people (financial security, pregnancy, stable family relationships) is A) probably not as “simple” as it seems; and B) isn’t how things were meant to be for us.

Sometimes I forget – or maybe just push to the back of my mind – what it means to be a “motherless daughter.” What it means that Mama is dead, gone, no longer here. What it means that she’s never coming back. And then other times, it comes crashing back in on me – this carefully constructed house of cards – and it weighs on me so heavily that I almost can’t breathe. Sits on my chest like a monster, a life-crushing hurt, and I want to beat my head against the nearest hard surface to make it stop. I’m so tired of the dreams… they left for a while when I started taking Rozerem, but then I stopped and they came back. Dreams of dead babies, and hurt babies, and babies without mothers.

Why is my head still pounding? WHY?!? Feel like screaming.