What a Fucking Year
I am days away from embracing this third kid that has been growing for 40 weeks (and two days) in the safety of my uterus, unaware of the chaos of the world. Seemingly without effort, we have worked in unison to develop and form all the parts of a human; she and I have been a team, united by one goal--- growth. As an individual I have been focused on growth, albeit driven by the desire to be the kind of woman I want my daughters to grow into, the kind of woman I have admired, the kind of woman that can (and will) have an impact on those around her.
The last year has been powerful. The last year has challenged me. The last year has knocked me on my ass. The last year has been beautiful. I have survived the last year. I have thrived in the last year.
A year ago my alcoholic-addict dad attempted suicide. My mom, sister, and I spent months pouring ourselves into helping him; help that he adamantly was against. Eventually, we were done. Perhaps, the years of his behavior towards us finally came to collect, and we no longer had a reserve to endlessly pay his tab. My dad is no longer in my life. My dad is homeless. My dad doesn’t know that I am pregnant; in the journey of growing a new human I have been grieving the loss of another human. However, I must be very clear that many truths can exist and for me it is true that I am grieving the loss of my dad but it is also true that I am relishing in the relief that he is no longer a part of my life. Like I said, this last year has been… a year.
Then, in the midst of an emotionally draining and freeing few months I see those glorious pink lines that indicate I am pregnant. I am elated. Our family will be complete. So much happiness. Pure and simple love for the growing human, for my husband, for my girls, and for myself. As with many things in motherhood there are so many things-- all the things-- going on and motherhood can quickly feel overwhelming. For me, this past year felt like I was trying to simultaneously read two books: one book a gothic tale of pain and abuse, and the other book a whimsical tale of mirth.
As an avid reader, I have read multiple books at a time, and if you have taken on the same endeavor you can agree that at times it is hard not to blur the two books together, getting lost in between the chaos of trying to keep the two plots, characters, and emotions separate, in order to not pollute either story. Motherhood, without any additional challenges, is often a balance between two stories-- taking care of yourself and taking care of others.
In an effort to take care of myself, I made a decision, an informed choice to have an unmedicated birth, which was a different decision than my first two birth experiences. (Please read https://www.thewordcraft.com/thatmomment/todrugornot for more insight.) I was prepared to share my experience with my husband-- the best human I know--, my mom-- who had seen her first two granddaughters born--, and my friend/doula-- a woman who viscerally understands me-- but the pandemic, the fucking pandemic, stripped me of my choice; once again, I was not in control; once again, I was living in a state of unknown; I was fucking angry.
Suddenly, I felt like I was trying to tackle another book, another set of feelings, while managing motherhood and there were plenty of days that felt… dark. Fortunately, I have a solid support system that was capable of reminding me to live in the moment, practice acceptance, and take a breath; and for those times that the rhetoric of healthy coping mechanisms did nothing for me, they supported me while I cried, cursed, and wanted to wallow in defeat. I was supported, loved, and respected no matter the page I was feeling through and I thank them, from the depths of my being.
Now, as I wait to hold this third human that I have grown, I am taking more moments to appreciate how fucking capable I am, despite (and maybe in spite of) the losses I am grieving. Like I said, this has been a year.