It’s 10:29pm.
Her cries claw at me, rake through me as her body presses against mine. The darkness of her room and the whir of the sound machine, my only other company. I wonder; how long have I been at this? An hour? Over an hour? I feel my frustration swirl inside me, threatening to storm.
She thrashes and kicks in protest against the outside of my swollen, pregnant belly meanwhile the life unborn inside me thrashes and kicks from within. My hips deeply ache from trying to lie uncomfortably alongside her in her bed. I attempt to fluidly sit upright, my body betrays me.
I need a break, I growl.
I clutch her to my chest, willing her to settle as I make my way down the darkened hall. As I silently enter our room I see Nick’s face illuminated by the cool glow of the television, he is awake.
“I don’t know what’s wrong” I tell him softly. “She won’t stop crying and I just need five minutes, I’m getting too frustrated”. I lay her beside him and quietly exit the room despite her disapproving cries.
Her squalls grow faint as I descend the stairs to our dim first floor. I tread my way through the deep shadows to the kitchen, illuminated only by the stovetop light, and pour myself a bowl of granola. I retreat to the couch in the family room and eat it peacefully in the dark.
Her distant whimpers have not stopped. I hear them grow as I again climb the stairs.
It’s 10:41pm.
“I see what you mean.” he says gently as I enter the room, a knowing exchange between husband and wife. She lunges for me as I reach to pick her up. I cradle her close to my chest and neck, she quickly snuggles in clearly still unsettled. My now full belly ponders the fullness of her own.
“I think I’m going to try and feed her again, maybe she’s still hungry.”
A few minutes later I rock her quietly in the kitchen to the hum of the microwave that heats up her oatmeal, still illuminated only by the stovetop light. She begins to quiet herself, but I am already exhausted. Tears sting my eyes.
I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I’m already not ready for tomorrow.
It’s 10:46 pm.
***
I clutch the edge of the kitchen sink, hunched and desperate to muffle my sobs. I am alone, accompanied only by the mountains of dishes, bottles and tube feeding instruments that rest in and out of the sink. My cheeks sting hot red and wet with tears. I can easily imagine the giant blotches on my face and chest despite the calm, shadowy kitchen illuminated only by the stovetop light.
I’ve been at it for weeks. Tube feeding her for weeks. Breastfeed, tube feed, pump, store, sterilize, use one hour to do All The Things, repeat. For weeks.
I cannot help but think that I’m watching her wither away before my very eyes. Everyday she eats less. Everyday she throws up more. Everyday we inch closer to a surgery that will either fix her or take her away…
I have been strong. I have overcome. I have not seen more than two hours of sleep in a row in months and yet, I plough on… But in this moment, my sorrow, my pain cannot be contained anymore. I plead. My desperation overflows and I feel the damn give way…
I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I’m already not ready for tomorrow.
***
The microwave beep… beep… beeps. Awakening me from my thoughts. Her oatmeal is ready and I savor every bite she takes while resting upon my lap from the comfort of our own couch. The glow of a hospital monitor nowhere near in sight. I have found great joy in watching her eat for months, I don’t expect this will easily diminish.
***
How many moments will I have in darkened kitchens with only the stove top light on?
How many times will I admit defeat in its presence only to carry on doing the thing I cannot do, with the very next breath?
How many times will I find truth in the dark despite others’ encouragement to look to the light?
The light was made out of the dark, it cannot precede it. The dark dances with the light, it cannot escape it. The dark, although difficult to see, is full of truth and hope. We just have to be willing to stick around long enough to find it.