Sit-down dinners with my kids are nearly non-existent. Meals now consist of reheated whatever, fend-for-yourself type dishes and are eaten at very literally, the eleventh hour. If we're lucky, we manage to gather 'round the coffee table in the living room once a week. My oldest daughter is passing her math class, but I couldn't even tell you what her GPA currently is. I wasn't aware of Number Three's detention until he sprung it on us the morning of the day he was to take it, because the mail continues to perpetually pile up on top of the filing cabinet in our office. The bills get paid upon final, shut-off notice. I am impossible to reach. If your name doesn't end in M.D., Esq., or R.N., chances are, I haven't returned your message since this all began. A very good friend can attest to this, as I'm sure our relationship is now in need of some serious repair after I failed to catch an email she sent. It sat in my inbox for six months before I even noticed it was there. Even if I remembered, or had the time to call anyone back, talking on the phone for an hour only interferes with the specialists who are in touch on a regular basis. Our dentist contacted us, wondering where Number One's been. Number Two needs to see the optometrist. And I have yet to schedule or follow up with my six week, post partum check up. If it wasn't for the fact that my Prozac prescription is on automatic refill, along with the pharmacy calling to remind me to pick it up, I'd be in the midst of another meltdown right now.
Grocery shopping happens when the fridge is empty. I haven't stepped foot in a mall or non-essential store since before bed rest. The beds don't get made. My laundry pile would make you cry, and I couldn't even tell you where my iron is right now. The dishwasher is loaded and emptied when we realize that there are no clean glasses or forks. The vacuum isn't run until the living room carpet begs for mercy. The trash makes it to the curb, moments before the truck pulls away. Our female man took notice to our chaos months ago, and no longer rings the doorbell for anything that needs to be signed. Instead, she leaves a little reminder card in the box, that ends up in the stack of unopened letters in the office. We never got around to properly closing and covering the pool this season. There is a bedroom full of baby items that I have yet to sort thru. And a list even bigger of what we still need to pick up. I haven't attended a single shower, birthday party, or any other sort of social event since this all began. Speaking of showers? I have to schedule the time to take one. The last time I promised Number Five a bedtime story, I fell asleep on page two. Writing this blog might seem like a waste of time but honestly, it is the most convenient way to keep our family and friends updated. It's also the closest I can get to therapy at the moment. If it were up to me, I'd be posting twice a day. But even once a week is a goal that I strive to meet.
I'm not pointing this out to make anyone feel sorry for me. I'm not putting it out there to solicit help of any kind. It's just what life has been like around here for the past six months. This is what happens when your baby is hospitalized. This is what life is like inside of the NICU. True and unadulterated. When I describe our situation as if we were a snow globe, picked up and shaken, and awaiting the pieces to land where they may, this is what I'm talking about. By the wayside. The fallout.
Little Bird is doing quite well lately, better than I could ever ask for. But this does not mean that we are anywhere near the calm of this storm. I know I've said this before, but I'll say it one more time for the sake of redundancy. We are no where near out of the woods. So long as she requires the ventilator, at any setting, she will always be medically classified as critical. Even if she was at home, right now. And by all means, her homecoming doesn't mean instant organization. Actually, I expect everything to pile up even more for the first several weeks. Keep in mind, she isn't vocal. She can not verbally cry. Hence, the need for eyes to be on her at all times. Which is also part of the reason why she will require twenty four hour nursing care. Because just using the restroom or answering the door will depend upon back-up. Every single aspect of our lives has already been affected.
I'm not complaining. Even though I could. Even though I probably should. It just is what it is, which is functionally dysfunctional. For as much as I wish I could change it, I can't. I've accepted this fact. My family has accepted it, too. I hope that everyone else in our lives can, as well. Because this is our new normal. Maybe as close to it as we may ever get again. We are still very unfamiliar to this territory, and we need time to better adapt.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is that we're only human. We can only do so much. And every single thing we do (or don't do), no matter how minuscule (or magnificent) it may seem to anyone else, needs to be prioritized. So, if we choose not to attend any sort of gathering. If we don't call you back. If it takes us a week to reply. It's not because we don't want to be there. It's not because we don't want to see or speak to you. It's not because we don't value our relationship with you. It's because we are that inundated. We aren't ignoring anyone. We aren't upset with anyone. And we certainly don't mean to imply that you aren't on that list of urgency. Sooner or later, we'll find our routine. We'll get caught up on the housework, the bills, the appointments, the school work. We hope that you can understand what we continue to struggle with. We'll find our way, and when we do, we hope that you'll still be there.
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