Spend a moment in my head

It's hard to explain the thoughts running through my head on most days.

A cacophony of noise, never slowing, never ceasing.  I'm extremely observant, often sensing things to come before they even happen.  Many times, I've known a friend was pregnant well before they've told me and only because something in my gut said so.

I've been accused, many times, of being "over anxious," of bringing bad things to reality simply because I "believed" something bad would happen.

What they don't realize is just how many times and in how many ways that little voice in my head has been right.

The year my grandmother died, I mentally began preparing myself for her loss.  My grandmother was exceptionally healthy.  She had never been sick.  She had far outlived my grandfather.  She traveled everywhere and was living the life as a retiree.  That year, I began to have a feeling she wouldn't be with me for long.

She died that December.

The "voice" was right.

I knew from the beginning that something wasn't "right" with my pregnancy with Elisa.  I didn't know what was wrong.  I didn't know why I felt that way.  I thought it was just anxiety because of the two I lost before her.

I had no previous experience to go on, but my mind was screaming at me the week before I left for Arizona that something was wrong.  Even when everyone kept telling me everything was ok.  To not worry.  It would be fine.

And then, there she was, 11 weeks early.

That "voice" was right.

I was strangely calm with Aidan.  I'm not going to say I wasn't scared, because I was.  Because I knew what could go wrong.  I was worried that it would happen again, because I KNEW it could happen again.  But that "voice" was strangely quiet.

That "voice" was right.  He was my only baby to avoid the NICU.

I knew the endometriosis was back and with a vengeance back in 2014.  Even though I was asymptomatic.  That voice, again, was screaming in my head.  But I had no proof.

It took 9 months and 3 doctors before I had proof.  And a resolution.

That "voice" was right.

I knew in those final days with Avery, again, that something was wrong.  I didn't feel your typical excitement at knowing you were going in to have your baby.  That you'd made it again.  I kept telling myself it was ok.  She was 37 weeks.  I'd made it.  I was relieved because I wouldn't be in physical agony anymore.  But I also was terrified, deep down in the recesses of my mind.  I knew something was wrong.  I cried when they were putting the epidural in.  I cried when they laid me back on the table.  I cried when they lifted those sheets.

But I closed my eyes and I took deep breaths to calm myself.  And I won.

But that "voice" was right.

So, what's my point in all of this?  I don't really know.  I know I'm PTSD triggering.  I know it's because Avery's birthday is approaching.  I know I'm physically sick with anxiety, but what do I have to be anxious about?  I know I want to go into a room and close the door and never leave until this is over.

But, until what is over?

So I also know I'll stop that door and prop it wide open.  I'll take deep breaths, I'll square my shoulders, I'll hold my head high and I'll move forward.

And please, if I ever tell you that I know something is wrong, but I can't tell you what it is, don't tell me I'm worrying about nothing.  That it's all in my head.  That my "negativity" will cause bad things to happen.

Because, so far, that "voice" has a perfect batting average.

It seems we've reached the end.

Of a year.  And of nursing.

And sometimes, I really can't believe I made it.

I look back on those first pictures of her.

I remember those cheeks and just how chubby they were.  I remember how I feared I wouldn't make it this time as well, as they fed her bottle after bottle in an attempt to get her critically low blood sugar up.  How I refused to pump since I wasn't going THERE.  This wasn't going to happen again.

But then it did.  And I struggled to catch up.  Worried my milk would never come in since I waited so long to start pumping.

And it did.  And she came home.  And lost weight.  And was labeled as "failure to thrive."

And yet, we fought.  Through nursing and pumping and supplements.  Long nights and even longer days.  Finding out she was both lip and tongue tied, causing her inability to gain weight.

Only to be told by one uncaring doctor that our "parts just didn't match."  And that I should just give up and give her bottles.

But I didn't.

And she thrived.

And even though we are still a few weeks away from officially being a year, I know our journey is done as she gains more independence from me.  And let's not mention the biting...

But we finally did it.  Even when everything was so stacked against us.  The NICU.  The ties.  The weight gain.  The pain.

And while I didn't "fail" with my others, giving up so early as at the end of the day, they were fed.  And thrived.  And were happy.  But I so wanted to get there just once.  And I did.

And now it's on to even more journey's together.

This isn't the end, but the start of something new.  The best is yet to come.