Saturday, May 28, 2016

Good Friday, a.k.a When The World Goes Dark, a.k.a. Don't do Anything to Upset the Pregnant Lady...

This post is an oldie, that I wrote and clearly couldn't press the publish button on.  But fast forward to now, where the newborn is now almost two months old, and little windows have opened all around that door that slammed shut in our faces, that prompted this post.  Hopefully soon I will write about those windows, and the little slivers of light that are shining in.

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How do I even start this?  Perhaps in the middle.

Once upon a time in the middle of everything, there was a family.  Things seemed to be falling into place- the mom got a great job with good hours, the dad had a regular old job with additional opportunities that seemed to present great possibilities, and so they did what every normal person does and got pregnant and bought a house.

Fast forward to now, where I'm 38 weeks pregnant, two weeks shy of entering my maternity leave (OMG just get me off work already!).  Things seem to be going great for R- he's had multiple opportunities to work with a production company doing filming, and it seems like things are starting to fall into place.

And then R loses his day job.  The bread and butter, the steady half of our income.

We find out on Good Friday.  Ryan finds out first, of course, and then tries to pick a good time to tell me about this- before our doctor appointment?  After?  Maybe when we're cuddled up on the bed with our three year old?  Regardless of when he tells me, the bomb gets dropped.

I react without feeling.  I'm all logic.  What can we cut back on?  Should I cut maternity leave short?  Ask to go to 40 hours a week when I get back to work (Oh, God).  See if I can go back to night shift on my old unit?  What can we sell, and we should work on his resume, and babe, I'm so sorry...

Then I tell a friend what happened, and I lose it.

Maybe it's appropriate that terrible things happen on Good Friday.  Maybe it can bring me closer to the darkness that enveloped everything when Jesus died.   Because all I feel is hopeless and lost, but I still put on makeup and try to dress my engorged body with clothes that make me feel cute, and I go hear my father-in-law preach because maybe his words will convey some sort of hope I can grasp on to, that will help me stay afloat for a little while longer.

Hubby holds me as I cry, and cry, and cry again.  He's the one that took the blow but I'm the one who expresses the pain.  He knows how to hold the pain in, to exist in a world where he's hurting but can still be present in the moment.  I'm the one who's outside always has to match my inside.  Trying to separate the two means that the tears come that much easier.

So there's lots of things to figure out.