Last night made my list of top ten worst moments of my life.
So there I was. Sitting on my kitchen floor. Can of ginger ale in my hand. Bendy straw in my can of ginger ale. Looking out across the tile–taking a deep breath before I twisted around and onto my knees, dry heaving into my kitchen sink.
This continued for several hours. Upstairs. Downstairs. Six tablets of dissolvable nausea medication later, still going. Room spinning. Stomach cramping.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that in those several hours, when I felt like there had never been a worse moment or a physically weaker feeling–I thought about all the things I have ahead of me. The wedding. Having kids. Moving away. Going on trips and planes and trains and boats and whatever–and I thought: I could never handle any of those things if I was going to feel this sick through them.
My brain just went straight into panic mode and I spent the night frozen in an (extremely painful) ball, terrified. Maybe that was really the worst feeling.
There aren’t many times that I allow myself to feel hopeless. But last night was one of them. I sucked it up this morning after three failed attempts to get my IV in and didn’t think twice about saying we were okay to try and try again.
I’m trying to remind myself that there was a time when I must have felt that sick when I still lived with my parents down the hall from me–and I had their immediate support to be with me in these moments. And even if I just moved out and down the street, I was still able to move out. I can have these terrible moments on my own dirty kitchen floor, in my own house.
So maybe one day I can have them and handle them with my kids sleeping down the hall. Maybe I can have them one day in a hotel room in the Bahamas.
I know that’s a pretty crappy way to think about the future, but whatever this is the situation. I feel like someone punched me in the stomach and I had a panic attack about being punched in the stomach while having a baby on my hip or possibly a fish taco in my stomach on a Caribbean island.
At this point all I know is that I can’t dwell on these episodes. I can’t go into shutdown mode because I’m scared or think I won’t have the strength–even the physical strength to handle the next blow. It’s okay to meltdown every once in a while. It’s okay to be scared, as long as you don’t let it change who you are
It’s not always pretty and it certainly wasn’t my best moment–but I took my fifteen minutes, I had a good cry about it, I didn’t brush my hair for a day, I had too many carbs–and now we’re moving on.
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