Into my Fear
April 3, 2013 § 2 Comments
Two weeks ago Robin was in hospital again. He ate some grass off the floor at home and choked on it. He stopped breathing and we had to call an ambulance.
When we got to hospital I had to ask the nurses for some food or juice because I felt I was going to pass out after the huge, overpowering adrenaline rush I experienced at home, when I thought we were going to have to start CPR on our baby. The good news is that a couple of hours later he brought up the offending piece of grass then re-swallowed it like any other food, and that was that.
Back to the pond analogy: the hospital incident is the stone that plops into the still water; the ripples that keep surfacing over time represent the effect of it all on me.
I can’t help but wish I was stronger in some way, or less sensitive; or that events of the past year don’t have such power over me. Like dragon’s claws, snatching after me as I travel through life.
Two days before the choking incident Robin finally began to crawl, and my life became immeasurably easier since he no longer needed to be permanently attached to my body. Now…. how can I let him crawl around freely anymore? I’m back to square one with worry about him.
In my private moments, I feel terror. It doesn’t discriminate. It isn’t just about one thing. It’s everything…. which is what I cannot control in life.
At 7am on a Tuesday morning I lie in bed, terrified of getting up, of the thought that at 9.30am I need to be at Playgroup ready to greet all the arriving children. I could run Playgroup in my sleep. It is a sanctuary for me, always uplifting and filled with supportive mums. And yet I am overwhelmed because I am expected to be there.
Last year, after Robin’s illness, I dropped everything. No commitments except for the school run, for nearly six months. It was great. It helped. It worked. But I don’t think I can do that right now. And I don’t want to. I want to be stronger, more evolved or something.
Postscript: Robin will be seeing a speech therapist because it seems apparent that all is not right with his throat or gag reflex. What baby would eat grass?! I spend a few minutes a couple of times a day feeling my feelings and trying to let it all go into a balloon that floats off into the sky (it’s a Louise L. Hay technique).