You know what, people? I'm fucking pissed. I've made it to that point. Ok? Are you happy?
Today I felt for some reason that I should see Cyrus on the way home from work. He kept jerking and I was like, looking for a nurse. And I was like, "I think he's having seizures" And she was like, "no." Then she leaves and comes back with the resident and the attending. So, they give him more drugs.
Not just an hour ago they called us and said he'd been seizing since then and kinda hinted we should come in (read as, "your baby could die"). They still don't know the cause. His organs are still in good shape. So, once we got there, he seemed alright. But, oh , the drugs and the waiting. The fucking waiting.
I just told Mindy that I've imagined putting my fist through several things today. I've stared at several objects and envisioned a) if my fist could go all the way through b) what it would feel like when my knuckles hit said object c) if my fist would be able to be pulled out without being damaged further.
Here is a list of things I considered:
1. The dashboard of the car (instead, i squeezed the life out of the steering wheel)
2. The brick wall in my office
3. The woman who hovered over the toilet and obviously peed on the seat which would cause people to have to hover. (Quit fucking hovering you assholes--you're the source of the problem you seek to avoid.)
4. The dashboard again
5. My laptop screen
6. Every mother yelling at her kid (a lot walk by my house)
I didn't hit anything. Even at rugby practice, I didn't really hit people because they're my friends. And I like them.
I could cry, but it doesn't help; it only causes me to get a headache.
I did kick a rugby ball a few times, but the impact wasn't satisfying enough.
There are things I want to scream:
1. It's not fucking fair
2. Are you fucking kidding me?
Again, I know we got ourselves into this. But, you know, like, I've been a good person. I love people, I do, even though I sound sarcastic and I don't show it by hugging and kissing. I love my family and friends. I give homeless people money. I pick up litter. I yell at people who throw cigarette butts out of their cars. I give old people my seat. I open the door for just about everyone. I'm thankful for every fucking awesome thing that's ever happened to me. I've learned from every single fucking mistake I've made. I try to be open minded. I don't speed. I try not to take anything for granted.
So, is it too much to ask that we have a healthy baby? Just one? Can't the universe give us one of the millions?
Oh, I know. There are no answers. There's nothing you can say to make it better. And I don't want you to. Don't tell me that "God only gives us what we can handle." I don't believe in God. I haven't in a long time. And if that were true, then people wouldn't kill themselves. Obviously, things become too hard to handle. (no, i would never kill myself, if you're wondering. I'm terrified of death)
I don't know why I'm angry. I'm trying to reason why all of this so hard. If Cyrus died, it would suck. Mindy worked so hard while she was pregnant. I mean, he was made from love. I'm not sure how many people can say that. Mindy quit drinking coffee months in advance; she took Tylenol once or twice; we changed our cleaning products; Mindy made reusable baby wipes; we were gonna use cloth diapers.
I can't tell you why I wanted to be a parent. I keep asking why I did it to myself, and if it's been worth it.
It hasn't. I'm not sure what made me decide that being a mom would be alright. I guess I love Mindy so much, and we thought it might be nice to bring a kid into that--to show that kid how to love the way we do. Just one kid.
But so far, this is stupid. There's no logical reason for Mindy to have an incompetent cervix. But maybe trying to be logical is my problem.
I've said in one of the blogs about Cyrus' conception that I had to pretend that our situation was normal (you know, getting pregnant in some doctor's office)--that this is how everyone has done it.
I stick by that.
Before we started all of this I found pregnancy scary and gross. I was hoping that seeing it first hand would change those feelings. What a fucking joke.
It's worse. Everything is worse. I don't know how any of us turned out with all our limbs in the right spot and enough brain cells to reason.
I'm mad. Mad at nothing but myself. Seeing Cyrus in is little plastic cage makes me sad for Mindy. I mean, I don't like seeing him like that, but Mindy, my wife, my beautiful, much more significant half, worked hard and felt him in her womb.
The reason I cry and get angry is because Cyrus is love. He is the embodiment of our love and future and dreams. If he dies, then so does a part of us. So does our innocence, our naivete, our youth. The light in our eyes.