Today I pick up the pen because there is nowhere else to go. In early February, I learned I was pregnant; in mid-February, started having horrible cramping (comparable to labor) and large amounts of blood loss; in late February, spent a long evening in the ER confirming I had miscarried; still felt tired and nauseated and fat and ... well, pregnant; went back to the dr. for confirmation that my HCG levels had gone down; in early march, they hadn't; we repeated the test; they went up; and then yesterday learned I had an ectopic pregnancy, would need to undergo a chemotherapy shot to "get rid of" the embryo still growing in me--albeit in a very wrong spot, and because of the drugs, I'd need to stop nursing for at least 2 weeks.
To say it's been a rough month or so is a wild understatement.
So we went back to the hospital last night, I got a needle to the ass, and I feel generally shitty today, and I feel drained because I'm trying to kill what I hoped would be my next child, but honestly it all pales next to the abrupt weaning.
Look, I know W is almost two, and I had stopped offering but almost never refused him. He's almost two and I don't think any of his friends nurse anymore and that makes me feel awkward and like I've done something wrong. He's almost two and I'm often impatient with nursing, but some rare afternoons the sun streams through the blinds just enough to paint him in golden light, and we lay there and lay there and breathe and doze and nurse and cuddle, and I have nowhere I would rather be. He's almost two, but it took us so long and much anxiety and pain to choreograph that nursing dance that I am loathe to be the one to end it. He's almost two, but I had intended to let W lead this dance, to taper and taper until he felt he didn't need it anymore. Or want it.
My heart is breaking. You can try to explain at 8pm to a 23-month-old that mama is sick, that her milk is bad, is poison, that mama has something growing in her that could really hurt her so she had to take medicine to get the bad thing out, that we can't nursy until the poison is gone because it could hurt him, and he may say he understands. But it's another thing when he's run into your room at 4 am and his whole face is crumpling because he's tired and needs comfort and needs to feel close to his mama.
I'm trying to pump in case we want to resume after two weeks, but the pump doesn't get a letdown like the mouth of your beloved baby, and I'm freaking out that my milk supply will dry up.
I'm writing this because I must; I'm sharing it because I crave comfort, because I want to believe everything is gonna be alright, because my therapist is in South Africa for a month.
I am in mourning. It feels like the end of an era.