For nine nights in a row now, I have either dreamed about Brock (living or dead) or dreamed about being pregnant again.
I am often able to discern truth from reality when I’m dreaming. If someone does something that is unorthodox or unusual in a dream, or something impossible happens, I can usually realize it and detach myself from the situation in my dream because I realize that it’s not actually happening.
Once in a while, though, I will be tricked by a dream. Such was the case four or five nights ago, where I tricked myself into believing I was really pregnant again. My emotions in regards to pregnancy are really fickle – sometimes it’s all I can think about, and I imagine how happy I will be when it happens again because I so crave that baby in my arms. Other times, I’m petrified of the thought, because I am so anxious about the idea of going through all that again… and, of course, I’m terrified by the (extremely slim) possibility of this happening again. In this dream, though, I remember being irrevocably happy, and feeling this weird sense of calm and tranquility. I remember feeling warm, and a sense of completeness, like I’d found purpose again. I was, somehow, perfectly sure that things were looking up, and everything was going to work out fine.
Then I woke up.
I have been pretty emotionally deadpan lately. Nothing gets to me, not even the things that I think should, and I don’t feel great about that. I think about where I am and what’s happened to me, and how things aren’t working out the way I planned they would, and instead of getting upset or angry, I feel apathetic, like, “Whatever, nothing I do now will change what’s happened, so why bother getting emotional about it?” I then realize that this sense of apathy should upset me, because it’s not healthy, and I still can’t get incensed. I feel beaten down, like I’ve accepted things. It’s terrible, and I resent myself for it.
Yesterday my very little brother-in-law (8 years old – my husband is 19 years his senior) looked at me and said, “Oh, Mom is reading a book where the same thing that happened to you happened to this other lady.” My mother-in-law looked wounded and explained to him that a miscarriage at 10 weeks is nothing like what happened to Brock. She told him that a lot of pregnancies end in a loss before 12 weeks, but what we went through almost never happens to anyone. Of course, I was not upset with him for misunderstanding the gravity of our loss, and the realization that I beat the odds in the worst possible way slapped me in the face briefly, but, once again, I brushed it under the rug in a hurry without even really thinking about it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I’m finding it hard to organize my thoughts right now, so let’s just leave it there.