I used to giggle to myself when I would ask a mom or dad how old their child was and they would reply something like “twenty-two” months, instead of almost two years. I don’t have a biological child, so I could get down with this… who the hell am I to judge, right?… until I had a baby of my own… my “big surgery”, my TPIAT. Fourteen months ago today, I was wheeled into the OR at 7am and was finished at around 8pm. I went to PACU then ICU. I would never think to say it was one year and 2 months ago… shit no, it was FOURTEEN months ago.
When something to fragile, and precious and intimate happens… it is sometimes counted in seconds… hours… days… you can’t round up pain, freedom, love.
Today I napped on and off for almost five hours. In between napping, I spent the day puking. I am having a pretty bad flare of gastroparesis. Nothing is staying in or down. Alejandro was doing his homework and I would slip into the bathroom and put the water on like I was washing my hands, and puke my guts up as quietly as possible… and I am seriously very good at it. After the fourth or fifth time he said, “you know Tara, I know you are throwing up so you probably shouldn’t waste the water” BAM. The kid strikes again.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living a lie… painting unicorns and rainbows—posting what I want you to see instead of what is…
So fourteen months ago today I had a TPIAT… I am not sure there were any other options… I traded one serious illness for a few more… I can’t say I would do it again… the degree of suffering is hard… but I can’t say I wouldn’t…I have beautiful days and met beautiful people….