Last night I went to sleep feeling very optimistic. Our appointment yesterday with the RE went very well, and he told us that my estrogen levels are rising, but remaining under control, and that my follicles are maturing nicely, many of them in the 11, 12, and 13 range (whatever that means.) He anticipates retrieval for the end of this week. After our appointment, I spent a peaceful day with hubs, and we even took in a movie (Bounty Hunter- don't bother). All of these things should have contributed to a restful sleep for me last night, but rest was not in the cards.
I found myself caught in a dream. A very vivid and cruel dream that, though I tried to break free of it, held its grip on me, making waking very difficult. You ever have those dreams, where you know you are sleeping, you know it is a dream, but still you stay stuck?
In my dream I was a nurse. After Peyton died I had felt this deep desire to go to nursing school and help other sick little babies. This lasted about five minutes until I realized that the prospect of seeing another child turn blue and die before me was one I couldn't live with.
I dreamt that it was my first day out of nursing school and I had been assigned to work on the floor of the hospital where Peyton spent her life. I walked from room to room, recognizing the familiar faces of the staff, and as I observed them caring for other patients, I grew more and more anxious. Things, blatant things that I had learned in nursing school about caring for patients, were being completely overlooked.
I became like a crazy person, flailing my arms wildly, and pointing out these missing and crucial steps in care to the doctors and nurses. I was saying things like, "You did this with Peyton too, I know you did. How could you have overlooked this with my child? She was just a little baby! Couldn't you see that? She wasn't a normal kid battling Leukemia. She needed special care!"
The staff just stared back at me blankly, or rolled their eyes, or waved me off with their hands in disgust. They told me I didn't know what I was talking about, and called my accusations "ludicrous." The more they dismissed me, the louder I got, desperate to be heard, and the louder I screamed, the less attention they paid to me.
When my energy was spent, and I could scream no more, I fell over against the wall and onto the floor exhausted. "Can't you see?" I was begging, grabbing at the staff's legs as they passed. "Can't you see that your neglect killed her?"
The staff ignored me, shuffling by as if I wasn't even there. It was clear that my words had fallen on deaf ears as they continued going about business as usual, ignoring me as I laid, manic, in a sobbing heap at their feet.
"You needed to do more..." I kept repeating, "I should have known that... I should have made you do a better job. She came here to get well. I should have made you do more."
Today marks 543 days since Peyton left this world. 543 days, and this dream has me wondering, if not at 543 days, then when?
When will the second guessing end?