I worked a bunch this week--long day of call Monday and long clinic day Tuesday. Very sweet to see all the new mamas and partners--experiencing the sound of their baby's heartbeat for the first time, seeing a post-birth mom who I had followed from the beginning of her pregnancy--she had a very good birth, meeting with a new client who just moved to Stillwater and made a heartfelt connection with her, receiving a thank you token bracelet from another post-birth client--a silver bracelet that had the encouraging words "live. life. love." stamped into it (a quote from Tim on my care site post from last week)--so thoughtful. I truly love the work I am fortunate to do--honored and humbled and inspired every day. I plan to work part time through October as I'm able. November and December I will be on leave, although I may help with a birth or two if I feel well. Surgery is tentatively scheduled for mid-January, but the timeline may shift according to my treatment plan--I have a rough outline which is flexible.
The steroids kick in hard and I have insomnia. 2:30am is the usual wake up time. Last week, during one of my crazy insomniac episodes, I woke Tim and we had a lovely middle of the night connection of discussion, heart to heart talk, guitar, songs, poetry, laughter and tears. Tim had been my rock through all of this. So right there with me. Very empathetic. Lovely husband, especially when it comes to times like these. Now he will be embarrassed and stoic. He is a gift to me. Here is a poem that was unearthed in the wee hours; Galway Kinnell is one of my favorite poets--I had the pleasure to meet him and heard him read his poems at The Great Mother Conference in Maine a couple years ago. I am the insomniac and Tim the dark haired partner--snorish sounds, hooking my ankle, extra left arm and all...
by Galway Kinnell
I open my eyes to see how the night
is progressing. The clock glows green,
the light of the last-quarter moon
shines up off the snow into our bedroom.
Her portion of our oceanic duvet
lies completely flat. The words
of the shepherd in Tristan, "Waste
and empty, the sea," come back to me.
Where can she be? Then in the furrow
where the duvet overlaps her pillow,
a small hank of brown hair
shows itself, her marker that she's here,
asleep, somewhere down in the dark
underneath. Now she rotates
herself a quarter turn, from strewn
all unfolded on her back to bunched
in a Z on her side, with her back to me.
I squirm nearer, careful not to break
into the immensity of her sleep,
and lie there absorbing the astounding
quantity of heat a slender body
ovens up around itself.
Her slow, purring, sometimes snorish,
perfectly intelligible sleeping sounds
abruptly stop. A leg darts back
and hooks my ankle with its foot
and draws me closer. Immediately
her sleeping sounds resume, telling me:
"Come, press against me, yes, like that,
put your right elbow on my hipbone, perfect,
and your right hand at my breasts, yes, that's it,
now your left arm, which has become extra,
stow it somewhere out of the way, good.
Entangled with each other so, unsleeping one,
together we will outsleep the night."