I didn’t think I had PTSD or any sort of strong emotional anxiety reaction when it came to the hospital. Which I suppose, given we have spent any time at all in the hospital for my son at age 3 1/2, I should think that I would. But I am always feeling so gosh darn thankful and lucky and blessed (because we are) at how LITTLE time we have spent in the hospital, given his heart condition especially.
And then I’m minding my own, binge-watching a Netflix show on a Saturday night, and there is a scene with a small baby in a hospital, and a mom – a fierce mama bear, like we hospital moms tend to be – refusing to get out of the hospital crib, hospital policy be damned.
And I’m crying. I mean, tears streaming down my face, crying.
And it spirals for me, tonight, because Kiran has already cried out for me once, and I have been in his room after bedtime. And I was already struggling with the fact that I always have to guess what might be wrong. I don’t know if his throat hurts or he has a tummy ache or if he just is bored or lonely or if he wants Cuddle Bear or just wants my company or he’s playing me for a fool and doesn’t want to be in bed.
I never know if I’m doing what he needs, what he wants, when he cries out for me. And he so rarely cries out for me anyway, which I think makes it even harder.
People have this thing they like to say to me: YOU are the perfect mom for Kiran. But how can they know? How can I know? I never know if I am what he needs, what he wants. I am always guessing, and the guessing grows heavy sometimes.