Coming Home

After five weeks in the hospital, coming home was a delightful but strange experience. While being in the hospital was hard in more ways than I could have imagined, coming home also presented challenges that I did not expect.

In the hospital, I had endless hours to read, write, journal, do yoga, watch mindless television -- all of those things that a full-time parent/full-time student never has time to do. On the flip side, I had horrible hospital food, a perpetual IV tether, limited mobility, and the nonstop invasion of doctors, nurses, cleaning staff, physiotherapists and social workers into my room.

But at home, the day starts with shrieking. Not angry shrieking, just the results of my 11-month-old delightfully experimenting with her vocal range, and my preschooler egging her on. Peaceful meditation is out. As soon as I come downstairs, they are all over me. I can barely get breakfast without one kid hanging onto my ankles and the other one shoving a book into my face, demanding that I read. I get the impression that they might have missed me, just a little bit.

And then there is the inevitable chaos of home. Dishes, laundry, toys, and seemingly endless clutter… things that are all much easier to ignore while in the hospital. Now nothing is how I left it and all I want to do was tidy and redecorate, but having no blood cells puts a damper on those sorts of tasks.

So for the first week, I accepted the mess. I embraced the noise. I did nothing but sit with the kids and let them climb on me. My daughter followed me everywhere saying: “Mama! Mama!” and refused to let me put her down. My son wanted to show me all of his toys again, as though I must have forgotten all about the cool Duplo and spy Playmobil while I was gone.

Then I started realizing that I hadn’t written in my journal in days. Yoga had gone by the wayside, writing this blog was not happening. Surely there must be a way to balance the monotonous silence of the hospital with the insanity of two very loud (and messy) young children at home.

And then I found the solution. A locked door, a loud fan, earplugs and (if needed) some Gravol. I guarantee that will put you into a kid-free, blissful haze like nothing else. Now this should go without saying, but if your kids are really young and you don’t have someone else watching them, this may not be the best course of action for you. Or maybe it is. I shall not judge.

I felt guilty about this at first, after being away from my children for so long, but there is no healing without rest. If I don’t learn that now, I never will. I love my family more than anything, but being climbed on all day long when your body is just barely recovering is not the way to get better. (Crawling up the stairs with low blood pressure and two kids pulling at your feet is also just begging for a catastrophic accident.) So at some point every day, I lock the door and sleep and read. Maybe soon I’ll start to write more. For now this will have to do.