I ran on the treadmill last night, watching the moon rise and listening to old Metallica. I was trying, as much as I possibly could, to not think, zone out. I’m not especially good at this not thinking business, but I was trying.
When I came home on Monday (with 2 more interviews to go) I had already given 14 interviews. In an hour and a half. I gave enough interviews that I forgot about some of them until Mr. Spit found them in google. I was exhausted: wrung out and smelly dishrag heaped in the bottom of your kitchen sink exhausted.
I knew it was going to be hard to do. I was smart enough that when one of the media got the not-very bright idea to scrum me, I said no. When I started to get anxious about the fact that they were taking Gabe’s scrap book out of my sight, I had the communications person from the U of A stay with it. Even with those limits, it was mentally exhausting.
All day I have been listless, out of sorts, precarious if you will. I couldn’t quite figure out why. It’s not so much that I wanted to have a nap as I wanted to pull the comforter over my head and make the whole damn world go away. I hadn’t realized that there’s an almost percussive effect to re-living those memories.
It’s not that I gave about 17 interviews, it’s that I re-lived my own 8 days of hell. 1 interview at a time, 17 times. Don’t misunderstand, the media were mostly kind. They were remarkably deferential, but 17 times I had to tell the story of my son and his death, and that wears. deeply. It’s been hurtful to see the comments on the pre-eclampsia face book page, from women who didn’t like how I phrased things. It’s galling that the Pre-eclampsia Foundation, who asked me to do this, was so un-supportive and couldn’t bestir themselves to say thank you for my work.
Which is finally my point. I was running on the treadmill last night, and I realized that all of those people who have told me that they couldn’t do what I did on Sunday and Monday, maybe they weren’t just being nice. Maybe I should stop assuming that anyone could do this. Maybe I should stop assuming that I ought to do very hard things because someone should do them.
Maybe I am a lot tougher than I give myself credit for.