Being home is lovely. We slept in, cuddled with Scarlett in bed, and tried to take a day to relax. Unfortunately, we had no groceries in the house, so this afternoon, we decided to venture out and pick out some food. Scarlett is safe to take out as long as we are very careful of her head and stitches; however, we agreed that we didn't want to bring on unwanted attention, so we just slipped a cute hat over her head.
As we were shopping, we joked how we would respond if someone asked, "How are you?". No unsuspecting stranger needs the drama of our recent story. But then, the grocery checker started inquiring about Scarlett. How old is the baby? What's her name? What day is her birthday? Does she sleep through the night? Is she eating well? All very normal, very common questions I have received since she was born, and that I have probably asked many mothers.
We started off well, just answering the basic questions in front of us. She's 3 months. Scarlett. October 16. Then, it started building in me, the anxiety of having to, needing, wanting to explain, out loud, to a stranger, what was actually going on.
Shehasabraintumorandwasinthehospitalandnowishavingchemoandwedon'tknowwhatwillhappen. Like letting the air out of a balloon.
I held it in. I didn't burden the woman with my woes. No one should have to hear it. Coo over her, tell us how beautiful she is, tickle her toes, but don't feel sorry for us. We're lucky we have her, and don't want people to feel worse for meeting her.
Until then, she'll wear a hat.