It's Never Too Early To Worry

It's 4:30 in the morning, and I've been up since 3. Apparently, my middle-of-the-night waking did not spontaneously disappear at the exact same time that I started taking a higher, stupidity-inducing dose of gnurontin. Apparently, if I run out of gnurontin and then don't make it over to the pharmacy to pick up the refill my psychiatrist called in for me and so only get to take half my daily dose of the stuff...apparently, under those circumstances, I go right back to waking up at 3.

Of course, I'm being helped in no small part in this Return of The Insomnia by the fact that in about 45 minutes, we need to leave to take N to the hospital for his combined tuck-in-that-epigastric-hernia/return-that-testicle-to-its-rightful-place surgery. It's outpatient, it's going to be fine. But with such an early appointment, I figured that if I didn't wake up in the middle of the night to start worrying about all the possible-though-remote complications, I wouldn't have nearly enough time to do it later. I'm nothing if not committed to my anxiety disorder.

N knows what's going on today...I think. If asked, he will tell you he's getting the bump on his belly fixed, and also his testicle. But in typical quirky N fashion, I'm not sure he really GETS any of it. Which is fine by me, actually. Especially since his sister more than makes up for his lack of drama about the whole thing. (She's sleeping at a friend's right now, since we'll be gone long before school begins this morning; when she was packing for the night, she asked Noah for one of his stuffed animals to take with her to her friend's and then to school, so that "when you're having surgery, if I miss you I can take it out and hug it." Could you not just simultaneously die from the sweetness and roll your eyes at the over-the-topness?)

Actually, if I didn't know better, I'd think that N set me up for this insomnia. Last night, as I was making dinner, N wndered into the kitchen to watch me. I looked over and flashed him a big smile. He smiled back and said, "Why you smiling at me, Mommy? You happy I still be alive?"

Now, this is something he says a lot, ever since the bunnies died. He's been processing their deaths--and processing it and processing it and processing it--by regularly pretending to be dead himself, and I've explained to him how much I hate that game, because even if it's pretend, it reminds me of how very sad I'd be if it were for real. And so he often checks with me to be sure I'm still pleased that he's drawing breath. Still, to have him state it so baldly to me, just as I was sort of subliminally processing this whole "my baby is going under anesthesia and someone is going to make a series of cuts on his body" thing...it was just the teensiest bit unnerving. And so now I sit here, writing in the dark (and yes, I'm here to bear witness to the fact that it is indeed darkest before the dawn), worrying about the day to come, not to mention all the days that will follow it. Because it really is never too early to worry.