Chapter 13 - MY KNEE AND MY GUILT
My knee hurt for two weeks.
Small bruise.
Nothing compared with NICU.
That made me minimize it.
My therapist stopped me.
“Your baby being premature does not erase what happened to your body.”
I hated therapists almost as much as Dad hated lawyers.
I had dreams about the changing room.
Not every night.
Enough.
In the dreams, the door opened.
No one was outside.
Or worse, everybody was outside but the music was too loud and nobody looked.
My guilt took different shapes.
Maybe the fall broke my water.
Maybe it would have broken anyway.
Maybe contractions meant labor was starting before Dorothy touched me.
Maybe if I had stayed home Elena would have had six more weeks.
The obstetrician remained maddeningly consistent.
“We cannot determine causation.”
I wanted:
Yes, Dorothy caused it.
Or:
No, she did not.
Instead:
PPROM often has no single identifiable trigger.
I had trauma immediately before rupture.
That was documented.
It might have contributed.
It might have coincided.
Medicine refused to become revenge.
Good medicine.
Terrible comfort.
I eventually stopped asking.
May you like
Not because I stopped caring.
Because Elena needed a mother more than I needed a theory.
