Hitting Misery's Bottom

I have not as of yet come close to death. But I did have a similar experience. How so you may ask? How can any other experience be close to death? Well, let me explain...
A short bit of history first. By the time I met and married my one and only, we were both on the old side. Late 30s, though not being horribly old, is a little daunting when about to start a family for the first time. And, of course, having kids, planned for and trying not withstanding, happens when it happens. So it took a few years. I was 39 when we had Leel. Unfortunately I lost my job and my freedom when he was born. I started hemorrhaging early and was hospitalized for a month. In the middle of that month Leel was brought out a few months early. He was fine and has grown into a fine boy. I never once doubted I would recover as strong as ever and I did. You can't go through something like that without some lasting effects, but I, for the most part, ignored them and willingly shut myself and my son away for a few months until he was old enough to finally be introduced to the world.
So on to the second child. After two years I figured it was a no go. I had had three miscarriages before Leel, but nothing after him. My monthly cycle was all over the place and I just figured my body was done with making babies. Well, turned out life wasn't done with me quite yet. Now I was worried I would run into the same problems with this pregnancy that I had run into with Leel. Thankfully, the doctor I had was lovely and went above and beyond reassuring me this pregnancy would be absolutely normal. And it was. We did run all the blood tests and gene tests for downs and such anyway. I mean I was 42. But all seemed copacetic. Unfortunately we moved at the end of my sixth month and I lost that great doctor. Getting one to replace her turned out to be near impossible.
Even in a MUCH bigger city, no doctor would touch me with a ten foot pole. I was too old, too fat, too poor, too high risk, too too. And I was fully insured, but still no love from those who need to make a profit. Clinics won't touch anyone with insurance and medicaid didn't help either. I was getting to my wit's end let me tell you! Finally, at the end of my eighth month I found a doctor, a student doctor at a medical school, to deliver the babe. The stress by then was so bad I was starting to get delusional. I was getting PPD. Just when I thought I wouldn't be able to keep myself from taking a knife to my own belly, a date was set to have Runa taken out. Relief! Everything went pretty well. The epi was too low so the pain was a bit intense, but I can take pain. We are old friends. Runa was out and I was home and all was good with the world...
I thought. Then I noticed something weird with my incision... To make a long story somewhat shorter (in my dreams!), my incision fell open and I was immediately hospitalized again. I tried to stay above it. Not think about it. Pretend everything would be normal and that I could handle anything. There was no pain after all, just a gaping wound. No worries... The first problem was my newborn was not allowed in the hospital with me. The newborn was not a patient and there are liability issues if something happens to the child or I can't take care of her and so on. Thankfully, after a tearful night without her, the nurses let me know they would turn a blind eye to her being there. So, that was the first time I was hospitalized.
The second time is where the life changing experience happened. The vacuum used to keep my wound shut tore my skin and I got infection in the tears and blisters that eventually went into the wound itself. I was in such pain and wracked with fever as I laid in the emergency waiting room... waiting. After an hour or so I sent my husband, Leel and Runa home. After they left I wallowed in my pain and fever, and started to evaluate my current condition.
My husband was an over the road trucker. He was home six days a month. My recovery was going to take months. We had borrowed as much money as we could from everyone we knew to keep things together up to that point. I could no longer take care of my children by myself.
I could not take care of my own children.
I had failed. Somehow. Someway. I suddenly saw myself as separate from my family. I was without them and they were without me. I could not cook. I could not clean. I could barely get around. I could not drive. I could not lift my daughter (doctor's orders). What was going to happen to us? Being older parents ourselves means our parents are long retired and in no condition to take care of children (those who are alive anyway). Our siblings lived far away and had families of their own. I felt adrift. And my family felt adrift and out of reach. I felt that my role as a mother and care giver was done and, without that, what was there? My family, my children, needed me, but I could no longer care for them. I was a burden to them now. They would be better off if I were gone.
I had a breakdown of sorts. I hit a bottom of misery so to speak. When they finally got me on a gurney and started getting IVs in me and antibiotics, they gave me some pain killer through the IV that seemed to take me down, down, down to a dark, warm place devoid of worry (now I see what people see in pain killers...). My last thought was, "Yes. It is true. I cannot take care of my children. Face it and continue on." And we did. Runa is two and, except for a wicked scar as a reminder, I am, we are, whole.
PS: If you are the kind to like photos of this kind of stuff, I do have them. They aren't for the fragile of stomach (pun intended). I was going to include a photo with this post, but it only lets me put it at the top. I don't want to gross people out before they even know what the post is about.