Psychological fallout

I have a few additional remarks to make about yesterday's post.

It probably already occurred to you, dear reader, that when I was in the hospital I sublimated what could have been substantial fears about my health into the serious but much less dire concern over not being able to nurse Laurel. I didn't know I was doing it at the time, but looking back now, I am genuinely surprised that I didn't speculate about the nature of my illness prior to diagnosis. I didn't, for instance, wonder if I had kidney failure, or stomach cancer, or whatever. Despite having such a highly developed sense of anxiety, especially about unknown illness, I was nearly completely without fear. And even after I was diagnosed with appendicitis, I wasn't that scared about the surgery! I guess restricting my worries to milk was an excellent coping mechanism.

And how did everyone else cope? Or, to look at it another way, how didn't they cope? What was the psychological fallout of my illness?

Isaac began experimenting with lying. Is this related to my illness? Well, the timing seems right. He told his first lie to my brother and sister-in-law on the first day I was in the hospital, and he told another one that night when I came home. He didn't tell these lies to escape blame for something he had done wrong, or to illicitly gain something he wanted -- he did it just for fun. He calls it teasing, and perhaps it is.

Maybe I will recount the details of these lies in another post, if there is interest, but let me tell you that he is an excellent liar. He knows instinctively to start with a simple premise, then judiciously adds layers of believable detail only when pressed. And he never admits that he has been lying. He is a very smart kid. But what does his lying have to do with my being sick, or with my being in the hospital? Other than vague ideas of his trying to create reality and thereby control his environment, I am not sure.

More understandably, Laurel stopped sleeping. Is this related to my illness? Well, there have been eight nights since my surgery, and Laurel hasn't slept through a single one. Prior to that she was sleeping through the night about 90% of the time; since then not only has she awoken each night, but she has awoken spectacularly. For two or three hours each night she is unsettled, crying inconsolably when rocked, finally falling asleep briefly, waking each time she is set down, and driving us absolutely insane.

The night of my surgery was the only night I have ever spent apart from Laurel, and I imagine it must have been traumatic for her. She woke up around 11:00 p.m., and neither Craig nor I was there. My brother and sister-in-law struggled to comfort her for an hour, unsuccessfully, but luckily at that point Craig came back to the house to pick up some things, and he managed to get her back to sleep.

Do you think she remembers my absence? Is she waking up at night to check on me?

And when will it end?