After being so overtired last night that I felt evil, I slept for 11 hours.  However, in the midst of my much-needed slumber, I had nightmares.  The worst one, the one that woke me up in a sweat, reflects my daytime fears of having lost control to “pregnancy brain.”

Prior to having children, I satisfied my maternal instincts by collecting pets.  In 1993 and 1994, I adopted two cats, Oliver and Samantha, and in 1995 I adopted a third cat, Tim, plus a black Lab puppy named Joey.  In 2003, I was down to two cats, Samantha and Tim, so I took in my friend’s Siamese, Winston, who wasn’t adapting well to her newborn.  And, because I worked from a home office from 2000 on, I was with my pets almost 24/7, so I was very attached.

My worst nightmare last night was about Samantha, an amazing 5-pound runt who fetched like a dog.  I had to put her to sleep in 2005, shortly after we moved into our house, and I’ve never gotten over it. 

My nightmare started with my son and me going away for a week for my grandmother’s funeral.  (We did just attend her wake and funeral in New York, for two days, in November.)  In my dream, Samantha was alive and well, and I had to leave her in my car, the red Toyota Celica I had from 1990-1996, at the airport for the duration of the trip.  I put her in there with a litter box, ample food and water—enough to last the week.

However, when our flight landed late at night, it was impossible to retrieve the car (and Samantha), so I decided that I would get it (and her) from the airport parking lot in the morning.

About three weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night, realizing for the first time that I hadn’t seen Samantha around the house for a while. 

Then, in my “pregnancy brain” fog, I realized that I had completely blanked—about her at all, about her alone in my car, about her in my car for an entire month with only enough food and water for seven days.

I knew she was dead. 

I was horrified I had killed her with my hormone-fueled forgetfulness.

I rushed to the airport, afraid to look in the car.  My former fiancé, whom I was dating for the first three years I had Samantha, was somehow on the scene, and he was the one who investigated the situation because I couldn’t bring myself to.

Samantha wasn’t dead, but very weak.  I was relieved, but reeling from the damage I was capable of doing because my brain wasn’t functioning properly.

Dream over. 

I will ask my psychiatrist’s opinion of this nightmare during my appointment on Monday, but my conclusion is that it is related to fear that I may hurt my 4-year-old son—for whom I’m the primary caretaker, as I was with Samantha—because I can’t think straight. 

I hate that I’m not sharp anymore.  I hate that none of my strategies to combat “pregnancy brain” seem to be working.  I’m not comforted when my pregnancy books and my friends tell me that this is normal.

This is not normal for me.

I can’t control my high-risk pregnancy, so I desperately want to be able to control my “pregnancy brain.” 

I can’t, so I’m having nightmares…