NIPS and CHEEZ ITS and OJ oh my.

Have you ever craved something so much,
that to not get it makes you literally insane?
I am right there, right now,
in this very stupid fucking moment.
I want orange juice.
A big, ice cold, pulp free glass of minute maid.
I want to guzzle it non stop like a shot, a whole 8oz glass of it.
If my head were not hurting so,
I would most definitely haul my pathetic ass up out of this bed and drive to foodlion pronto.
Unfortunately, my head hurts so much to drive at night whilst in the throws of full on craving could end with me in a wreck,
and a wreck over oj = no good.
If not for the pain, I would be guzzling right now.
Lately, I feel as though I am either channeling my Papa's spirit or,
I am possessed by it - either way - he is in me full force.
It started about a month ago when I was walking through CVS and grabbed the goddamn NIPS from the candy aisle - again they were on sale and clearly I have not learned any lessons (if you read my blog you know that the "nips" cost me $5,000 in dental work)
I have eaten about twenty five boxes of chocolate parfait nips in the last month.
No lie, my jeans are tight.
At least a five pound gain from the NIPS.
He ate them allllll the time.
had a box of them next to his chair in the den,
my Grandparents NEVER ran out of NIPS.
If you do not know what a NIPS is, don't ever ever ever eat one - if you do - don't say I never warned you.
Consider yourself warned.
NIPS are a hard caramel candy that get kinda gooey when you get it in your mouth - sort of the same idea as a tootsie pop and we all know how that goes.
The melty hard candy turns to pure sugary bliss, in this case coffee flavored,
your mouth waters with more spit and becomes washed in deliciousness,
you suck harder and begin to consider gnawing on it - chewing becomes inevitable.
NIPS have chocolate silky goodness inside - better than a tootsie roll on any day.
You suck and chew and the caramel gets stuck to your teeth and you rue the day CVS put them on sale and then you immediately start unwrapping another one.
It goes on and on like this until someone loses a filling or your jeans won't goddamn button - in my case because I am a glutton for my own punishment, BOTH.
Ugh.
I blame it on Papa, he is clearly with me and it's all his fault.
Now you doubt me and feel like I cannot own my own problems and think 'poor Papa' she is selling him out -
Okay I feel you BUT....
He is in me and I know it, not only because of the NIPS but also,
yep there is more,
the ever lovin' CHEEZ IT's...
What in the hell is she talking about you wonder?
When Papa was not eating NIPS, he was eating CHEEZ IT's - no lie, I kid you not.
Three things always in the house - NIPS, CHEEZ IT's and take a guess, go on I dare you - MINUTE MAID ORANGE JUICE.
In addition to the NIPS, I CANNOT stop eating CHEEZ IT's, like I said in a previous blog - right now, the snack machine and the dollar bag of 3oz. CHEEZ IT's is the very best thing about college this semester.
I cannot stop - and here is the thing,
I don't really love them.
I mean yeah they are good, but not high on my snack food list until about a month ago.
And now today with the orange juice.
I tell you, I am possessed.
And I wonder what my Papa wants with me.
Is he hungry - or, is he trying to tell me something else and if that is the case,
what the hell is it?
Along with the food, I have a re-occurring dream of a highway that leads from the US into Canada, but when it does,
Canada becomes all wonky like Willy Wonka Johnny Depp version.
Everything about Canada is neon and exaggerated and just plain weird.
I have been to Canada - nothing weird about it - so.....I wonder why the wonky Canada and why do I call my Papa from a payphone and say "I did it again - missed the turn and I am in Canada"
He comes to retrieve me every time.
The dream is always the same.
Always the same - been having it all month.
My Papa died a year and a half ago - so what is going on?
I don't know what I believe - we all know that.
I waiver between believing in an afterlife and believing in other things, maybe even nothing at all.
So what is with the NIPS, the CHEEZ IT obsession, the new Orange juice craving, the dream?
I don't know what I think, but I do think,
it must mean something.
Whatever it means, I hope it becomes clear to me sooner rather than later.
If it doesn't I may go into diabetic shock from all the carbs and sugar.
This possession is making me hungry and thirsty for all the things he loved most.
I miss him.
maybe I just miss him?
I know I miss him - I think of him everyday - at least once a day I stop what I am doing, close my eyes and picture his face, try to hear his voice in my ears
"I love you kid"
I love you too Papa - so much.
And, I miss you.
Miss you a lot.
Maybe my Nan is getting ready to go?
Maybe he is hanging out with me to get me ready?
Maybe he is fattening me up to get me through a lean time?
Maybe the Lost in Canada thing is about being lost period.
God knows I feel that lately too -
Maybe it is all the math I can't do?
Humph wish I knew.
All I do know for sure is tomorrow morning, first thing, I have a date with the convenient store on the way to work -
I am going to get me some OJ and guzzle.
And with that I should go sleep and maybe dream of wonky Canada again - it will be good to hear his voice on the other end of the phone.
"I'm on my way Kid"
Thanks Papa and don't forget the NIPS and CHHEZ IT's.

Robin, Vegas and a chair.

The strings they twang,
they sing lust.
The high hat rattles,
it sings sexy.
The voice it coons higher than high should go,
it sings desperation.
The base it thumps,
it sings touch.
The sounds culminate,
they sing the song.
My body it moves,
it dances the lust.
My body responds,
it dances sexy.
My body is sound,
it dances out ecstasy.
The base drum thump,
my head goes back deep,
hair tickles my shoulders,
Oh no,
watch out now.
I go higher and get as high as you.
Oh no,
watch out now.
You may not be able to handle this.
It gets bigger,
the swell of the sounds,
the swell of the hips.
Oh no,
breathe it in,
can you take it?
Head drops and rolls.
Arms up and over,
Oh no - and I mean that,
oh no - watch out now.
"and I say you oooh oooh oooh oooh"
from behind,
dip and roll,
shoulders pinch,
blades come together hard,
"you're my only love"
ooooh baby - you're my baby
oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh.
I could have made fistfuls of cash in Vegas.

Don't drink the poison.

Here I am again, like what twenty minutes later?
I am giving my poet a chance to do her thing, taking turns with the blogger.
I have skipped school again today, feel my education taking a back burner to my real life -
I feel frustrated with myself and yet, see myself very much like my son Kevin.
I just got a call from his high school English teacher "Kevin is missing way too many days"
Sigh,
my son and I are the same personality type in many many many ways - not all mind you - but many.
What we have in common is the artist angst - the creative fire.
He is a musician, I am a writer.
Who has time for high school English when there are rifts to write that may change the world?
I get it as I sit here blogging when I should be in class....
I have an excuse that is valid though - my head STILL feels like it may explode.
This is day seven of the worst, continual headache I have ever had.
Maybe it is a sinus infection - my eyes are swollen and the passage ways that circle around my face do look very much like a puffy road map - my skin is gray and raised all around my nose, eyes and forehead.
I am suffering from a culmination of distraction factors.
I feel like shit and I simultaneously feel like the real world exists here in my quiet home in front of my laptop, rather than outside my front door.
It is a seasonal thing for me too.
I am pissed off that summer has ended and I am mentally full of fear for the winter months.
I don't think that any one factory is capable of making enough prozac to get me through the dark, cold of Winter.
I hermit inside, hibernate emotionally, but still have to get up and go to work, exist in a climate that is unhealthy for a sun-goddess.
Sigh.
There is a lot going on in this head of mine of late - a lot going on in the outside world I really don't want to be a part of.
The sun is out today and that is good, although I didn't rouse from sleep until two hours ago and the day is half over if not more - at least when it comes to time to really accomplish anything.
My bed is made - I count that as an achievement, "look kids Mommy made her bed!"
They so won't be impressed....
A lot of my life, I spend wondering - am I normal?
Well wait - I don't strive to the "norm" - what I mean is,
do other people feel this angst and not talk about it openly like me - or am I just a very specific, select, unique brand of nut job?
Mary says it is my artistry - all artists have this angst - this turbulence within - this discontent - this fire thing that burns in my core.
I mean, I agree with that whole heartedly, when in doubt - I go to Dave.
Confirmed - feel less alone - move on.
But, is it just that I am an artist? A writer, a poet, a dancer?
Is it just that I am made that way and that is what makes me so deep and full of angst?
Or is it human nature that we all experience and some (like me) are more capable or needy of sharing it openly?
Because I am surely not the only one that relates to Dave when he is bereaved or contimplative - I am not the only one that reads Emily Dickinson and goes 'Whao - Em's I feel you girlfriend.'
Right?
But then - I take into account people I know (unnamed to spare them embarrassment) who sing the words to songs and have no idea - have not spent a moments time - putting those words into context - deriving the meaning, but still listen and love it just the same...
See, in my mind - those are the whacka dooodles and I am completely sane, completely complete and intact.
I had this long and drawn out convo with Mary about this topic the other day - we stretched it out, flipped it around, turned it inside and out trying to come to a resolute answer that we were comfortable with.
Thing is - I get the "she's crazy" A LOT.
I have mixed emotions on that label.
Part of me is like "well that is cause you don't get it and sorry for you that you don't - your flat line is while you have a pulse - yuck"
and then part of me is like
"Oh really and what the fuck makes you sane - your inability to 'go there'?"
Part of me feels sorry for the label slappers and part of me wants to debate them openly - have a forum to really explain myself and microscope their judgment.
Am I crazy for saying that there is not a factory around that can produce enough prozac to get me through the winter months happily - is that crazy or just humorously bruttaly honest?
My wide open nature gets two reactions with very little middle ground.
Either "You are fantastic" Or "wow you are nuts"
I like the fantastic idea a whole lot more than the nuts idea - I'd say all in all it works out about even.
The "fantastics" are usually people I want to hang with immediately
The "nuts" are usually people that, internally when I am around them - I feel a little uncomfortable.
Are we really that divided as humans?
I have a really hard time believeing that we are.
History shows me that we are always in search of answers.
It also shows me however, that the people who seek them out openly are often condemned (even put to death) for their evil, question asking ways.
Take Socrates for example...
He is my homeboy - I am just like him.
I ask a question and then do the verbal - okay - let's strip this sucker bare - truth by untruth by truth by untruth.
Let's cross shit off that doesn't apply and get down to the core.
I also admit, like homie - I don't know shit.
I am here to learn about it not claim I KNOW anything.
He was executed - executed for corrupting the youth and going against the gods.
I think I could be accused of similar violations - even today in the year 2011.
Before I went to college and studied the works of Plato and Socrates, I felt more alone than I now do.
I feel like philospohers are often condemned in their time and then raised to brilliant status long after their lives have ended.
I wonder is that why I feel such a need to write all this shit down?
Do I feel that one day, looking back, people will say "man that Deb, she was some kind of brilliant philospher?" instead of "man that Deb she's an odd bird" ????
I crack myself up.
Does any of it really matter to anyone really?
Do people just slap labels on others to divert attention from their own?
I don't know - I KNOW a whole lot of nothing - I just like to ask and think it all out.
And most obvioulsy, write it all out.
Mary said she "wishes it didn't bother me so" - the whole "she's crazy" thing -
she wishes that I would just remember that those who accuse me of that are the same people who don't ask themselves what Dave's "would you not like to be - okay okay okay?" really means, they just sing the words loud with their car windows down unafftected by the gloom and doom that is pervasively attacking the human spirit daily, unmoved to change anything and everything.
I know nothing - I have no answers.
I am not even sure what I have said here - as usual....
And with that...I really should go eat more advil sinus and attempt to do something that seems normal - what the hell that is IDK.
What is that lyric?
"and maybe I'm a little crazy, but laughing out loud makes the pain pass by" ???
I love you Dave and Mary and all of you who don't think I am a loose cannon of crazy.
And if you do - well, I love you too and I am sorry for you that I make no sense.
The socratic method isn't for everyone - clearly or he wouldn't have drank that poison.
Oh my Deb-or-ah, oh my.
Peace.

yesterday

I spoke of you yesterday,
to a stranger.
We mused about growing old,
that one day an old crock pot burned brown on it's edges would be the most important treasure one would rescue from the rubble of memories imploding.
I thought of you then,
in so many stages of my life.
Forty one years of change.
I thought of you bare and asking with desperation "please, could you close the bathroom door"
me watching on,
as no one listened to the crazy old woman who knows not of what she speaks,
your dignity stolen from you right before your pleading eyes.
I thought of your hand and it's softness, how I skipped to keep up with you as you walked on so swiftly,
you the original "go green" - you always brought your own bag up-town for errands to the long since gone "five and dime."
I thought of your kitchen and your cast iron pans,
the printed aprons of occasion,
the wire whisk you would hand me,
you taught me how to make the meanest gravy around.
In the memories, time had ticked on - winds of change had blown through.
What was, became a new, and a new and a new,
and an old.
An old you and a much older me.
The stranger she indulged me,
she listened as I went back,
how the plastic baggie of plastic bunny heads had induced the freak out that I had staved off in the chapel as I begged God to take you,
like you begged the girl,
"please shut the bathroom door"
"Please God, end her suffering"
Our dignity entwined you and me.
The strangers eyes moistened,
she had not intended to cry today.
And yet,
here we were bawling.
It comes down to the soup tureen and the baking dish turned brown from all the years of bubbled over cheese.
My two tangible pieces of us that prove we once existed.
I will say
"See those brown marks burned on the crock Emma?"
And she will indulge me like the stranger,
"yes Mumma"
"Well those are the marks from the cheese, from all the years when Nana made me my favorite dish, her famous Mac and cheese"
And Emma will watch my eyes fill up,
thinking that her Mother is so sensitive,
and I will rub my hand that misses yours along the markings,
and remember when I turned ten,
when it was bitterly cold outside,
the year the USA defeated Russia in Olympic hockey
the times when mac and cheese seemed the only plausible choice.
I said to the stranger, "worst part of getting old, losing the constants"
She smiled from behind a veil of her own loss and grief,
"you are a wise young woman," she said.
I touched her then,
she put out her hand for mine.
I held it in brief
and imagined selfishly,
that it was yours.

The prompt asks for a title and I laugh - as if anything could put a name on me or this mood. Proceed with caution ye faint of heart or laden with morality.

I am in a bad place.
Skipped school today to sleep instead. My fucking head has hurt for days.
Thing is this - I am sick to death of all the darkness.
Sick of the literal gray that surrounds us, the rain that won't let up.
I feel connected to the weather as of late, like it and I,
we are the same.
Metaphors are my strong suit and the sun, well it peeks through the clouds much like my emotional reprieves from the black.
I am faced with all my demons - I hate them all and love them too.
I struggle within myself to find what is "right",
all I knew has changed or at least I think it has.
I am no longer sure I believe in anything "correct"
I may be becoming selfish somehow.
I won't get what I want, I never do and yet....
I want it goddamn it,
even though it is wrong on so many levels and right, on far more.
I speak in tongues today - I have been like this for a week.
The poet in me is alive and hungry.
And I don't give a flying fuck about anything else.
I am drowning in clean laundry that begs for a proper home. The dishes in the sink sit now in cold murky slime.
I sit here in my nightgown, hair up in a clip, I can smell my own discontent.
I don't care.
I know I need to refocus -
Stop eating poison.
get on a schedule.
Find sleep.
Be organized and methodical.
Get my ass in the school game again and get my shit together.
My seams are all burst apart and I find no happiness in anything that I do -
OTHER that THIS.
I just want to be left alone.
I want the world and all it's needs to go need someone else for a change.
I want to seclude myself in a remote cabin somewhere at the end of the friggen world and be with myself and my words.
I want to be forgotten for real because I feel like I am everyday, so - okay then...
let me be.
I am angry.
Angry for being walked on and treated like shit for those I contort into positions for that literally hurt me - like literally
stretch me to places that are painful to get to.
Over and over and over.
Suck the life force straight from me, swish it around in their mouths and then spit it in my face.
I want to write.
I want to write it all and then...
I want it published - bound in seams that cannot be broken.
Printed on paper that is owned and cannot be bought away.
I want it to be the manual -
how not to fuck up your daughter.
how not to destroy your wife.
how not to abuse your mother.
How not to be quiet in a world that begs us to only talk pretty to your face and talk shit behind your back.
So much.
I listened last night, listened to Dave.
On my porch in the humid dank darkness.
His piano how the keys hit so hard and fluid.
Out of my hands for now.
"I feel like I'm crazy" - I became those keys.
And I feel that way.
Crazy and like music.
Like rage and like beauty.
Like secret sex put off for years because of its wrongness, tension built like a wire turned and turned and turned.
I want to snap so bad.
I am famous for saying all the things that people think in the silence of their "too good" minds -
I never behave because I am real and ugly is as real as beauty.
And to me, more beautiful somehow.
It is in the honesty I think.
Honesty is brutal, brutality of that form is most human - therefore most attractive.
No conforming to "shoulds"
I digress - lose all of you I am sure of it.
I am outwardly ranting the fluidity of the thoughts that swirl about the cyclone of my mind.
My poet is alive and well.
Ahhh how I love her.
She is so strong that I wonder why she doesn't fight for more air time.
She is sooooooo good at what she does and yet, she sits in the background like soft music in a chaotic house.
maybe it isn't a novel I should work on, maybe it is a piece like Toomer's CANE.
A little bit of this and a little bit of that.
I have been writing erotica lately - don't get all holier than thou on me now - the world is overpopulated for a reason.
My erotica is good stuff - classy and raw - like me..
hahaha, you doubters and haters shake your heads if you must - I am so used to it you have no real effect.
Ask my Mother.
It is sexy and smouldery and makes me realize that I am untapped natural resource.
A weapon of Mass DESTRUCTION.
And I am laughing for all of you who read and think "she needs to be institutionalized"
You nay sayers would like it the best - cause it would speak to your dusty dungeon or high pedestaled fortresses.
Take your pick - either way, I know you would like it.
It's not smut - it's beautiful sexuality.
It is my poet and my blogger come together in collaboration.
It is visceral and sensory - like me.
It is my fantasies I guess - the heroine is written for me.
She's a bad ass and playful - she's a poet and a dancer and golden and smart. She teases gently and playfully, she is wicked and uninhibited, she is soft and yet longs for someone strong enough to give her callouses.
She is a great girl that erotica me -
I thought about posting one or two short snippets - but what would you all do or think (after your cold shower)
can you all handle that????
If you can let me know and I'll put her up here - DEB DOES LIFE EROTICA.
I am thinking that this may be the way to make money that will afford me the opportunity to write novel after novel
Novels for the sicko's in secret and outed.
There is real money in it - ask Anne Rice.

Where have I gone?
Where are all the intended productive moments of this day, taken to re-group?
I have no ducks liked up, pretty orange bills in horizontal linear perfection -
everything is still a mess and my poet is giggly.
Ahhh me, why such complexities???
Why oh why was I made this way?
Surely there is a good reason.
Surely there is a good reason.
Oh wait, I said that....
Blogger and poet - on the same page.
Ah Deb you're a head case and you amuse me so when you open the latches and allow the contents to spill out everywhere, just because you can.
You go girl.
There is a cabin in a dark wood somewhere and it calls to me.
For the first time in a month I miss my cell phone.

untitled

I stood looking at my portrait,
startled by all the things he caught in the caricature of me.
I was,
truly, larger than life.
The swell of my breasts,
the curve of my hips, the haphazard of my hair.
The beauty in absolute repose.
My spirit unhinged from the force of chains.
A shackled beast making love to the air.
I knew then, people watched me discovering myself,
through the eyes of one who was my very breath.
He came to me then,
the boy who had been with him at the end.
Touched so gently,
so longingly,
with great need of a place to bury his pain,
my arm - his fingers grazed the goose-pimpled skin at keen attention of truths,
He looped his soft, strong hand around the crook of my elbow.
He said his name,
now I forget,
his eyes I will never,
how they seared through me,
down into my soul and found a haven there.
He told me what it was,
how it had been,
I was the one who would need the words - he knew.
And in the confession, the telling of that fateful tale,
he would release himself from alone-ness, shackle up with my brazen beast.
His words came broken on staggered breath,
the syllables fighting to connect
"He (break) (broken breath sound) was (exhale of agonizing air) calm"
he said -
"until the very end"
"breathe" I said with my eyes,
"hold me" I said, tremored hands clasping both of his.
My back to what was,
She/I loomed in the foreground,
8 feet of nakedness,
the tuft of hair in between my legs growing out of my shoulder.
I felt her there,
her red hair held up behind her head in come hither,
her hip cocked in a pose of wanting.
we shook, we three in unison,
I could feel her desperation weighing on my shoulders,
covered now in a pretty dress,
those wanton hips squared and fixed high,
on dainty feet in dainty heels.
The tale continued.
Such darkness and murk,
like cold mud diluted.
Communication came in garbled words that sucked in sludge,
people threw flashlights,
he sprung up from springs of need,
dove back down his hockey player thighs being tested by endless volumes of melted ice.
He did this a thousand times it seemed.
I believed him.
His handsome eyes drowned in guilt,
salt caked in the corners like a Boston street after too much snow, too much weather, too many crews trying to pave a reasonable way to work.
His eyes and mine.
"I should have been with him", I said -
"it should have been me"
Final moments together in the small pocket of air we should have gasped in together.
"You were with him" the kind consolation prize, the parting losers gift.
He looked, beyond me then
to the naked red head on the wall.
"That's you?" a question needing no answers.
We turned and held hands,
faces dripped off like a bad acid trip,
skeletal remains of people who were.
"Yes" I said.
"In the flesh"
In silence we married our pain on an alter of what was.
"You're beautiful" he said hesitantly - I was nude and raw and sexual.
"He thought so" I said - seeing the super hero gather her feminine awe, her raw power culminating in an arc, pulling back a tight bow ready to release a well aimed arrow.
"he is right" he said then, pinking the flesh which hung weary from his cheek.
I think I laughed then, knowing in the recesses of my mind I would never make love again,
"if you say so"
No space between his and mine, "I know so"
He told me that day, that boy of eighteen,
that my love had been calm and then screamed.
Panicked finally when his lungs burst for all the murk.
That he had hit the glass, kicked through the water to a steel frame unmoving,
a sinking treasure - mass and volume and math I can't do.
Then in the end all was quiet - like the womb.
He gave up the fight while they treaded around him, water angels, mermen with no fins.
The beams from the flashlights surrounded him like stars in a seamless night,
he sank lower,
became limp,
all that hair up around his open desperate eyes.
All these years later I wonder,
do you give up with resolve?
Or do you go quiet in a rage that needs no sound and motion?
Does your soul speak a language that transcends human words?
Does your body become pointless as you meet the answered end?
I arc, my neck back,
my dyed blond hair a mass of curls.
I position my hips in desire,
place my feet firm,
I let the chains rattle with movement,
my song...

Bartender one more drink...better make it strong cause I don't need to think.

When I was a teenager my Mother decided that it would be a good idea for me to attend Alanon.
Is that even how you spell it?
Apparently the biological Father that I never knew was an alcoholic, and back in the 80's when I was coming of age, the concept of genetic pre-disposition for addiction was exploding all around me.
At the time I thought this was the most ridiculous idea that I had ever heard of - "Wait, what??? You want me to weekly meetings to listen to children and family members of alcoholics, go on and on about their experiences EVEN though I have never met my Father the drunk and you don't drink?????"
WHAT?
Of course what I didn't realize then, and....what my Mother did not take the time to calmly explain, is that not only is the genetic pre-disposition valid, but that she was an adult child/survivor of a alcoholic herself and was terrified that "the drink" would ruin us all.
My Grandmother had a major drinking problem when my Mother was growing up and from what I can piece together it was ugly and my Mom took the brunt of the pain/responsibility/clean-up/parenting - that my Grandmother left behind after she was long since passed out.
Hard for me to imagine my Nana that way (she got sober in my lifetime) BUT, I CAN imagine it when I allow myself to set aside all the wonderful things that she was for me.
I think part of the reason my own Mother hates me so much is because I got in my sober Nana, all the things she didn't - but I jump light years ahead...
Back in the day of my restless and rebellious youth, my Mother was the last person I felt any camaraderie with - but, I went to the damn meetings because she forced me to....
What I remember most, was all the crying.
That, and the shame that every child, adult or teenager at the time, SELF INFLICTED.
Every child there was fractured, ripped right in two because of their parents drinking.
There were common denominators to every equation of who is to blame, why is it this way, what did I do to deserve this for my childhood and how do I get my parent to stop abandoning me for the bottle?
Those common factors were these.
My dad would kiss me goodnight and his breath was stale beer.
My Mother left me alone to go out to the bar.
I feel like I am walking on eggshells because I never know if she is the happy drunk or the violent, raging drunk.
He said he 'could' stop - but he doesn't stop.
My parents scream all the time.
My Mother finally left.
I love him, but I hate that he chooses it over me.
He hit my mother.
It's always the same.
She abandoned me.
I cleaned up the puke but couldn't carry him to bed.
On and on and on....
I sat and listened, week after week to broken human beings recount the stories of their secret hell that they managed, while also trying to do their homework, trying to be strong for Mom (or DAD) and trying to develop some sense of self esteem.
I must admit it made me violently ill...
And knowing that it is the existence of millions of lives today, right now, it hurts me to my core.
Back in the day - sitting there in Alanon - I realized how many people I myself knew that were living this.
My boyfriends Dad was a drunk and every one of his siblings and himself and his Mother were mortally heart wounded because of it.
The healthy them died before they even had a chance to live.
I was amazed at how many familiar faces I could inject to the stories I heard from strangers.
It had a huge impact on me.
I decided then, that I would NEVER become an alcoholic.
And don't get me wrong I am Irish and I like tequila a lot - and I have the genetic pre-disposition and let's be honest, a fairly addictive personality...
I easily could have become my Grandmother (before the sobriety finally took hold.)
I drink, sure. Once in a while. And, if I am "partying" - there is always a cut off point - when I begin to lose my sense of control and moral compass.
I am a pretty harsh judge of drinkers.
I will admit it - I see no excuse for it - period.
You want to use alcohol to dull your pain rather than learn appropriate "coping skills" - in my mind you get a big red X on your character - if you have kids - that X, X's out your parenting completely.
Don't fool yourself to into thinking that the sober you in "functioning" hours makes up for the drunk you - it doesn't.
Harsh you say?
Yeah no, maybe you drink???
Unfortunately for me, I made the fatal mistake of marrying not one, but two men who I also consider alcoholics.
Neither one of them would EVER agree because neither one of them are "twelve pack or fifth of Jack a nighters."
They were (are) the social drinkers gone bad - the ones who end up sleeping with strangers on drunken business trips or spends their kids crib money on a binge at a bar or drinks themselves into stupidity because they socially feel awkward or gets behind the wheel of a car slurring their words and walking the curvy line.
When you use substances to dull or negate or make something difficult seem easier - you have a problem.
I hate it all....
Today I am feeling angry at both my husbands, my Grandmother, My Father and all the drunks I know that have ruined lives, rather than get themselves the HELP they need.
Yeah it is a disease - one I fight every day.
Childhood leukemia is a disease too - one without a choice......
The thing is for a drunk - there is ALWAYS A CHOICE INVOLVED AND ANOTHER WAY.
You ruin your kids life and then throw back the bud light to dull that reality for YOURSELF - than in my mind you are scum.
If you take offense to that - go to a mirror.
If it applies, get the newspaper find your local AA meeting and stop fucking up everyone's life.

Holding tight to the legs of all my Angels, Goodbye my love.

This one isn't for you - it is for me....
I am bare, literally - the wounds of verbal abrasion have removed all traces of skin.
What is left of me is my prevailing spirit and my writers mind.
I thought earlier tonight - I totally get why the brain makes alternate personalities - why some people split into multiples....
It is because eventually there is no unscathed place left for that personality to retreat - every bit of their existence is marred and scarred with pain.
I am on the verge of losing part of me, she is going instead to that hallowed ground within my soul.
I am okay with losing her - I hope she will be okay without me.
She is Dan's wife.
God help her, she has suffered.
I have suffered.
I am bare, literally - I am wet with tears that won't stop and sweat that bleeds from every pore - it smells of shock, regret and disrespect.
It smells of sadness - like the underside of a lonely rock left in shade of a massive drooping tree of a un-walked, quiet forest - it is dense with dampness of alone.
My spirit sags with my body parts that I have folded up around me, I need to sleep, but the bed screams their names to me and his snoring smells of beer, not conducive to rest, not an unmarked territory left to fetal position in.
Again, the brain is so kind to spare some minds the reality of 'honey you've had enough'....
I wonder if I will remember her when she is good and gone?
Will she talk to me from the recesses or will she be bound and gagged like always?
She is a strong girl that one, tough as nails to have been able to live this long pretending to have human dignity while all the while in the safety of her home a trapped animal spitting and hissing in the corner, cowering while she prepares for the next kick to her rib cage.
She did as good as she could - pretty well for the elements and the lack of dermis.
And she hears Dr.King in her head tonight, that Mother cub with the chest wound, she hears his voice echo loud in the space clearing up for the new person -
"I have a dream" and they recite Langston Hughes aloud, taking turns line by line.
Her exit speech - her baton to be passed to the leg man - "What happens to a dream deferred?"
Sag a heavy load or does it explode?
And she laughs rhetorically at the hand off - the crazy laugh that always comes at the end of a good crying jag - she laughs maniacally as she slaps the torch hard and burning in my palm - and she winks
No more dreams left under mossy rocks - "you got it Phoenix?"
Yes I got it - you did all the hard work and now I run for the win - I got it.
No more unturned stones for us.
I want her to be okay.
I want more than anything for her to find relief.
Poor thing has been so abused, her abuse negated with ignorance and denial.
Corners get hard to stretch out in and spitting is tiring especially when it fails to keep the blows from landing their target.
She did good.
And I feel her pulling apart from me, I feel her taking leave, I feel her fleeing, I feel her finding the darkness where his voice won't ever hurt her again.
She pauses, looking over it all, the colors, the textures, the layers upon layers of her endurance - she is standing at the canvas with her mouth agape.
She touches it one last time and I feel it on my skin.
Her touch is wet and smells of salt, sweat so pervasive it envelops us both.
I will take it from here, no more pain for you now.
Let it all just fade away - step off the curb, dive off the cliff, step into the rain.
I will take it from here and you go now, the soul space is waiting.
Godspeed Mrs.Poulin, Godspeed.

short but sweet

Good Morning blog readers...
Well wow, things in my life are a changin'.... It is all a little scary and yet, I am calm - cool and mostly collected - although, this morning as I attempted to leave my house and get my ass to my eight o'clock math class, I felt anything but collected.
Scattered, splattered like a crime scene better describes my frazzled state today.
But....slowly things are coming together nicely, pieces fitting into their respective places as I gently gather and wedge myself into wholeness.
Sigh and a deep breath.
I am getting really good at saying "I can only do what I can do" AND actually accepting that this mantra is an okay one to chant loudly in times of thin stretching.
I am only human, not really wonder woman...
But oh, what I give for her cuff bracelets and lasso....
Especially that lasso.
Humph.
At any rate - here I am in the computer lab at school, getting ready to head to English. Hoping that today I give a shit about Harriet Jacobs - I always have in the past but, as I explained in a a recent blog, as of late, school feels largely like a distraction from my own projects - my own work - my three books that I have no time to write.
I am almost finished with one that is very near and dear to my heart.
A children's story - and I can say no more - except that I am so thrilled with what I have done and extremely proud of the story, the writing, the sentiment and the dedication.
I am hoping for really big results on this one.
I am debating whether or not to skip my classes and just knock it out - I need to get it sent to the illustrators, because although I am quite artistic myself - this portion of my project I want to source out to friends whose flavor seems right.
You want to know more now, don't you?
Can't tell you - it's a surprise....
And shit - time is up for us. Maybe more later, but maybe I will finish the book you want to know more about instead.
Oh...and everyone failed the math test, hahahaha. Good to not feel so alone in HELL.
Peace out peeps - blessings galore.

The wheel keeps on turnin' - just not in my sky....

Have you ever looked at someone and wondered what the hell you were ever thinking to have given them the time of day - a second of that time, a minute, an hour, a decade?
That is where I am....On looking, and going WTF?
It is true that the me of then was such a fucking mess and messes were all I knew and I was therefore attracted to messes for the sake of familiarity - but honestly, I don't like messes at all anymore - not even Emma's piles of my clothes, high heels and feather boas which I find endearing in some way - but still, yup, nope, don't want it.
Back in the day I was used to being told I was a piece of shit by the central person in my world - I guess like I have already said, safety comes in what you know.
In the last few years, I have really out grown the need to be comfortably numb and familiarly miserable.
I have grown into a person that one, thinks I am awesome and two, if for whatever reason I doubt that or find I come up short somehow, I write my way through it, instead of seeking out a host of ways to retreat to the good old self hater who is okay with being abused.
I don't like mean people.
I don't like fake people.
I don't enjoy those who berate and be-little others.
I have found that although I do not like people who exhibit these behaviors - I DO feel pity for them.
Like extreme extreme extreme pity - especially those who have been running in the gerbil wheel exhausting themselves to get absolutely nowhere different, nowhere new.
I pity that. Don't you?
Anyone that insults, degrades, disrespects, and bullies, ONLY does those things to feel elevated above their victim.
That means in reality - they really feel lower than low.
This is the only reason that mean people are mean.
Self misery, self loathing, lack of self confidence and no change of scenery.
I pity that place in the world more than most others.
I was never mean to others before I got healthy emotionally - I was only mean to myself and boy, that is bad enough.
When you have to defecate verbally on your family members because you know they have no respect for your behavior or you, RATHER then fixing your issues - well then - Man.... you are really in a rough rough place in your life.
It's sad, it really is.
Good thing for me, is that I have also moved past the phase of the sympathy vote.
I feel bad yes, but want absolutely NOTHING to do with that kind of mess.
And with that I am smiling.
Because although some of you will think this is just me running my mouth,
there are a select few of you that no longer have to suffer the pain of loving me while I don't love myself.
We are finally.....on the same page.
Good to be on a page instead of in the wheel......

Whisper words of wisdom, let me be....

Very rarely do I sit down at the computer to write a blog and find myself without words. It is even more rare that when I do find words and type them, that I then find them unsatisfactory and delete my first sentence like ten different times - hating each opening line more than the previous.
See, I hate that line. I want to delete it, but that would just be stupid at this point - I am tired of wasting time I don't have today - tonight - whatever it is now....
I am not exactly in a bad mood. I am most definitely not in a good mood. Nothing in particular is "wrong" - I just don't feel right today - I don't feel like I belong inside my own self - the skin I'm in feels foreign.
This happens to me about once a month and is surely related to being a woman.
I don't have PMS anymore - I get the "ovulatory rage" - except lately it isn't exactly rage, it is more like right now - disconnected....
I think I want to cry right now, but am fully aware that I have no reason to be crying about anything.
I want to crawl into a hole - but, I couldn't tell you what I would be hiding from if I did.
I am in a mood that has had me in it's death grip all day and yet, is still, completely undefined.
Like I said - not bad, definitely not good.
I am tired.
I am a little overwhelmed.
I did walk out of my math exam today in tears.
I have had a lot on my mind - maybe today I have just slowed down enough from the frantic pace of "productive Deb" to self evaluate, minus the old self deprecate.
For example, I did acknowledge earlier this morning, that - get ready...I am not enjoying school much this semester.
I really don't even care about it and this is just plain weird and disappointing.
I read Homer and I don't give a rats ass or feel even slightly connected to Odysseus.
I sit in English and I don't care about the literature - I would rather be working on my own. Like I literally sit in class and write my own shit and have half an ear on my Professor's voice.
Would rather discuss my manuscript with him - don't care too much about Phyllis Wheatley.
(Did I even spell her name right??? I don't think so - sigh.)
And....worst of all worst - I am addicted to cheez- it's and regard the snack machine as the very best thing about college right now.
Oh my....
And I don't feel the need to react to those statements any further - I simply cannot type efficiently with my hand in a cheez-it bag....
I do wish I had a heaping plate of fettuccine alfredo in front of me though, and a dark red and a triple decker chocolate cake and a cappuccino.
It's just me though, my red bag of gluten laden carbs and my vitamin water and my post ovulatory rage downgraded to 'not bad but not good either'....
And I literally, just poured the crumbs into my mouth right here in front of everyone at the computer lab.
Yup I am in rare, rare shape.
Not bad, but not good either.
Just am - that's me today -
In spite of, or in light of (take your pick) my apathy, I would say I am hangin' in okay though.
No rage and no tears - no self deprecation - no woe is me - no cigarettes - no screaming - no 7 course meal of pure gluttony.
with the exception of the cheez its, I am handling my emotional flat line quite well -
I am outside myself writing about it and don't really care what this says and yet, for the sake of being truthfully me (even when it's funky) I just write on and share.
I just thought of something good to say -
I wish that what I now know, who I now am, had come earlier in life so that I would have more time to enjoy being me, even on days like today when I don't feel so usual, or, the slightest bit unusual or, much of anything.
The younger me (even like the 6 months ago me) would have turned this feeling inside out seeking a fix - the wiser more comfortable with me, me - is just like, who gives a shit?
It's not bad, not good, but it is SOMETHING...
And for that, I appreciatively, respectfully and apathetically, just let me be me.


And yes, I do want more cheez-its.

Who are you - who who who who - I really wanna know...

Good Monday Morning blog readers,
You know what is so cool? I just turned on the purple box (my laptop) logged in to eblogger to discover that someone from Nairobi read my blog 'ghosts of Rwanda' - I don't know about you - but, I think that is fairly awesome. My words in Africa...
Love it sooooo much.
And because I have limited time this morning to write and therefore cannot delve too deep into any subject (boo!) - I guess, just who in the heck is reading my blog anyways (?) is an okay quickie to discuss before I have to get in the shower and get ready for work..
So who is reading my blog?
To be honest - I don't really know.
Well, that's not completely factual - some of you I do know because you tell me, you respond, like for instance my fan club president Annie or my blog junkie Jenny - you share your love of my blogs, you gush at me - in Jenny's case, she demands more and but quick already! (thanks btw)
And some of you....reveal that you read them when I run into you at the grocery store or poolside at a swim meet - Stacy :)
And then of course there is Mary, she reads them all, my sister in-law Pam, she partakes regularly and well, Irene - she always reads them too....
As for the rest of the 6,000 hits I see in the corner of my stat page - I just don't know who you are.
And truth is, I would like to know.
Not who you are necessarily - like in your personal info, SS# - blood type - eye color - BUT rather who you are in relation to me -
And boy am I sucking at communicating this morning - WOW
What I mean - (if I can articulate because it seems today I am having major difficulty forming lucid thoughts...)
is that I wonder if my audience is like me???
Are you women? Are you Men? How old are you? And WHY do you read me?
Maybe I am relate-able?
Maybe I am hilarious?
Maybe it is my honesty?
Maybe you are just bored???
And if you find me randomly and you are one of the 6,000 hits that don't know me personally - how did you find me?
I added the little "feejit" application to my page - it allows me to see in "real time" where the hits are coming from - that is how I know about Nairobi -
It's pretty cool to see, although for a personality type like mine - it is also a bit of a tease.
I can see that I am quite popular in Indiana for instance, but who are those people?
I don't know, but heyyyy Indiana :)
At any rate - anonymity is good I guess - that is one of the things that I debated about before I began to run my mouth here...
Do I want to just put myself out there - I really am (and I know you are disbelieving as you read this) a private kind of person.
Well sort of - I just keep to myself a lot and don't socialize nearly enough (damn kids)
It is not unusual to see me with my headphones on in my own world with my music instead of chatting it up with the other Mom's at the bus stop.
I am kinda private.
So.....I get your anonymity, you silent observers who I do not know.
I totally get it.
But thanks for reading just the same -
But always feel free to say hello and introduce yourself to me too.
Respond - tell me I am wrong - tell me I am right - give me your feedback if you want.
Writers always need feedback.
And so with that, I guess I will go do the real life thing - work and responsibilities. Yuck.
I would much rather sit here and write to you, but alas my carriage just turned in to a pumpkin - back to the Cinderella grind.
I wish you all a blessed day.

Part 5 - Ten years ago, ten years ago today and for always....

I waited on an angel.....
I waited on something, anything at all to give, something, anything to grant a reprieve from all the fear and now, thanks to my husband, all the undue pain.
My angel finally showed up on a blazing summer day in July.
I cannot describe my state of being up until that wonderful day as anything other than the living dead and that isn't even remotely close to accurate.
From the outside - I was calm - corpse like calm, zombie like I guess.
But I wasn't quiet inside....
What was going on inside of me was a calculated effort to micro-manage my emotions while secretly acknowledging them.
What the hell does that mean?
Well, the team of doctor's involved with our case assured me that the baby could feel my stress, could feel my emotions and most likely was in some pain from the compression on his brain (imagine a constant migraine)
This reality put an immense amount of pressure on me to stave off emotional freak outs and keep his environment as calm and consistent as I could.
Hard to do when you are literally screaming in your head, shaking inside with fear and want to throw shit at your husbands face.
I was inside myself for those months following the diagnosis more than I have ever been - I learned to bottle it all up and then slowly release the cap so that the pressure was a slow leak rather than an explosion.
I went to the hospital almost weekly - My visits became methodical, routine.
Park the car, greet the person at the desk and smile, go into the chapel and write in the offering book 'please make him well', say a prayer, gather my strength and go to the next test.
The worst of all of these tests came right before my Angel - she came in the nick of time I think, looking back I was just beginning to unravel - this cat scan had me rattled.
I was put horizontal in a tube which then traveled into this giant circular structure which would take clearer pictures of the baby's brain. The doctor communicated with me throughout the whole test, I could hear his voice from the other room while he looked at the slides. He kept telling me to be perfectly still.
Problem with being still was that he had informed me prior to getting in, that because of the compression in his head, because of the very real possibility of constant head pain for him, the very loud noises the machine made would probably affect the baby and cause him to react quite physically.
I remember vividly standing in the changing room undressing. I remember placing my bra with enormous cups on top of the heap of clothes which it completely covered and thinking 'God my boobs are huge' - I had no idea in that room how tough the next hour would be for me.
Sigh. The baby reacted poorly. With every click that startled me, he jumped inside my body - he jumped, he kicked, he tensed, he rolled himself into a protective fetal ball.
This wasn't the usual kicks and punches. This was, painful for me and emotional.
Every fiber of my being, every instinct said RUB HIM. TALK TO HIM, soothe him with your touch, your voice.
Problem was - can't move at all, or speak at all.
Perfectly still is the only way to get clear pictures and considering NONE of the scans showed the defect, this was our best shot.
And so....He writhed inside me and I lay still, silent and helpless to comfort my hurting baby while tears slid from my eyes in a steady stream and pooled a puddle of salt water around my head.
I will never forget that day or the feeling of complete and utter helplessness to protect and soothe my child.
I was a fucking wreck after the fact.
And....After all was said and done, NO CHANGE in the ventricle and NO EXPLANATION still.
Pictures showed nothing conclusive.
The doctors consulted and we briefly spoke of exploratory brain surgery - open my uterus, drill though his skull and try to find the problem and maybe fix it?
Um yeah no.
And so I worsened inside myself, feeling more hopeless and more alone, more angry at Dan who I could no longer reach out for in the middle of the night to hold me, because his arms betrayed me in my hour of need.
Yeah, I was a mess and beginning to doubt that I was going to come out of this whole experience a whole human being.
Mary was my lifeline - I can remember calling her sometimes and beginning the conversation with slow and steady weeping instead of words.
She was the only one who understood my state of being, the only one who knew just how badly I was doing personally and all she could do was hang on the phone and coerce me into going on...
And then came the angel.
Like I said, a hot summer day - Dan and the kids had convinced me to go to the downtown mall and get an ice cream at chaps.
Fine whatever.
As we sat down outside I noticed a girl in a wheelchair at the next table over. She was facing me and hard to ignore, she was all twisted physically, her body parts contorted in all the wrong directions.
I watched her, transfixed, staring, and I prayed in my head 'Oh dear God, please not that'
The prayer startled me - that train of thought was so unlike me.
I don't do that, I don't think that, I see everyone the same - What the hell???
I felt awful, immediately wanted to take the prayer back - but I couldn't and I couldn't stop staring - I rudely watched her and her father, watched their every move intently.
She couldn't speak, she grunted. She couldn't move except for an occasional flail of a hand. Her chair was a contraption, monitors and lights, a breathing machine of some kind with tubes.
It was horrific and yet, as I watched and as I tried to eat my shameful prayer, I began to see something I had never ever seen before in all my life.
And I see things, trust me I see things that others don't - BUT this....
This I had NEVER seen.
And I am weeping fyi.
I watched her father communicate with her, he asked her things and she somehow answered. He understood. She understood. I watched and I knew nothing that they were saying to each other - couldn't have wagered a reasonable guess with a gun to my head - how they communicated was discernible to me and yet, I could see it.
Brian said "Mom stop staring" - his voice sounded a thousand miles away, maybe even in a different place.
I stared on as everything around me began to break up into atoms again - grainy little dots that made a tunnel. The sky, the sun, my kids, the bank next to me, the lattice of the flower box, the purple pansies - they all culminated in grainy dots, braking apart their form and becoming a tunnel of energy that led me to the girl in the chair and her dad.
And when it all went away and just the three of us (four, the baby) were left, I could see their love.
And this, this I know, I will NEVER find words for - I could see it more clearly than anything I had even seen in my life. It was a color maybe, a visible energy maybe, it was coming from her to him and back from him to her and it surrounded then like a glow.
I saw it I swear.
And what it said to me is this....
This is love.
And this love is beyond what you have yet to know, because your love, has been simple and easy love.
That doesn't mean it isn't real love, or good love or valid love - it just means that when love is challenged and it prevails - it is stronger and does not conform....
And what I thought instantly was - I can do this....
If he is born and he is dying in my arms - it SHOULD be my arms and I WILL soothe him and give him strong wings.
If he is born and needs to be hooked up to a machine to live, well I will KNOW what is best and I will DO what is best because I am his MOTHER.
If he is impaired and low functioning, I will RISE to the occasion and pull him up with me.
If he can't communicate with me in my language I will LEARN his.
I am his Mother for a reason.
I CAN do this, I am the only ONE who can.
And furthermore...when I do, do this - I get that non-conforming, beautiful light, prevailing love all for myself....
Yes I can do that.
And I swear, my life was divinely intervened upon - God sent me an angel to deliver the message I so longed to hear.
I still see that girl on the mall from time to time - I cry every time I am fortunate enough to walk by that beautiful love.
Everything changed after that...
I let go of trying to get answers about his condition.
I let go of the pre-test anxieties.
I let go of the fear.
I knew whatever it was - it would be okay....
The months moved quicker then and the day of his birth approached.
I toured the NICU at UVA hospital, I got overwhelmed at the sight of all the tiny infants fighting for life - a sweet nurse gave me a paper bag to breathe in and I had to take a break and sit down.
It wasn't just about the necessity of seeing this for my possibility - it was seeing the reality of the constant state of struggle that others are in.
My angel and the easy love - easy love comes easy.
SO many sick kids, so many parents in the fight for the prevailing love - perspective....
I set up his nursery, sat in his rocking chair and rubbed him as I sang.
I finally named him - Matthew Joseph
Matthew - gift of God
Joseph - give to us another son.
I called my Nana every week to report and every week she said in disbelief, "no change? Hmmm I was sure this was the week"
SHE NEVER DOUBTED HE WOULD BE OKAY.
I prepared mentally for every scenario and thought intently about what I wanted to say if our time together was fleeting.
Mary booked her flight to come for his birth, my coach, my best friend by my side - she would come from Maine and be there with us, the only person I could think of to be with me if I had to say hello and goodbye in one breath.
We got closer and closer and I put in for my maternity leave.
The ultra sounds became more frequent checking for head circumference for the natural birth I insisted I would have.
And then on September 11th 2001, I put my kids on the bus and began my first day of maternity leave, six days and counting until my scheduled induction - I made a cup of tea and cinnamon toast and climbed back into bed to watch the today show.
I will never, ever forget the sequence of events that unfolded before me.
I ate my toast and drank my tea, I was tired and could actually go back to sleep if I wanted. Matt Lauer was interviewing an author - I was falling asleep to the sound.
And then, Matt stopped, said there was breaking news - apology to the author and Katie joined him.
A plane has hit one of the world trade center tours in Manhattan.
An accident. What kind of plane? A small plane - no witnesses say a big plane - a jet liner.
Picture of the tower with flames close to the top.
Phone calls from people on the street to the television station.
Live phone calls.
Chaos.
What the hell is happening?
I sat up, confused but not especially alarmed. It was assumed that this was a grave accident, a terrible plane crash. Isolated incident.
And then, a live phone call on air, a person on the street below the towers explaining the scene to Katie and Matt and a sound,
a rumble, a high pitched whistle, the person screaming "Oh my God - Oh my God"
and an explosion.
A second plane, the second tower.
The reality instantaneously understood and showed on Matt's face - Our Nation is under attack.
I sat up more, straight up.
What the hell is going on?
I called Greer elementary and spoke to the secretary - I said "Get Judy Boyer a Television in her room ASAP, something historical is happening - the world trade center is under attack"
These were my co-workers....I was the first call through to alert them...Minutes later the phone lines were clogged.
Scared parents calling in, administrative people dialing out....
I watched the TV in horror - I called Mary.
The panic ensued, the grounding of all planes in US airspace began.
I put on the radio.
A plane over Virgina airspace is not responding to air traffic commands to land.
I live in Virginia - my kids are at school.
I bolted up and got my clothes on.
I ran out the front door and sped to the school.
Police were everywhere, panic was evident.
I retrieved my kids from a school bracing itself for complete chaos as parents began to show up in the hundreds.
A police car in front of Greer, one in front of Jouett, the American flags flapping against the brilliant blue sky as I peered above my dash looking for any sign of an aircraft....surreal.
I got home and turned on the news.
The pentagon hit, the plane in Virginia airspace, now shrapnel in the side of our Nation's military headquarters.
What the hell is happening, oh my God what is happening?
Plane over PA airspace.
Plane down in a Pennsylvania field....
Jesus Christ.
The tower is falling.
Oh my God.
Jesus Christ.
Hand to mouth.
Hand to stomach.
Heart sinking.
Jesus Christ, tears streaming down my face from the security of my home.
Jesus Christ what the hell is happening?
The second tower falling.
All the people, all the people, Jesus Christ it's New York City - all the people.
A nation literally under attack in my lifetime - this is happening.
Matt Lauer and Katie Couric look sick - Tom Brokaw looks sick to his stomach - what the hell is happening?
We all remember that day in our own way.
It was like nothing I could have ever dreamed up.
As the details were assessed, the footage of the terrorists in a Portland, Maine Wal Mart released, The Logan airport tapes on TV, the first hand accounts of the calls from United flight 93 discussed - I sat in complete and utter disbelief.
Again I was back in the car looking at the trees - four hours ago I was drinking tea and thinking about Matthew's birth in six days....
Now our Nation is under an undefined attack and thousands of people are dead....
What was tough, just got tougher...
Mary and I stayed on the phone for hours not speaking, connected, together, but listening. Watching. Crying.
Oh my God Mary, what is happening?
She said at some point (still so naive to how this had changed our lives) "I am still coming"
I responded "the hell you are - you are not flying anywhere - hell no - I will be fine - you can come later when things calm down"
"No" she said "I am coming, I won't miss this" (crying on both ends)
"I won't having you take the risk Mary"
Both so naive - no planes would be up in American airspace to get on, forget about her plane....
We talked about selfishly worrying about our situation in that moment - but truth was, I was still preparing to give birth to a baby that may die...
My reality was unchanged in the midst of a National tragedy that would have the entire Nation reeling.
I didn't sleep well that night. I kept the TV on in the bedroom. I couldn't help but watch.
It looked like post nuclear war. There was a cavernous black hole in a meadow in PA.
The pentagon was four sided....
I was going in the morning for my final ultra sound, the one that would determine if he could be delivered vaginally.
I couldn't sleep.
The next morning I showered and I dressed, on eye on the television.
I got in the car with Dan and we drove to the hospital.
The streets were mostly empty.
There were fire fighters in full gear at intersections taking collections for NYC in boots.
The city was a ghost town and everything moved in silent slow motion.
I went into the chapel - I wrote 'Please make him well and God help our Nation"
I prayed.
I climbed on the table mostly unaffected - I had done this thirty something times. Jelly to the belly.
Conversation about the attacks with the tech and my friend, Karen.
Wand to belly, movement.
Checking circumference now - looks good for vaginal delivery - you shouldn't need the section.
Oh good - at least this will go my way.
But wait.....
She paused.....
Karen's face changed, her eyes brows furrowed, her eyes squinted.
"wait a minute" she said....
What?
Wait for what?
She turned the screen towards me - she should have called in Dr. T first - she broke protocol, her eyes were filling with tears.
Oh Jesus, what now? Why is she beginning to cry?
"look Deb" she said, "look"
And she pointed to his brain on the screen.
More than 3/4 of it was gray...
Wait what?
Where is all the black????
Where is all the BLACK?
My heart raced and I leaned up on my elbows, she pushed harder on the wand.
Look at all that Gray....
She called in Dr.T - he looked.
He smiled.
I said "what - what - what?"
It has shrunk.
The ventricle had shrunk.
What??????
What?
The ventricle was still enlarged, still big, but suddenly on September 12th 2001, after four months of no change - it was within 'normal limits'
And, the brain matter now exposed looked like it had developed normally - all squiggly and gray....
I cried. I felt joy I had never imagined I would know...
The ventricle went down, the fluid was a gush instead of a trickle.
September 12th, 2001.
I remembered the terrorist attack - remembered what was going on outside that room in the hospital - I remembered the horror and suddenly didn't know how I should feel.
I was elated in the midst of National tragedy.
I was unsure what to do....
I called Mary, we cried.
I felt guilty for my joy.
I watched the news, the family members posting missing person pictures on that wall in NYC - I watched the fires burn in the rubble.
I felt isolated in my joy, my joy felt remote, removed - the guilt felt immediate.
I called my Nana to report our good news, the news she expected all along.
I cried like a little girl again with her, needed her to tell me it was all okay...
What she said, I will never ever forget as long as I live, it is one of the reasons that these events are so profoundly linked and that although I lost no one in the attacks, I remember each and every person as though I did.
She said,
"Oh lovey, this is the balance of life, the way that it works. And maybe, just maybe, God took someone yesterday for a reason we will never understand, but that reason, made room for Matthew's precious life - and that is your blessing in the face of that loss and you must never ever forget or be ungrateful."
And this is why I wrote this blog....
I had not thought about it in that way until that moment.
I cannot say if it made me feel better or worse.
I did know, as my Grandmother had all along, that God was giving me obstacle after obstacle to see how I would hold up, to see what I would do.
What I did, was rise....
Matthew Joseph Poulin was born on September 17th, 2001 - the day the stock exchanged re-opened in NYC.
I was spread eagle in stirrups as Dr. Blommel gloved up and prepared to insert the meds to my cervix to induce my labor.
We paused with the whole country to observe a moment in silence.
I can see the TV beyond my bent knees and the pill on her gloved finger tip to this day....
He came in two pushes - I wanted to get that head out.
Dr.Blommel held him up all gooey before her, he was screaming his lungs out, he reached forward and grabbed her paper mask - he pulled back to reveal her smile, she said,
"I bet you don't have any idea how many prayer lists you have been on"
He was not whisked away to a NICU, he was not pried from my arms.
He nursed and I cried while inspecting every inch of his perfect little head and asking over and over to anyone that would listen,
"Are you sure he is okay?"
He was okay - he is okay.
Ventricle is still bigger than it should be, he is a successful case study at UVA, he is a pain in my ass daily - most ten year old boys are - sue me.
I love that he is a pain in my ass - wouldn't have it any other way....
And, I guess in the long run I was granted the 'easy love - that prevailed'
Lucky me....
I had to share this story with you because that year helped to define the person I now am. In order for you to hear the 'moral messages' in every blog I write, you kinda have to know the wars that have been waged to provide my wisdom and the gratefulness I wish would spread like a communicable disease....
On the one year anniversary of 9/11 I sat on the edge of my bed and listened to every name of every victim - I don't know which one made room for Matt specifically so I count each and every one as my personal blessing.
I would have done that even if Matt had died, but I do it now, with a PERSONAL GRATEFULNESS that makes the enormity of the loss and change our Nation endured that day more me specific.
I must never forget.....
Mary and I, shared these events long distance, apart when we should have been together.
My birthing coach, my best friend - kept from me on the most important day of my life by terrorism.
We traveled that road from 9/11 to 9/17 by phone - that week changed our friendship forever.
By NOT being able to get to each other - we realized the scope our love, how truly important we are to each other.
We cry when we talk about it ten years later with Matthew and Emma fighting in the back ground.
We visited the hallowed ground the weekend of my 40th birthday - we cried together and remembered the day, remembered the lives lost, remembered the gift of one new life.
I am so glad that I got to go there with her - I would rather look upon that empty space with no one else in my life, except maybe her and Matt - one day I hope, one day...
And so, sigh - today on this tenth anniversary of 9/11, part 5 of my cliff hanging blog, leads me to this final sentiment.
Life is hard... Life can feel really unfair...Life can turn on a dime... Life is not about what happens TO you, but rather what you DO with what you are given.
That year, ten long years ago, gave me nothing but shit.
But, with that shit I fertilized a space within myself that could have been a ground zero of my own, an unsafe place to ever consider re-entering... Instead I, tilled and plowed, got dirty, dug deep and planted the seeds of varied garden of beautiful GRATEFULNESS....
I tend that garden everyday.
Today I would like to thank my Nana, My Angel,and my best friend Mary for helping me see the beauty that was there all along.... (so Dorothy Gale)
And also, to pay tribute to all the lives that were lost that fateful day - the victims and the ones who went in willingly to save the victims - the ones who drove down a plane to spare more lives than their own - the soldiers who protect us every day....
I don't know if my story has spoken to you in any way shape or form - I hope it has - that is always my hope when I spill my guts.
In conclusion - do your best to love everyday. And to share that love openly - don't hold back....
And if... because it will, life gets really hard for you - remember what my Angel told me -
Prevailing love is the best kind....
Blessings to you all and God Bless America.

Part 4 - Ten years ago...

So apparently cliff hangers are the way to go....
This section of the story is uncomfortable to write and will be, if he ever reads it, uncomfortable for Dan. I share these details ONLY because in order to understand the full scope of emotional turmoil waged on my spirit that year - you must have, at the very LEAST the facts - For this section, I tread lightly on details. Still too painful, still too raw.
A few weeks after I made my decision to continue on with the pregnancy, I called up my old boss Joan and told her what was going on in my world. I asked her if there was any way she would let me come back to the store and work very part time - I needed a diversion from the praying and the obsessing - I needed something to do other than contemplate all the possible scenario's, all the possible endings that could be coming my way - I had been a "TA" (teachers assistant) for the Greer elementary 5th grade up until the diagnosis, but I had taken leave and at that point school was out anyways, I had to do something other than watch marathon's of TLC's a baby story and bawl my eyes out, jealous of every beautiful birth and outcome.
It was there on my beloved downtown mall that I received the smack down that would send me into a very quiet, angry, sad, alone place where I would stay for a very long time. Hell, where pieces of me still remain.... This day was the beginning of the breaking apart, of not only my marriage, but my friendship with my husband.
I had gone to the Nook for a piece of quiche and I made my way slowly back down the mall towards the store. Right in front of the fountains I ran into a woman whose child I had had in my pre-school class from my days at Bright Beginnings. I hadn't seen her in forever, although a few years previous we had been quite close as I saw her daily and was the primary care-giver to her child. We hugged and chatted, 'caught up' - I didn't mention the baby because I never did - if I did - I cried and she didn't notice because of my empire waist dress that concealed my little tummy altogether. She looked at me, her head cocked slightly to the side, her hand reaching out to grab lightly on my arm and said "I'm sorry about you and Dan"....
What?
What? huh?
I processed the words and processed the words and tried to put them into scenarios in my head that made sense.
I came up blank.
And then I knew - flooded with a reality that changed my whole life in an instant.
What I knew five seconds ago - married, two kids, pregnancy with a baby with a clogged ventricle in his brain, suddenly looked easy.
I was back in the car looking at the trees thinking how simple it all had been. (figuratively)
Perspective... 5 seconds earlier - I was managing my hell - now everything was changing again.
I took in a deep breath as the reality of what was happening sunk in, I felt sick and dizzy and instinctively cupped my belly with my hand and rubbed, thought in my head - "it's okay baby, Mommy is okay, I am reeling, I can't breathe, I may faint - but it's okay" - regulate breaths, slow heart rate - remember the doctor said the baby feels everything.....
She looked at my hand on my belly - she could see that I was pregnant...
Her face changed and she took her hand from my arm, put it to her own mouth. She looked at me as the shock on my face told her she had just put her foot in her mouth, 'don't shoot the messenger'
"Oh honey" she said as she tried to back peddle - "I am mistaken, you're pregnant"
She glanced at the wedding band on my hand.
"I was wrong forget I said a thing"
Um yeah NO.
And so she went on to tell me that she had seen my husband with another woman back in April at the Blues and Brews festival. I was at the DMB concert at Scott stadium that night - perfect night for a real date on the town with his girlfriend...
No chance my wife will see me, horses can't drag her away from Dave.
I prodded - they looked "intimate" had been holding hands.
I walked away and resolved that for the time being, I would not say a word. I would die inside alone... My best friend, my HUSBAND, the Father of my damaged baby was screwing around with a woman he worked with.
I knew who it was immediately, crazy how a wife picks up on co-worker flirtation and catalogs it away for future use.
I went home and silently did my research, gathering information slow and steady, all the while growing apart from the man I needed the most, at a time when I really needed him the most.
He had cheated, he had lied and he worked with her.
Every day as he buttoned his shirt and sprayed his cologne and left the house for work - I died a little more...
I wasn't sure that there would be anything left of me, wasn't sure that I wanted there to be, but I held on for the kids - held on for the baby inside of me.
I made the choice and now the choice I have to make every day - Don't give up. Don't give in. Don't lay down and die.
I listened to Ben Harper's CD 'live from Mars' constantly - I am waiting on an Angel, a resting place in my angel's arms...
I wept slow and quiet and I waited....

Part 3 - Ten years ago

I remember calling Mary from the car, the first and last phone call I would make until much much later that evening. I have no idea what I said. I remember the drive home, remember thinking that I had taken all the simplicity for granted - I thought 'you had a good life' and now what? Nothing looks the same - not the roads, the trees, the darkening spring sky - what once was beautiful and easy is now gone and all you know is this hell. I kept thinking, just three hours, twenty minutes and sixteen seconds ago, life was good - just three hours, twenty one minutes and sixteen seconds ago - tick tock. I remember feeling disconnected from my previous life so significantly that my other children seemed foreign to me somehow - or maybe not them exactly, but my role as their Mother. Being the brain damaged baby's Mother was all I could be, it was all I had room for, all I could concentrate on. I took myself up the stairs, past the newly painted nursery into my bedroom and shut myself away in quiet to begin the bargaining process. I went to my jewelry box first and took out the rosary my Grandmother had given Brian for his first communion, I looped the beads around my fingers tight and put Jesus in my palm, held him so hard his cross dug through my skin. "Our Father who art in Heaven...." "Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee" Sobbing in the darkness I bargained. Okay God, if you wake me up and this has all been a test, I promise I will NEVER do a wrong thing again. Okay God if you want, you can take me, please Jesus, take me instead. Okay God I will do it, I will do whatever you want - just tell me and I will do it.... "Our Father who art in Heaven" around the beads for a second time, prayer after prayer, rocking on my bedside, back and forth back and forth, prayer after prayer after prayer. He kicked and I stopped rocking. I held my own stomach with my arms, placed my hand and Jesus to him, Oh God WHY? WHY MY BABY? I sobbed and I sobbed, I cried until there was nothing left inside of me to purge - except maybe for the baby with the bad ventricle and then I cried some more to imagine the sea weed sticks in my cervix, the labor, the pushing, the dying. I bolted up - this I can see in my mind, so vivid, so clear, I jumped up from the bed with purpose and I reached for the phone began pacing as I dialed - "Yes it is an emergency, please page Dr. Blommel now" I explained what had happened, I explained that Dr.T would call her with the report first thing in the morning, I explained about the "abortion" and I explained that we needed to do something to fix it all right the fuck now! She told me, "you must not cry like this Deb, you must calm down - remember he is alive inside of you, he can feel you, hear you, calm down honey, calm down" I felt as though she was placating me for a bad mood and I was angry - I felt so alone and so misunderstood - I wanted to scream "Don't you get it? I have interrupted your happy little dinner with your happy little healthy children because my baby's brain is black when it should be gray and he said sea weed sticks to induce a natural labor and I only have a week and there are no similar case studies to look at, and they can't see the fucking problem to go in and fix it, and I want to wake up now and my Baby is going to DIE!" I wanted to scream at God and the sky, at my Doctor, my husband - anyone - everyone. I felt so alone, I felt like the world kept on moving with no regard for the fact that my baby and I were all wrong, we were dying in the bedroom while everyone else was watching wheel of fortune or fucking jeopardy. "Our Father who art in Heaven" I remembered Nan's birthday - I have never missed her birthday and she knows the ultra sound was today.... I took a deep breath and dialed. As soon as I heard her voice, I cried openly, but this time not like an angry scared woman, this time to my Nana, I cried like a child - the way I did when that Bumble Bee in the back yard stung me for no reason... She soothed me, called me all the names I needed to be called, she told me to remember that we all have crosses to bear - remember that Jesus made his sacrifice for us.... Assured me that she would talk to God right away and together they would get this mess sorted out. I was raised a Catholic, but never, ever, in all my life have I had faith the way she did, and still does to this day. I wished that I believed like her, wished that I had a shred of confidence in the plan of God that she was always referencing - but I just didn't believe - except in her.... She assured me that God would fix it, and I trusted in her to do her thing with him, she would get the right combination of prayers and change the outcome of this nightmare - if any one could, it was definitely her. I hung up the phone feeling hopeful - Nana was working on God and I was working on being calm.... I called my Mother - with her I did not cry, I felt as though I was giving report off the evening chart at the end of my bed. Strangely, this is the most vivid memory I have from that first night - leaning on my bureau, biting my bottom lip as she said these words with the clench to her jaw that I could feel as well as hear "Well, if you hadn't moved to Virginia you could be here in Boston with the best hospitals in the country" Not - I love you..... Not - it will be okay. Not - what can I do? But rather "WELLLLLLL if you HADN'T....." - as if somehow I had asked for this by leaving home. I hung up the phone and cried for myself. I am a Motherless child soon to be a childless Mother. And I curled up into a ball and said the rosary again like Nana told me to - offer it up to Jesus. I offered it all up to Jesus over and over as I drifted into sleep that took me in spite of my need to keep on fervently praying. When I woke the next morning, the rosary beads were so tightly interlaced in my fingers that it hurt to unfurl them and free them from the twine. I called work and asked to speak to the principal, my boss - I would not be coming in, a leave of absence seemed appropriate and then she forwarded the call at my request to the third grade classroom of my friend Heather. She answered all cheerful as she rounded up the kids for the bus count before their field trip - "What?" she cried into the phone "Hold on" and she moved away from the kids so she could hear me - I sunk down on my bathroom floor, holding my head in my hands, panic rising again, leaning my back on the sink for support - "Heather I don't think I can do this." Two days passed and Dr. T faxed a case study from Tel Av iv Israel for me to look at - time's a tickin' five days and counting...These kids had hydrocephalus too, not even remotely the same issues as my son mind you, not the same blockage, not the same ventricle, but the closest it seemed in all the big world that we would get to my baby. A handful of kids in Israel with 'similar' issues was the best I had to go on while contemplating a late term abortion. All the babies but one, were severely impaired or deceased. The ones aborted showed major brain damage, except for one - the baby's brain dissection showed a resolved ventricle and a normal brain. I cried for that Mother, wailed at her choice, wailed for her guilt. I thought about mine. Could I do this? Late term abortion? Would I survive this? Did I have the right? And then, can I do this if he dies in my arms? Can I survive this if he is born to a severely impaired life of pain? What if he is damaged to the point of being hooked up to machinery to live? Can I unplug him then? Do I have the right to risk a life filled with pain and nothing beautiful for him? I read the case study. I took notes. I asked the same questions. I said the rosary. I read the case study again. I made a pro and con list. I asked myself all the same questions again, twice. I said the rosary. I did this over and over and over ...... And finally - I looked at Dan on the seventh day and said "I have decided to not terminate - I am going to carry til term" I think he disagreed, I think he thought the risk was too great - but, I never heard him out. My body, my decision, my child, my prayers, my guts, my feminist attitude - call it what you like. Thinking back on it now, I have no idea what I was thinking - I don't recall how I got to the decision, don't remember anything that led up to the words coming out of my mouth - they just did ...I knew nothing more or nothing less. I just knew that I knew.

Part 2 - Ten years ago.

What it meant, explained Dr. T nervously, was that my son had a condition known as hydrocephalus, which is commonly, but inaccurately referred to as "water on the brain" - for my nineteen week old son what this meant (I would come to understand better in the days following) was that something undetectable, undiagnosable was blocking the fourth, rear ventricle in his brain - this blockage was interrupting the constant flow of cerebral spinal fluid that is flowing through our bodies in a circular fashion at all times - in through the back right ventricle passed to the front right, over then to the front left and to the back left, down the spine and back up again, REPEAT - an ever constant loop of life precious fluid.
My son's back left ventricle looked like a kidney bean all swollen and big, when it should have looked, at least to my lay person eyes, like they variation of gray matter, indiscernible - just as on the right side.
I heard the words, I saw the photos in front of me, I saw Dan's wedding ring spinning out of the corner of my eye and I felt my baby move, inside of ME.
It is really difficult for me to articulate that moment in time....
If there are words that accurately convey it, I have yet to discover the proper sequence.
I cannot tell you what it felt like - All I can say, is that I have never in all my life felt the way I did in that moment.
I had been dizzy before - fainted even.
I had been nauseous before - puked my guts up.
I had felt fear - too many varieties to name.
I had felt grief - Omar's untimely death.
The moment I heard the words "your son's brain has developed abnormally" - I realized in my mind some concept of actual infinity - then, that every bad emotion I had ever known (on any scale in my life) had suddenly multiplied by this new fathomed endless concept, morphed into an actual animate object, and fell on top of me,crushing me, to within inches of my death or life - Yes, okay, breath making it to my lungs, but in a pinched stream of barely bursts.
Yes keeping me conscious but, only enough to feel the pain of breathing.
I watched Dan spin his ring..... And thought about my other boys, what would I say to them, how would I break the news to them, how would I ever be capable of comforting these two little men who had innocently and excitedly come to see their new baby?
What words would I use?
Abnormal brain development?
Clogged ventricle?
Special head?
The room got very grainy - I always describe it like the Andy Warhol pop art print of Marilyn Monroe - everything broke down to dots - atoms - the room around me was breaking apart.
The doctor gently explained that he had no answers, but that, when he has seen "similar" scenarios - the outcome has rarely been good.
So wait.....in my head...."you can't fix this?"
Wait....You are saying he is going to die?
Wait, what?
Wait, I want to go back to this afternoon when I was eating that stupid fucking nectarine.
Wait.....what is happening?
There was no diagnosis and may never be, unless the fetus was aborted, an autopsy performed, a brain dissection. - this could provide valuable answers - not that will help you naturally because your baby will be dead, but for future Mother's who will watch their husband spin their wedding bands right there in that very chair...
What? Abortion?
Yes - "You may want to consider termination"
But wait, he just kicked me - abort him? Why?
This cannot be fixed?
NO DIAGNOSIS - we just don't know what to fix....

I was then given what little information could be ascertained - Dr.T assured me he would research case studies and try to gather material for me to read to "weigh" the possible outcomes which could "sway" the direction of my decision.
But....."Keep in mind that you are almost outside the window of a legal abortion here in Virginia - if you choose to terminate here, it must be within the week... or we can travel to North Carolina where I have practicing rights and we can deliver the baby there."
Wait deliver the baby???
Yes - deliver the baby naturally and let him die in my arms.....
Dan stopped spinning his ring and stood up to shake Dr.T's warm hand, he told us "this is the part of my job I dread"
This is the part of my life I had no idea just an hour ago I would dread -
And I walked slowly, the weight on my chest crushing my lungs, I walked slowly to the elevator wanting to get inside of it and for the doors to close so I could be alone in private and finally, finally scream.
I remember leaning on the wall, holding on to the brass rail that lined the moving room - I was spinning so hard inside a scream couldn't form - I writhed about as something gathered inside me - something I didn't know, something I had never felt, something that I was afraid to feel, something that I thought might kill me when it was realized - I hummed in a moan of denial as the sound finally formed in my throat, I tried to swallow it out of pure fear, pure instinct.
The doors opened - I walked, breath getting harder to take - I walked out into the light of the beautiful May day, Nana's birthday - and as Dan told the boys to stay with me, he was going to retrieve the car - as I lost sight of his wedding band as he walked away, the thing that was rising inside me burst forth suddenly, heaving out of my body, literally sending me into my young son's arms -
He was ten at the time, Brian, my eldest, my over emotional child, he caught me when my legs gave out - he caught me as I cried out, a sound so distinct it can NEVER be mistaken for anything else - The cry, The plea, The prayer, The "NO" of a Mother who has just lost her child.

And with that - I need some moments to cry and stretch the tension out of my neck.
I warned you - tough stuff for me.

Ten years ago in May.

A dark morning seems about right....
It's a good morning none the less (thank you again and again Ms.Alli)
And with even more perspective than I had ten years ago - I approach going back in time with a heart and mind so full of gratefulness that I feel it could literally burst.
And yet, like all things of appreciation with me, there is a profound accompanying sadness that will travel, hand and hand.
This blog subject matter, will assuredly come in the form of a continued story which will, I imagine, take me several days to write - I will have to re-live as I blog and when it comes to this topic, it tends to get very emotional and taxing for me.
I am going to take you down memory lane - a path that as we travel will cover many many personal moments and some that will be familiar and unifying - even to those of you who read who do not know me personally - we will, as we approach the anniversary, touch gently on the subject of the September 11th terrorist attacks on my Country.
But before I get there - ten years ago today I had absolutely no idea that in four days time, the most significant historical event of my lifetime would be occurring.
For me personally, ten years ago today, I was privately preparing to give birth to a child I was sure would die in my arms as quickly as he had come into it.
I was in my own private hell, unknowingly on the brink of a Nation's hell...
And so we back we go...
I know that I have spoken of this before - and as I typed those words, my eyes burned with tears as salty water ran out of them like a faucet had been turned on rather than a sentence typed....
I know that I have written about Matthew's "special head" before, but it only seems fitting to tell the whole story on this monumental milestone.
Ten years ago on May 21st (my Nana's birthday) I was 19 weeks pregnant with my third child. I could not have been more excited or feeling more healthy, emotionally or physically.I had even fallen in love with nectarines which for my entire life, I had a strong aversion to in the texture department - they made my tongue feel all fuzzy. At 19 weeks pregnant I couldn't get enough nectarines and if they dripped juice down my arm, well than you better believe I was licking it off.
As I remember, May 21st of 2001 may very well have been a Wednesday or Thursday - the only reason I say this, is that previously in the week a co-worker/friend of mine from Greer elementary had gone to her OB/GYN for her 20 week ultra sound too - her first baby - there were like six of us at school pregnant at the same time.
There was a sadness weighing heavy on all the women at Greer that week because said friend/co-worker had gone to the ultra sound excited to see her baby for the first time (God that is an amazing moment) only to find that the baby had died in utero - no heart beat.
Because of the stage of her pregnancy, she would have to essentially deliver the deceased fetus.
I was saying then - exactly what I am saying now "I can't even imagine"
There is this really weird thing that happens when you hear of bad news and it hurts you, but you say "I can't imagine" and you MEAN it, literally, because life has never turned on you in quite such a harsh fashion - and then suddenly, unexpectedly, your "can't imagine" becomes your reality and you can imagine - every horrific detail.
That is what happened to me just a two days later when I collected my two young sons and my husband and we drove to Martha Jefferson Hospital for our first glimpse at our son and new baby (sex to be determined)....
I remember the day vividly - what I was wearing - how I felt - the magazine I thumbed through mindlessly - how I paced in the waiting room - the anxiety that filled my body that I didn't understand and blamed in the moment, on my unrelenting desire and hope that the baby would be a girl and somewhere deep down I knew it was a boy.
I wanted a girl so bad and I prayed for it - please God let me be wrong - let the nectarine fixation be indication that it is not a boy like I think it is...
I was desperate for a daughter.
I still feel bad to this day for ever thinking along lines of "preference" instead of health.
PERSPECTIVE comes down hard like a hammer to the skull or a vice grip to your heart.
When we went into the dark room, the ultra sound technician arranged the boys and Dan so they could all see the screen, jelly glob to the belly and the magic wand was off, swirling about on my skin producing pictures of my womb that amazed me all over again, each and every time I saw it - which, would end up being in excess of 30 times...But I run when I should walk - sorry...
I remember that my arms were over my head, I remember Brian and Kevin watching trying to figure out just what in the hell all that gray stuff was, "wait did she say that is a leg?"
And then, about 5 minutes in, my anxiety peaked as she circled the babies head and clicked her mouse again and again and again.
She asked "do you want to know the sex?"
Resounding "um yeah" - "It's a boy"
I felt nothing as she quickly moved the wand and pushed on my belly trying to get "him " to move so she could get a better picture of his head.
His head again.
I felt no disappointment about the boy thing - why is she at his head again???
She paused and called in the doctor and he introduced himself warmly "I am Dr. Thiagaraja, and I am going to just take a peek at this little boy"
Straight to the head - the two medical professionals exchanged a glance that only I noticed and my heart began to pound.
Sweet Jesus something is wrong with my son.....
Dr.T (as we called him) then used the phone in the room to call his assistant and see if she could entertain Brian and Kevin in her office for a bit while Dr. T took Dan and I to his.
My tummy was wiped clean, my pants pulled up and I choked silently on the scream that was rising in my throat as all the colors of my surroundings began to blur and sweat formed in swollen beads on my forehead.
I reached for Dan's hand and as he took it, I knew he didn't understand what was happening - there was calm in his palm, my fingers trembled and felt clammy and cold.
Dr.T's office had a large mahogany desk with two seats - Dan sat by the wall, me on the outside.
I watched Dan spin his wedding band on his hand, concentrating all of my energy on the action of the spinning, the methodical turning - I watched and tried to breathe in time - I remember this as if it were happening now.
Just watch Deb, spin, spin, breathe - it was like a CPR rhythm - compress, compress, give breath.
Then the pictures - 11 by 14's, glossy paper, many of them, one after the other turned towards me - magnified images of my son's brain.
Immediately, without any medical knowledge, I could see the problem.
Half of his brain had gray matter, half of it was pitch black.
PANIC rising - This cannot be right - what does this mean?

And with that - I have class - me and the cliff hangers lately....