Red light district?

Okay this one is for Annie.
I have absolutely no time to really think (at least in any kind of depth) about anything other than my five up coming midterms. My brain is currently at new info capacity and regurgitation ability overload....
But, sweet Annie requested a blog from me, actually wrote on my facebook wall "Girl I'm gonna need you to blog soon"
She is officially the president of the Deb Does Life fan club.
So here goes girlfriend, this one is for you.
I will admit it,(sigh) I should not possess a drivers license. I am quite possibly the worst driver in the world, it is a form of community service to admit this in a public forum. Count yourself lucky if you read this and if you live near me, identify my vehicle so you can avoid it at all cost. Mine is the dented blue 4-runner littered with DMB stickers, my plate reads B2FLMS (translation beautiful mess, did anyone at all get that without my help?)

Here's the thing, it's not that I am a bad driver necessarily, it's more like I should be a restricted driver. It's my opinion that when the joyous DMV employees ask about my eyesight and make me peer through the little eye thingy to make sure I can distinguish red from green, they may also want to test my ears. Just sayin' that it wouldn't hurt for them to stick me in a sound booth with some Mary J. Blige and simulate my vehicles actual atmosphere. The music would have to be jacked up to ungodly decibels and the winter and summer scenario would be different too, leg up in the summer and windows down for sure, you have to account for body posture and wind.
The only reason I recommend this form of drivers simulation is because I am what is known as (in our circle) a car dancer...
If you don't know what this is, you surely have never been stopped at a red light next to me....
It is a form of exotic dancing but restricted to the tin can of a car. What categorizes car dancing as exotic is not a pole or removal of any clothing (although that sometimes occurs), it is exotic in essence because it simply cannot be prevented. The music is up, the car is flying down the road at will of your fingertips and toes, and the world's outside interference is nil.
These are the ingredients to a spontaneous car dance, it just cannot be helped.
This is where the danger comes in.
As in regular dancing, there are levels, styles, nuances. I am without a doubt a dancer by nature. I hear the music and I begin to move. Starts at my head, moves to my neck radiates down to the hips yadayada. I can't help it, the music gets to me. Some people listen to music and remain calm, this is not me.
Music is intended to move you and I was intended to express. It gets fairly beautifully ugly.
For example....,
Today I was listening to Justin Nozuka as I drove home from school, I was singing along quite calmly watching the yellow lines and the oncoming traffic intently, everything was just fine. I was safe and so were you.
But then, this song came on, ripe with angst, passion and a fevered repetition of sounds which builds into a whipped up frenzy.
Spontaneous car dance eruption....
Before I knew it I was clutching my own neck, pulling at my hair and desperately harmonizing with Justin. I was in a full blown ecstatic moment, safety be damned....
Keeping in line with my life's theme, it is bad news and a real thing of beauty all rolled up in one.
I plead guilty of car dancing and have given you all fair warning of my reckless behavior, beyond that I got nothing.
After all, it's not my fault that I have a drivers license, first thing the instructor did upon entering my car for my driving test was turn off my radio. Stupid stupid stupid little man with a clipboard...
If I worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles, I would re-write the registration application...
Do you wear glasses?
Do you have a medical condition?
Do you have a disco ball in your car?

unhappy Anniversary

Hi everyone,
So today is February 7th, a sad day in my family. Five years ago today my step father (the best man I have ever known) died in his sleep. His death came as a total shock as he was only forty nine years old and in perfect health. The medical examiner ruled the cause of his death as sepsis, apparently caused by an undiagnosed kidney infection.
I remember the very moment that I heard the news so vividly that I wonder if the memory will ever fade? Part of me hopes that it will, and naturally, part of me hopes that it won't. I think it was a Tuesday. I had just come home from the gym still sweaty from my work out, Emma was on the floor in the living room watching tv. I stood at the sink filling a glass of water and the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID curiously and thought, why would my mother be calling me noon time on a Tuesday? (we don't speak)- I thought, the girls are in school (my sisters), can't be them...?
I answered hesitently, greeted by my sister Ashleigh's sobs on the other end. I thought it was our Papa, I thought that he had finally suffered a fatal stroke and I braced myself for the words that I knew would break my heart.
She said, "Dad's dead"....
I said "What, wait... Papa?" - heave heave sob sob
she said, "No Dad, he died in his sleep last night, Grampie found him this morning"
In the background I heard the wailing cry of my baby sister Courntey and my kitchen began to spin around me like I was sucked straight into the eye of a cyclone.
I remember that I sat on the edge of the kitchen stool, I remember leaning my heavy body up against the corner of the island for support, I remember that I suddenly felt really cold in the dampness of my wet work out clothes as if the room temperature had plummeted and the sweat spots were turning to ice.
I know that I told Ashleigh, "I have to call you back" and I remember dialing the number to Dan's mobile work phone.
He answered and I said, (and I remember this so well)"Tell Calvin that you have to go right now and start walking towards the car, get in and drive home immediately, my Father is dead and I am here alone with Emma and I feel faint, now go now to the car"
The world I knew, thirty seconds, one minute before, the world where order reigned supreme and things made some sort of sense, the world as I knew it, was over.
It wasn't Papa at all, he was alive. It was my Da. My Da was dead.
I called the girls back, taking in short wisps of air as I tried not to faint, watching the clock on the microwave, counting the twenty two minutes flat it should take Dan to get to me and the baby...counting the minutes until that wounded animal cry could be released from my gut, the death cry was churning inside me waiting for a room with a closed door.
Later that night, Dan drove me to Ann Taylor and told the salesgirl, "she needs appropriate funeral clothes, her Father's funeral in Boston, it will be much colder there"
She dressed me as my sobs turned to the denial screams, "No, I don't want to do this - get these black funeral clothes off my body!"
I stripped them from me, my hysteria another force in the small dressing room and the poor girl stood helpless and heartbroken for me, realizing my denial couldn't change a thing....
That was five years ago today.
Five years ago right now, I was crying in waves of grief that scared my kids and scared me too.
Five long years.
The saddest part of his death for me personally is that my sisters, his daughters, did not get to know him like I did. This hurts me more, than my own sense of what has been lost in my life. They were mere girls when he died, they didn't get to know him as adults like I did. They hadn't yet had the mature and wonderful conversations he was known for, the soul searching, the wit, the wisdom, the humor. I hate that. I hate that he died before they got that part of him. It was the part of him that helped shape me, the part of him I cherished, the part of him that they now NEED.
I hate that he is gone, but I hate that he is gone FROM them more. They are his girls, they are so like him in so many ways. I see him in their faces, hear him in their voices. I wish they knew more of him, so that they could see what I see when they look in the mirror.
I have tried my hardest to be a worthy big sister to them. Tried my hardest to honor what he would have wanted me to do for them, how he would have wanted me to love them, honor what lessons he would want me to teach them.
It's hard. It's so hard. It's hard that he is gone and I miss him. It's hard to not fill his un-fillable shoes, but still feel as though I have to try. It is hard to have the sound of his unique laugh allude me sometimes.....
Death is hard.

All you can do is go on. I have told the girls "time heals all wounds is a crock of shit"
time doesn't heal death - all time does is get you further away from the last time you heard him, touched him, kissed him....Time just provides time to adjust, that's all.
Time will never make it easier. And I say, it shouldn't.
I remember him skipping in the snowfall, his tartan scarf around his head like little red riding hood. I remember him turning to me in the static light of the snow and the street light, I remember his smile, his dimples and his eyes pinched with joy - he called to me "come on Dot" and waved his gloved hand my way.
I hope five years from now I remember ten years ago, I hope I remember that Winter night, I hope I remember the way he held baby Courtney all the time and how he always called Ash his Buddy girl.
I hope I never forget any of it.....
I love you Ashleigh, I love you Courtney.
I love you Ned, Dad, my Da.

Why oh WHYYYYY???

I am pissed off today, really and truly pissed off. I think I have a touch of the ovulatory rage and that certainly may be exacerbating my hyper aggressive pissed offedness - Grrrrr I am mad as hell.
If you are my facebook friend you already know (if you read my status) that I am sick with what I fear is some strain of the stupid flu. Are we still afraid of the swine and the bird, what is the status of those animals?
Whatev.
Normally, me feeling like shit wouldn't be that big of a deal, honestly I am usually sick to some degree with some stupid ailment, as we have previously blog discussed, four kids bring a wealth of germs to my doorknobs. This illness however is somewhat reminiscent of last years strep incident. Oh God, that was awful, I writhed in pain from the horrific body aches and took up shop on my bathroom floor with my face plastered to the cool toilet seat, a welcome reprieve to the hundred and three degree fever that gripped my body for daysssss. Oh my it was something else, I truly believed I was dying. Although Dan and I were living in seperate houses, the alone-ness I felt was made worse by the fact that he was also on a business trip in PA. and so I was trapped here with my needy kids who don't quite get that Mommy is really too sick to make dinner. Thankfully Kevin stepped up to the plate and fed them the standard blue box go-to and my dear sweet Dancam came with a massive bag of supplies for my survival. God love her, she even bought me sugar free popsicles because that was back in the day when I actually watched my weight....haha.
This stupid sickness is coming in a close second to the strep, BUT under far worse personal circumstances and hence my piss ball attitude. I am supposed to read my winning essay tomorrow at 12:20.....I am supposed to accept my certificate and my prize money.... BUT I am tooooo sick to get out of bed!
I want to throw a massive tantrum right now, but I have no energy to kick and scream. You know I am really sick when I can't muster up the energy to throw a fit. In my head on continuous loop, I have CeLo Green's hit song 'fuck you' but only the ending where he asks the question I am asking ... WHHHHYYYYYY WHHHHYYYYYY WHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY??????? Do you know what I mean? If you don't, listen to it and get a visual going of me. Pale, slightly green, flannel grandma style nightgown, messy sweaty medussa like hair pulled back from hideous face, pouting and sneezing in bed - moaning when I have the energy....
WHYYYYYYYYYYYY???
Here's the thing.... the subject matter for the essay was, 'write about someone who has had a positive effect on your life'. I wrote about Omar, a past boyfriend/best friend who died when I was eighteen. I wrote it with every intention of reading it proudly to his Mother, WHEN I WON. The day I won, I found out she died the previous morning....Oh my God, isn't that enough???? Now I have to be sick and can't even go. Grrrrrrrrr pissssssssy.
And with that I am going to quit my bitching and close the box. My head is getting too heavy to hold up and I'm afraid it may smash into my computer screen, shattering it for a third time in 12 months.
I surmise, I was a real douche in my past life and I think it's unfair that she/he doesn't have to pay the piper, I do. Stupid past life. Ugh.

Oh It's a scene alright....

Hey everyone,
It is with mixed emotions I report that my family has a slight obsession with the CSI crime series. I think the fam members would all agree that we like CSI Vegas the most, although our reasons would vary if asked to explain the how's and why's. For me, as a total side note to any relevancy here at all, I love CSI Vegas because I have been forever been in love with Marg Helgenberger, I have loved her since she played the "female escort" on China Beach. I swear she has barely aged and her sexiness has deepened in some understated, yet very rich way. She's smokin' hot. But I digress....
My reason for referencing CSI at all is because I just changed my sheets. If you are faint of reality read no more.
It is not my usual sheet washing day, this is one of those other circumstances that fits loosely into the sickness category. Thankfully the liquid matter on my bed was not vomit this time, instead a glass of milk that accompanied a bowl of miniature vanilla wafers. (side note for a million years Kevin pronounced them vanilla waw-fers, just remembered that and laughed)
Typically the only person that gets to eat in my bed is me, it usually occurs under a pile of text books and is usually something very bad for me and solely for the purpose of sustaining lagging brain power. It is rare at best. However, my Mimzy was sick this week and set up camp in my bed (hence my now pounding head,cramped up stomach and propensity for continual sneezing YAY!)
Normally I would kick an eating kid to the curb of my bed, if not right out of my room, but a recovering sick kid with big please Mom eyes and a squeaky worn out please mom voice, leave me defenseless.
And so spilled milk I cry about and strip my damn bead and all it's princess and the pea linens.
As I ripped layers from the mattress, I was awe-struck by the myriad of stains. I said aloud "wow" and thought the CSI peeps would have to reconstruct a thousand or more scenarios here. They would be emptying bottles of their magic spray and running their little light wand thingys up and down endlessly. Ha, they would never get it all right.
It's funny how the stains of a mattress piece together stories of of it's owners life, especially that of a parent with as many kids as I have. The things that have happened on that bed....

Am I gross beyond measure for even thinking about this? Am I alone???
Before I proceed, let me make perfectly, crystal clear that I am a clean freak by nature. I am NOT one to "let things go" around my house, un-cleanliness freaks me out and I am habitually, forever freaking cleaning something... There is however, NOTHING that can be done about the mattress stains, trust me I have tried. Many a times the steam cleaner and it's attachment have worked ferociously trying to remove a remnant of some puking episode or bladder break. Although some spots leave me unable able to name their person of origin, my favorite, most recognizable, is one I made myself.
It is a faint stain, the shape of a pond of water. In actuality it was a pond of breast milk. It was my second night home after giving birth to Emma. Being a master breast feeder, I was well aware that the small amount of milk I was making was just "pre-milk" and that the Mother load was due to arrive any time. I woke up in the hormonal exodus sweats, completely soaking wet from hair line to soles of my feet.
As I came to and got my bearings, (where is the baby and is she breathing) I began to realize that the pool I was swimming in was more than just sweat. And with that, I became aware of a faucet like feeling rushing from two enormous, mountain like masses from my chest level. I was the fountain of Motherhood and if a pool around me had been built, I could have easily fed all the starving children of at least one third world country, if not two. I just now groped my own breasts remembering how they quadrupled in size, Thank You Jesus for table food.
There has been poop and barf, pee, feminine accidents, spilled drinks, a glass or two of red wine, chicken noodle soup, sweat, nail polish remover and I am sure DNA of other varieties....

If the CSI agents of New York, Miami and Vegas all converged in my bedroom, they still wouldn't have the resources or time to sort this all out. My mattress is a crime scene of life....

Never Surrender

Hi,
So without going into too much detail, simply because it is not my detail to go into, something has happened to someone I love that I can do very little about. I will suffice it to say it is major and beyond what I ever imagined I would deal with, even by association. Now, with that out of the way I would like to discuss the Wizard of Oz. I think there is a connection here, although honestly I am not quite sure what it is as I write... (I just instinctively, continue typing) - I will say that some day over the rainbow, I hope that my "someone by association" will look back and read this and say to themselves, wow she loved me.
Maybe just maybe, the connective tissue I identify here is that me and my "someone" (by association) are engaged in battle for freedom from a wicked witch and arrival at that sacred place, where you are finally capable of realizing/admitting, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. If only real life was manageable, by simply aiming a bucket of water and clicking some ruby slippers...
For as far back as I can remember, the Wizard of Oz has had a profound effect on me. I recall my horror, when as a child, I watched, mouth agape as the Wicked Witch of the West tossed her hate filled balls of fire at the sweet scarecrow. I would hold my breath tight in my chest as if the last breath I drew before he went up in flames was my actual, last breath. I squeezed my eyes painfully shut, wincing as I shrunk down into myself covering my face anxiously waiting for the fire to be put out. My reaction never differed, regardless of knowing the movie by heart. I struggled with my intense fear the exact same way each time I watched. The thing about back in the day, is that back in the day that movie being on TV truly was a special occasion. I am old enough to say, VHS tapes and DVR's did not exist. As a girl, every time I sat down to watch that movie was memorable, I was enraptured as though it were all brand new. I still feel that way today even as my collectors edition dvd, collects dust on the shelf in the next room. So much about that movie evoked strong emotion. Auntie Em in the crystal ball calling out for Dorothy... "Run Toto Run"... The first flight of the monkeys and the "Oooooweeo" soldiers marching in front of the castle - geez they freaked me out....Dorothy Gale was, and still is, my #1 fictional hero. She was so loyal and brave and not even slightly put off by the lollipop guild. The way she skipped down that endless yellow brick road with so much hope and enthusiasm, made me think skipping while singing is essential to safe arrival at your destination...The two things I loved the most about Dorothy were that she befriended un-likely's with absolutely no judgment and jumped on their personal bandwagons with as much conviction as her own. And, that when the witch wrote SURRENDER DOROTHY in the sky, she flat out refused.

Memories from the corners of my mind....
In the end, we all know how it ends - the virtues the boys were seeking, were inside them all along. The Great and powerful Oz was just a regular guy with a balloon and a dream, Dorothy will miss her BFF most of all and finally there is, no place like home.
All my long life this movie has stayed with me... My Mother laughs JUST like the Wicked Witch of the West. My kids call her "Nana Witch" - I call my sister Courtney, "Toto"....And my best friend Mary, is my scarecrow.

The song somewhere over the rainbow is my theme song, how could it not be??? Where troubles melt like lemon drops a way above the chimney tops that's where you'll find me...If little blue birds fly beyond the rainbow why oh why can't I ??? It's just so Deb...
What prompted this verbal expulsion of emotion and thought, was a flat out conclusion to a "TIMBER" falling like a cut down tree,bed flop. I fell hard, face first and sobbed into my blankets. When I rolled over and looked up at the blank ceiling, I felt like Dorothy in the poppy field, exhausted hazy woozy. Once I made the connection of feeling like Ms. Gale in her time of great distress, I squinted at the white wall space looking for a sky and a rainbow. And there in my minds eye and ear I heard and saw my beloved Dave Matthews describing (at Leroi's funeral mass), the first time he heard him play his sax. He said, and I loosely quote here purely from memory, "He played the most beautiful version of somewhere over the rainbow, that was the night I fell in love with him"....
Of course it was. What other song could it have been?
- And then, what happened next is what always happens to me, because I am admittedly some sort of freak of nature. The whole damn thing, my horrific personal issue, the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy Gale, The Cowardly Lion (Brian), Run Toto Run, "only bad witches are ugly", "and I'll miss you most of all" A baby blue Leroi and the music of my life, converged in a sense of spiritual and artistic peace.
The Wizard of Oz is about life. It is about unforeseen circumstances, bad choices, devotion, commitment, deep thought, courage, friendship, determination, song and a conviction that there is HOPE in all of it - even the Wicked Witch was avenging her sisters death out of love and loyalty.
The illusion of Oz and a quick fix never works. You must skip the path steadily, oil some hinges, slap some noses and put out some fires along the way. In the end when you wake up from the bad dream and look into the faces of those you love and who love you right back, the bad dream is worthy of remembering....It after all is responsible, for getting you to the place of appreciation for all you have, that you in fact had all along....
This fixes nothing for my person who I cannot help. It changes nothing in the immediate.... Consolation prize in the interim, I love you. And you love me. And no matter what the path or how long it takes, I will be here when the nightmare ends. I have been here all along. And if, through this battle, you appreciate the courage, intelligence and big heart you have inside yourself, and you figure out that no one else can give you what you already are OR define you, it will be worth the storm. And after the storm comes the rainbow. Imagine me singing to you, as I have all your life...

Always look on the bright side of life, education and religion....

Hi all ya'll, (did I do that right - not Southern)
I have no time to blog for real today as my life has taken a complicated path (by association) and I find myself thrust into the center of a storm I must weather. Just think good thoughts - think DEB GOOD THOUGHTS.
I did however just reply to a discussion thread at school as part of an introductory assignment, I was supposed to post a comment on our reading - BOY are they in for it. Ha!!!
I thought, because I have no time to for my own thoughts (that are not academically related), I would just post that thread for you here to read and that way you won't miss me. AS IF you miss me - silly girl/old woman.
So welcome to my education - World Religion.
Hi everyone!
I am a habitual blogger in my personal time, writing/communicating is my thing and so....I am warning you all, this "discussion thread thing" could get dangerous for me :)
My thoughts... They are so varied and expanse on this subject to begin with, where oh where will I be in my head by the time May rolls around??? I am super excited by the prospect of expanding within the academic setting, being forty and in college provides a real appreciation for learning opportunities. BUT, in truth, I am even more excited by the possibility that this class may help me in some way define my own opinions and maybe even beliefs. I have found that my philosophy classes from the last three semesters awakened a very specific question in my personal life, What do I believe? Education, the expansion and well rounded-ness of my knowledge, only serves to provide more relevant and new/unknown variables to consider as I attempt to answer the big questions in my own middle-aged life. I am afraid (very) of my own death, and acknowledge I am certainly closer to it now than I was yesterday....Sigh, I want to explore the concept of religion some more before I am either meeting a maker at the pearly gates, thrust into my new body and life or, just plain done....
To comment specifically on the reading, I found it all quite fascinating and in my view the common thread is this - most humans require something aside from themselves and their own conscience to look/refer to for answers and control, regarding those things which we cannot.
In particular, I found the reading on the Indigenous people of our Native Americans the most thought provoking but this is simply because I have just studied Rene Descartes "God Proofs", along with his opinion of animals. Although I find there are aspects I agree with and disagree with in his philosophies, I am mostly torn about his opinion on the state of animal consciousness. I giggled a lot imagining what points he and a Native American what have debated in reference to the animal kingdom and the role it plays or doesn't play in our spiritual life. I find the Native American connection to the animals fascinating. Are they on to something, learning from and being guided (in simplified terms) by instincts that seem to provide a pretty reasonable order of things??? (Did that make sense?) Are there answers to our big questions by observing the natural world, the animals, the landscape, the seasons - natural death and rebirth? I wonder if it is just that simple? I think we are way too clogged up emotionally and spiritually these days - rules, regulations, possessions.... Maybe the order is in simplicity and maybe then my dog isn't being a bad boy by chasing the deer through the woods and leaving me standing there pissed off holding his leash.
And side note - the "trickster" deities - love this concept, kind of like the bad luck gods who throw you a curve ball to see if you duck, get popped, or smack it clean out of the park. Tricksters are everywhere, they are called CHANGE. I like the concept of worshiping the trickster, embracing your bad luck instead of bemoaning it. But....I say this believing I was an awful person in my past life and am karma screwed in this one - I could just be comforting myself here with a bright side only I see....
See you all in class :)

choose to believe?

Hey hey hey,
SO this semester I am taking a world religions class and although today is only day two, I find myself thoroughly submerged in questions relating to religion, the concept of God and what it all really means to me. It is so stupid that I am tearing up as I begin to type and open my mind to this vast and controversial subject. This topic is a huge one for me and one I am unsure I will ever reconcile with definitive conclusions and/or answers.

I was raised an Irish Catholic girl in a very Catholic family. I will be honest (without going into depth that may get me sued) that my experience is tainted a bit by bad behaviors having everything to do with people associated with the church, but certainly not within my actual church experience. Church for me was always a beautiful time, the sound of my Grandparents on either side of me passionately singing hymns is one of the safest memories I can conjure up from childhood. I will also admit however, that I never had the sense of devotion to Catholicism that my family seemed to experience, namely my Nana and Papa. The word of the gospel is straight from the lips of God in my Grandmother's opinion and there is NO other way. Jesus is our salvation and a Hail Mary will save your plane from crashing or redeem you should you not clear your plate at dinner. I WISH that I had the belief and devotion she has, I have watched her silently mouth the rosary over and over in times of fear and pain and have literally watched the fear and pain fall off of her with all the force of a good car wash. I wish I could find that kind of faith in anything outside of myself....
I make these detached statements, but then tear up immediately (again) as I guiltily feel the well of emotion rising to sting my eyes, I have an overflow of moments that smack of something higher and yet, I just don't know, but I do, but I don't...
The best way I can attempt to explain what I mean, is this.
I have a miracle - his name is Matthew Joseph.... I'll stay brief on this - the doctors said, terminate - the ventricle is blocked, the fluid has accumulated, his future is uncertain but certainly looks grave.
The first thing I did following scream, cry and sink to my knees, was grab my rosary beads wrap them tight around my fingers, Jesus tight in my palm and pray...Our Father who art in heaven...Hail Mary full of grace pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death..... I fell asleep praying and woke praying and continued on this way for weeks and weeks of what to me now, only resembles a numb haze. Every time that I went to the hospital for further tests (weekly) I first visited the hospital chapel where I knelt, hands clasped tight, forehead sunk deep into them and labored through these exact words, which I half spoke, half choked aloud, DEAR GOD PLEASE MAKE MY BABY WELL.
I did not believe he would be well in the end and believed even less, that I would survive his certain death. I quietly and gracefully prepared to die myself, if not in fact my actual life, certainly my emotional life. I was just waiting to say goodbye....I lived this way until somewhere around week thirty when I experienced what I refer to as a "divine intervention" where suddenly the landscape around me became grainy dots like that of an Andy Warhol print or the comics of a newspaper. The only exception to the glowing atoms surrounding me, was the twisted mangled body of a crippled teenage girl in a wheel chair and her loving Father doting on her every breath. I watched them in dismay and wonder as they communicated on a silent level, a language of a love so deep that I could see it glowing around them and emanating from them towards me, inviting me somehow to imagine I would ever be so lucky as to know this kind of intimacy.
I know it is hard to understand, it is even harder for me to describe, especially in short form text. The story deserves the inflection of my choked up voice as I travel back in time and see her again, see them again before me. This form does the experience no justice at all, I promise you. It was life altering for me. A look at divinity, a view of something higher - that someone, somewhere decided I NEEDED to see.
It was that very day that the weight of Matthew's health outcome lifted from me and I realized that because I was his MOTHER, I would know what to do no matter what. If he should be born into the world to die in my arms, well then my arms would be ready to hold him, my voice ready to sing to him, my heart full of love to send with him on his way. Whatever his destiny, I was THE integral component. And, if I were so lucky to have him live and instead face the many challenges of a disabled child, I would be blessed to have that rare kind of love like that Dad and his beautiful daughter...
Did God intervene? I have asked myself that question time and time again, especially when the terrorist attack of 9/11 ruined my first day of rest on maternity leave as I should have been preparing to give birth to Matt but was instead sobbing in horror as I watched the twin towers fall to the ground and with them the lives of thousands of people. The next day 9/12/01, I went to the hospital for my very last ultrasound to measure Matthews head, check circumference and swelling to see if vaginal delivery was even a possibility. As I drove to the hospital, the world around me moved in paces of shock, zombie like....The local firefighters were at red lights with boots collecting money for the fire houses in NYC. I entered the doors of Martha Jefferson Hospital that day in the same mood as everyone else in the country, SAD.
When I got up on the table and had the cool jelly smeared across my mountainous belly, I remember thinking, as Sheri (the tech) placed the ultrasound wand in the mound of gel, this may be the last time I see him safe....or alive.
I could not have been more wrong....
It is fuzzy what happened next - she said "I don't believe this" and I said "what"???? WHAT???

In short, the ventricle in his brain, after 38 weeks of pregnancy had suddenly, without explanation shrunk from completely dilated and covering the entire left side of his brain to within the normal limits and there it was grey matter we had never seen, developed normally underneath all that cerebral spinal fluid. The pressure had not damaged a thing....My boy turned nine and is here healthy as a healthy horse and driving me nuts on a daily basis. Praise God??? My Nana, the devout Catholic, told me God had made room for him, life and death are entwined....
Is that the work of God? Do I believe in God???
Today my professor addressed the class asking, "has anyone thought about where they were before they were born"???
I raised my hand the only whack job in the class and explained that I was evil in my past life I am SURE of it !!! How else can we explain the mammoth acorns that fall from the sky and hit me dead smack in the center of my head when there is no tree above me? Lets not forget the falling birthday squirrel that nearly beheaded me on my 38th birthday....
I have delusions of grandeur that have followed me from my past life as a bewitching evil princess probably responsible for mass murders if not mass seductions. Sometimes I think Marie Antoinette and I are the same and her party habits make me hopelessly bored in this lifetime....Sometimes I speak languages in my dreams that I have never heard before....I do believe that I was somewhere before here and that is most certainly not Catholic or indicative of traditional Christian beliefs...
What do I believe? I read about the "indigenous religions" of Africa and think some of it sounds faintly familiar.... I think it's possible that Hinduism has it all right....Is it about the next life? Is is about this one? Do I want to be nailed down? (wow I totally did not mean to make a Jesus reference there, no pun intended.)
I do know, that regardless of anything, a Catholic church makes me feel super safe and Jesus was a man I can respect no matter what the real deal is. Any man willing to die for a peace loving effort is a hero and worthy of worship. I pretty much worship Dr. King, no doubt
As I age, I find that I am less sure of anything I don't know for sure and really the only thing I do know for sure, is myself....
This class is going to break open my mind, I just know great revelations will come of this, whether they be Aboriginal, indigenous or Buddhist.....
So much to say so much to say..... (maybe music is the only religion I need ha)