Thunderstorm
I feel as though I’ve written this before, but I can’t find it.
This occurred before I was in school, so I think I was about 4 years old.
We had an air conditioner in our room, my sister and I. When I was young central air was still a luxury – we had a window unit. An ancient, grey, heavy thing – when my father installed it annually we were forbidden to go outside lest it accidentally fall from the window and crush our heads. Our bedroom window was directly above the back porch so walking into the back yard immediately placed us in harm’s way. The unit did not properly fit into our window – there were gaping holes on either side. After the main install my mother would fill the holes as best she could with plywood and children’s stacking blocks. Every year it seemed to require a few more blocks to hold steady and immense gray box.
Sometimes my mother would fail to seal the window completely, which meant that our room never properly cooled off and elements from the outdoors were allowed inside. Such as – bees. We often had a beehive right outside our window, and bees would fly in through a gap and tour our room. I was terrified of bees. My mother taught us girls that, if we found a bee near us, we should freeze until the bee flew away – swatting at it or running would only make it mad, which would ensure we’d be stung. I remember lying in my bed during naptime watching a bee hover right in front of my face. I was too scared of being stung to even pull the covers over my head, and instead remained motionless, staring, hoping my mom would come in to rescue me. I couldn’t even call for her, though – so I held my breath and prayed to God not to let me get stung, and for naptime to end soon. My sister Stef, who was not as good at listening as I was, would duck under her covers for protection. I instead stared and stared, willing the bee to fly away, trying to even avoid blinking – wishing it would lose interest in me and leave me alone. Luckily, I was never stung. Invariably, when I’d tell my mom about the bees and how she needed to seal the hole better, she’d reply “oh Amy” with a wave of her hand, which meant I was complaining about nothing.
Rain could also fly in through the window holes – soaking our floor and beds. (Years later, when our roof slowly began to fall in, rain became a much more permanent fixture in our room). As a small child I found the indoor drizzle enchanting – something magical in spite of the chilly wet discomfort. But this enchantment applied only to light summer showers – thunderstorms were a different matter entirely.
I never knew quite what to make of a daytime storm. The thunder unsettled me, but as long as there was daylight I felt somewhat safe. Nighttime storms, though, were the things of walking nightmares – I was absolutely petrified of the dark. I was grateful that people slept through the dark, so they did not have to face it head-on. A night storm reduced me to a quaking, crying mess – sure that nothing in the world could possibly be as frightening.
One night, I woke up to the sounds of thunder-explosions and the sensations of rain beating my face and hands. Almost immediately after I awoke, my mom came into the room – our air conditioner had just been installed a couple days prior, and she had not yet filled the windows with plywood or blocks. The storm was pouring into my sister’s and my room, and the wind was threatening to rip the conditioning unit from our window. Mom was rushing in to try to steady the grey box so it would not crash to the ground – we could not have afforded to buy a new one.
Now, the main piece of plywood which was used to fill the window gaps was kept in the center of the basement, in our laundry room. What we referred to as a “basement” might more properly be termed a “cellar”, and the laundry room was its own separate cave – lighted by its own single bulb, powered by yanking on a single string I needed to jump up to reach. The plywood rested up against the air vent on the far side of the room. At age 4, on the best of days – in the middle of the afternoon, on a clear, sunny, happy day – with every light in the basement on – I would not have entered the laundry room without my mother nearby. I would have exited it at a run, afraid of what lurked in the shadows and cobwebs behind me.
Now – it was the middle of the night – dark, windy, storming. Thunder and driving rain slammed into walls already being punished by the wailing wind. I was in my own bed yet cold, wet, and confused. Luckily, my mom was there to help me, I thought.
“Amy,” my mom said, grabbing the air conditioner; “This is going to fall – you need to go get the wood for the window. Do you know where it is?”
I wanted, for a moment, to claim that no – I did not know. I wanted to say that I needed her to show me – that I could not possibly find it on my own. But instead the picture of the wood burned in my mind’s eye – down in the basement, on the far side of the laundry room, swallowed by the storm and the dark. I nodded my head. Mom let me know that I needed to be a big girl and go get the wood – so she could seal the window and prevent the a/c from dropping. Normally I obeyed my mom immediately and with little question, but this time before I left the room I thought of one thing – one single chance of saving myself from the trip down the basement stairs. “Can Daddy help?” I asked.
“No, Amy” my mom said. “But you can ask him if you want to.”
My mom didn’t need to tell me the answer was no. I knew if before I even asked the question. I knew, even at age 4, I was selfish and silly to ask, since I already was aware of the answer anyway and was wasting time trying to avoid my task. But the thought of entering the laundry room – CROSSING the laundry room – in the middle of a stormy night so frightened me I had to ask it anyway.
Accepting the fact that my mom was not going to leave the air conditioner, and realizing that my younger sister was – amazingly – still asleep through the storm – I alone made my way into the living room. The lightening caused enough shadows that I could find my way down the stairs without trouble. I repeated Hail Marys in my head, and told myself I was a big girl. I could do this – I could help.
In the living room, my father slept – half on the couch, half on the floor – his glasses hanging off his face. He was twisted and snoring, beer cans stacked on the TV tray table next to him, spilling on to the floor. I knew the beer cans were too many in number, and I knew they were responsible for my twisted, semi-prone father. I didn’t know much beyond that, although I strongly suspected my mother was right – my father would not help me. I determined to try anyway.
I rushed over to him. “Daddy,” I whispered, directly into his ear. “Daddy,” I shook him, as hard as I could. He stirred.
“It’s raining,” I said, thinking he was awake. “It’s raining and mommy needs the wood for the window.”
“Good night, Amy” he muttered. He slumped all the way on to the floor.
I was disheartened, but growing ever more scared and desperate. “Daddy!” I said, much more loudly this time. “Mommy needs the wood for the window! It’s in the basement!” I shook him, but could barely move his shoulder. This time he did not respond. I wondered how in the world he could sleep through the storm.
I looked into the kitchen, towards the basement door. I started to cry.
I’m a big girl, I told myself, wishing the storm would please just suddenly end. I’m a big girl. I can do this – if I run it will be very quick. I’m a big girl.
I crossed the living room into the kitchen, and went to the basement door. I opened the door and immediately jumped to turn on the light. The light switch at the top of the basement stairs was one of the few I could reach in our house; even though I knew it was bad (not allowed) to turn on a light switch at night, I had no intention of going down those stairs in the pitch dark. I missed the switch on the first jump, but hit it on the next. Of course, the power was out. I had no choice. The light was not going to come on. The storm was not going to stop. My dad was not going to wake up. I was crying very loudly now but not even that helped. I needed to head downstairs, into the dark, by myself, and get the window wood for mommy. I was a big girl. I could do this.
Too blind to run, I walked as fast as I could down the steps. Hanging on to the railing offered a sense of safety. At the bottom of the steps, I faced the laundry room and, after a small pause, I ran as fast as I possibly could towards it. I strained to see anything in front of me – although by now my eyes were adjusting to the dark so it was not as difficult. An occasional flash of lightening through the window-wells offered some guidance – I ran to the wood, clamped my hands on it, and lifted as best I could. It was large, heavy, and unwieldy and I could not possibly carry it and run at the same time. So instead of carrying I opted to drag it, as fast as I could, scraping the wood across the concrete floor – shuffling my small feet back towards the stairs. I was all but screaming my sobs, praying over and over to not be afraid.
I pulled the wood back up the stairs, one step at a time. At the top of the stairs I slammed the door shut and scurried across the kitchen and through the living room. My father had not moved from his slumped position on the floor. I banged the wood back upstairs to my bedroom, lugging it to my mom. I tried to not cry as loudly, so I wouldn’t get in trouble for waking my sister.
“I got the wood, mommy,” I said, shaking and beaten.
“Good girl, Amy.” She replied. “You are a very big girl. Thank you.”
After some struggle, she managed to place the wood so it covered most of the window. It was now only raining a little bit in our room, and the noise faded as well. She gave me a big hug, tucked me back into bed, and told me to go to sleep. I squished up against the far side of my bed, away from the window, where my sheets were dry.
Years later, it occurred to me that – as sharp and significant a memory as this is for me – half of my family (at the time) would not ever remember it occurring. In fact, once I left my bedroom for all intents and purposes I had been alone – no one else had run into the basement with me. I asked my mom if she remembered that night – almost to prove to myself that it had indeed happened.
“Oh yes, I do.” She replied.
“I was so scared,” I said; trying to explain how I’d felt. But she wouldn’t say anything more.
A Skank Ho's Guide to Maternity Wear
First time moms-to-be face many questions regarding their pregnancies. A few classics are: How will I cope with morning sickness? What if something happens to me or my baby? Is it actually physically possible to drink enough water? And then there is the question a pregnant woman asks herself each and every day:
What in the hell am I going to wear?
The second trimester usually marks the point where a radiant mother moves into a period where none of her old stuff fits, yet she’s still too small for actual maternity wear. A mom-to-be might try to plan ahead for this period (as I did) by buying several pairs of pants one to two sizes larger than normal. However, she will find that these new additions only stretch so far (pardon the pun), and she’s still left standing in front of her closet wondering aloud what combinations will fit over her swollen abdomen that day. Personally, I often dipped in to my big shapeless dress collection left over from my theatre-student college days, telling myself that since I used to wear it with combat boots when I was 20, it didn’t count as a muumuu.
My focus on clothing piqued my curiosity on a related topic. I asked myself, if someone like me - who enjoys looking nice but only if it means investing a minimum of time, effort, and money - could spend up to 30 minutes at a time simply choosing an outfit, what on earth did the high-maintenance ladies do?
I’m not referring to the wealthy, or those gals who favor the latest designer wear. There are plenty of high-end maternity boutiques to accommodate fashion mavens with lavishly disposable incomes. I’m talking about the woman who pairs her sexiest shoes with her tightest, most boob-or-navel-baring tops. The woman who invests in tanning products in the middle of a Midwestern winter and who keeps her travel make-up in a tackle box. The woman who exudes the fashion sense of a rock star and the intelligence of a playmate (maybe she’s got a law degree, but when she is photographed straddling something while naked, no one is thinking “wow! look at her brains”).
I had to wonder, when pregnant, what on earth did the skank-hos wear? If I was a skank, where would I find appropriately revealing clothes for that special time in my life?
Well, I’ve given this matter some thought, and have reached a few solutions. So I am now proud to share this list - the Skank-ho’s Guide to Maternity Wear. These are my thoughts on finding the best outfits for a ho’s pregnant body; clothes not only fit, but also proudly proclaim “look at me! I’m a ho!”
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The Skank Ho’s Guide to Maternity Wear
First off, I am going to introduce my list with a few words to those preggie skank-hos out there, them fine-looking bitches who got knocked up. Regarding your wardrobe - the good news is that most of you will be able to slide in to your normal attire until about month four. Although I do suggest either trading in your wonderbra for something more industrial – or becoming real fond of boob-tape. I know it isn’t sexxxy, but I promise you’ll feel better if your girls are snug and comfy, as opposed to spilling out and hanging down to your knees.
So, that only leaves you with five months of wardrobe changes to deal with. That’s just about a season and a half, depending on where you live. It may seem like a big investment, but as long as you know your particular flava of skanky style you’ll soon see that a few key purchases will take you a long way. Follow these tips, and I bet you’ll be stylishly shaking your thang up until your water breaks.
And bitches, I know you work hard to look this good. But for the next year it’s either the body or the baby, not both. So ease up on the energy pill diet and the 15-hours-in-the gym-a-week and trade in fake-baking for spray-on, then break out the comfy clogs because we’re going shopping.
1) First off – beauty parlor business: I don’t care what you’re girlfriend thinks she remembers the health teacher saying, it IS okay to get manis, pedis, and color your hair during pregnancy. In fact, your hair will probably get shinier and fuller during this time, so iron away. Just don’t crimp. No one crimps anymore. Really. Unless you’re really low-rent, in which case for yo’ baby’s sake I suggest developing some self-respect.
2) Second – jewelry: all them bangles, chains, and earrings will still fit you, as will most piercings. Rings may pose a problem starting in the second trimester, but for the most part you will still be able to accessorize. Go you.
Okay, now on to actual clothes.
3) For you Lycra lovers – know that spandex will still fit. Although you’ll need to buy it anywhere from 1 to 3 sizes larger in order to tug it on over your expanding ass and belly - it will fit. So if you think you look good in spandex, you can keep on thinking that all the way through. Head on over to the active wear section of your favorite discount department store (it’s cheaper than Rave or Rue 21, I promise) and stock on up. A spandex addict’s maternity shopping is now done – congratulations.
4) If you’re a belly-barer then any top can be a maternity top. If you can tug it down over your boobs (or nipples, wherever you draw the give-it-away-for-free line) it fits. And the really good news is that even you A-frames can get rid of the falsies because you will develop cleavage. So let them necklines plunge! From tits up you will be sexier than you’ve ever been before (until your face gains weight, which leads me to another tip – now is not the time to cut your hair. You’ll need it for cammo later. Besides, re-read tip #1 in case you forgot it already). If you’re a belly-barer then congrats, your shopping is now half-done. Skip tip #5 and move to on the sections concerning bottom-wear.
5) If you’re not a belly barer – you’re still in luck, because as long as you’re willing to look like a hippie you can still find sexy tops. Old Navy is a great resource.
a. Or, if you can’t stand flower-children, then hit the Target/K-Mart/Marshall’s/Value City maternity or plus size evening-wear section and you’ll find something black and sparkly, I guarantee. If there’s no neckline go on and rip one in. Black and sparkly, combined with shiny lip gloss, is a skank-ho classic.
b. Or, if you can’t stand flower-children or those stupid, bitchy, black-wearing, lip-gloss abusing, boyfriend-stealing sluts, then try to find the plus sized section of your regular store. Okay, at Bebe you’ll be out of luck but T.J. Maxx has one, I promise. Don’t you tell me you don’t shop there, I know where you live. If you are shopping in the spring, summer, or around Christmas I guarantee you will find something either satin-y or with sequins, or both. If it’s fall or mid-winter then you might want to check the clearance rack for left-overs. You might be able to dig up something see-through, or maybe something with a cute/suggestive logo. Odds are good there is SOMEthing skankalicious in the racks, you just need to hunt for it.
c. If worse comes to absolute worse, you can always rely on tank tops, wife-beaters, camisoles, etc. Go crazy with these. Layer the cute one over the plain one. They even make special ones for knocked-up bitches that hyper-extend to cover your navel. You can wear these year-round, and when it’s cold out just throw on a normal sized shrug or half-sweater, or even a jacket if you’re a preppy ho.
6) Low rise pants will last until about month 6. You may need a larger size than normal, but they’ll fit. Just please, I beg you, if you’re doing the ‘rubber band through the button hole” trick, please please please don’t wear a half-shirt. Attitude can not make that look good. No, it can’t. No, it can’t.
7) Girl, make your peace with elastic. All the other knocked-up skank-hos are doing it too. Make your peace, so them bulimic bitches can’t blackmail you for it later. Word.
8) If you’ve mastered the art of wearing running/yoga pants, go on and stock up in size large (it’s the tag with the L on it) or even extra-large (the tag with the XL). You’ll even be wearing these post-pg, and they look good with tank tops (see tip #5). Even if you’re not normally down with the whole athletic thing, you might want to get one or two pairs (lots of them have extra zippers and rhinestones, I promise) just because they’re so comfortable. If you are gravely concerned about your rep as a princess, put them on with platform gym shoes and no one will think you actually run anywhere. But remember that not even Posh Spice would wear heels with these.
9) Jeans – the only option is low-rise stretch. Once these don’t fit anymore then you have to give up jeans, because there ain’t no maternity or plus-sized jeans that will look acceptably slutty. Sorry.
10) Skirts – cotton/spandex/poly blends will see you through pretty much the entire pregnancy. You hippies and romantics can wear the tiered/layered/billowy skirts they sell at H&M year-round. You exotics can fill up on sarongs and wrap-arounds. For all the rest of you, if you comb the junior’s section for either L or XL (if you don’t remember what those letters mean, re-read tip #8), or the plus-size section for whatever-the-hell fits you, you will likely find at least one decent skirt. I suggest buying it in as many different colors as available. And remember tip #7, and what I said about the elastic.
11) Dresses – obviously the right dress, coupled with your regular party time footwear, can go miles when you’re knocked up. Dresses are comfy, sexy, and easy to accessorize. Here is my one tip about dresses – you want something, if not the dress itself then a scarf, belt, or band – that snugs the dress UNDER your belly, as well as over. Without under-belly definition, you look like a tent. Pair a shapeless dress with a fringe-y belt and top it off with a cowboy hat and you’re practically Daisy Duke (well, if she put out). For more sophisticated skankdom, I suggest something with really stretchy/clingy fabric – a sweater dress can be perfect, if in season. As far as under-the-dress fashion, I suggest brightly colored lacy boy shorts. Far cuter than grannie panties, and just as comfy. I personally would forego the thong ‘cuz at 6 + months you’re probably sporting some cheesecake down there, but you do what you gotta do.
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And that’s it! Just 12 easy suggestions for maintaining ho-bag style while knocked up. Keep in mind, being a skank bey-otch is likely what got you pregnant in the first place, so now is not the time to abandon your style but instead to have it see you through until delivery. Good luck to you, and may you have a happy, healthy baby.
As far as creating “A Skank-ho’s Guide to Labor” – well, I’ll leave that to someone else.
Peace out.
cycle
I lay my arms
Like a crucifix - as though
I can redeem.
Music, louder than me,
Pounds the drop ceiling
As I cry and cry.
A day later I was on it again.
***
After the last of his items was gone
I recalled the moment
We started to end.
He saw the case I'd been
Too stupid to remove from the glove-box.
He wanted to know how long.
My wincing trumped my claim
It was old, left over from before.
He wanted to know.
By then it was 5 months.
I liked what they did to me,
I said. I'm not crying.
No one is.
He threw them and yelled.
For 4 months he asked me to stop.
Then just gave up.
I figured that might happen.
But I'd rather swallow security
Than cry on the basement floor.
He left.
I don't care.
I'll take them anyway.
I'd rather be alone.
Miss Carry
I’m really hungry, but I’ve got to wait at least another hour before I eat. Otherwise the antibiotics will either 1) absorb into my food, and not protect me from Nasty Infections or 2) interact strangely with the food, and I’ll vomit. I am in absolutely no mood to vomit right now. So I’ll wait to eat, then.
I’m tired, but don’t want to sleep right now. I’ve slept a lot recently, and want to do something different. So I type.
Tuesday, December 21st, I found out I was pregnant.
Monday, January 3rd, I was no longer.
Is it strange to miss something I only knew about for 2 weeks? She/he/it was only 8 weeks old, ‘inside time.’ It didn’t have a name or gender yet. We called it ‘pat.’ Pat-the-baby. It’s an action and a name together - hello, I’m Pat, the baby. Pat-pat me, please.
Our families knew, my new job didn’t. Most of my old job didn’t, either. Most of our friends knew - the ones we could tell in person, anyway. A general announcement had yet to be made. Perhaps we should have waited, to spare others the bad news. What can I say, I only keep my own secrets when I feel my personal security is at risk. This was happy news. It made the (potential) grandparents happy. The aunts-to-be went nuts. It seemed silly to keep it inside.
Ah yes, but it couldn’t stay inside, now could it. That was the problem. Monday night my doctor, who I never actually met, only spoke with over the phone (my first appointment hadn’t happened yet, I’d only met with a nurse) told me to go to the emergency room. He said my cramping and bleeding indicated that I really should head to an emergency room now. So I did. My husband and I did. I don’t know if pat-the-baby joined us for that trip. I think she was already gone.
By the time we got to the (correct) hospital, (who knew there were two with the same name?????) I was a bloody mess. Take that literally.
The hospital drew more blood. Earlier in the day a nurse had used a vein in my arm, but now those were hiding so instead this nurse plugged the back of my hand. Then I got an examination. Good news! the ER doc said. You look like you haven’t lost the baby yet! Things may be hunky-dory after all. I knew he was only acting on the information he had at hand (so to speak). He was just joining us that evening and didn’t know what was going on. I knew he was wrong, but nodded my head anyway - after all, I’m not a doctor. And better to be safe than sorry. I’m certainly not mad at him for being wrong, even though I knew he was.
Then, I got a catheter, as prep for an ultrasound. Apparently only women in my condition are treated to catheters, normally you just drink a lot of water beforehand. Or something to that effect. I promise I will try with all my heart and soul to be a good girl so I never ever need a catheter again. They are no fun at all. Amen.
The external ultrasound was uncomfortable. I think it might have been more pleasant had I not also had incredibly painful cramps in the exact same place where the tech kept pressing. I should have been better behaved, but I was a baby and squirmed anyway. Then the internal exam (given after the external ultrasound failed to show anything significant) made me want to kick someone in the head repeatedly. My husband stood there, wincing as I did, stroking my head and holding my hand. Telling me I was good. The second tech, who had grabbed the camera-wand from the hands of the first tech and whom I wanted to kick, (very very hard) complained her arm was getting tired because my gurney was so high. She whined as she repeatedly prodded me, asking if it hurt, until finally not only I but my husband and the first technician were all affirming that yes indeed, it hurt. A lot. And the she poked me again anyway, and whined about her arm. I hope the woman gets strip-searched and deported.
After the ultrasounds, I went back to the emergency ward. A woman who sounded as if she had ingested more than one pain pill wailed about her arm hurting. (Apparently sore arms were big on the hospital menu Monday night). I stared at the walls of my room, which were decorated with Disney (TM) Princesses and Buzz Lightyear. Buzz was on the ceiling above my bed too. A space ranger smiling down on me while I tried not to think about what was going on. The ER doc (who looked like Eugene Levy, as my husband had earlier observed) came in to tell me the ultrasounds showed I had an ectopic pregnancy. He announced I would soon be going into surgery. He said it matter-of-factly, like, “well - we are out of chocolate ice cream so all the guests will have vanilla.” Well - this is unexpected but you have an ectopic pregnancy. You’ll be going to surgery soon. Thanks and good night.
A new nurse came by and removed the catheter, thus making her my favorite person of the decade. She let me use the real bathroom, too. She should be sainted. I took a long time, savoring the freedom to pee, and when I finally hobbled back to my room a new nurse was there, who drew more blood (from my left wrist, this time) and gave me an IV. My first IV. Whee.
Outside of the OR I signed more consent forms handed to me by more nurses. My husband continued to be right next to me, as sweet and as caring as he could possibly have been. I didn’t get really scared until I encountered the concept of general anesthesia. I was scared of an allergic reaction. I am only medically allergic to penicillin but in recent years my skin has had reactions to all kinds of new (and old) things. I wanted to cry - I react to the sun, how do you know I will not react to the anesthesia? My doctor assured me if I had a reaction they would treat it. But I was still so scared. I had to remove all jewelry before going into surgery; I took off my wedding rings, kissed them, and handed them to my husband. I removed the belly ring I got on Venice Beach almost six years ago. I tried not to tell him how scared I was but eventually I crumbled and said, "What if I don't wake up?" I can't remember exactly how he replied, but I am sure it was along the lines of, "Of course you'll wake up." Right. Of course I would.
Then, they took my husband away. That made me very sad indeed. I liked him standing right next to me, and I am sure he liked being there as well, where he could see exactly what was going on. I think he would have watched the surgery if he had been allowed to. But, no - and off he went.
Inside the OR I moved from my gurney to the operating bed. I was given a drip which made me sleepy, and a few moments later an oxygen mask was placed across my nose and mouth. I knew after I was asleep a tube would be inserted to help me breathe. A nurse held my hand - I think she was checking my pulse, really, but holding my hand felt nice. Right before I fell asleep I could feel my face burning. I'm not sure if I mentioned this or not.
I don't remember falling asleep, or dreaming, or time passing, or anything. Then, the surgeon and a nurse were shouting at me to wake-up. "Surgery is over!" they exclaimed, the same way you might tell a small child, "look - you got a new sled for Christmas! How fun!" I was happy they were happy - obviously I must be okay. I was happy about one other thing as well: prior to going into the OR, one of my doctors had told me my breathing tube would be removed after I woke up. I was not looking forward to this, but figured that it couldn't be any worse than whatever else that had happened that night. However, as the operating team cheerfully told me I was okay, I noted a distinct lack of breathing tube in me. It was out already. Thank goodness. I am grateful I did not have to consciously experience the tube’s removal.
One of the nurses was having a problem locating my husband. She was not checking the correct waiting area. I wasn't too worried, but still wished they would hurry up and figure out where they put him. I opened my eyes again but no matter how hard I blinked the room remained doubled and tripled and shaking ever so slightly. I struggled to focus but gave up and closed my eyes again. "Listen to me," my surgeon was yelling, trying to get my attention. "You are fine. You did not have an ectopic pregnancy. You are fine. Everything is fine. You might forget this so I'll say it again - you did not have an ectopic pregnancy." Yahoo.
After another few minutes and still no husband, my surgeon called to me again. She was a short, thin lady who seemed like she might have a great sense of humor, if you happened to talk to her outside the OR. I liked her a lot. "You need a shot," she said. "This is very important. Do not go home before you get a shot. Do you understand? You need a shot for your blood type. To protect your next pregnancy. Tell them you need a shot." I smiled and said thank you. Whispered it - my throat was killing me. I would have bribed someone for ice cream. I noted how many things I was hooked up to - there was an oxygen tube running under (but not in) my nose, an IV in my left arm. A few sensors were still attached to me, which presumably connected to some machine somewhere in the room. A pulse monitor was clipped to my left index finger, which I briefly considered pulling off. A blood pressure sleeve encircled my right arm, taking measurements every few minutes. After some time, these items were removed - first the blood pressure sleeve, then the oxygen thingy, the pulse clip, and the other clips or wires presumably connected to the sensors, but not the sensors themselves.
A little while longer and I was wheeled into a recovery room. 3300, bed 1. The nurses said these numbers over and over, and my brain remembered it. I thought maybe I'd tell my husband where to find me later - honey, I was in 3300 bed 1. That's where I was.
In the recovery room, I asked the nurse (my - 8th? for the evening? I think I met almost the entire staff that night) if I could use the bathroom. She said she needed to go check something, but assuming that was okay then she'd help me, as long as I didn't think I would throw-up. I promised I wouldn't. She left, returned, helped me sit up, and wheeled my IV around the bed so it could accompany me on my trip. As she assisted me to my feet the entire room bobbed up and down about three times, my head fell off, and my knees bent completely backwards. Normally I probably would have whined pathetically and climbed back in bed, but I was on a mission. I was still savoring the ability to pee freely and was not going to admit to feeling a little woozy. I smiled, and continued hobbling towards the bathroom, like a cheerfully grimacing snail on broken legs, trying to show everything was fine.
As I reached the door to the bathroom, my husband came in the room. Guess they’d finally remembered where they’d stashed him. He seemed very happy to see me, as I was him. However, seeing as my jelly body was seconds away from melting into the floor and I was determined to pee, I glanced at him, threw another smile, then dragged myself into the bathroom. I grabbed on to the doorjamb for support, and my husband grabbed my hand briefly and squeezed it. He let go, and I sat down. Ahhh, success. I am eternally grateful for the freedom to empty my bladder in the position and location of my choice.
I finished up, and I bobbed my way out of the bathroom and back into the room, nurse and IV in tow. In a few painful moments I was settled into bed 1 of room 3300. My husband kissed me and put my wedding rings back on my left hand. I smiled again. Smiling was much easier than talking. My shoulder hurt (from the gas used to enlarge my abdomen, which was necessary for my laparoscopic surgery), my throat hurt, my stomach burned. The experts agreed, I was by now baby-free. Just a normal miscarriage. I was cancer-free as well. Since the internal ultrasound had, apparently, shown SOMEthing strange, my husband and I had both considered the possibility that this was something Extremely Not Good. But the surgeon had assured my husband repeatedly: I was fine. There was nothing wrong. I was fine. Whew.
I slept for a couple hours. Surprisingly. I mean, I was surprised to wake up and discover it was no longer 1:30 AM o’clock. My husband sat next to me, reading. I wanted to give him some room in the bed so he could sleep too, but it was too small. Plus turning on my side was not an option. I moved my legs so he could put his head down. He told me to stop being silly.
Around 4:00 AM my final nurse came in, gave me the shot (in the butt) I absolutely-needed-to-must-have-absolutely-without-a-doubt, and told us we could leave. We thanked her profusely. She should probably be sainted as well. I changed into the sweats I had thrown into an overnight bag, and was wheeled out of the room, down the hall, into the elevator, down another hall, and out the front door. Or back door. Or side door, whichever door it was. It didn’t much matter at that point - I was just glad to have packed up my broken body and be heading home.
Now, I am on three meds, one of which is a potentially habit-forming narcotic. I got 35 of those. Neat! The other two drugs aren’t nearly as exciting, and I only have 6 each of those. When I’m not on a pain pill, my shoulder, neck, and jaw are extremely stiff, and my tummy area rather painful. Not horribly so, just enough to notice it when I try to sit up or lay down or turn on my side. When the pain pills are kicking, though, I feel just this side of fine, except for the listlessness. My husband continues to be the most wonderful supporter in the world. At times we are sad, and at other times we are sleeping. And at other times I am gasping, trying not to laugh because it hurts too much. We are doing fine. We assure each other that someday, there will be another pat-the-baby. Pat-pat the baby. Bye-bye, sweet baby, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you in.
I am pretty gosh-darn scared of having to go through this again, but I know I survived it once, and can do so a second (but god help me, not a third) time if need be.
And now, here I sit. And I type. And finally, it is time to eat, so I will. Maybe someday when I am done with all the meds I will crawl inside a bottle of vodka, but then again maybe not. I don’t know yet. Right now I am tired and afraid. Afraid of posting this, but also anxious to do so. I want to keep my chronicle. I also want to keep my privacy. Almost everyone who reads this site is a friend, and I certainly do not mind my close friends knowing what happened. Many of them know already. For those random few who read this and do not know me, a small happy thought in my and my husband’s general direction would be much appreciated. And for you, you foreigner, you gossip, you whiner, you egomaniacal crazy witch, if you read this, remember - this is MY story. Not yours. I did not tell you this firsthand, because I knew how you would twist it into your own heartbreak and say horrible things. If you read this, when you read this, try to be decent and keep it to your damn self. Thanks.
Aura
A section of wallpaper
Jumped off its home above the door frame
Clinging to your hand.
The walls folded inward
While my skin dripped down your arms.
Fingers found a mouth -
Found a mouth -
Eyes closed, the blackness violently rolled.
Eyes open,
The hanging light above the bed
Offered a flimsy, dated anchor.
Water foiled the calm,
Soiled the floor,
Scared the pets -
Blackness around our fleeting address.
One aura
Sewn together.
Combusting.
Seduce Me
Let your eyes
Stalk my body
A ruttish hunger,
My unwrapped neck.
I am porcelain
Smashed - a broken thing.
You approach
Too slowly.
Out of rhythm
I misstep -
I am pieces
Disordered by
Hands -
I am cornered,
Overcome.
Your breath on my lip -
Your teeth on my will -
I am a stray.
Encounter
One
Oils mix, lashes drop -
A body comes this way.
A record, a bell-chord,
A scent, perhaps a stain.
Two
A piano in a theatre
Keyed on a puckish night.
Film negatives, cigarettes,
Refocusing the lights.
*->-->-- if you would like to leave a calling card, you may do so here.
Tossing about bad karma gets you edited.
Lips
I look at my lips.
I am stunned and
Calculating.
My chin is raw.
I scare myself.
Not us/a love poem
Intriguing -
My writing indicates
I loved you more
Than the emotions I’ve been assigning to memories of you.
(Not us, just you).
I thought
Since I have creative memories,
Reading the written history
Would spotlight the liberties I take.
But I’ve forgotten
So many things we did.
And instead of memories
Created thoughts of several abstract silent settings -
The real events were shockingly moving.
I should start imagining
Memories of today,
So the new batch
Becomes as poignant as those I lost -
Since
I have ‘now’ at the cost of ‘you’
I am sad.
If I missed ‘now’
Would I forget ‘you’
Altogether -
Halloween/Someday
If I were to teach you how to cure
I'd murder you tonight;
You'd overestimate your lovely self
Trying to protect us.
In your quest to shut out nightshades
You would be dissolved
As friends stared dumbly on.
I'm keeping you ignorant,
My impetuous lovely -
Because I want you kept.
**** the above is my favorite poem. Except, it's not written correctly, and is quite terrible in its present form. I want to turn it into a particularly vivid dream from a few years ago - generally I am always re-writing and re-titling this poem. So far I've never ever gotten it right. I think it's beyond me - the ability to accurately shape these words. ****
-
In my dreams last night
I found you
Dressed for a mardi gras
In the downstairs of my
Grandmother's house.
Your car was small,
The combination of a hearse
And a violin-case.