Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
My heart goes out to Matt and Madeline.
I've been spending a lot of time reading this blog:
While I feel sad about the loss of Matt's wife and Madeline's mother, what I feel most is immeasurable admiration for this man. He writes from his heart about his grief, his fears, his loneliness, and how he might break or mess up his daughter. (Which we all worry about, Matt.) (I sometimes feel my children have survived and thrived in spite of me and the upbringing I gave them.) He pours out his heart in an unapologetic manner, even telling his readers "if you don't like the words I use, don't read it," which is how I feel as well.
At times, I had tears running down my face reading his blog. He wears his wedding band and his wife's rings on his pinkie finger. It makes me think about how I put Grandma's wedding band onto my finger, just as the mortician had taken it off of her finger, and we were about to drive to the cemetery. I think about how many married men won't wear a ring at all - which is an outward, tangible sign in our society of love, devotion and commitment between two people. He writes that he wears them to keep her near and I know what he means by that. The love that he feels for Liz is nearly unfathomable to me. He writes of how he was with her for something like twelve years and 59 days, how he doesn't want to be without her longer than he was with her, and how at some point in time, it will happen. I don't know if any man has ever loved me the way he loves her. Photos show not only her outward beauty, but the love she had for life, her vivaciousness.
I wore Grandma's ring until it caused me more pain than comfort to have it on my finger. As I write this, her picture is here beside me.
He longs to talk to Liz and he talks to Madeline instead. I have always spoken to those who have gone on before me- Benny, Papaw, Grandma Lindsey, Grandma Minnie, and now, Grandma Doris. I like to believe that they can somehow hear us. I also believe they are looking down upon us and the love continues to flow upon our lives.
Matt writes about how he wants to grieve but Madeline needs him to feed her, change her diaper, hold her. I remember how many times Laura and Bradley kept me going, kept me hanging in there, kept me alive. I would have dried up without them. Or, I would have ended up laying in some gutter somewhere. Laura and Bradley believed in me, loved me and forgave me more than I ever, ever deserved. There were so many times that I was afraid, but they were always there, looking to me, believing that I would take care of them. Matt will find that children are wonderful, resilient creatures.
This man is beautiful. You can see the pain he has experienced in his eyes. You can also see what a solid person he is. His story is a real life Sleepless in Seattle. His blog is a testimony of the goodness in most people. There has been an outpouring of love for he and his daughter. Operating it seems, on the "it takes a village" philosophy of raising Madeline, he shares her generously with everyone. There are as many photos on his blog of others holding her as there are of him holding her.
He spews it all - the pain, the loneliness, the fear. Many entries end in "I hate this day." But he also expresses gratefulness and recognition of a good day or laughter or friendship. He appreciates what he has and often entries end in the goodness of having his daughter.
It sounds trite, but I for one know "that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." I know I can survive anything and if Matt doesn't know it already, he will. There is a sort of comfort in the awfulness of what life deals out, in the surviving, in the wisdom of the strength that one acquires through adversity. I don't know this man, but I admire him intensely for his tenacity, his strength, his honesty, his spirit. He will, in time, be o.k. and will bask in the love that Madeline will shower upon his life. My heart goes out to them.
Monday, July 7, 2008
7/7
This is my beautiful girl, Laura. Today is her birthday and she is 26. She is accomplished, successful, smart and very driven. Did I mention beautiful? She is a natural beauty. She is a success at nearly everything she puts her hand to. She also works harder (and has for years) than just about anyone else I know. Today she is in Europe with her firm and I called her this morning to leave a message on her phone.
Twenty-six years ago I was married to her Daddy. We took classes in order to have natural child birth. I was very determined to do so. I awoke at 2 a.m. on the sixth of July with contractions. I'd read that if they were Braxton-Hicks, if you did a certain exercise, they would cease. I got up, went into the den and sat on the floor and performed the exercise. The contractions only intensified, which ticked me off. I went back to bed and tried to sleep while trying to figure out if "this was it." At 7 a.m., my contractions were five minutes apart and we decided to leave for the hospital. Beforehand, in response to the pressure I was feeling, I sat on the commode and cried. Don asked me why I was crying and I told him that I was afraid. He told me that it was a funny time to decide that I was afraid to have a baby. It was more of the unknown. She was originally due on July 1 and I had predicted that if we went past July 1, it would be July 7th.
She was born at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. An inner city hospital, it was under construction. We made our way through the mess and I was checked in. Going in, I was put into an antiquated wheelchair, wooden with a high back, something akin to what I'd imagine was used in FDR's day.
We got to the room and I labored and labored. I could hear other women crying out or yelling. I was determined to be focused and quiet, reserving my energy for her birth. At some point later in the day, they gave me an epidural. It was at that point I watched t.v. with my then husband and tried to relax. It seemed every hour on the hour a different person would walk into the room to "check" me which meant shoving their hand up to my tonsils at the moment of a horrendous contraction. At one point some greasy looking nasty guy came in to tell me he was on duty and I looked at Laura's dad and said "that guy isn't touching me." And fortunately for him, he didn't attempt to do so. At varying points in time, various doctors would come in to plead with me to "get things going," which meant drugs and artificial inducement, etc. I did NOT want that and whenever they would come in to speak with me, I'd turn my face to the wall and wait until they were finished. About nine p.m., a nurse came in to check me and I said to Laura's dad "you know, after the first came and went, I always thought the baby would be born on the seventh, and now it will be the sixth." The nurse delivered the then disheartening news that she felt the baby would indeed be born on the seventh. I felt as if the moment of her birth would never arrive.
Finally, around eleven p.m. a doctor came in to plead with me about the delivery. He told me that the baby had been out of its water for many hours and if we didn't act soon, infection might set in. Don turned to me and said "HE is the doctor, I think you should do what he says." I relented and they pounced upon me with any number of needles filling my body with the artificial stimulus that I did not want. I wasn't progressing and they induced me at that point.
A doctor I'd met one time in the hallway (my doctor was on vacation, of course) came into the room and announced "I'm Dr. Prochoroff and I'm here to deliver your baby." He was Russian and over six feet tall. At that point I didn't care who was going to help me get the baby out of my body. (I just googled him and his name is Dr. Nicholas N. Prochoroff.) In the end, Dr. Prochoroff had to use forceps and brace his feet and pull her from my body. She came out screaming. The required repair work to my body was extensive and I was able to hold her the entire time, once they had performed the initial tests. I even held her as we wheeled down the hall.
The next morning, they wheeled the isolate into my room. It was as antiquated as the wheelchair that carried me in and it looked like an aquarium on wheels with yellow metal trim all around. She had her head turned toward me and her eyes open-wide as if to say "Hi, Mom." She was hours old but her gaze held steady and she seemed to know it was me.
The time of her birth was ten minutes after twelve o'clock midnight and the date was 7/7.
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