Having kind of a crappy day over here, but working through it. I resent having to even say this, but if from my last post any of you thought I was equating getting an epidural with being medicated for freaking dental work, you are sorely mistaken. I resent feeling like I have to explain myself, to explain that that kind of rhetorical question as an answer to another question is simply an aspect of my sense of humor.
I sit here crying as I reflect on what this day means to me. My oldest daughter is nine today. I'm a bit sad for her because she has been throwing up since the wee hours and no one should be sick on their birthday. But as I look at the young woman she is becoming I am touched beyond measure. She is so good. Pure. Lovely.
I'm someone who gets the "I'll never forget XX number of years ago today..." talk from my dad every year on my birthday. He went home after I was born at 1:38 a.m., and didn't go to sleep; he sat in a wooden rocking chair, completely stunned, until the sun came up.
Nine years ago today I was sitting in a hospital room, watching The Price Is Right when the show was interrupted by news of the shooting at the family history library in SLC. I spent some time resting and talking on the phone, but I was just so excited all day long (not about the shooting, for all you nobs out there). I asked a million questions: What's that you're putting in my I.V.? What is it for? Any guess of when it will be time to push? I asked the nurses about their own experiences: Jennie, the nurse who helped me most of the day that day, didn't have children of her own, yet. Another nurse told me, "Babies arrive in lots of different ways; what's important is that they get here." I got an epidural. I pushed for over three hours. Foreceps were involved. I have a video of my face when the good doctor announced, at 9:11 p.m., what I had known deep down since the previous July, even though we declined being told: "It's a little girl!" He placed her on my tummy and...I kind of shook her hand a little bit. I didn't really know what to do. I was overcome with visions of her life: Her childhood, first day of school, baptism, dances, activities, growing pains, her own marriage. She was cleaned and measured and goop-eyed and handed back to me before being taken to the nursery to be better-cleaned and have her hair styled. I talked on the phone and peed on the floor (yes, I'm serious, but I'm not getting into it now). I was taken to my recovery closet (the rooms were ridiculously tiny back then) and given a turkey sandwich, some crackers, and juice. I laid down on my stomach. In the middle of the night, a nurse brought a wailing baby in to me and said, "You've got a screamer!" I nursed her for the first time. The next morning, after breakfast, I sat down with my daughter and said to her, "Okay, who do you look like?" I decided she looked like her dad. Nowadays people only say how much she looks like her mom (who looks nothing like her dad).
These are just a few of the details of the memories I have of that day, nine years ago.
Do you want me to tell you my memories of getting my wisdom teeth removed? It was a week after my son died, just a few days after we buried him. I took a valium. My sister had to practically carry me to and from her car. For the next few days, my brother and sister took turns helping me out at home with my little girl while I dozed in and out of consciousness, blood pouring from my mouth and getting all over my clothes and couch.
There you have it. You tell me.
And here we are, back to present. I finally admit that I am overwhelmed beyond belief that my son is partially deaf. I have no choice but to press forward. We are trying our damndest to teach him sign language and I'm getting frustrated that it doesn't seem to be working because he's already a year and a half old, not starting sign at 4 months like all these other cute babies around me have done. And we're doing it because we have to, not because it's charming. And all of that is just the tip of the iceberg because then I remember (yes, because it really has slipped my mind) that, oh yeah, I'm having a baby next week, and I'm just not in the mood for any crap from anyone. On the other hand, Mama Bear is IN and ready to fight. So, all you anonymous commenters, have a crappy weekend -- I hope your house burns down.