(quoth Pinky, of Pinky and the Brain)
I haven’t been able to write. There are things I want to say, but I’m at a loss for words. The outpouring of love from people all over the planet, people who I’ve not even met, is such a thing of beauty. How marvelous is the human spirit, to well up and spring forth with such empathy, compassion, and love. I can’t say thank you in such a way as to express truly how thankful I am. But thank you, I do. Thank you.
Mostly I’ve been keeping myself busy, trying not to think too much, and just trying to get through. I think that I’ve come through the worst of it. I’m hoping that’s the case, because if there’s more in store, I’m simply unprepared. I have an ultrasound tomorrow to determine if further action is necessary. Finally. For a doctor who assured me he would be there for me, the timing certainly didn’t pan out. Of course I could have gone to the ER if necessary, and I was ready to do that, but I got through what I hope was the worst of it. It wasn’t like the last two times. I didn’t have those incredibly intense and painful contractions. It was no picnic, be assured, but it wasn’t sheer and terrifying hell either. Perhaps knowing what was in store helped, as sometimes the fear of the unknown or the experience of the unfamiliar is greater than the thing itself.
Friday, as I waited for the inevitable, I made a sleeve for my laptop. I found some fabric that I liked – it reminds me of Dr. Seuss, a Dali clock and Van Gogh’s scream, all in one, even though it’s just black and white. Wanting to use stock on hand (i.e., being too cheap to buy proper batting), I spread puffs of polyfil across the fabric and tacked it down a bit, and machine quilted along the lines of the fabric design. It’s not a bit uniform, but I am pleased with the result. It’s my first attempt at ‘quilting’ and I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing. I just did it. Avante garde.
Friday I also noticed, with delight, that there is new life in my garden. It made me feel happy, that there could be some new life amidst the departing life for which I’m grieving. I’ve never grown vegetables before, and didn’t know what to expect. I planted some peas and beans and discovered that every little flower now has a bean or pea suspended from it. It’s truly a wonder to behold the beauty of life. It brightened my otherwise dismal day.
Saturday, while I was still waiting, not knowing when the floodgates would open, I gave my boys haircuts, and bleached Gadget’s hair. He likes that California surfer dude look for some who-knows-why reason. There was quite a lot of extra bleach so I decided to make some crazy streaks in my own hair. What the heck. A change always makes me feel better, especially at times like this. I knew my sister the hair Artiste would admonish me when next she saw me, but I paid no heed and bleached away with near abandon.
Saturday night was a rough night, with the bulk of unpleasantries taking place early early Sunday morning, around 2:30 am – 5:30 am. I got through it without untoward trauma, hoping that the worst was not yet to come.
One of my brothers and his girlfriend made a surprise visit that evening, with the express agenda of the annual hair do, so Sunday we all went to the salon for a private hair day. Too bad for Gadget. One day more and he could have had a professional hairdo, rather than a kitchen botch job. As predicted, I was admonished, and my sister did a right fine job of making my hair look delicious and more than presentable. I should call it crisis hair. Every time I have a crisis, I do something completely different to my hair. To change things up. Distract me. Make me feel better. It works. It’s very therapeutic. It helps to have an exquisite Artiste as a sister, though.
My brother’s visit coincided with a planned visit from my mother, so after the hair date, my sister and nephew came back to my place to complete the party. It felt wonderful to have a house filled with exhuberant noisy people that I love. We laughed and reminisced about all the ways our mother embarrassed us as children. The most unfortunate time she was a substitute teacher in my sister’s health class when the topic du jour was reproduction. We asked my brother if she’d given him the talk. You know the one. It was hilarious, what with his girlfriend there and all. We thought he should get a refresher and nearly got my mother to start into it. Rolling on the floor laughing. That was the scene in my living room on Sunday evening. Now that does a heart good.
They all helped me prepare that fabulous chicken tagine dish, but most of the boys weren’t keen on the olives. I was a bit scatterbrained, I guess, because I managed to burn myself quite admirably, not once, but twice. My arm met the oven door on the first occasion. Hot oven doors are not the least forgiving when it comes to direct fleshy contact. The next encounter took place whilst adding chicken to hot oil. Shimmering olive oil is also not the least bit forgiving. Fried forearm. It almost looks like a heart. Nothing but love around here. I doubled the recipe (chicken tagine, getting this tale back on track) and it wasn’t quite the same, so I recommend sticking to the recipe as written, more or less. The flavors mingled better after a day of refrigeration, so at least I will get the benefit of enjoying all the leftovers, now frozen for future meals. I was just hoping the family would love it as much as I did, the first time I tried it. Even so, it was wonderful to prepare a meal as a family, regardless of how it turned out.
Monday I decided to tell my mother the reason I wasn’t going to work that day. She knew I was planning to see the doctor, and she was polite not to ask, but I could see the fleeting thought across her face that she was thinking and hoping I would soon be telling her there was a baby on the way. So I told her the sad news, and we hugged and cried together, and she told me that she was sorry, and it just didn’t seem fair that this would happen to me, again. It was an endearing moment.
An added bonus from my mother’s visit. She came bearing gifts. Inheritance. A treasure from our childhood. Thirty years ago, or thereabouts, she made a stuffed pig and piglets for our grandmother. My sister and I loved this pig family. It was the most clever thing, with little snaps for the teats and baby snouts. The piglets snap to the mother and lift her off the ground. It’s the most adorable thing. I even asked my mother for a pattern years ago, and found it recently while going through old boxes of things. I’ve been meaning to make this very pig family, and even mentioned it to Blue Moon Girl recently, as I noticed she has a bit of a pig fancy as well. It seemed such a coincidence, because my sister said that she also was thinking of this very pig just a few days ago . It’s a marvel, the ties that people have, that random thoughts from years past can spring up at the same time. Amazing. Very Twilight Zone, even.
And finally, a word about the boy. When there are moments of silence, I come upon tableaux of sundry sorts. From miniature mountain ranges made from baby powder to home made confetti. Although I need to find more secure places to store scissors, I must say that I am quite impressed with this two year old’s dexterity and the precision with which he wields a pair of full sized scissors. He masterfully cuts paper into tiny pieces. And the Spiderman craze? Yes, he can make the web slinging hand motion. With both hands. He’s at a wonderful interactive age in which he gives me the best snuggles, albeit fleeting. He laughs and plays with such glee and energy. He fills my heart. I am very blessed to be a mother. To be his mother. It helps me overcome the sadness of all the lost babies. I have one, and for him, I am forever grateful.
