Last week, KZ, my four year old daughter, and I were at our local drug
store, The Drug Mart. It is located in our building at the corner of
86th and York Avenue. It's a narrow, little drug store, established in
1959, when the building was first built. It's neatly kept but so narrow
that three people, at max, can stand side-by-side in it.
As
I was paying the cashier, a big older woman stormed in and proceeded to
knock KZ down. Then she stepped on KZ's hand. This woman was much
taller and wider than I ever hope to be. I wanted to knock her down and
step on her hand, but before I could get a word out, KZ took charge.
She screamed bloody murder while holding her injured hand. Then she
marched right up to that beast of a woman, who was by then yelling at
the pharmacist, and said,
"Hey, you knocked me down and stepped on my hand. That was not nice. Now say you're sorry!"
The woman just stood there. Everyone was quiet.
"I'm sorry," the woman quietly said.
She immediately began walking towards the door.
"Your daughter has a beautiful dress," she said to me as she left the store.
"Some people are evil. We need to stay away from them," I yelled to KZ while the woman was still within ear shot.
Did
I still want to knock this woman down and step on her hand? Yes. But,
I was more proud of my four and a half year old daughter than anything
else. She showed courage, self-confidence, and self-control -- more
than I had at the moment. The clerk apologised.
"That
woman is mean to everyone, especially children. I wish we could tell
her never to come back, but the owner won't let us. Would your daughter
like a lollipop?"
"Lollipop?" KZ said.
That
was all she needed to be dancing in the aisle. She might have felt all
better with her lolly, but it took me longer to get over it.
The story did remind me of one time when I was about ten years old.
My
mom had the self-confidence and courage of a scared little bird.
Somehow, she had purchased a spoiled chicken at the supermarket.
Everyone told her to take it back, but she was afraid. Because money
was tight and she really couldn't afford to waste it, she mustard the
courage. She and I went back to the store, with the spoiled chicken and
receipt in hand. The butcher gave her trouble. He called her a liar.
That was it. I jumped up on the meat counter and looked him dead in
the eye.
"Nobody calls my mommy a liar. Now get her a fresh chicken!"
Again, silence filled the store. Without a word, he got her a fresh chicken.
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Monday, 24 September 2012
One Moment
I saw KZ
walking on the other side of the street yesterday.
She didn't see me. In one hand she was holding the hand of her cousin Kara who is also four. In the other, she held her stuffed puppy Bella. She looked so happy and confident -- such a big little girl. Jeremy was right behind them. He didn't see me either.
It was as if I were watching part of my life walk by. It made me proud and yet sad. Proud because she is so happy and confident. Sad because life moves so quickly. We are all so busy doing a thousand different things that make up life, that we rarely see how precious that life is. I'm glad I got that moment... gray t-shirt, with a black kitty wearing a pink bow on front, blue jeans, pink sparkly shoes, her puppy Bella ...
my baby KZ.
She didn't see me. In one hand she was holding the hand of her cousin Kara who is also four. In the other, she held her stuffed puppy Bella. She looked so happy and confident -- such a big little girl. Jeremy was right behind them. He didn't see me either.
It was as if I were watching part of my life walk by. It made me proud and yet sad. Proud because she is so happy and confident. Sad because life moves so quickly. We are all so busy doing a thousand different things that make up life, that we rarely see how precious that life is. I'm glad I got that moment... gray t-shirt, with a black kitty wearing a pink bow on front, blue jeans, pink sparkly shoes, her puppy Bella ...
my baby KZ.
Thursday, 9 August 2012
The Grandfather Clock
If you were passing by my parents' house anytime between 1966 and
1996, you would have pegged us for the perfect American family. The
outside of our house looked like something out of a TV show. A split
bi-level on the southwest side of Chicago, perfectly manicured,
color-coordinated, and polished to perfection. My mom even swept the
curbs. The materials may not have been the most expensive, but one
could tell our house was lovingly cared for. Inside, the house was so
clean that you could have eaten off the floor, but no one would ever
have dared drop a crumb. My mother was known to have the cleanest house
in the neighborhood.
A married single mother was what my mother was. This is something I knew I never wanted to be. Married seemed o.k. as long as you had one of the good ones. Mom always said, "You should marry a rich schmuck instead of a poor schmuck, because they are all schmucks." I didn't know what "schmuck" meant back then -- and I bet my mother still doesn't know. Single seemed to be the perfect choice. Even if you had a baby, it was still better than being a married single mother. A married single mother is a term I coined after observing my parents' marriage. The term describes a woman who is married to a man who contributes nothing and causes only problems when he is around. I saw this role played out in the form of my always emotionally and sometimes physically absent father. It was best to have him passed out, or better yet, at work pulling a double shift, than to have him around the house. My mother had to do all the physical work.
When I say all, I mean all. In hindsight, I'm happy that my father was gainfully employed at the same company for forty-five years. Not many people can say that, especially people who are raging alcoholics. He could control himself during working hours. Rarely did he miss a day of work that I can recall. When he did, never once was it for an alcohol-related incident. Outside of the three to eleven pm shift at the steel mill, he was good for absolutely nothing, at least nothing that counted to a family. Yes, he made money, but he also kept it all for himself. He had priorities. He needed to show the guys at the bowling alley or the golf club that he had plenty of money for clothes, cars, and repeated rounds of drinks. He gave my mother exactly enough money for groceries and if the price went up, we were to just do without. Beer and cigarettes could go up astronomically, but don't even think about bread or milk. To this day, I get nervous around both food and money, feeling that I'll never have enough of either.
My mother would try to save five dollars from the grocery money every week if she could. She would squirrel the money away so that she could buy my brother and me clothes on lay-a-way at K-Mart or take us to the movies. The movies were easy. It wasn't as if we would go when my father was home. We wouldn't even dare ask him to come. We made that mistake once. Never again. It was 1981, when "On Golden Pond" was playing in theaters. I had seen it once before and really liked it. We thought it would be one those movies that would teach my father that life lesson he so needed. Once he saw the movie, we were sure that he would give up his Miller Lite beer, realizing that he had two kids and a wife who wanted the "nice" him around. We asked him a few days in advance if he would go.
"Maybe. I don't know. We'll see," all came out of his half-sober mouth.
"Hum, he said maybe," I said. "It wasn't a no."
"Maybe he really will go," my brother whispered.
On the afternoon of the big event, I stood there asking him to please go. We probably started whining as kids do. He was on the sofa with a Miller Lite. The TV wasn't on. Nothing was happening.
"Please, Dad, please," we all begged.
"It's really good, you'll like it," I added, since I had already seen it.
"Jim, we would all love to spend the afternoon with you," my mother added.
Bamm, that did it.
"Damn it, NO!" my father screamed back at us.
I don't know if it was my mother, or just all three of us, or some childhood ghost who was haunting his thoughts at the moment. He picked up his ashtray and threw it through the TV screen.
I really tried never to cry in front of my father. When he would hit us, he would continue until we stopped crying. Even at a young age, I was logical enough to know that the more one inflicts pain, the more the person being harmed will cry. Sometimes, I would have to jam my entire fist in my mouth just to muffle the sound. I think this "hit them until they stop crying" method of discipline came from his childhood. My aunt would tells stories of how my grandparents would tie my father up to a tree and beat him with a whip. His offence, not giving them all of his paycheck. He saved a dollar from his check to buy a wallet.
"What do yew need a wallet fir?" they said. "Yew don't need no money. We git it all!"
I can't blame my father for his lack of parenting skills. He wasn't that crazy, and Lord knows he had no guidance. Still, I didn't cry in front of him. Mom drove the three of us off to the movies in her 1974 Ford Pinto that afternoon, all silently crying to ourselves.
Before the daily verbal abuse from my father began, my mother was a beautiful woman. She dressed impeccably before I was born. Unfortunately, I remember her more for the second hand polyester, stained clothes that were years out of style. She would wear old, extra large men's t-shirts and shoes with the toes cut out.
"They were on sale, you see, and just a little snug in the toes. Who is going to notice? It isn't like I go anywhere," she would say shyly, hoping that no one would hear.
People noticed. They noticed the stained polyester shorts and the shoes with the holes. What they pretended not to notice was the alcoholic man who lived in the perfectly manicured house.
Our house, given the little money that was invested in it, always looked like something out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However, closer inspection would reveal the damage. A ribbon strategically placed so a crack wouldn't show. Extra magic marker on the corner of a table to cover a scratch. White toothpaste filling a small hole in the wall. Nothing huge, but when it was all added up, became overwhelming.
One time, she put us on a diet, and really broke into the grocery money. She saved for well over a year to buy a grandfather clock. That was the big step. Dad would notice such a big piece of furniture and want to know where she got it. More importantly, he would want to know how she paid for it. By purchasing such an item, she was also taking an emotionally huge step. She was making it clear that she could buy something upscale on her own. A figurine she could cover by saying she picked it up at a yard sale for a few bucks. However, a yard sale grandfather clock was still going to cost more than what my father deemed reasonable. He must have been in a good mood the day the clock was delivered. I don't remember any real arguments -- just more of a clenched jaw, with a sideways tilt of the head. He ate dinner, then drank until he passed out on the sofa saying nothing.
Mom polished the clock daily. It was in a place of honor in the living room, right by the front door. Any guest entering would see it immediately. The afternoon sun caught it just so. Combined with the smell of Lemon Pledge, there was nothing more beautiful than her polished grandfather clock keeping perfect time.
Until my father kicked it in.
Now don't ask me why he kicked it in, besides that he was drunk. Do alcoholics ever need a real excuse? No, something happened at work, or on the road on the way home, or he wasn't feeling well, or he was mad she bought it without asking or …
My mother cried and cried.
The next day, while he was at work, the patching began. There was no need to call a repair person. It wasn't as if Mom could afford that. No, she did it all herself between her tears. If you saw that clock today, you may think it got damaged during the move from Illinois to Florida. It would be a reasonable assumption. Things like that happen, you know.
The clock still stands in my parents' home. It is no longer right by the front door, where all can see it as they enter. Nor is it where the light can catch it just so. No, it is between the TV room and the bathroom, with nice plants placed strategically around it, out of direct sunlight.
My parent's marriage is a lot like that old grandfather clock. There are cracks, but no one outside the house would ever notice. After 49 years, they are still holding it together.
A married single mother was what my mother was. This is something I knew I never wanted to be. Married seemed o.k. as long as you had one of the good ones. Mom always said, "You should marry a rich schmuck instead of a poor schmuck, because they are all schmucks." I didn't know what "schmuck" meant back then -- and I bet my mother still doesn't know. Single seemed to be the perfect choice. Even if you had a baby, it was still better than being a married single mother. A married single mother is a term I coined after observing my parents' marriage. The term describes a woman who is married to a man who contributes nothing and causes only problems when he is around. I saw this role played out in the form of my always emotionally and sometimes physically absent father. It was best to have him passed out, or better yet, at work pulling a double shift, than to have him around the house. My mother had to do all the physical work.
When I say all, I mean all. In hindsight, I'm happy that my father was gainfully employed at the same company for forty-five years. Not many people can say that, especially people who are raging alcoholics. He could control himself during working hours. Rarely did he miss a day of work that I can recall. When he did, never once was it for an alcohol-related incident. Outside of the three to eleven pm shift at the steel mill, he was good for absolutely nothing, at least nothing that counted to a family. Yes, he made money, but he also kept it all for himself. He had priorities. He needed to show the guys at the bowling alley or the golf club that he had plenty of money for clothes, cars, and repeated rounds of drinks. He gave my mother exactly enough money for groceries and if the price went up, we were to just do without. Beer and cigarettes could go up astronomically, but don't even think about bread or milk. To this day, I get nervous around both food and money, feeling that I'll never have enough of either.
My mother would try to save five dollars from the grocery money every week if she could. She would squirrel the money away so that she could buy my brother and me clothes on lay-a-way at K-Mart or take us to the movies. The movies were easy. It wasn't as if we would go when my father was home. We wouldn't even dare ask him to come. We made that mistake once. Never again. It was 1981, when "On Golden Pond" was playing in theaters. I had seen it once before and really liked it. We thought it would be one those movies that would teach my father that life lesson he so needed. Once he saw the movie, we were sure that he would give up his Miller Lite beer, realizing that he had two kids and a wife who wanted the "nice" him around. We asked him a few days in advance if he would go.
"Maybe. I don't know. We'll see," all came out of his half-sober mouth.
"Hum, he said maybe," I said. "It wasn't a no."
"Maybe he really will go," my brother whispered.
On the afternoon of the big event, I stood there asking him to please go. We probably started whining as kids do. He was on the sofa with a Miller Lite. The TV wasn't on. Nothing was happening.
"Please, Dad, please," we all begged.
"It's really good, you'll like it," I added, since I had already seen it.
"Jim, we would all love to spend the afternoon with you," my mother added.
Bamm, that did it.
"Damn it, NO!" my father screamed back at us.
I don't know if it was my mother, or just all three of us, or some childhood ghost who was haunting his thoughts at the moment. He picked up his ashtray and threw it through the TV screen.
I really tried never to cry in front of my father. When he would hit us, he would continue until we stopped crying. Even at a young age, I was logical enough to know that the more one inflicts pain, the more the person being harmed will cry. Sometimes, I would have to jam my entire fist in my mouth just to muffle the sound. I think this "hit them until they stop crying" method of discipline came from his childhood. My aunt would tells stories of how my grandparents would tie my father up to a tree and beat him with a whip. His offence, not giving them all of his paycheck. He saved a dollar from his check to buy a wallet.
"What do yew need a wallet fir?" they said. "Yew don't need no money. We git it all!"
I can't blame my father for his lack of parenting skills. He wasn't that crazy, and Lord knows he had no guidance. Still, I didn't cry in front of him. Mom drove the three of us off to the movies in her 1974 Ford Pinto that afternoon, all silently crying to ourselves.
Before the daily verbal abuse from my father began, my mother was a beautiful woman. She dressed impeccably before I was born. Unfortunately, I remember her more for the second hand polyester, stained clothes that were years out of style. She would wear old, extra large men's t-shirts and shoes with the toes cut out.
"They were on sale, you see, and just a little snug in the toes. Who is going to notice? It isn't like I go anywhere," she would say shyly, hoping that no one would hear.
People noticed. They noticed the stained polyester shorts and the shoes with the holes. What they pretended not to notice was the alcoholic man who lived in the perfectly manicured house.
Our house, given the little money that was invested in it, always looked like something out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However, closer inspection would reveal the damage. A ribbon strategically placed so a crack wouldn't show. Extra magic marker on the corner of a table to cover a scratch. White toothpaste filling a small hole in the wall. Nothing huge, but when it was all added up, became overwhelming.
One time, she put us on a diet, and really broke into the grocery money. She saved for well over a year to buy a grandfather clock. That was the big step. Dad would notice such a big piece of furniture and want to know where she got it. More importantly, he would want to know how she paid for it. By purchasing such an item, she was also taking an emotionally huge step. She was making it clear that she could buy something upscale on her own. A figurine she could cover by saying she picked it up at a yard sale for a few bucks. However, a yard sale grandfather clock was still going to cost more than what my father deemed reasonable. He must have been in a good mood the day the clock was delivered. I don't remember any real arguments -- just more of a clenched jaw, with a sideways tilt of the head. He ate dinner, then drank until he passed out on the sofa saying nothing.
Mom polished the clock daily. It was in a place of honor in the living room, right by the front door. Any guest entering would see it immediately. The afternoon sun caught it just so. Combined with the smell of Lemon Pledge, there was nothing more beautiful than her polished grandfather clock keeping perfect time.
Until my father kicked it in.
Now don't ask me why he kicked it in, besides that he was drunk. Do alcoholics ever need a real excuse? No, something happened at work, or on the road on the way home, or he wasn't feeling well, or he was mad she bought it without asking or …
My mother cried and cried.
The next day, while he was at work, the patching began. There was no need to call a repair person. It wasn't as if Mom could afford that. No, she did it all herself between her tears. If you saw that clock today, you may think it got damaged during the move from Illinois to Florida. It would be a reasonable assumption. Things like that happen, you know.
The clock still stands in my parents' home. It is no longer right by the front door, where all can see it as they enter. Nor is it where the light can catch it just so. No, it is between the TV room and the bathroom, with nice plants placed strategically around it, out of direct sunlight.
My parent's marriage is a lot like that old grandfather clock. There are cracks, but no one outside the house would ever notice. After 49 years, they are still holding it together.
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Something Only a Man Would Do
Jeremy had the afternoon off yesterday due to the holiday. He told me earlier in the day that if I wanted to take some time for myself, just let him know. Ok, sounded cool to me. About 4:00-ish, I knocked on his cave door. He opened in with a gruff, "What?"
"Um, I thought you had the afternoon off," I said.
"Well, I got a call," he said.
Yes, he was on the phone, most likely with a work issue, but I did notice on his big screen TV that he was playing a video game -- Batman: Arkham City, I later learned. I got nauseous just watching it for a few seconds.
An hour or so later, he came out of his cave.
"I think I got sick from lunch today. I'm really nauseous. No more salmon burgers for me," he said.
"Do you think it was your lunch or that video game you are playing? That thing made me sick just looking at it for thirty seconds," I said.
"Maybe, I'm going to go lay down now. Hopefully, I'll feel better."
Great, our evening was officially shot.
Later on, I woke up and noticed that he had gotten up. He was back at the game.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked.
"Yes, I decided to put on a seasickness patch. It really helped."
Only a man would find a video game so interesting that it deemed putting on a prescription seasickness patch.
"Um, I thought you had the afternoon off," I said.
"Well, I got a call," he said.
Yes, he was on the phone, most likely with a work issue, but I did notice on his big screen TV that he was playing a video game -- Batman: Arkham City, I later learned. I got nauseous just watching it for a few seconds.
An hour or so later, he came out of his cave.
"I think I got sick from lunch today. I'm really nauseous. No more salmon burgers for me," he said.
"Do you think it was your lunch or that video game you are playing? That thing made me sick just looking at it for thirty seconds," I said.
"Maybe, I'm going to go lay down now. Hopefully, I'll feel better."
Great, our evening was officially shot.
Later on, I woke up and noticed that he had gotten up. He was back at the game.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked.
"Yes, I decided to put on a seasickness patch. It really helped."
Only a man would find a video game so interesting that it deemed putting on a prescription seasickness patch.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Kentucky?
"Kentucky? You thought we were from Kentucky? I don't know if you could have said anything worse to me. Maybe I should call my stylist, or just throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge!"
This was my response to a woman who asked where we were from in the bathroom of the Capital Grill on Wall Street.
KZ had had an active day. We had lunch with Daddy after visiting his office, took a boat ride on the Staten Island Ferry, then had a fun play date with her best friend Chloe. We were going to head back home, but Daddy suggested having dinner at the Capital Grill. We really like the Capital Grill. It has good food, excellent service, and is very kid friendly ... at least the Capital Grill on Wall Street. KZ was really wired from her long day. It was passed her bedtime, and that second wind that only four-year old's can get, had taken over.
At the end of dinner, she needed to go to the bathroom. Jeremy took her, but they came back right away.
"Daddy wanted to take me into the boys room. I'm a girl. I can't go in there," she said. "Come on Mommy, let's go. I have to poop."
Well, how can I argue with that.
Jeremy just looked at me.
"I tried, I really did," he said.
Once KZ was finished in the very posh bathroom, she started talking to a woman who just walked in.
"Hi, I'm KZ! What's your name?"
She as this thirty-something Asian-American, black wardrobe clad, uber thin woman ... in high heels.
"My name is Grace," she nicely replied.
"Where are you from?" KZ continued.
I was happy that she was holding a conversation and following the flow of dialog.
"I'm from New York. And where are you from?"
"I live at 446 East 86th Street," KZ proudly replied.
"Oh, I thought you were going to say Kentucky, or some place like that," Grace nicely replied.
And that is where I lost it.
True, neither KZ nor I are were wearing black, or under weight, or had on heels. But KENTUCKY? I mean I could have handled Brooklyn.
Not sure what this means ... except that Grace doesn't have any children.
This was my response to a woman who asked where we were from in the bathroom of the Capital Grill on Wall Street.
KZ had had an active day. We had lunch with Daddy after visiting his office, took a boat ride on the Staten Island Ferry, then had a fun play date with her best friend Chloe. We were going to head back home, but Daddy suggested having dinner at the Capital Grill. We really like the Capital Grill. It has good food, excellent service, and is very kid friendly ... at least the Capital Grill on Wall Street. KZ was really wired from her long day. It was passed her bedtime, and that second wind that only four-year old's can get, had taken over.
At the end of dinner, she needed to go to the bathroom. Jeremy took her, but they came back right away.
"Daddy wanted to take me into the boys room. I'm a girl. I can't go in there," she said. "Come on Mommy, let's go. I have to poop."
Well, how can I argue with that.
Jeremy just looked at me.
"I tried, I really did," he said.
Once KZ was finished in the very posh bathroom, she started talking to a woman who just walked in.
"Hi, I'm KZ! What's your name?"
She as this thirty-something Asian-American, black wardrobe clad, uber thin woman ... in high heels.
"My name is Grace," she nicely replied.
"Where are you from?" KZ continued.
I was happy that she was holding a conversation and following the flow of dialog.
"I'm from New York. And where are you from?"
"I live at 446 East 86th Street," KZ proudly replied.
"Oh, I thought you were going to say Kentucky, or some place like that," Grace nicely replied.
And that is where I lost it.
True, neither KZ nor I are were wearing black, or under weight, or had on heels. But KENTUCKY? I mean I could have handled Brooklyn.
Not sure what this means ... except that Grace doesn't have any children.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
May 11, 2008 - Birth Day
The clear blue sky let the sunlight fill my private suite at the Portland Hospital. My balcony was lined with bright red mums, which accented the skyline of the City of London. Today was the day, May 11, 2008. I was being induced with my first child, a girl we had already named Kaylia Zoe, or KZ for short. People say never name the baby before you have it, but we made the mistake that every set of new parents can't help but do. As soon as I knew she was a girl, I told my husband, "We are having a Kaylia!"
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Friday, 4 May 2012
I was running late for my writing class the other day and decided to hop a cab.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
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