Friday, April 28, 2006

The Question, Part II

If you haven't read the first part of this piece entitled "The Question of Abuse" scroll down and read it immediately. Then come back here, to part two, an entry so difficult to write even now with the events muted by four months of (hopefully) good parenting.

So I left you at the end of that first bad Sunday. Eliza was three weeks old and I had my first day of a screaming, sleepless, uncuddly baby. That day ended, C came home to find Eliza and myself in bed together, he moved her to her crib and she slept until she woke for a feeding. The next day, Monday, C came home from work early but Eliza had morphed back into her original self overnight. She nursed, she slept, she sat in her swing. It seemed like the prior day was only a mirage and now I had my little "angel baby" as Kate called her, back. C left work early so I could go to a meeting for a walk committee I hoped to serve on and after a wonderful day with my babe I attended the meeting as a proud mama, complete with a pile of photos and a face-breaking smile. When the meeting ended and they asked me to go for drinks with them, I declined, desperate to get home to my little baby.

She was in such a deep sleep when I got home around nine. I pulled her out of the crib to try to wake her for a feeding. She wouldn't wake so I held her on my lap, convinced she'd wake up soon. 9pm turned to 10 and then 10:30. Finally I woke her and she nursed for five minutes maybe, before she fell back asleep. Giving up, I retreated with her to bed around 11:30.

Eliza woke about an hour later, ravenous. I took her into the living room so C could sleep and we were up for a while. I don't remember when we went back into the bedroom but I do know it took me a while to fall asleep. Not too much later, C's alarm went off waking us both. He took her into the living room for a while, then handed her back to me before he left for work.

"Go easy on your Mom today," he said. "She has a long day."

"We'll be fine," I said, all smiles. C had a work dinner to attend so he wouldn't be home until late. I was confident the horror of Sunday was a one day occurrence.

I don't remember how the day started but I think the morning went easily enough. At some point, I decided to do laundry which was a big mistake. I put her in the stroller, packed up a laundry bag and took the elevator down to the basement. Sounds easy enough and for the most part it is except--for security, the elevator stops in the lobby and the doorman has to press a button to let it continue down to the basement. The doorman is usually nowhere near this button so the elevator stands open and buzzing in the lobby for two minutes before the door closes and we head down. Then you walk through a narrow, twisy corridor that leads you to the 23rd side entrance of the building to the laundry room. The laundry room boasts that it's air-conditioned and to protect this cool, decadent status, the door weighs a ton and snaps closed seconds after you open it. Getting in and out with the stroller and the laundry bag is no easy feat. Throw in a crying baby and a frazzled,sleep-deprived mother and suddenly this picture gets more disturbing.

"She doesn't like doing laundry," one of the random maintenance workers I always pass on laundry day said. He peered into the bassinet to look at her angry, tomato colored face.

"She doesn't like anything," I said, pushing past him and at the time I believed it to be true.

She screamed all the way down the hallway to the laundry room, back up to our apartment, back down the laundry room and back into our apartment. I left her in the stroller crying and emailed another mom friend of mine who fortunately emailed me right back. She urged me to try turning on a hair dryer. Apparently this was the only way they calmed her baby. "I know it sounds absurd," she wrote. I agreed but I was desperate. I dug the hair dryer out of of the bathroom cabinet, went into the bedroom, plugged it in and turned it on.

Back in the living room, I wrote that even if the hair dryer didn't work, it drowned out the noise of her cries. I replied to a few emails suddenly happy I couldn't hear her crying. After about two minutes, I peeked into the bedroom and was shocked to find Eliza fast asleep, her mouth wide open. Suddenly I was so happy. Knowing I would be unable to sleep with the hair dryer going, I went back into the living room to continue my email correspondence. I wrote back to my savior friend and thanked her for the hair dryer trick. Before I could even send the email, Eliza woke and started wailing again. I ended the email by writing, "She's wailing like a banshee."

We went back downstairs to get the laundry. My hair was probably a mess, I had baby puke on my shirt and my eyes could barely focus. I passed one of the doormen in the hallway and he said, "Are you alright?" I nodded, barely able to speak. I was sure he thought I was a terrible mother. He looked down at Eliza did the typical baby babble. Eliza replied by opening her mouth in a big yawn that turned into a scream.

"She's really not happy," he said, again shooting a glance that seemed to say I was the culprit. I mumbled something about the laundry and pushed on. I passed more maintenance workers, an old lady and some chick with an purse-sized, yapping dog. All looked at my crying baby, then flashed a tight-faced frown towards me. I'd suddenly become Joan Crawford in the eyes of my neighbors.

I got back to my apartment, nursed Eliza and she fell asleep for a bit. I went back to my computer. My friend had emailed me to say sometimes the hair dryer works, sometimes it doesn't but I had to keep trying. She promised me it would get better. Before I even had time to write her back, Eliza woke up crying. I now wrote an email that said something like, "no, she's unhappy, and she's probably going to stay unhappy." At that moment, I really did believe I'd given birth to a very unhappy little person. I've always had trouble with depression and wacko mood swings, now it was payback time. I tried the hair dryer again but it didn't work. The hum of hair dryers and vacuum cleaners, while annoying to adults, sound like the inside of the womb to a baby. However, these sounds calmed Eliza briefly, as though she could only be fooled to think she was "back home" for a moment. The hair dryer would come on, she'd be lulled to sleep, only to wake a few minutes later, angry that some one had tried to fool her.

I brought her into the bed and nursed her in the side lying position but she'd suck for a few minutes, then cry, suck, cry. I tried to ignore the sound of her crying and close my eyes. Just a half hour of sleep and I was convinced I would feel like a new person. But the crying got louder. I picked her up and started carrying her around the apartment.

I also have to add it was a cold, rainy December day outside and I wasn't supposed to push the baby carriage yet. If I'd just gone out for a short while that day, it would have probably made a huge difference. I thought about wearing her in the Bjorn but I was afraid, at three weeks post surgery, that it was still to early to have her attached to my body. I could only imagine her little legs kicking at my incision. I was starving and slapped peanut butter on bread as she wailed from her swing. I should have called some one, simply asked some one to come over for a half hour but I wanted to handle it myself. This was what parenthood was about right?

Sometime in the late afternoon she fell asleep in the swing and I ran to the bedroom for some shut-eye. I maybe slept for ten minutes or so before her wailing opened my eyes. I nursed her again and she'd feed, cry, feed, then cry. I microwaved some stew my mother had left for me and shoved carrots in my mouth, wishing desperately for food that was pureed so I could eat faster. She quieted around 8p and I thought maybe the worst was behind me. I called my mother and told her I was exhausted, hoping she would offer to come up for another day that week but she didn't. I was alone, really, truly alone. C was at his dinner. Even if I called him on his cell phone, he probably wouldn't hear it. It was after 8, too late for most of my friends to show up and relieve me. C's brother had left his number on Sunday, but I just couldn't call him again and ask for help.

Eliza woke up around 9:30 screaming. I walked her around the apartment but she kept on crying. I nursed her but she didn't want any. I tried to play music for her, sing to her, hold her up in front of the mirror, turn on the hair dryer. Nothing worked, nothing.

I called my mother again, crying.

"She won't stop crying," I said. "I need you to come here and help me. I can't do this myself!"

There was a long silence.

"Mom," I finally said.

"Do you have any formula?"

"I brought some home from the hospital." But I hadn't even tried to give her a bottle yet. And the Lactation Consultant Nazis had advised against a bottle until breastfeeding was firmly established, about six weeks. I didn't want to jeopardize the whole process now. And part of me didn't want to admit that I was the problem, that I didn't have enough milk to feed my child.

"I hate her!" I said suddenly. I wish I didn't remember what else I said to my mother than night but I do, I always will. I'm not going to recall it here, I don't want whoever's reading this to hate me. And I don't want to risk my daughter ever reading it and knowing that I could have felt like that. I was afraid, really afraid I might hurt my daughter. Not because I wanted to, mind you, I just wanted the crying to stop. I just wanted some quiet, some peace. And part of it was I was sure she was crying because of something I wasn't doing. I was sure she was unhappy because of something I did. Every screech out of her sounded like "you're a terrible mom! You're supposed to fix me and you can't."

Eliza was in my arms, still crying and I looked at her. Suddenly I burst into tears as I saw her, really took in every detail, the perfect face, her little hands, the collar of her pink sleeper poking into her cheeks. What kind of monster was I? How could I think, let alone say these kind of things?

"You're my dream, my dream realized, my girl, my love, my Eliza my girl in pink," I sang to the tune of The Shinn's "New Slang." Eliza cried, but more softly now. She was tired. I placed her back on my breast and she fed quietly, her little hands reaching for the neckline of my shirt.

I called my mother back.

"I was ready to call 911," she said.

"You should have. I'm a terrible mother. All this time I've been so afraid some one's going to take her away from me. Now I know, it's because they should."

"I wanted to call the cops," my mother said. "Poor little baby."

"I'm okay now," I said.

"But for how long?"

"I have an appointment with the shrink tomorrow," I said. Somewhere in the craziness of the day, I'd had the foresight to make that call. "I don't think he can help me. I just can't be a mother."

I started to cry as I looked down at my daughter. I'd never wanted to be anything more in my life. I wanted to be good enough, sane enough, strong enough to be her mother.

"I'm not the best person for her," I said, my voice breaking. "I have to let her go."

When C finally got home around 11:30p, he found me in the middle of a big crying jag. Eliza was asleep in my arms as I sat in the glider.

"I can't do it," I said. "She's better off without me."

"What happened?" C asked. "You're scaring me."

"Nothing happened," I said, of course telling him nothing about the phone call. "She wouldn't stop crying and I hated her. I was thinking all these terrible things."

"That's normal," C said. "I told you, you can understand why child abuse happnes after you have a kid."

"No," I said, still so afraid I'd hurt my daughter. "I don't want to hurt her, I'm just so afraid."

"You won't," C said.

But I didn't believe him. I kept crying, really crying. I thought I'd go to the shrink the next day and he'd tell me I should leave my daughter with C, that I was a danger to my daughter.

"I'll come home before tennis tomorrow night," C said. He played tennis every Wednesday night, usually not arriving home until midnight. "I'll come home around 5:30 so you can sleep."

"Okay," I said, still convinced by 5:30 the following night, I'd be gone.

I started my appointment with Dr. Robert, or Uncle Bobby as he likes to refer to himself, at least as far as Eliza's concerned by saying, "You're not going to like me after today."

Eliza was in my arms, asleep in her trademark pink. So far, she'd been nothing like the crying, frustrated baby of the day before. I told Dr. Robert everything, the crying, the horrible phone call to my mother, how I'd been afraid I was really going to hurt her.

Dr. Robert told me those kinds of thoughts were normal. Maybe those thoughts were normal but I'd had a father who was abusive, not to me but to my brother. Wasn't abuse a cycle I was doomed to repeat? He still argued with me, said that I wasn't like my father. I disagreed, again thinking this shrink was a ninny who liked me too much to see me, the real me.

"Raising a baby is hard," he said. "I love my daughter but I remember she'd be crying and I'd be standing with her in front of the mirror, you know that calmed her down for a little while. But I'd be standing there thinking, Fuck! Shit! Shut-up!"

"But the things I said," I told him. "I said some horrible things. I was yelling at her. I told her to shut-up."

"Well she doesn't know what you said."

"But when she gets older."

"You won't say them then. You're here now. You're doing something about it now."

"Well my mother's going to need therapy for that phone call."

"You didn't do anything, you called your mother, you vented. How did you feel after that call."

"So guilty." I looked down at the sleeping Eliza and relived that moment. How much I loved her and how vastly, supremely inadequate and horrified by myself I'd felt. "I knew then, some one should take her away from me. She's better off without me."

"Did you still think you could hurt her? After that phone call?"

I thought about it for a minute and remembered the calm I'd felt. I thought it was the calm of accepting I was not cut out for the task of parenthood.

"I guess part of me was relieved. I'd admitted to myself I couldn't do it."

"No, I think you vented and after you vented, you felt better. You didn't do anything. You called your mother and you got some of the anger, some of the frustration out. And then you were okay, weren't you."

"No, I felt guilty, I feel guilty."

"But you probably weren't angry anymore."

"I wasn't. But I shouldn't have been feeling..."

"Look, Mother Theresa would have had some bad thoughts if she'd been left alone with a screaming baby for fourteen hours. Why didn't you ask anyone for help?"

"I couldn't."

"Well you're going to have to and you're going to have to accept that you need it. No one, not the calmest, best person in the world should be left alone with a screaming infant for fourteen hours. You need to ask for help and you need to let C know that you need it."

I nodded, still thinking this guy didn't see me, the real me. But some of it did make sense.

"Do you want to be a good mother to this baby?"

I stared at her content, sleeping face. "More than anything."

"Well the key to that is to ask for help before you get to where you were last night. Get a friend, C, whoever, get them to come over for a half hour while you walk around the block or take a shower. You're trying to be superwoman and you're probably doing a pretty good impression of her but you're not her. You're never going to be her. That doesn't mean you're going to be a bad mother."

I nodded, still skeptical, still thinking this guy thought too highly of me.

"I gotta pee," he said, standing up. "Are you gonna hurt your baby?"

I was near tears now. I wanted so much to be able to answer yes. "I don't know."

He shook his head. "Are you going to hurt your baby?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you going to hurt your baby?"

I know he wanted me to say yes, he wanted a show of confidence from me but I had to be honest. "I don't know."

He shook his head. "You're not going to hurt your baby."

And with that he left the room and somehow everything changed. I looked down at the sleeping Eliza and realized, I was going to be okay.

I just needed some one to tell me.

That weekend, before C went to Boston for the day, I posted an email to a large group of my friends asking for a babysitter for a few hours. Most of my friends were unavailable but my one friend Anne, agreed to come over. I felt supported, grateful, loved. I still don't ask for help as much as I need to, partly from pride and partly from a certain possessiveness I feel, a desire to be with her as much as possible. I feel like I waited my whole life for her and now I'm afraid of missing something. But I also realize she needs to have relationships with people other than myself. I can only be a good mother by letting her go and finding more time for myself.

I write this now to say to any prospective or new mother, don't be afraid to ask for help. I don't ever want anyone to feel the guilt I still feel from that phone call. You're going to feel anger if left alone with a screaming infant for 14 hours, especially if you're still recovering from the birth and haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks. So don't do what I did, don't be alone for 14 hours. Call all your friends, your family, everyone before it happens so you never feel as hateful as I felt. Because I'm telling you, you'll never get over it. I can tell myself until I'm blue in the face that I didn't do anything but still, I'll always hate myself for that phone call. Hate myself for what I felt.

And now there are days, when Eliza won't sleep and she's crying and there's nothing I can do to comfort her, I still wonder if I'll be like my father. But I know now, I'm not him. Maybe if my father had gotten help, maybe if he'd had the friends I have and an "Uncle Bobby," maybe he'd know for sure, Billy's autism is not his fault. But he'll never know that and it must be a horrible thing to live with.

Eliza's asleep in her crib now, her big morning nap as I call it. The nap that allows me the time to write. She curls up in a ball on her side now, her legs tucked against her chest in a true "fetal position." The pacifier moves as she sucks on it in her sleep. I'm so grateful for the things she'll never know. What she does know of me is this--she cries, I'm there. She laughs, I laugh with her. She jumps up in her Johnny Jump-Up and I jump up down and flap my hands like she does. She sleeps and I stand over her, forcing myself not to cover the side of her head with kisses. I was wrong about her that week, she's actually one of the happiest babies I've ever seen. I should have known better, should have had more faith in her even if I didn't have much in myself.

The music from her crib aquarium plays, it's tune unrecognized but it's sweet, so innocent. Eliza stretches her hand towards the aquarium, her eyes still closed. The hand stretches, the fingers open into a starfish and then the hand falls and rests sleepily against the pink sheet of the crib.

My dream, my dream realized my girl, my love my Eliza, my girl in pink.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

The Best Moment

I'm going to break up the two parter about the dark side of parenthood by telling you about my trip home with Eliza last night. C has his kids for their spring break and decided to take them to his parent's beach house in Rehoboth. Since C has the other kids, he often has the power to decide where we spend holidays. Being that his two kids from his previous marriage have no tie to my parents, he chose to take them to see his parents. I know going with him is a good way for the family to be together, as much of my independence is now on hold due to this five month old I bounce on my knee. However, I decided to stop allowing him to choose where I go for this holiday. Though I hate to rob Eliza of the company of her considerably older brother and sister, and her paternal grandparents, I wanted to spend Easter with my parents. It's nice in Rehoboth this time of year, but I'd be stuck for five nights with C, his parents, and his kids. C spends most of his time with his son, his daughter spends most of her time with her granmother and C's father spends most of his time in his bedroom with the door shut. Whether he's sleeping or just the proud owner of an impressive stack of nudie magazines, I'm not quite sure but at Christmas, I only saw C's father in the morning for breakfast and in the evening, for dinner.

This scenario basically leaves me with no one in my age group to play with. Now that I'm a SAHM, I'm desperate for adult attention. Five days of bike riding, cartoons and monopoly seemed like my idea of "No Exit." My parents, now divorced, live in Jersey, not far from one of my closest friends. The woman who lives next door is also a friend. I realized going to Jersey would enable me to get in some time for me as well as give Eliza some time with her maternal grandparents.

C came up with several elaborate scenarios to blend it all together but I wasn't interested. I wanted my family, my friends and frankly, my daughter. I've taken two short trips with Eliza before, but this time would be longer and would involve her first bus ride back. I packed just three changes of clothes for her, two for me, a portable changing pad, and toiletries in a small, wheeled suitcase. My mother's house is stocked with diapers, a small travel portocrib and burp cloths, a must for my very pukey daughter. I loaded our new Johnny Jump Up in a plastic Buy Buy Baby bag and we were off. C drove us down to my mother's so the trip to Jersey was easy. My mother had my brother Billy for the weekend, but he was gone for the afternoon with a family friend. I left Eliza with my mother and did what all suburbanites do, I went to Walmart. It felt incredibly freeing to be out and about with no set time to return. I wandered through the aisles looking at stuff in slow time, just enjoying the ability to pick things up and put them down without a baby attached to me. In the check-out line, perhaps feeling guilty for loving this freedom so much, I called my mother to see how it was going.

An enormous wail greeted me alongside my mother's "hello."

"Doesn't sound good," I said. "I called to see how it was going."

"Fine until now," my mother said. "She was sleeping."

"Sorry. I'll let you get back to her now."

I hung up quickly and decided to alleviate my guilt by purchasing a glossy magazine with Lindsey Lohan and Jessica Simpson on the cover beneath a headline that read "FIGHT!" Not wanting to interrupt my mother and Eliza, being how badly I'd bungled with that phone call, I went to Costco and again wandered happily through a maze of oversized peanut containers, plastic bags stuffed with 20 rolls of paper towels, and elderly ladies in white bonnets doling out free food samples. I had to fight to get a Jamaican meat patty sample as portly, balding men seemed to think they had a VIP ticket to that counter.

Then I knew I had to go back and I returned to find my mother and Eliza exactly as I had left them, my mother in the chair and Eliza across her chest, eyes closed.

"She had a very nice nap," my mother said.

The following day, Easter Sunday, I went to my father's. This is only the third actual holiday I've spent with my father since he and my mother split in 1980. My father has been married to a woman named Debby for the past 16 years. We had a nice day, I restarted my daily routine of 500 situps while Eliza lay on her tummy impressing us all with her mini-pushups. I found a documentary on George Balanchine and hoped Eliza was as fascinated with the ballet as I am. I drank a little too much red wine with our late lunch. As I fed Eliza in the bedroom, my father and Debby fell asleep on the couch. When I emerged, they woke up and we went for a short walk around their neighborhood.

My father lives in a retirement community. It's a nice looking community that resembles the set for the "Truman Show" with it's uniform houses, all set the same distance from the street, and sidewalks that don't lead anywhere. It would be a great area to live in if there was an actual destination to walk to, say a town strip with a corner store, restaurant and ice cream parlor. Instead, it just feels a little creepy, the kind of neighborhood that would do well to house Edward Scissorhands.

It was nice to spend the day with my father and then the evening with my mother again. Billy left for his home the following day and my mother and I had the day to ourselves. I'd hoped to meet up with my friend but she had to work late so my mother and I had a pleasant dinner of cavatellis and meatballs. My mom fed Eliza her cereal, amazed by what a good little eater my daughter is. At less than five months, I'll only give her one tablespoon of cereal a day determined to keep the nursing front and center. But my daughter is fascinated by what I'm eating, in fact watching me eat seems to be one of her new favorite activities.

While I'm on favorite activities, let me just list a few of her new things now so I can keep them on record. Eliza has discovered her feet but will only play with them when they're bare. On her back, she loves to grab her toes and try to stuff them in her mouth. When I sit her on my lap, she often bends forward to get a better view of her feet but again, she won't grab them unless they're bare. She loves to be naked, giggles and squeals with delight when I kiss her naked tummy. I'll kiss her tummy and she'll reach out with both hands and grab my hair, her mouth wide in a toothless smile. She rolls from tummy to back and rolled from her back to her tummy for the first time on Easter but couldn't figure out how to stay on her tummy so she just rolled right onto her back. She kicks and pushes off while nursing, my nipple still firmly in her mouth (yes, ouch!) She was enthralled by my mother's hands when my mother spoke to my brother with sign language. My mother and I kept doing the sign for milk, an opened and closed fist, and Eliza raised her little hand and made a few half-hearted fists. Sometimes she responds to her name, sometimes. This one I'm going to be really looking for because this was the big red flag with Billy.

We had a lovely time visiting my mother's next door neighbor in her backyard, now practically a full on playground for toddlers. There are swings for kids and babies, a plastic kid house, three slides of various sizes and a big plastic climbing tree house. Fenced off in another section of the yard is an in-ground pool I looked at very lustfully.

And then it was Tuesday and time for us to take our first bus ride back. I was nervous the bus would be crowded as this particular evening bus originated in Atlantic City. I strapped Eliza into the bjorn, waved good-bye to my mother and dragged the suitcase, the diaper bag and the big bag with the Johnny Jump Up to the bus. The driver put my case under the bus and I stepped inside to find plenty of empy seats. I dumped my bags on the seat and sat on the aisle with Eliza. Her head whipped back and forth, locking eyes with the only two passengers in eyeshot. The woman beside me, a heavily tattooed girl of about 21 smiled back. The portly ex-con type, hooked on his head phones and closed his eyes. The bus driver went inside as my watch ticked past the departure time. Eliza continued to look this way and that, her little legs thrashing against mine. Still the driver didn't return and I wondered if perhaps he was suffering from a bout of bad diarrhea.

Finally, Bus Driver Bob stepped on and put the bus in gear. I waved to my mother from the front seat and felt like crying. Was I sad because I'd had a good visit and was sorry to leave or was I sad to be leaving my mommy, now a new mommy myself, one who couldn't come home but had to make a home? Is it my youth and my carefree existence I was sad to see as the mile markers on the parkway sped by outside the windows? Five minutes or so into the ride, Eliza fell asleep and she stayed asleep as the bus lurched forward and the sky faded from orange to dark blue to dark gray. In the twilight of evening, not far outside the Lincoln Tunnel, Eliza woke up. Again, the head went from one side to the other as she struggled to take in her surroundings. She fought against the brace of the bjorn trying to push herself away from me. I pulled out the bottle I had with me and waited for her to fuss but she didn't. Not through the tunnel, not in the darkness of the New York City Street, not until we stopped behind another bus in the Port Authority Terminal. But it never escalated into a cry, never was more than just a few little screeches. A man helped me retrieve my suitcase and I ungracefully made my way to the elevator that took me all the way down to the subway level.

The first big hurdle was the turnstile. A cop stood right on the other side of the turnstile but he didn't help me kick my suitcase through or stoop to pick it up when it fell over. Placing my arm on Eliza, I squatted to retrieve my case. I banged it down the steps, the Johhny Jump Up now threatening to bust through the holy plastic bag. An E train came right away and I bumbled my way onto it. A very attractive blond woman immediately stood up.

"Would you like to sit?"

I shook my head no, thanked her, placed my suitcase at my feet and grabbed onto a pole. The blond seemed a little perplexed, perhaps unnerved by my lack of acceptence in her act of kindness. An attractive black woman and a man further down, who'd both apparrently not seen my exchange with the blond, both also offered their seats. I waved them off. The blond sat back down and resumed reading the play "The Last Night of Ballyhoo."

A middle aged couple behind me started cooing and talking. Beside them were two women clad in softball attire and dirt.

"How old?" The middle aged woman asked, stripping the peg of her Ipod out of her ear.

"Five months," I said.

"She's very social," she said. "So expressive."

"She likes attention," one of the lesbians, I mean softball women, said.

"She likes to be looked at."

The middle aged woman smiled and put her headphones back in. In a moment, she was actively mouthing the words, all the while smiling and reacting to Eliza. Eliza whipped her head to the other side of the subway car, ready to flirt her way into the hearts of these people. A begger came on and started singing "Lean on Me" but was he crazy? Did he not see my daughter, did he honestly think he could compete with the best little floor show on the IRT? A man in a suit with big glasses got off the train at 34th Street, practically tripping over my suitcase for a better look at Eliza. Eliza turned back to the middle aged couple who grinned and waved with the enthusiasm. The lesbians laughed and turned back to each other only to halt their conversation again when Eliza squealed in protest to their lack of attention. The blond with Ballyhoo looked up at me and smiled as I spoke to my daughter when the train paused between stops and suddenly I felt tears come to my eyes and I pulled her little head towards mine for a kiss, loving this moment, loving this night.

I was back, my independence was back. I could go places and be me and I wouldn't need help, not that much. And others would be receptive, they'd help me and my daughter shutter our way through the night. The guy continued to sing, the lesbians continued to stare, the woman with the Ipod kept singing silently along and I realized that practically every moment with this baby was the best, the best moment of my life.

I got off at 23rd and made my way up the stairs, feeling great at this small accomplishment of getting off the train and up the stairs without pelting anyone with my suitcase or Johnny Jump Up. It was a beautiful night and I was happy to be with her and her only, happy to make my way to my building, happy the night was warm enough to enjoy, and so happy to have this wonderful, delicious, oh so lovable little baby.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

The Question of Abuse

Okay so I've written about post-pregnancy farting and open flies during CPR class but now I'm going to try to go to one of the ugliest places I've been. I'll try to take you there with me so you can see what it was really like but I don't know if I'm the kind of writer who can make this as vivid as it should be. As I write this now, Eliza squeals unhappily in her exosaucer so I'm not exactly optimistic about my ability to work well. I don't know if it's the teething or the fact that she's on the verge of crawling but she's been pretty unhappy alone with me lately and none of the old toys or comforts seem to work. Okay she's quiet now, let me try to begin.

You take classes before the baby is born--most childbirth classes include a caring for a newborn segment. You are taught how to bathe and diaper a baby. I think the bathing and diapering techniques are required before your release from the hospital as well. So you get into your car which now sports your government approved car seat, strap in your bathed and diapered infant, twist the keys in the ignition and you're ready to go home with this new life you brought into the world.

As one of my friends asked, instead of all this time spent on baby hygiene, why isn't there a class on how to soothe a crying baby. Look at the books and they'll tell you a variety of tactics to quiet your sobbing little bundle. Start with the breast, not hungry? Go for the diaper, not dirty? Is it cold in the room, add another layer of clothing but not a loose blanket because cuddly blankets are a hazard. You can swaddle, wear your baby in a sling or push your baby in a carriage. The two books I have said there's always a reason for crying and your role as a parent is to find the problem and solve it. Okay now let me tell you this is lie number one, your baby might be crying for a "reason" but you after you've tried all the above methods that baby might still be crying. The fact that you can't find the source of these sobs and thus quiet these sobs doesn't make you a bad parent. The books don't tell you that so if you can't silence your baby, you feel you're a bad parent. Another thing the books don't tell you is exactly how this crying will deeply affect you, especially when you're sleep deprived, physically sore from pregnancy and childbirth, and your hormones ricochet like a game of indoor laser tag.

The books can't say exaclty how one will react to this crying because we're all different. Some people have calmer personalities and have the wherewithall to drink tea and slobber jam onto scones while a jackhammer pounds robustly two feet away. I use the jackhammer comparison because a baby crying at full volume has the same decibal level as a jackhammer. But for other people, myself included, the noise starts as a pencil that repeatedly taps the top of your forearm then intensifies to the force of a powerdrill digging into your skin. And no book or hosptial staffer tells you how to deal with it. Since books only touch on this subject, you know the old "take deep breaths" routine, let me tell you of my own experience.

The first two weeks of having Eliza at home passed in a relative blur. She slept a lot. I tried to sleep when she slept. Friends visited and we'd go out together. With my C-section recovery, I was told no pushing so my friends would push the stroller so I could get out of the apartment. Eliza cried only when she wanted food or wanted to be held. I probably thought, "wow, this is easy. Don't know why anyone says it's hard."

C was not around those weeks. I am not complaining or trying to badmouth him, I'm just trying to give you the complete picture. He plays tennis religiously every Wednesday night so he's not home until after 10 or 11. The other nights he worked late to make up for the week he missed while I was in the hospital. Most nights, when I went to bed, he wasn't here.

I can't say I minded. I liked having Eliza to myself. On the nights that he did come home, I often felt jealous as I watched him hold her. Sometimes she'd cry when she was tired and in this instance there was nothing we could do. He was much calmer, more in control than I was and I wanted so much to be like him. I wished the crying wouldn't affect me, that I could just say, oh she's a baby, babies cry but it did affect me. It made me tense and I know, as a mother, babies pick up on that.

C goes to visit his kids every Sunday and after the birth of Eliza this hasn't changed. They do come here more frequently but on the weekends they don't, he gets up on Sunday at 6am and leaves around 6:30. He takes the last train to New York which usually gets him home at 2am. The previous week, I had my father come for the day. After that day passed and I realized I didn't need the help, I said I'd be fine alone the following Sunday.

On Eliza's third Sunday at home, we had a bad night. She was up for a while, feeding. When I put her down, probably around 4:30 or later, I couldn't get to sleep. When C's alarm went off, I was still awake but it scared Eliza who cried forcefully. I took her and started to feed her. This quieted her and C kissed me good-bye. I sat in the glider, Eliza attached to me. She didn't want to stop nursing. Finally, figuring there must not be any more milk left, I detached her. She screamed and I guessed she probably needed something to suck on. At three weeks old, Eliza still spit the pacifier out so I stuck my finger in her mouth. C spent most of the prior Saturday with his finger in her mouth but for some reason my finger didn't placate her the way his did. Eventually I gave up and put her back on the boob. I figured she'd fall asleep and then I could as well. I was so tired, having only gotten about an hour or two of sleep the night before. I vowed to do nothing that day, just sleep when she slept. No shower, no clothes, no phone calls, nothing.

But she didn't fall asleep. I tried everything, putting her in the crib then taking her out of the crib. I put her in the swing then took her out of the swing, all the while that toy that makes a noise that sounds like pong felt like it was mocking me. At the time I was adamently opposed to co-sleeping so it tells you how tired I was when I gave up and climbed into bed with her on top of me. But she screamed and screamed. I again tried popping my finger in her mouth, then the pacifier, then the nipple of a bottle. I gave up and tried nursing her again. She jumped right on the boob and sucked away. It was so obvious she wasn't getting anything and still she sucked. I wondered what trick would get her to keep the pacifier in her mouth. The morning passed with this pattern unchanging, she'd nurse and nurse, I'd detach her and try to put her down, she'd scream, nurse some more. I would lie on the bed with her on my chest, she'd scream, I'd put her back on the boob. I desperately needed just a half hour nap. I'm a sleep camel, can go days without sleep but on this day my exhaustion felt like a vyse clamped on both sides of my face. I kept looking at the clock, waiting for it to get late enough for me to call my friend with six kids. She kept crying and in my exhaustion, I could feel anger surge through me and it scared me.

My father's a very angry person, often claims that his anger has in many ways ruined his life. He's not the type to get into bar fights or fender benders when some one cuts him off on the parkway. However, he is the type to bitch for three hours if some one steps in front of him in the check out line at the Foodtown. I love my father, he's a good father but I don't want to be like him. And I can't help it, I am. If some one doesn't hold the door open for me, I'm pissed off. If I can't get the guy at the meat counter to wait on me, I'll storm out of the store even if I'm starving. Yeah, I try the deep breaths because I know the person who didn't hold open the door or that butcher at the meat counter, they didn't even notice me. I know better than anyone that I'm the person who gets hurt by my anger.

I love my mother but sometimes she tells me too much. My older brother, Billy, is autistic and apparently one night my mother came home to find my father seated on the edge of the bed crying. Billy wailed in the nearby bassinet. When my mother asked, my father said, "he wouldn't stop crying so I just shook him and shook him and shook him." My mother then said, "everyone knows, you don't shake a baby." So now I'll be haunted all by life by the mental image of my father shaking my brother into autism. Sorry Mom, you're a great Mom but this is one story I never needed to hear.

And I'm like my father.

The hours passed and I dialed my friend, sure she could save me from getting too angry with my baby. I have to say while she screamed and I tried various ways to soothe her, I didn't want to hurt her, I was just so afraid I would. My friend's husband answered the phone and asked how I was doing. I told him Eliza wouldn't stop crying and I didn't know what to do. He laughed and said "welcome to parenthood."

He didn't get that this wasn't just mild distress and fatigue on my part, this was a desperate situation. My friend, I'll call her Jill, got on the phone. I told her what was going on and she gave me several holds to try, asked general questions. I told her Eliza seemed to want to nurse all day.

"Okay, well can you for just one day do that?" Consult the books and they'll tell you not to comfort your baby with the boob or else they'll never learn to sleep on their own. But the voice of actual experience, not clinical experience was advising me to get into bed with the side lying position and nurse her to sleep. When I told her why I was opposed to this, she said, "That's why I throw away those books."

"I'll try it," I said. "But I'm scared."

"It's hard when you don't know why they're crying but it's perfectly normal. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with her."

"I don't think there is," I said. "I'm just afraid of me, what I could do with her."

"Oh, so you're thinking you could hurt her."

It was so, so hard to admit but I had to, had to help my baby, save my baby so to speak, from me.

"Yes."

"I remember when Timmy (her oldest) was a baby. I would stand at the top of the stairs and think, 'Gee I can just throw him over the bannister and no one would stop me.' It's a terrifying thing, to realize you have this much power over this little, tiny baby. I mean, how these babies do is entirely up to you. It's a tremendous power and we've never had it before."

"But Jill, you're so calm. I'm not like you. I get angry. I'm like my father."

"One of my friend's said, 'you don't know how often you'll look down at this great gift God gave you and just want to throw it into the wall.'"

I looked down at Eliza and could see her tiny, curled up body slamming against the bare walls of our apartment. It was horrifying to even think about. I didn't agree with Jill's friend. I didn't want to throw her up against the wall. I just was afraid I would get so angry, I would.

Jill assured me that it was hard, sometimes kids will try your patience and that it was normal to think you could be capable of something horrible. But she knew I wouldn't hurt my baby. I wanted to believe her but Jill loves me so much, I don't know if she sees the real me.

"If it's any consolation," Jill said. "She's really gorgeous."

I did hang up feeling a little better, that I wasn't alone in these dark thoughts. Jill had made an interesting point to about the idea of the power. As a small woman, I've never had a physical advantage over anyone. Now, I suddenly did and it frightened me. That kind of power, it's a responsibility.

Eliza continued to cry and I could tell she was tired. I tried putting her down in the crib in the bedroom while music blared in the living room but she only cried louder. I carried her around the apartment and shushed her. I swaddled her, I bounced her, I sang to her. I put her in the swing and finally, finally she fell asleep. I practically ran into the bedroom and dove onto the bed. I was there for about ten minutes before she started wailing. I waited a few more to see if she'd stop. She didn't. It was after noon now and I didn't know what to do so I dialed C.

"You can't keep doing this to me," I said. "She won't stop screaming."

"I'm not doing anything to you," he said, sounded annoyed. "This is part of what parenthood is about. You're going to have to learn to handle this."

I don't remember what we said. I know I asked him to come home and he refused, said he just got there. I'm pretty sure I hung up on him. I was really alone and I didn't know what to do. The day continued in more or less the same fashion. I don't think I ate, I know I didn't change out of my pajamas. I sat in the glider and nursed her a lot. This didn't seem to comfort her that much. Perhaps she was hungry and maybe I didn't have enough milk. We hadn't even tried to give her a bottle yet so the idea of giving her formula never occurred to me.

C called at some point to tell me his brother was coming around 5p so I could take a break. I don't like C's brother and the childless me would have said, "no, that's okay. I'm good." But the new mom in me somehow knew to take the help. I needed it.

"Okay," I said, not entirely grateful.

When C's brother showed up, I handed him the baby and went into the shower. With the water running, I couldn't hear her. I stood under the hot water and cried. Every now and then, I'd hear Eliza squawking. I finished the shower, went into the bedroom and called the pediatrician. It was Sunday so I didn't expect the doctor, but the 24 hour nurse service. I just wanted some reassurrance there wasn't anything seriously wrong with Eliza. The nurse asked me a series of random questions that had nothing to do with what was wrong with Eliza, then asked "How are you, are you thinking of hurting your baby."

"No," I said. Who the hell's gonna say yes to that question?

After I answered all her questions, the nurse said it didn't sound like anything was wrong with Eliza but to be sure I should take her to the emergency room. I panicked. I couldn't take her to the emergency room myself. I still couldn't push the stroller and the nearest hosptiatl was more than ten blocks away. It was December, cold and rainy. I didn't think C's brother would go with me. My mother's two hours away and in poor health herself. My other friends have kids and grad school and their own lives. I had no one. I had wanted reassurance and yet I got this answer. I didn't really think anything was wrong with Eliza. She was still squawking from the living room, just not as much.

I called C who told me the nurse worked for a company that was afraid of getting sued and they probably told everyone to go to the emergency room. He didn't think there was anything wrong with the baby. But how could I know for sure? He seemed annoyed that I'd interrupted him during his big outing with his other kids. I called my friend Kate, the mother of a strapping two year old, and briefed her on the situation. Like C, she felt if the baby didn't have a temperature (she didn't), I shouldn't take her to the hospital.

"But I'm not worried about her now I'm worried about you. You've been home all day with a screaming baby. Get out, get out of that apartment! She's with her uncle, go for a walk. Do something, anything. Walk around the block five times and when you get back you'll be amazed at how cute your baby is."

When I hung up I hadn't planned on following Kate's advice. Still clad in my bathrobe, I knew C's brother had to leave soon. It was December and as a grad student, I knew he had final papers due. But then I heard Eliza screaming and I put on some pants. I dashed out of the apartment, promising to return in about a half hour.

As I walked out the door and the wind hit me for the first time that day, I felt oddly free. It was drizzly and cold, I could see my breath in the air but all I could hear were cars passing, a random guy shouting into a cell phone, an electric cord banging the side of a building. I did not hear my baby cry. Suddenly it was a new night, a new world. I went to a nearby hot dog joint and wolfed down a hot dog and fries. It was nearly 7p and it was my first meal of the day. I sat there for a while, enjoying the cheesey lite FM station, the couple beside me who spoke German. They didn't know me, didn't know I had a baby who was apparently miserable and cried all day. If they looked at me they saw only a random woman with messy bed hair and droopy eyes, nothing more. I'd promised C's brother to be back by 7p but I couldn't bring myself to leave. I didn't know if I would find Eliza cute when I got home. I wasn't sure I could handle more hours of her screaming.

Kate's advice turned out to be some of the best advice I'd received. Eliza did seem a lot cuter when I returned. Not only did she look cuter, she looked calmer. Maybe she wouldn't spend the rest of the night screaming. C's brother placed her back in my arms and left around 7:30. I sat on the couch watching TV while she slept for a while.

The books and other parents will tell you if you need a break from the baby it's okay to put a crying baby down for a few minutes while you do something relaxing. I believe one book suggests checking your email or listening to music. Though everyone urges you not to let a baby cry for too long, it's acknowledged that short periods of crying in a safe place (crib, bassinet) are better for you as a parent. The problem in a small apartment is there's nowhere to go where I can't hear her. And as the crying intensifies it becomes to hit you like an accusation--you're a bad parent, you're not helping me.

The books also say if you think you might hurt your child, get help immediately. My mother lives two hours away and isn't in great health. My father probably would come if I called but he's also two hours away and I'm not sure I trust him with a screaming infant. C's parents live four hours away. Most of my friends have kids so they can't drop everything and head over. So if you are afraid you might hurt your child, who do you do if you have no one? I would have never thought of C's brother but in this case, it did turn out to be the elixir. And before he left that night, he gave me his number in case I needed to call again. I hate asking for anyone for help, particularly people who don't know me well. I feel like it's a weakness. But I realized that day, if I'm going to be a good parent to Eliza, I will have to ask for help.

She woke up screaming again around nine. For two hours, we went through the routine of nursing, walking, rocking, singing, swaddling. Nothing worked, she cried and cried. Around eleven, I put her in the bed alongside me and started to read a short story while she screamed. She screamed and screamed and then suddenly, mid-scream, she stopped. I looked at her terrified she'd given herself a heart attack but she was passed out, her mouth open, her breath audible. That was it.

I continued to read, certain she'd be up in ten minutes, screaming. She continued to sleep. Finally, around midnight, I turned out the light. C got home later and moved her to the crib. She slept that night, maybe woke up to feed once, I'm not sure, then slept through to the morning.

There's more to this story but I realize this entry is entirely too long. I will have to leave you here, a written cliff-hanger so to speak, to see if the next day was a virtual repeat of this one and the limits it pushed me to accept.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Crushlove

I can't remember the text exactly but it goes something like this--"when we put that thorn in our breast, we know, we understand. And still we do it. Still we do it."

The above line is how I recall the end of the book "The Thorn Birds." Okay so right now, you're wondering what some Movie of the Week miniseries starring a gay guy as an overheated priest who has an affair with a really gorgeous, young hot Rachel Ward has to do with my being a new mama. If you actually read the book, you'd know the book has more to do with the painful choices humans make and the concept of loving some one too much. The book opens with a fable about a bird with a thorn in it's breast that sings loudly without realizing the act of singing causes the wound to hurt more. In the book and the mini-series, the Rachel Ward character, named Meg, has an affair with the Priest that creates a child, a young boy she easily loves more than her daughter by her husband. Meg's mother reveals she had a son, Meg's oldest brother, by a married man she really loved so she could keep some part of that man. But in the end, with that brother in jail for life, the mother feels God took back the son she had to steal. And she warns Meg she will suffer the same fate after stealing a son from a priest, a man who can never truly be "hers."

And in true fictionaly fashion, Meg's son drowns in an unexpected sea swell in Greece. I read "The Thorn Birds" about 17 times when I was a teenager. Of course, I didn't read it until after I'd fallen in love with the whole Priest has sex with woman miniseries but you see it made it's mark on me. And I've been thinking about it a lot lately as I get up in the middle of the night, even now with Eliza at 4 1/2 months and gently pat my hand on her stomach to make sure she's breathing. Or I'll lean down when she falls asleep in her stroller and make sure I can hear her little snorts. Yes, part of me is so terried I love this baby so much that some angry, jealous, netherworld being will take her away from me.

The four days we spent in the hospital after Eliza's birth, I was a hormonal, jealous, nervous wreck. C seemed to love the baby so much right away, and granted to a normal person this would be cause for celebration, but the shared hospital room was tiny and we were both sleep deprived and fighting so much I became convinced he would take her away from me. We'd decided Eliza would have C's last name even though we weren't married but I panicked as I was submitting the form because now I was giving him "paternal rights." I remember calling my mother one night from the hospital and saying "He's going to take her away from me!" My mother laughed, found me ridiculous and in the end I suppose I was. But I'd never loved anything like this, never felt comfortable with the concept of "getting what I want." Now that I had what I wanted, would I really be able to keep it?

The day I was released from the hospital, when the resident came to check on me at seven in the morning, Eliza was half asleep still attached to my breast. The resident offered to come back but I said no, the baby was done feeding and removed Eliza from me. Perhaps I sounded angry, perhaps the resident was surprised I would remove her but we'd been up now, Eliza and myself, all night with her attached to me for most of it. I was exhausted, I knew Eliza was done feeding and I needed the doctor to look at my incision so I could get the hell out of there. I guess the crying jag I had two days ago when the anesthesia wore off made this resident think I was a post partum case. So she reported me to my doctor and he came, a social worker was summoned and a visiting nurse was assigned to me. I left the hospital feeling the stigma of being labeled a "head case."

I had to hold it together in front of C who was quick to also consider me post partum because I'm an emotional person and he's not. Now I'm not beyond seeking help if I was depressed but I didn't think I was. I was terrified, not so much of being a mother, but of the fact that I'd been cut open and would now have to care for a new baby while I healed. I'd never had surgery before and I knew C would be at work. I was afraid I'd split myself open, have to go back to the hospital and then C and his family would take this daughter I'd waited my entire life to have, away.

On the long car ride from the Upper East Side to Chelsea, on the lower West Side, seated in the back seat next to Eliza's little car seat, I felt my cut with every bump. We passed Lincoln Center and C said "that's where you'll go to the ballet with your Mom." I was surprised, I hadn't thought about me and Eliza going to the ballet together because surely some one would have taken her away from me by then. The hospital staff thought I was an unfit mother. I could fool myself into believing I would be fine but I was worried the hospital was right. And not about the post-partum which is a clinical problem and can be treated, but that I would be an impatient, tempermental mess. C would see me as a screaming, terrifying horrible mother and take Eliza away from me. He'd raise her, perhaps with his ex-wife or his mother and I'd never get to know or see the one thing I had always really wanted.

After 24 hours at home, I realized I wasn't post-partum, just exhausted from a very stressful hospital stay. An aid would wheel a noisy cart into my room every few hours, even in the middle of the night, to check my temperature and blood pressure. The residents came at seven in the morning, usually just as Eliza had fallen asleep. Breakfast was delivered by humorless aids on clangy, bumping carts . Pediatrician at 8:30, my OB at 9:30, cleaning staff at 10, lunch at 11:30--okay you get it. Hospitals are not the place to be when you're sick. I would never describe C as having a wonderful bedside manner but those first few days at home, he was great. He'd get up with Eliza at night and take her into the living room so I could sleep. He'd give me my Ipod so I could sleep without hearing her cry. He knew that babies cried for no reason, a little fact everyone neglected to tell me. After only a day or two at home, I realized I would get better. It took me longer to realize I could do the motherhood thing but that's another story in and of itself, best saved for another day.

I fell in love with my daughter in the womb. Every time I heard her heartbeat, I'd feel a tremendous surge of pride. When I first held her, I loved her, felt like I'd met this friend I always knew I had who'd finally found her way back to me. But those first few weeks of sleep deprivation and unease, I don't know exactly when I came to love her with such a numbing, crushing force sometimes I think I'm going to implode. One of my friends described it as "you hold them and an arrow shoots through you." It came on more gradually than that for me but now, sometimes when I look at her and she smiles back at me, I feel like a house on fire. I feel the blood in my veins like it's going to boil over. I feel so overwhelmed by this love it will rise in me like a swollen river and I will completely disappear.

Around the time I started feeling this, what I'll call "Crushlove," a song started playing frequently on the Satellite radio station we like. It's by a band called "Death Cab for Cutie" and the song is called "I Will Follow You Into the Dark." I liked the song, liked the words and started to sing it to Eliza as "our song" so to speak. It's a very morbid song, one too morbid to sing to a new baby but I did it anyway. The song opens up with the line, "love of mine, someday you will die. But I'll be close behind, to follow you, into the dark." See, this is some serious bad shit here, but a sentiment probably every mother can understand. This love is so boiling, burning and almost painful, I feel like I can no longer live without this child. When she's spinning around in her little exosaucer and then she looks up to see me watching and smiles, I feel like an arrow is shooting through me. I might be standing there like an ordinary person, with an ordinary smile on my face, but inside I feel this bond, this love like a laser beam, connecting her to me.

This past weekend C's kids were here. Their mother came to pick them up while I rinsed plates and put them in the dishwasher. I could hear her in the living room as she told her kids to get their stuff together because she was starving. I could then hear her saying, in that baby talk voice we all seem to get when we look at a baby, "Hi Eliza." There was some general conversation from the kids. "We took her to a party today." "I got a snow cone." I could hear their mother say "Eliza, you've got your mother's beautiful, big eyes." It's a nice compliment but I really think Eliza's eyes are her own. I shut the dishwasher and walked into the living room. C's ex-wife stood holding Eliza, who wasn't crying, while their son looked up at his mother adoringly. It suddenly hit me how much happier C's kids and probably C would be if I was out of the picture. C's kids wouldn't have to share their sister with me, a woman they don't care for as much as their mother. And C, I'd love to say I'm sure he wouldn't be happy without me but his ex-wife is pretty impressive. Had she not kicked him out, he'd still be there. It took everything out of me not to rush up to this woman and pull my kid away. She helped her son hold her the correct way. He took Eliza and she didn't cry. Feeling confident, he headed towards the door. Still Eliza didn't cry. I watched C's son take her all the way to the door, now opened by his mother who was saying, "I think her mother will mind if you take her."

I felt powerless as I watched them stand in the doorway. It was one of those unfunny jokes, I realize C's son and his mother weren't going to take my daughter away but it was painful. It's not easy for any of us to be a blended family. I'd say perhaps some of my fears on losing Eliza have to do with C and myself not being married, with having to share him with his prior family.

But in truth, I know my fear is based more in this burning crushlove. In the movie "Sixteen Candles" (yes, we go from Thorn Birds to Sixteen Candles), the father tells Molly Ringwald, about liking a boy "That's why we call them crushes. If they didn't hurt, we'd call them something else." I always thought that was a great line. Although my daughter brings me more happiness than Robert Franco did in the 8th grade, there's still a fair amount of pain involved in loving some one so much. It's good pain, really, but the intensity of it frightens me. The idea of knowing I don't want to be without this person and yet still knowing she will grow up, she will be her own person, she will leave me. Imagine committing yourself so totally to a man, all the while knowing your relationship would expire in 18 years. And for a child, it's much sooner as they start easing into life with their peers pretty early on. Motherhood is all about being selfless. I didn't come to the party without knowing that. It's just that the love I feel for her is so deep and so fulfilling, I know I will miss her not being my little baby. Already I feel the pain of her no longer falling asleep in my arms, of her smiles to everyone and not just to me. Though I take joy in her smarts, her newfound independence, her normal development, oh how I love that little baby who would never let me put her down.

Like my friend said, I held her almost to the point of resenting her, and in that time an arrow shot through me and now there's no life for me without her.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Common Colds and Miscarriages

Yesterday C and I dragged Eliza and his other two kids to a birthday party for my friend's one year old boy. It was a gorgeous day, one of those days that makes you think winter really is over and every day can take on so many exciting challenges. We loaded Eliza into her stroller and walked the 30 block walk to Soho. My friend, who I'll call Lucy, works for a children's publishing company and the party took place in her company's store.

Probably terrified by the plethora of rowdy partygoers, both young and old, Eliza went into meltdown mode when we entered the party room. But when C handed her to me and I walked her from person to person in a sort of meet and greet, Eliza wiggled her little arms and legs and smiled. A guitarist played children's songs and Eliza obviously enjoyed the music. The boy celebrating his birthday seemd to enjoy the idea of playing the guitar more than the actual music. The fact that Lucy repeatedly pulled back his reaching, swatting little hand didn't stop him from slithering under the guitar. While the singer belted out "Twist and Shout" and "Wheels on the Bus," C and I passed Eliza back and forth, twisting her little body in the air. C's other kids alternated between various states of misery, at nine and thirteen, a child's birthday party probably closer to the seventh circle of Hell.

I recognized several people from my Lucy's baby shower the previous year and then I remembered that day in it's entirety. Lucy's shower took place in an East Side Penthouse apartment, Lucy being the sort who has friends in literal high places. It was an unseasonably warm day for the first Saturday in February. The only other person I knew who planned to attend the shower was my friend, whom I'll call Becky, a bridge and tunnel commuter from New Jersey. As Becky lives in suburbia, she drove into the city and picked me up.

On the way to the shower, I asked Becky about a recent doctor's appointment. The only reason I asked is because she left a message a few days earlier that mentioned something about a doctor's appointment and the need to talk to me about it later. I wondered if Becky, like Lucy, was pregnant. Though I would be happy for her, as I was so happy for Lucy, I had suffered a miscarriage the prior November, right before Thanksgiving in fact. Yes I talk about Eliza, how the pregnancy was unplanned but in truth it wasn't as unexpected as I've said. To summarize as quickly as possible--C and I broke up the summer of 2004, Memorial Day Weekend as I remember. As I was single and relatively (no completely) celebate that summer, I stopped taking the pill. When C and I started dating, in a circumstance I was determined to keep casual, I saw no need to go back on the pill, instead favored the friendly little rubber things that come in packages marked "Bareback" and "Rough Rider." Let's just say, one weekend I was a bit careless. I wasn't that worried, having been a little careless before to no unfortunate consequence. At 36, I felt that was probably all the birth control I needed. On the day of my 37th birthday in November of 2004, I peed on a stick and found out I was in fact fertile. So much for casual. But that's all ancient history as we now know, I miscarried the Monday before Thanksgiving, C and I were both pretty upset by the loss and though Eliza wasn't exactly planned, she wasn't unwelcome either. Let's just say, after the miscarriage I was too upset to make any big decisions. What I would order at a restaurant seemed so monumental, I couldn't think about birth control. And C seemed to want to "go for it" as they say and when some one is offering what you really, really want, it would take a stronger person than me to say no.

But anyway, I digress, let me take you back to that sunny day in February when I got into Becky's car and we made the left turn on 23rd Street to go across town. It's been over a year now so this conversation isn't exactly how it was spoken, just how I remember it. I'm not adding any jail stays or rehab stints I never did here now, just perhaps different grammar than my far smarter friend Becky might use.

"So why were you at the doctor the other day?"

I held my breath and hoped I could be happy for her when she told me she was pregnant.

"It's complicated. I have to tell people I guess. They had to run a lot of tests on me because in about two weeks, I have to start chemo."

Now here's a word I've heard a lot of. My mother's been through cancer twice, a close friend had it in 1993. I don't want to be bold and say cancer doesn't scare me like it used to because I know enough about stages and "five years" to know better. It's not the shock it once was, I'll tell you that. There were still panic screeches going off like sirens in my head as I've heard these words before and I wanted to roll down the car window and yell "not again, not the fuck again!"

But I forced my voice to remain calm, like I said, I'm not a cancer rookie here.

"What kind?"

Becky seemed embarrassed, like she felt bad telling me her problems. "I have Hodgekin's."

"Oh," I said waving my hand across my face in the universal, "no big deal" gesture. "My friend with the six kids had that more then ten years ago. Ninety percent cure rate. You'll be fine. It's like the common cold of cancers."

And I meant it. When my friend, who now has yes, six kids, told me she had Hodgekins in 1993, I freaked out. Now that she's been cancer free since 1994 and the proud mother of, did I tell you she has six kids, Hodgekins doesn't have the same impact as say "pancreatic" or "melanoma."

"Really?" Becky turned to me. "Did she have it before the kids?"

"Yeah. I remember it all so well because she'd always wanted to have kids. That was her big ambition in life, to be a mom. And then that happened and we were afraid she'd never get the chance. Then she kept having a kid every year and we were afraid she'd never stop. The treatment was hard on her, it took about a while. She had a rough year but now, it's like it never happened."

This seemed to cheer Becky, well perhaps cheer is the wrong word. She did seem out of it that day. I was supremely glad she told me, supremely glad that I knew some one who'd survived what she was facing. I remember when I found out about my friend, I was so grateful when another friend told me her sister was a Hodgekins survivor. There's something about putting a name to a survivor that makes you feel more confident in an optimistic diagnosis.

I don't remember what we talked about afterwards, to be honest. Becky was quiet, I think still stumbling around in a kind of surprised to be awake state. She spoke, but there was an odd spacey quality to her voice. She was in shock, I'm sure, who wouldn't be. No matter what any doctor says about the probability of your survival, to hear the words "cancer" and "you" in the same sentence, it's not something I'd be expecting.

"Lucy still looks fashionable," Becky said when we got up to the penthouse. Lucy wore sleek maternity jeans and a tight black top. Her long pretty hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Lucy wore her pregnancy well. I have to say it would be hard to find a better looking pregnant woman. The penthouse was littered with about 30 well-to-do women. Waiters in tuxes handed out glasses of wine. I noticed Becky couldn't drink and refused the wine myself. I didn't want her to not drink alone. We met Lucy's sister, her reformed drug addict mother, her co-workers and close childhood friends. Becky and I sat on the terrace balancing plates in our laps with another woman, one of Lucy's co-workers. The woman was friendly enough, spoke of her husband and I wondered why I didn't have a husband. C and I were dating at the time, but truthfully I didn't see him as husband potential. I'm still not sure I do, even after having his baby.

I've never been the type to actively pursue a husband, but as 40 got closer and closer, I have to say the idea of one looked damn good. That miscarriage was so devastating in many ways because not only did I lose a life I'd loved but I saw it as perhaps my only chance. Who knew if C and I would even survive the month, let alone make a baby. I think I was in an odd form of denial then, denying that we weren't using protection, that pregnancy could even be a possibilitity as I was so convinced I was infertile, that the miscarriage happened because having a baby was something I "couldn't do."

So lunch ended and we went inside to ooh and aah as Lucy unwrapped Fred Segal blankets, Baby Uggs, a Bugaboo and a lot of hand knit clothing item. I enjoyed watching Lucy have her moment, liked that the group collectively awed when she unwrapped the stupid singing stuffed animal I bought her. As a mother now, I realize how stupid that gift really was. And while I enjoyed Lucy's day, as the paper came off yet another designer baby blanket, I felt like screaming "my friend has cancer!" Lucy's friend jotted down the giver of the gift in a notepad and I wanted her to write down, "Lucy's other friend is going through a rough time." Becky's gift was the new parent survival kit, a fancilly packaged box of different cold, gas and pain medications for little ones. As Lucy's friend wrote down Becky's name, I wondered if anyone really knew how much love had gone into that gift. It was a nice shower but I couldn't really enjoy myself. I just wanted to be out of there with Becky, so we could get these fake grins off our face, tell each other it wasn't the end of the world, and perhaps wonder if we had any friends that would gift us with a $700 stroller.

I didn't think about the miscarriage or have a "poor me" kind of moment until I walked by Lucy posing for photos with her husband's family. As Lucy stood back to take a picture one woman said, "Wait, we need the mother" and handed me the camera so I could snap Lucy with her relatives. I smiled, took the obligatory photo, didn't know why that phrase bothered me so much. I know part of it has to do with the fact that I'm the amateur photographer in my family, the one always asked to take the pictures. The end result is that I'm not in any of the pictures so when you look at photos from my grandparents' 90th birthday parties, there's maybe one of two of my back and that's about it. It makes me feel, in a way, like I don't exist. Here I was at another smiling, happy family function and some one was enlisting me to take a photo that I would never be in. Maybe if I was going to be a mother, maybe somebody would want a photo of me.

Another cliche alert--what a difference a year makes. Eliza was conceived in February 2005, the same month of that baby shower. Who knows, it could have even been that weekend though I know C was pissed when I got back to his place because I'd been gone a lot longer than I said I would be. I had to, Becky seemed to want to hang out and there was no way I could rush home in the middle of her cancer crisis. She's not the sort of person who makes cell phone calls when we're out so I couldn't steal away to call him either. I had to be there for her, I wanted to be. In a way, being with her reassurred me that she'd be okay. C yelled at me for being late and I told him why. He shut-up, cancer has that way of silencing people and I went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed in my coat with my purse still over my shoulder and cried. He came in and hugged me, told me she'd be okay and I was pretty sure of that myself. I just was sick of it, sick of another friend getting cancer, sick of the word and how it kept recurring in different guises in different bodies.

Fast forward to April 2006, the weekend of Lucy's baby boy's first birthday and not only do I have the baby I've always wanted but Becky is now cancer free and starting her five year waiting period. She finished her treatment last Fall, not long before I delivered Eliza. It went well and now her hair and eyelashes have already filled in so much, I realize how different she looked during her treatment. It's exciting to see her bloom and smile and thrive and look like Becky again. And we're bound now, bound by the life changing experiences we went through together. We're new friends, all of us, Lucy, Becky but we're pretty tight as surviving cancer and a pregnancy, it's got a way of bringing people together. Another cliche, I do apologize.

I was induced on November 21st, the Monday before Thanksgiving. Last year, I had my miscarriage the Monday before Thanksgiving. Since Thanksgiving isn't on the same date every year, the date wasn't the same but I was still sufficiently freaked out. I am superstitious but at the same time I refused to let myself worry too much. And in the end I realize why I had to have Eliza on that day, that she would be my gift for the gift I'd so sadly lost. I still think about that baby sometimes. It would have been born in July of 2005. But my daughter is so scrumptious, so lovely, so spectacularly wonderful, I confess to feeling satisfied, though I lost a baby the universe, in its way, gave me some payback.