December Girl

Part 1: When she was bad

I can't say for certain what the catalyst was, but it may have been the photo. I took a photo of myself, posing with the alligator statue I was commissioned to paint. I was so excited to begin this project, painting a Gator on the Geaux was something I had wanted to do since I was a teen, and here was the opportunity. So, I took a photo of myself with the gator I had recently finished sanding and priming. I hated the photo. I could see the cellulite on my arms and legs in harsh relief, my very rounded face, and the apron I wore in an attempt to camouflage my belly and hips. I edited the photo, thinking I could make it look better. After all, the lighting in my living room is awful at night, that was the issue. The edits I added didn't help much. I still didn't like the photo, so much that I didn't want to share it on social media, and I love my social media.

I took the photo on August 26th, 2017. On September 1st, less than a week later, I started to walk.

I had been struggling for a long time. My anxiety was out of control, along with my hormones and my weight. I was unwell, but I didn't truly know it. Or maybe I just didn't understand it. For months, I had been having negative, intrusive thoughts. I would be alone in my van, driving home, and a thought would slam into my head:

I am so deeply unhappy.

I tried to just shrug the thought away, toss it to the back of my brain, and tell myself that it was silly to be unhappy- obviously, that was untrue. What did I have to be unhappy about? I have this great husband who I love AND like, and he loves and likes me back. We have this great daughter who is smart and funny and cute as a bug. We have a house to live in, beds to sleep in, food to eat, and people to love. Somehow though, knowing that didn't change how I felt. I ignored my negative thoughts as best I could, but the feelings I could not ignore. The anxiety sneaked into me. Which isn't to say I haven't always struggled with it, because I've been an anxious person for as long as I have memories, long before I had that word to describe what I felt. I was always described as "shy" as a young child by parents, teachers and myself, too. Now I realize I was never shy, I was anxious. A lot. It made me afraid to speak up, afraid of attention directed at me, afraid to stand up for myself. The anxiety never went away, but I grew up and got better at coping with it and just working through it. 

Until, that is, I had a miscarriage.

That story is on this blog too, so there's no need for me to go into it, but something changed in me after the miscarriage, and it wasn't just emotionally or mentally: there were physical changes also. Sometime after the lost pregnancy, after I had started healing emotionally, my periods began getting worse. If you're squeamish about periods, you should just skip ahead now. Basically, my periods became a lot heavier, cramps became more painful, and I just felt completely drained and rundown the week of my cycle. Other changes happened, too: the week before my period, my anxiety reached fever pitch. I had dark intrusive thoughts constantly. I worried endlessly about...basically everything. One time I had this thought that I may have done my taxes wrong (this was months after I had filed them) and had panic attack. I can't even describe properly how I felt when these attacks would happen, because they were so irrational but also totally real to me while I was experiencing them. I felt caged and trapped, like I was being hunted, but there was no physical threat ever, just...thoughts. Eventually I realized that I only felt like myself a week or two out of the month, and the rest of the time I felt anxious, frustrated, terrified, and sad.

My family started noticing that something with me was off, but I was pretty good at masking what was happening internally. Other things were wrong with me, too. I had horrible insomnia at night and slept well into the daytime when I finally managed to fall asleep. I won't even go into my awful eating habits other than to say I was drinking so much Dr Pepper that sometimes my kidneys would ache because I was so dehydrated. I gained so much weight that I had to wear Danny's shirts, because mine didn't fit anymore. I couldn't keep up with housework or artwork, and had to stop taking on commission work because I became so stressed about every project that I felt physically sick until it was finished and the client let me know they were happy with it. If I sent a client an image and didn't hear back right away my brain told me they hated the work and I was worthless. Eventually, my behavior caught up with my feelings and the anxieties started spilling out.

When I think about this now, it just breaks my heart, because my daughter noticed. My behavior became a new normal for her. I would get upset about something, have some outburst, apologize for whatever I'd said (yelled) or done, and Ruby would say to me, "It's okay mom. I know, you're just frustrated. It's okay, I love you." It broke me. My baby girl, only 5, saw me coming apart at the seams long before I realized I was unraveling. I actually wrote out a note in my phone chronicling all the crazy feelings and stresses and physical things that were wrong with me, hoping if I just wrote down how I felt I'd feel better, but I didn't. My mom noticed I was off, my brother did too. Danny knew something wasn't right. He was having to cope with my moods right along with me, but he didn't realize the extent of my unhappiness because he can't see inside my head. Until, that is, a night when I finally broke down and everything spilled out of me in a flood of tears and snot and rambling. We were lying in bed and I just curled into him sobbing and miserable and confused but also relieved to get all these feelings I'd been trying to mask out of me. It was cathartic and it was needed, but it didn't change anything.

Then I took the photo.

Then I made some changes.

Part 2: How she got better

I can't tell you when I actually made the decision to change things up, because I'm not sure I did. One night I decided to set a bedtime my phone. The next day my alarm went off at 7:30, and I got up. I went for a walk. It was only about two miles that first day, but it was something. I didn't get a Dr Pepper. I went to the grocery store and bought chicken breast and vegetables and I came home and prepared healthy meals. That night I went to bed when my alarm sounded, and I got up the next day at 7:30 again. I walked again. The first couple of weeks, my legs were sore everyday. I stuck it out, and eventually began walking 5 miles every morning. I used an app to track my steps and my meals. Then, I started walking in the evenings. Most days I walked between 8-10 miles everyday, eating healthy meals and holding myself accountable. Then I started getting up at 6, and I'd walk until about 9, bring home breakfast for Danny and Roo, and then do housework. Suddenly, keeping up with the dishes and laundry was easy. I just did a little everyday and it didn't overwhelm me anymore. Then, the weight began to drop off, fast. Within the first two weeks I dropped 5 lbs. By October, I was down 10. My clothes started fitting again, and I stopped avoiding my reflection.

For months, when I looked in the mirror I saw a stranger that looked sort of like me, but miserable and haggard. Now, I started to see me in there, which was nice. About a month into my new routine, I was driving home and a thought slammed into my head:

I am so happy.

Now, 2017 is drawing to a close. The person I was in January is very different from this December girl. I don't know what exactly was wrong with me. A combination of things, probably. I can't say for sure that I was depressed, but I can say for sure that I was broken. Now, I'm mending. The physical changes are obvious, and I'm happy to feel at home in my own skin again. Much more though, I'm glad to feel at home inside my brain- my heart feels so much lighter. And hey, so does my ass.

The One We Lost

*Trigger warning: The following post describes pregnancy loss/miscarriage

*Regarding language: I believe that life begins at conception. Throughout this post, I use the word "baby" to describe what I've lost, because both my head and my heart agree that an unborn human life, regardless of race, sex, circumstance, disability or development, is just that: a baby.

The words "The one we lost" are scribbled in sharpie on a positive pregnancy test that I can't make myself throw out. I've always been a bit of a pack rat, as well as sentimental. I can't let myself dispose of the test that confirmed the pregnancy my body rejected, my heart won't let me. 

I don't really know what to say about having a miscarriage. I don't even know what I feel concerning it most of the time. I do know that I need to write down the jumbled mess in my head and my heart, and I hope that in doing so I'll gain some insight and maybe even help someone who is (or has, or will) go through this too. I personally haven't felt comfortable talking about it with more than a couple of people. I don't know of many women who've experienced this in the first place, and I haven't wanted to overstep boundaries or dredge up miseries. I've been sort of flailing over the past weeks. Trying to wrestle these pent-up emotions into submission but not accomplishing anything, just exhausting myself. So, maybe the thing to do is put it all down on (virtual) paper, and maybe by the end I'll have learned something. 

I'm not much of a planner, but Danny and I decided to start trying for a second baby around December of 2014. "Passively trying" is probably more accurate, as we weren't really in any hurry. We had hoped to conceive around February, because then our children's birthdays would be about 6 months apart (Ruby's birthday being in April). It turned out we were lucky, and did conceive in February. It was late in the month when I took the test that confirmed I was having another baby. I was excited, but it was a milder excitement than for my first pregnancy. I guess because I'd done this before and mostly knew what to expect, both good and bad. I told my mom, close cousins and friends right away, but decided to wait for my first appointment and ultrasound to make it "Facebook  Official". 

For two weeks, everything was fine. I was tired and irritable but otherwise completely normal. Then it wasn't. Late on a Sunday night, Danny and Roo were asleep but I was up and puttering around as usual. I went to the bathroom and what I saw made my entire body go cold. Blood.

Truth be told, I am a worst-case-scenario worrier. It's a tendency I'm well aware of and strive to curb. My instant reaction was to panic, but logic kicked in and told me to calm the eff down. Hands shaking, I sat down at the computer and started searching. 

Signs of miscarriage

Miscarriage in early pregnancy

Early pregnancy miscarriage symptoms 

They all basically told me the same thing: mild cramping, spotting, loss of pregnancy symptoms. However, these signs could also mean nothing whatsoever. Some women just have spotting. Cramping can be a symptom of the egg implanting. I was pretty much in limbo. Could be something, could be nothing. Wait and see. I texted my mom and cousin, hoping one or both were awake, but they weren't. I spent the next couple of hours crying and panicking and pacing and praying. At some point, Danny briefly woke and I told him what I'd seen and what it could mean. By then I'd somewhat composed myself, and (thankfully) Danny was really only half awake and aware of what I was telling him, so his reaction was more rational than mine. 

The next morning I made an appointment to have an ultrasound for that coming Thursday. My doctors' office assured me that the symptoms I was having crop up literally every day and are usually nothing. It made me feel a teeny bit better. The blood didn't stop, though. I spent the week in a sort of daze. Trying to be/feel/act normal. I told a couple of people about what was happening, but I didn't want to scare anyone if it turned out to be nothing. Maybe I was just being stupid. Maybe I was just being dramatic. There was more blood each day. By the time Thursday arrived, I was ready for bad news. 

I have the amazing advantage of having my brother-in-law, Chris, do my ultrasounds. Having someone I love and trust there to give me the news, good or bad, is an amazing comfort. What I learned that day wasn't what I expected. He couldn't give me any definitive answers. I was measuring five weeks instead of seven, which could be lack of development or just a later implantation than we thought. The blood could be bad, but it could still also be nothing. Limbo. Again. I was going to have to return the next week for a second ultrasound to find out for sure what was going on.

The second week was a little better. Or maybe it was worse. I still didn't know anything for sure, but that was also hopeful. Maybe there had been two babies and one didn't make it but the other was fine. Probably not, but maybe. There was still a lot of blood. I knew there was way too much of it for things to be completely okay, but I tried not to dwell. Two friends announced their own pregnancies that week, both as far along as I was supposed to be. It bummed me out. I wasn't angry or resentful, but it felt awful to be so saddened by someone else's great news. Danny was a steadfast comfort, despite being as helpless in the situation as I was. He listened. He held me when I needed it, and let me rest when I needed that. He's consistently and quietly supportive, and I'm grateful to have a partner that senses what I need and is willing to give what he can. 

When Thursday came around again, I found myself all nerves. My stomach was roiling and I just wanted to get the appointment over with, no matter the outcome. I put on my game face (winged eyeliner, red lipstick) and tried to remain as normal as possible. When I got to the office, the receptionist told me [the other ultrasound tech] would be there shortly, and I flipped. My heart started beating rabbit-fast, my face got hot, I felt light-headed. I thought I was going to start crying or maybe even faint in the middle of the office. I don't think I was having a full-blown panic attack, but it was as close to one as I've ever been. I could handle bad news from Chris. I could hear it from him and walk out of there strong and composed, for at least a minute or two. I didn't think I could take the news from someone else. Thankfully, a few scant seconds later, I could hear Chris's voice through the door. The relief I felt was incredible. Heart rate back to normal, eyes swimming, but no tears falling. It was time. 

I knew what he would tell me. 

I'd known, really, from that first night. I'd allowed myself some hope, but I really did know I wasn't pregnant anymore. Lying back, looking at that screen I allowed two tears, one from each eye, to escape before I pulled myself together. I was going to fall apart, but I could hold off a little bit longer. I'd already managed it for two weeks. As I prepared to leave the office, Chris gave me a rare but welcomed hug. One nurse told me it would all be for the best. I know some people are bothered by that sentiment, but I'm not. It was kindly meant, and I'll take kindness in any form it comes in. Another girl smiled at me and said she knew I'd be back in a few months. I don't really know if I appeared as unruffled and composed as I tried to. I managed to walk out of there with (what I hoped was) a mild expression and dry cheeks. Once I was outside, though, all composure was lost. Despite there being several people in the parking lot, I couldn't hold the torrent of emotion back a second longer. The sobs that racked my body were uncontrollable. I was somehow able to walk blindly to my car and get in before collapsing into all the feelings I'd been suppressing for weeks. I don't know how long I cried, but it felt like a lengthy stretch of time. I couldn't control it: I just had to let go and let it all out. I didn't even feel better when I finally stopped, instead tired and helpless and confused. Truthfully, that's how I felt the entire time, and it's still how I feel now (a week and a half out from the confirmation of miscarriage). I feel like I forgot something important and missed out on something amazing because of it. I have a constant anxiety and mild simmering anger. The part that's most frustrating is that it's directionless. I'm not mad at anyone or anything, I'm just mad. I'm not stressed out about anything, I'm just stressed. I'm sad, but I almost feel guilty for being sad. I lost something, but I didn't have it long. Plenty of women lose babies much further along than I was. Babies that have names and belongings. Those women deserve to feel sad, but do I? Really? 

I feel stupid for feeling so shitty. I feel stupid for feeling stupid. I wonder if I really feel any of this or if I'm just being over-dramatic. I'm kind of a mess. Most of the time I'm totally fine, then out of nowhere I'm crying and there are so many tears I'm amazed my eyes can make so many and so fast. I often don't even know why I'm crying or what I'm feeling. I don't know how long this will last, or if I'm grieving. Am I? I think I am. Maybe. Maybe it's just the leftover hormones. Mostly, I have no answers. I'm trying to be okay with that. I try to remind myself that it's okay to be confused. To feel sad. Scared. Angry. Numb. Anxious. Ambivalent. Relieved. Stupid. Guilty. I'm pretty sure it's all normal. 

I don't know when I'll feel okay enough to put this out into the world. I know I will eventually, because I wish I could have read about someone else's experience when I was dealing with it. Maybe this will help someone. Maybe it will only help me. I think that might be enough. 

I debated with myself whether or not to share these photos, mostly because I was afraid of seeming like a self-obsessed weirdo. It's not really my business what other people think of me though, so here they are. I took this shortly before my second ultrasound. I wanted to feel calm and strong and confident, but I didn't. I settled for looking like it instead. The woman in this photo looks so unruffled and unafraid, but that's a lie. It's sort of strange, looking at this and knowing that at that moment I was sick with nerves. You'd never know it by my face. 

This was taken after. After I'd cried and cried and then managed to get ahold of myself enough to drive, I pulled down the visor mirror knowing I would need to wipe my face and was startled when I saw myself. I looked kind of crazy, and desperately sad, but everything on my face was real. I took this photo, wanting to remember that flood of emotion (and to invest in waterproof eyeliner) even though it hurt at the time. When I look at this one now, I see sadness but also strength. I AM that woman, and I'm okay. It still sucks sometimes, but I deal and keep going. 

To everyone who previously knew of all this and offered me a kind word, a prayer, or listening ear, thank you. From the depths of my heart, thank you. 

*** Update: since writing this, my emotional state has improved dramatically. The week after I initially wrote the above post, I went back and revised it a little each day, and then left it. I had a couple small anxiety attacks, probably due to suppressing my emotions those couple of weeks (you'd think after watching Frozen 8,673 times I'd know better than "conceal, don't feel" but apparently I wasn't paying attention), but now I'm pretty much back to my normal self. We still hope to add to our family, but I certainly won't be stressing about it. It will happen or it won't. Either way, I'll be just fine. 

Ruby, in Her Own Time

My little family

I've wanted to tell Ruby's birth story since before she even had one. When I was pregnant, I imagined several different scenarios, but it always culminated in me being handed a screaming, squirming baby still slick with blood and fluid. In these various  fantasies I would be sweaty and exhausted, face red and hair disheveled but glowing with pride and excitement. I'd hold my new warm baby to my breast and breathe her in while Danny held us both, his eyes wet with tears of happiness. Sounds perfect doesn't it? Just like a movie.

It didn't happen that way, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't change things if I could. The real story is a lot more than a birth story. In order to understand the whys and hows you have to go much further back than the day I went into labor. It's a story mostly about me, but also about relationships and heartache. This story is my truth, exclusive to me: my feelings, my memories. So let me start at the beginning: the day I found out that I was going to have a baby.

Thinking back, I couldn't even tell you the date. It was August, I know that. At the time, two close friends and a cousin were all due within a week of each other, so it was like baby-palooza around here.
I told Danny, four cousins I'm close with, and my two best friends on the day those two blue lines appeared. We decided not to share the news with anyone else until my first doctor's appointment. This was a great excuse for me, because I didn't want to tell my parents. Crazy, right? By this time Danny and I had been married for three years, both graduated from college, had good jobs, and had bought a home with plenty of room for a kid or two.
I didn't want to tell my parents, though.
I just didn't want to.
It wouldn't be how I had always imagined it.
I didn't want to tell my parents.

My mom and dad split up shortly before I found out I was pregnant. I'm not going to go into all that, but at the time I wasn't speaking to my mom and I was worried about my dad. The thought of telling either of them made me nauseated, more so than any morning sickness. I hadn't spoken to my mom in a month and my dad was making me crazy. Finally though, the time came to tell them. I called my mom first. I specifically remember driving down I-10 and telling my mom, who was so excited and so happy and so much herself that all the tension I had stored up just melted away.
Okay. One down, and it went well.
I decided to tell my dad in person, I thought he needed that. I was on a break from work the next day and he'd stopped by, so as we sat outside on the patio I told him he was going to be a pawpaw. His reaction was not at all what I expected. He turned inward and his only response was that he didn't know what the baby would call him, since he didn't want to use the name my mom had always suggested.
I was deeply disappointed and angry, too. I felt I had handed him one bright spot in all this shit we were slogging through and he still found a way to make it about himself. It wouldn't be the last time.

The first four months of pregnancy, I cried myself to sleep every night. Every single night. I would lie in bed and my thoughts would spiral out of control. How would my parents be grandparents separately? My child would never know them as I had: together. A unit, a couple, husband and wife. My family was broken. Split. My heart could not hold all that hurt in so I just cried. A lot. Danny was amazing through all of my sorrow and fear and stress. He listened, and held me close, and let me cry. He didn't have the answers, but he didn't insist I stop asking the same questions every night. He was (and is) my greatest comfort and lent me his strength during all my months of weakness. He's an amazing guy.

As the months went by, my relationship with my mom went back to normal, or at least as normal as could be expected given the circumstances. My relationship with my dad, not so much. The fact is that while I love my dad and have generally enjoyed his company, we've never been close in the same way I am with my mom. We tend to clash a bit, and my mom was always the buffer. Without her making excuses for him, though, I found maintaining contact with my dad was a strain. Basically, he stressed me out. Maybe if I hadn't been pregnant I could have processed the stress differently, but interacting with my dad always left my nerves jangling. I felt on edge around him because he had become impetuous and unpredictable.
Aside from all this I was working at the same job I'd had for the last six years, and I was over it. I was on my feet most of the day, and many aspects of my job required a lot of manual labor that I was solely responsible for. Between stress at work and stress from my family drama, it's amazing I had such a model pregnancy. I was fortunate that while I did have nausea and all the regular fun pregnancy symptoms, I had no health problems. I didn't gain much and didn't swell anywhere. I like to think God decided to give me a break since I had so much else to deal with.

I left my job in early March, and had a month to get "ready" for my perfect labor and birth. I hired a doula (she's a wonderful lady) and read birth blogs and midwife tales and anything by Ina May Gaskin I could find. I watched birth documentaries. I was READY.
Ha!

41 weeks and 3 days

My due date was April 11th, which was also my four year wedding anniversary. Three days prior I had gone on my in-laws annual Easter walk. It's about three miles and I was certain this would kick-start labor.
 Nope.
Another week went by with no signs of impending labor. When I was a full ten days past my due date, I started getting nervous. My dad had a week long work trip scheduled, and told me I needed to have the baby before he left. While I knew he wasn't trying to be mean, it deeply upset me. I was being asked EVERY day when I was going to have this baby, and I was determined to go into labor naturally.  I was still pregnant when he left on his trip, and though I felt bad that he was going to miss the birth of his first grandchild, I was also secretly relieved. I had been agonizing for weeks over what it would be like with my estranged parents in a small hospital room together. The thought kept me awake at night and I worried over it endlessly, despite trying my best not to think about it. Now though, that was at least one less thing to think about.
In the last days of pregnancy, I did everything I could to help my body go into labor. I walked and walked, I ate an entire pineapple, I had sexy times (though by this point I was roughly the size of a manatee and not very bendy). I did squats. If there was an old wives' tale, I did what it said. Nothing worked. By April 23rd, I was desperate. I did NOT want a chemical induction. I asked my doctor if we could try sweeping my membranes and she agreed to give it a shot. At 10 AM on April 24th, my doctor swept my membranes (holy cow, not fun) and told me if I hadn't started labor by 9 the next morning, we were going to have to get it going by other means. Fortunately, I started having mild cramps by 11 AM and they continued growing in strength over the day. Early that afternoon I lost my mucus plug and would have danced if I hadn't been the size of a rhinoceros. I drank a shake with castor oil in it, and I won't go into detail, but I will  never do that again. Around 7:00 that evening my mom and younger brothers stopped by while I was walking laps in my house. I knew I was definitely in early labor by then because it only took about ten minutes before I wanted to knock my brothers' heads together. They left shortly after, and I continued pacing. My doula arrived around 10:00, and by then I was resting my weight on an exercise ball. My contractions were now at regular intervals, and Danny was timing them. They weren't anything to be excited about yet, though. They were steady and growing in intensity, but still early labor pains. The next nine or so hours are a blur. I know Danny and I went for a walk at one point, and I think I cried during it. I vomited a few times, I got in the tub for a while, bounced on the exercise ball, and eventually lay down to try and get some sleep. By 7 AM of the 25th, I was ready to go to the hospital and see where we were at. I was still having regular contractions, or waves, to the point where I couldn't really talk during during the peak of one. We arrived at the hospital, got all set up in our room and waited to have my doctor check my progress. My mom came by and braided my hair for me.

The room was FREEZING, hence the socks on my arms.

Finally, my doctor came to check me. I wasn't dilated at all. When I heard this, I panicked. I doubt anyone could tell from the outside: I was having contractions and having to breathe and attempting to relax during them. Internally, however, I was flipping out. My biggest fear was having a c-section. I was convinced that if I had to have a c-section, I would die. I know it's irrational, but it's how I really felt. I had no reason to feel this way, as my mother had three c-sections. I was the only baby she was able to have vaginally, and she had not dilated until given pitocin (after laboring for two days, eight days past her due date). Throughout my pregnancy I told myself that if I wanted it badly enough and put my mind to it, I could make myself dilate. If I stayed positive and didn't let others discourage me, it would be fine. I was wrong. There's more to it than mind over matter, and the best laid plans, well...

Some time later my doctor came by to check me again and still nothing. I wasn't even to 2cm. A "wiggly" one, she called it. I knew if she broke my water, I would most likely end up with a pitocin drip and an epidural, but by then my internal resolve was already wavering. Forty-two weeks is a long damn time to be pregnant, and all my fears had crept up my throat and I just could not swallow them down anymore. My doctor broke my water, and labor really got intense. With each contraction, I felt as if I were wearing pain that was saddle-shaped. It would start deep in my belly and pelvis and radiate upward and around me.

My doula, Maw Maw Faith, talking me through a contraction

 From that point on I had very little concept of time. I had to concentrate during each wave, and the only reason I managed to do that was because my doula was there talking me through each one. At some point, they started me on pitocin, and that's when things got hairy. I couldn't tell you how long I labored without any pain meds. I think at one point they gave me something, but I can't actually remember. I don't know how long I hung in there before I was begging for that epidural I had sworn I wouldn't get. I know I only lasted as long as I did because my doula rocked. It could have been hours, or only a few minutes. I remember at one point, as a contraction was building, I looked at Danny and begged him to please punch me in the face and knock me out. I was serious.

A very tense Danny

 After twelve eternities, I got my epidural. I can't repeat the language I used as it was happening, but the guy shoving a huge needle in my back asked me if I kissed my mother with that mouth. I'm pretty sure I apologized to everyone I've ever met once it kicked in. I labored painlessly for a few more hours, and at about 4:30 my doctor returned to check me. Still nothing. I knew what she was going to tell me before she said it, and I could tell from her face she felt sad that my ideal birth dreams were about to shatter. I wasn't going to dilate. I was fully effaced, but my cervix was tightly closed. The baby's heart rate had started getting a little erratic, and it was time to get her out. I was having a c-section. My worst effing nightmare. I felt devastated, truly and overwhelmingly devastated. I was so sad and blindingly terrified. I cried. My own little bereavement for the fantasy labor and birth that wasn't going to happen. Danny was right there, and he cried for me a little, too. I think he was the only one that really understood what was happening in my head and my heart.  There wasn't much time to grieve, though. Instantly I was wheeled to be prepped for surgery, my mom and Danny dressed in scrubs. As I lay on that bed, my arms held out perpendicular from my body, I felt like I was at my own creepy, clinical crucifixion. The only comfort I felt was Danny, his hand on my hair, staring into my face and telling me it would be fine, we'd have our Ruby soon, and I was doing so great. He was so proud of me. He really is an amazing man.

Danny reassuring a very terrified Morgan

 My doctor told me she was going to test to make sure I was ready. The next thing I heard was "that's weird" and I almost had a heart attack before I realized they were talking about the Pandora station that was playing and not my uterus. The next words that made any sense to me were, "I see a lot of hair" and I was astounded that it was happening so fast. I threw up, strapped to that operating table, my gut cut open. Then, a sound. A cry. That cry I had waited and waited for. I was looking up into Danny's face as he stared back into mine. His eyes were wide and sparkling with unshed tears as he gasped out, "She's so beautiful!" but he was still looking at me.

Here she is

They held her up and she was so little. A perfect, naked, crying little person. She had so much hair and it was black as coal. As a nurse took Ruby to check her out I could feel Danny, restless, next to me. He wasn't going to leave me, but he wanted to see his daughter. I told him to go see her, and he was gone in a flash.

As my doctor(s) were putting me back together, my shoulders started aching and I felt like I couldn't breathe. Apparently this is normal when people are sewing your guts together, but it was vastly unpleasant. I was given something for the pain, and the next thing I can remember clearly is holding my little burrito of a baby, my three brothers standing around my bed, beaming. When I really looked at her, I was surprised and pleased to see her pretty, dark coloring and black hair. I had expected a pink, blonde baby like myself and two of my brothers had been, but Ruby was (and is) her daddy in miniature. The rest of that evening passed in a blur of ecstatic voices and grinning faces and congratulations. I remember my cousins laughing, excited. My in-laws insisting Ruby looked just like me, while my family were convinced she looked exactly like Danny. I was on really good drugs by then, but I would have felt happy anyway. I had my Ruby, small and precious and perfect. The baby I had was nothing like the one I had imagined so many times, but infinitely better.

Proud new uncles

Excited cousins

First snuggles

There are only a couple more things to tell, and they are things that I've realized only because I've had almost two years to think back and look at everything with a different perspective. I now know why I was so adamant about having a natural birth, and why I was so heartbroken when I didn't. Had you asked me at the time, I would have said that it was better for the baby and me, that I would heal faster, that we would bond more quickly. Those things are true, but it was more than just that.  Now I understand that I had tangled up all kinds of emotions and expectations in this desire for a natural labor and birth. Two things in particular were at the center of this knot. The first was that I felt that this was a gift I could give my daughter. It would be difficult, exhausting, and painful but so worth it. She was worth it. Her birth would be our first "together" and somehow set a tone for our entire relationship. It made sense to me at the time, and it sort of still does. The second thing (the thought that I think started the whole tangle) was this feeling that going through labor and birth and experiencing something so timeless and primal was going to somehow knit my broken heart back together. If I could deal with all that physical pain and see it through, it meant I was strong.  Strong enough to heal emotionally from the brokenness that was my family. Somehow, this birth would clean me out and make me new.  On the other side of it, I would have my own little family and I wouldn't be so dependent on the old one. It doesn't make sense. It never made sense. I can only now even see what was going on in my head, after having two years to untangle all those threads and get to what I had tied up in the center.

There's a saying I've heard many times about paths and destinations. Something to the effect of  "It's not where you end up that matters, it's how you got there." This saying doesn't apply here. For me, it's the opposite. It doesn't matter how I got my Ruby, and it never actually did. The journey was not what I pictured or wanted, but the outcome was the same. I have my Ruby, and how she got here hasn't changed how much I adore her. I love her with more ferocity than I ever thought I had a capacity for. I love Danny more because of her. She's such a treasure, and she's here. She's here now, and that's all that ever really mattered.

Instant Grits and muddy spoons

My Memaw has lost herself. She is really only a wisp of someone she used to be. That's what Alzheimer's does to a person. She has never been formally diagnosed, but there's really no bones about it. Her sister had it, and so does she. The thing about this disease that is so cruel, is that it forces you to grieve for someone you love years before they take their last breath. After all, who are you without your memories? Without a past? When you don't know your own kids from the mailman? I don't know. Neither my does Memaw, on most days.

About a year ago I wrote something about her, and me. I wrote down what I remembered of her from my childhood in an effort to help me remember what she certainly couldn't anymore. I'm sure some of these memories are exclusive to me, but I sort of hoped my cousins would be able to recall some of this stuff, too. A little something we could hang onto together. I only shared it with a couple of people then, mostly because I didn't want to make everybody cry. Now, though, I want to share it. Sometimes it's good to cry. So, here goes:
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When I was a child my Memaw was a sturdy brown hen. She was round and ruddy and constantly clucked over the state of my hair. She smelled of perfume, lipstick, and powder. She claimed that camphor could cure anything. She would put an over-large spoon into my small fist and turn me loose in her backyard, where I would make the most exquisite mud-pies. Inside Memaw's house I dressed up in old too-big dresses, hid in closets, ad sampled every bottle of her perfume. Memaw would sit on the living room couch and crochet or shuffle cards while she watched the soaps, and I would watch her. Her fingernails were long and magenta and her hands were nimble. She sometimes drew pretty girls for me to color, and made the very best grits when I wanted a snack. Now I am a woman and my Memaw is diminished. She is slight and pale, slow and quiet. She sits silently and reads or watches movies inside her own head. She shuffles her feet instead of cards, but still manages to cluck over my hair. Most days she knows me, but when she doesn't I assure her it's ok, because I know her. She is ever so slowly slipping away, but the little girl in me holds fast to her weakened hands. In my own recollections my Memaw will forever be the rhythm of a sewing machine, a bent spoon caked with clay. She is a sturdy old oak, a smooth round stone, a game of solitaire. She is the sound of crochet needles, the scent of Navy. She is a clumsy drawing of a pretty girl, and the perfect bowl of instant grits with extra butter and even more love. One day soon, my Memaw will forget even herself, but I will always remember her.