Hope.Less.

As Owen's birthday approaches, I prepare to indulge myself in the annual emotional clusterfuck that the day, and following weeks, always bring.

I stumbled upon the Remebered prompt today while sitting in Panera killing Bea's preschool hours.




The prompt was Hope.

Before I knew it?

This happened.


*******

His birth had rendered us homeless, jobless, childless. Helpless  loved ones made valiant efforts at comfort;

"He'll be OK."

In a quiet corner of my mind, where I lay curled up and quivering I screamed back;
"NO! He most certainly will NOT be OK."

I understood what was being offered. And refused to accept it.  It was a lie.

His surgeon, offered only truth;

Bleeding on the brain, seizures, kidney failure, heart failure, respiratory failure.

He wouldn't be leaving the hospital. That was the truth I believed.

I steeled myself.  Turned to stone. Waited.

Since the day he was born,  I'd slept with the phone clutched in my fist. When it rang at 5am, I knew.  It was time.

A hug from my sister in law as we left for the hospital, she knew;

"I'm so sorry."

"Me too."

Eerily calm on the half hour ride in.  Relief that it was going to be over soon.

The ICU that had become our home had been transformed into a battle ground;

Doctors and nurses and all manner of support staff buzzing around, turning our little cubicle into a makeshift OR.

Yes. We'll take one last look at him.

Al sitting on my left as the surgeon came into the conference room and sat facing us;

"He's going where no baby has gone before."  A second round of ECMO is rarely attempted, rarely survived.

"The transplant team is waiting by the phone."  Should Owen need new lungs.

"I've never saved a CDH baby with a lung transplant."  These babies don't live long enough to receive them.

"No matter what happens, we are learning things from your son that will help other CDH babies."

Specific instructions were given when the expected did happen.

Because if out of the ruins of our baby, some piece could be salvaged to live on in another child?

That was my only hope for survival.

First Time Remembered

*******

I was a late bloomer. Most people experience this rite of passage well before their 28th birthday.

Not me.

I'm not quite sure how I'd avoided it for so long. I was a normal, healthy, active girl.

Al would shake his head in exasperation whenever the time seemed near and I'd perform my much practiced technique to ensure it did NOT happen to me;

Scream. Flail. Run.

In that order. Worked every time.

Ever patient that Al;

"Just calm down. Relax. Don't freak out. Nothing bad will happen."

"Says you. It has happened to you countless times with your method. I'm gonna stick to scream, flail, and run thank you very much."

We'd been together three years when the day finally came. A beautiful late Spring day on the old dairy farm. Digging and weeding and mowing and planting and just loving up our little patch of earth as best we could.

I love me the sight and smell of a hard working man. Covered in dirt and smelling of fresh cut grass and sweat. I'd had enough of admiring Al from across the field and started making my way toward him.

Long grass tickling my bare feet and legs. The wind tossing around sounds of birds and bugs and rushing water.  It was quite the romantic little scene as I skulked on over to my man.

And then it happened. It. Happened.

Before I could execute my patentend scream, flail, run, maneuver it was already happening.

I'd heard many a tale about how badly it can hurt, but I was unprepared for the sensation;

"Motherfucker! Motherfucker. Mother! Fucker!!!"

Dramatically grasping the insulted body part whilst hopping about shrieking obscenities.

As Al rolled around the grass in full hysterics at my display.

"I knew it would hurt but holy old fuck, I didn't expect it to hurt THAT much! FuckFuckFuckFuck!!!"

Still jumping and flailing and crying as much with laughter as with pain.

I dared take a gander at the affected area, still in agony;

And plucked the bumble bee out of the tip of my toe.

And that my friends, is the tale of the first time I got stung by a bee after 28 years of...not being stung by any bees.

*******



I still check the Red Dress Club prompts every week. 

This week was a fill in the blank:

The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

This was the first time that popped into my head.

And? A big fuck you to whoever told me that bumble bees don't sting.

And?  A bigger fuck you to the yellow jacked hive I stepped on just days after the bumble bee incident.  I couldn't count how many times I got stung.

Don't Tell Me This Town Ain't Got No Heart

*******

"Where the fuck am I?"

"Albany sister."

"Fuck you man."

That I was in Albany was about all I knew of my current location.

An hour before, I'd been under an overpass buying my tickets and a white non perforated ten strip which Skip, Nat, and myself promptly divvied up and ate.

We'd been an inseparable trio for weeks,  travelled hundreds of miles, and attended a dozen or so shows.

We'd gotten through the first gate, into the arena, and shown down to the floor section where an usher inspected our tickets. He pointed Nat one way, Skip another, and proceeded to escort me out the back of the building, explaining that my ticket was a fake.

I was deposited into an alley, where I'd slumped down the wall beside the helpful Head;

"Sorry dude, I'm fucked up. I gotta find my van."

I followed the sounds of Shakedown Street; the heart of the travelling village that beat in every city we'd passed through.

Invisible drum circles, rhythms distinct but not competing, a pulsing tattoo to guide me home. The sound centered me as my other senses began to morph and meld under the influence.

I stepped on pavement that yielded like beach sand under my feet.

People danced by in slow motion, limbs elongated, movements exagerrated.  Every voice I heard whispered secrets in my ears.

I needed Gromley. A familiar life form to keep safe on this evening's unexpected journey.

The Border Collie's face was grinning through Stella's window. She jumped into my arms with yips and kisses. I let her leash lead me, having no particular destination other than back to the heart of town.

A familiar bus. Years since it transported children to school, it now boasted a colorful mural on the outside, and a cozy home on the inside.

Daze was all the way in the back. Gromley and I climbed over bodies, lounging, sleeping, none of them bothered by being crawled upon.

We'd met him in San Fransisco and had seen him in just about every city since. A perfect blend of races was Daze, broad African nose, high cheekbones, coffee skin, bright blue eyes and a mane of curly blond hair. A gorgeous man, wearing always a smile and a flowered skirt.

He greeted me with a hug, laughed at my tale of woe, and handed me a bowl. I was calmed by its familiar smell, mingling with the others that told me I was home; sweat, feet, farts, patchouli, and unwashed human, vehicle exhaust,  incense and sage burning, propane stoves, burritos, falafel and vegetables cooking.

Hunger. Apparently I am a rare breed who is capable of eating while aboard this particular ride. I was starving.

I followed the scents and voices shouting out their wares; most of them unappealing. I avoided anything containing weed, which narrowed my choices greatly.

Spaghetti, no tricks, just noodles and sauce. And a place to sit as my quest for sustenance was long and my bones had assumed the consistency of peanut butter.

As I sated myself, I chatted with the cooks; girls from my home state. By the time my plate was empty, we'd gone from strangers to friends. We parted with an embrace and promises to catch each other at the next show.

Newly energized, Gromley and I set off on a wander through the village. The wander turned into a run as we bobbed and weaved through the river of gypsies as fast as my jello legs could carry me. At least once, we fell to the ground laughing to piss ourselves.

Familiar faces sitting by their van, hands busy on bongo drums. I pulled up a patch of pavement, snuggled the pup on my lap and let the beat lull me into a liquid state.

Time sped up and slowed down and at some point I felt the crowd around me grow bigger. The show was over.

I made my way back to the van. Nat and Skip appeared soon after excitedly recounting the experience they'd just had inside. They had no idea I'd been tossed out;

"No! Fuck! That fucking sucks! You missed the best show!"

Nah.

I reckon I enjoyed the show just fine.

*******


I'm back linking up with The Red Dress Club once again.


Here's this week's memoir prompt;

This week we want you to recall something in your life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought you something wonderful.
A positive from a negative experience.

Yeah, I know. This will just get lost amongst all the other posts about tripping balls outside a Dead show, but fuck it.

And?   I was 22.   That is really young.  And not an age known for its stellar choice making ok?

OK?

Is all good.

The One With The Witch's Window

Joining the memoir meme again at The Red Dress Club.

This week's prompt:

Think of a room from your past. It can be any type of room at all.

Take a mental picture of that room.

What happened there? What is it like? What is the atmosphere there? What are the smells, the sounds, the sights? How does it feel?

Now reveal that snapshot to your reader.

Take us to that room.

Knowing which room was easy.  Sticking to the 750 word limit?  Just don't count them and we'll call it good ok?

*******

The window was the first thing I loved about the celery green farmhouse.  I loved it more when I learned it was called a Witch's Window.   Nestled in a corner, overlooking the tin porch roof,  peeking sneakily down the road.

Whether you entered the house through the front door off the porch, or the back door through the carport, you'd land in the kitchen.  A half wall separated the kitchen from the dining room, which was never used for dining.

A flimsy plywood door off the dining room opened to reveal the most amazingly wonky set of stairs.  Three imossibly shallow steps, and a sharp turn to the left took one on a stair climbing adventure requiring feats of balance and stealth.  Each step being at a startlingly different angle from the last, and from the next.  The passage so narrow that the walls served many a climber as means of support.

At the top of the stair, a hard left brought one facing the doorway to the room with that window.  Right angles and level surfaces being scarce in the hundred year old farmhouse, the door never closed properly.  Directly to the right of the doorway, a closet,  missing a would be ill fitting door.

The wide pine floor boards were partly covered by a deep red carpet. A remnant from the back room of the mom and pop rug shop in town.

Opposite the doorway, the ceiling was at a steep slant from knee high up,  papered with a delicate flower pattern.

Tucked under the slant, a crib.  Handed down from my sister,  pale wood and plain design. A light green sheet hugged the mattress. A quilted ABC bumper cushioned the slats.  A few blankets folded at one end.  A stuffed animal or two sat waiting.

There was no need for a mobile hanging above.  An ABC patchwork quilt, matching the bumper, hung on the slope, where it could easily be seen by a little one looking up.

In front of the crib, a large cradle, made by my grandfather.  One of the last things he'd made before his mind stopped letting him create.  Darker wood than the crib, it looked older than it was, had no decoration save a heart carved at the head.  It was overflowing with blankets, mostly knit by families of my patients at the nursing home.

At the foot of the crib, sharing the nook under the steep pitch of the ceiling, a small bureau, painted white. An empty picture frame, waiting to be filled with chubby cheeks, sat on top.  The drawers were organized by item and size.  Sixty three onesies, I'll always remember that number, sixty three, folded in perfect squares, in perfect rows; white, green, yellow.

The other two drawers were filled with more green and yellow, as nobody but myself knew the secret that I held in my belly; that this baby would be a boy.  I'd told no one.  Not even Al.  And no one, not myself nor Al, could have imagined the secret that the boy held.

Above the dresser, on the wall to its left; the window.  Its angle mimicking the lean of the ceiling.  I'd fashioned a curtain out of a scrap of fabric plucked from a yard sale.  It didn't cover it, and bits of light peered out from the winking eye.

Sharing the wall with the window, a small shelf, home to a few elephant figurines; charms for luck.

To the left of the doorway, the changing table.  A matched set to the crib.  A green terry cover over the concave mattress.  Two shelves underneath with baskets full of square towels, plain white burp cloths.

I'd insisted I would need one, and the brand new glider rocker sat in front of  the closet. Off white cushions on chair and gliding footrest. I'd often sit and and rock my belly, allowing my mind to fast forward to rocking its inhabitant.  

The window did not let in much light, and the small lamp on the dresser lessened the dimness only slightly.

A dark womb with only a soft glow sitting in its corner.

Cozy perfection.

I cannot regret asking Al to shut the nursery door before I went up to pack for the trip to Boston.

Nor can I regret not asking my friend to take a picture of the room before she dismantled it, sparing Al the task.

It is ok, that the only picture I have of that room lives in my mind.

It truly is ok, that the only evidence I can show of that room, is the window that drew me to the old house in the first place.