Excuse Me!
by Morgana Braveraven
Have you ever had this experience: You’re reading a book and all of a sudden the page reaches up and smacks you across the face? Well, believe me, it can happen (and by the way, it stings…). It happened to me this morning (and I have a page print on my left cheek to prove it!).
I’m reading a book right now called The Best Year of Your Life by Debbie Ford, and I don’t think a book has ever affected me the way this book has. I think it would be safe to assume that if I am reading a book called The Best Year of Your Life that I probably haven’t yet had the best year of my life – and it’s true. By my own account, I have not. At the moment, I am recovering from one of the nastiest colds I have ever had. It has lasted in excess of a month and has left me feeling drained and a tich depressed. It has kept me from attending to daily life in the way that I usually do and thus life has piled up around me like so many wobbly one hundred story towers ready to topple at any moment. It’s a rather uncomfortable feeling.
So, here I sit reading the book, frequently nodding my head and affirming to myself, oh yeah, I do that. Yup, I do that too. And that… And my goodness, guilty of that one too. Ugh! I grab a notebook and begin to scribble down notes. Every paragraph within the book resonates deeply within me, right down to the bone cells in the baby toe of my right foot. Every now and then I have to stop to digest what I have read and to give it some thought. I am quickly coming to understand why I have not had the best year of my life. There are many reasons, but here is the paragraph that stopped me dead:
“Excuses are automatic; they take no thinking or creativity. For many of us, we are so familiar with our excuses that we don’t even realize they are excuses. They show up as the truth of our lives. But hear this: Excuses are not the truth. We all have them, we all use them, and we all pretend we are made powerless by them. But if we are to have the best year of our lives, we have to be willing to give up all the excuses we’ve used. We have to ask ourselves this fundamental question: “Do I want to align with the greatest vision of myself, or do I want to align with my excuses?”
Smack! “Do I want to align with the greatest vision of myself, or do I want to align with my excuses?” Answers itself, doesn’t it...
Over the last weeks while I have been recovering from this cold I have had a great deal of time to reflect on why I am not where I would like to be at this time in my life. Now this is not what I really want to be thinking about. I would rather think about how I will spend the summer or what I will wear when I perform my duties as Maid of Honor at my best friends wedding in August. How about that cute guy in my salsa class? I think I’d rather think about him than why I am not where I want to be – but, there it is, that niggling thought keeps wiggling up, like an unwelcome worm, into my consciousness. The thought is relentless. It wiggles in then wraps itself around my brain like a boa constrictor, squeezing and refusing to let go until I finally resolve and take a good look at the issue.
I am not where I want to be. It’s not the end of the world, but it has become a recurring stone to stumble across in my life. I seem to continually arrive at the same spot over and over again, and this has become a frustration and a bit of a personal embarrassment. I know from past experience that we continually end up in the same spot when we fail to change the pattern of choices that keep us there. It’s like skiing around in a circle at the base of a cliff when we’re trying to get up the mountain. Round, and round, and round we go, looking up every now and again and wondering why we’re not there yet…
So, how am I going to get up that mountain? Well, quite frankly, I know one thing that is keeping me in the same spot – EXCUSES! Sadly, they have become my truth. I have a complicated life, most of us do. I have too much on my plate, again, most of us do. There is nothing about me or the circumstances of my life that can honestly hold me back from my dream, and I know this. There is only one thing holding me back – ME. Me and my excuses (amongst other things ;o). Oh, we do make a cozy couple, but the relationship is not a healthy one. My relationship with my excuses and my dependence on them is stopping me from achieving all that I seek to achieve. They have become as natural as breathing. They have become my reality.
I can’t get up and mail to my lists at 6:00 am because I work too hard and I am exhausted. I need my sleep! I can’t make that prospecting call at 5:30 because I would be interrupting someone’s dinner. I can’t leave a message on that answering machine because the person, upon hearing my voice, will immediately hate me and block all future calls from me. I can’t be bothered with sending a message to my contact list because that just doesn’t work. I can’t finish my to do list because it’s too big. I can’t redesign my website right now because I just don’t know what I want it to convey – I’ll do it later… I’ll do it tomorrow.
Go ahead, ask me to do anything. I can come up with an excuse as to why I can’t do it without even thinking about the question. Years ago I learned from a very wise man that there are really only two options not to do something. One option is that you physically cannot complete the task. The other is that you will not complete the task. “Will not” is a choice. To any of the conundrums above I can assure you that I chose not to complete the task. Everyday I would make excuses and by doing so I was making conscious choices not to do what I knew I had to do in order to get where I wanted to be. A little bit of self sabotage going on here, me thinks.
It seems to me that I need to rethink my “truth”. Consider a couple of my choices above: I can’t get up and mail to my list at 6:00 a.m. because I work too hard and I am exhausted. I need my sleep! Is it a matter of can’t or won’t? It’s true, I do work too hard, I am exhausted, and I do need my sleep. However, getting up or not getting up at 6:00 a.m. is a choice that I make every day. Am I capable of getting up at six? Of course I am! “I can’t get up at six” is an excuse, not a truth. If I really need more sleep, I could just as easily go to bed an hour earlier and get up at 6:00 a.m. If I go to bed at ten and get up at six I will be well rested and will be able to mail to my lists at a time when it will make a difference to my business. I will feel a sense of accomplishment and I will empower myself. If I go to bed at eleven and get up at seven, I will also be well rested, but I will not have time to mail to my lists at a time that it would make a difference to my business. I will feel guilty about my choice and I will feel disempowered.
Likewise, I can empower myself by making shorter to do lists and making them realistically manageable, instead of doing nothing and feeling like a failure. Excuses are problems in disguise and you can’t solve a problem by excusing it. Excuses lead to disempowerment and hopelessness.
And as I know that there are so many out in the world like me, stuck or struggling, I invite you to examine your choices. Whenever you find yourself making an excuse not to do something – stop! Stop and think about what you are choosing. Do you wish to align yourself with the truth and step into your power, or do you wish to disempower yourself and align yourself with hopelessness? As always, it boils down to choice. Right now I choose to go finish The Best Year of Your Life and learn to uncover some other ways that I hold myself in the same place, so off I go for now. And if you are one of the stuck might I suggest you do the same. It’s an excellent read and a timely eye-opener (want more book info? Go here: http://www.bestyearofyourlife.com/). I hope that you have a productive and prosperous week – there’s no excuse not to.
Morgana Braveraven
http://show--me.com/?i=41785/
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Monday, August 08, 2005
Tide Pool by Morgana BraveRaven
Tide Pool
____________________
by Morgana BraveRaven
Running down the beach at Grandma's, three girls in silly sun hats. Tide's out. Miles to the water's edge. Everything is so far away when you're a kid. I want to run out to meet the tide. Run and run and run through the heavy salt air. But I stay near the warm shallow pools. Patches of deep green, slippery weed caught in shimmering pools, reflect the hot sun. I dig my feet deep into the wet sand. Spin and jump making one foot print, then another. Jump from print to print, then back. The footprints fill with water. Little pools. Foot pools that become little dips in the sand. I watch the prints fill with water. Soon the tide will wash over them. Wash, wash, wash over. You'll never know they were there at all.
* * *
The girl on the bed, wrapped in a sheet, is me. I can remember, if I pretend it's not me. I see her sitting there. Nurse arrives. Tears, big like balloons, slide down her cheeks. She holds a bundle, soft bundle. Blue flannel. The girl takes the bundle. Unwraps him carefully, gently, not to wake him. Sitting cross-legged, she lies the little bundle in the space between her knees, holds his little hands. Examines the tiny foot that grew backwards. Did that hurt? She caresses it. Little ear, too far down. No matter.
Minutes pass, nurse is back. I wrap him back up, careful, so careful. Hold him close, cuddle, squeeze. My cheek rests on his soft dark curls. Nurse reaches for him. I turn away, but her long spaghetti arms still reach. Latch on to blue flannel. Leave us leave us leave us alone! Another nurse arrives, injects me with sleep, and I float float float to heaven. I'm coming, Joshua, Mommy's coming...
* * *
The doctor's office. A woman. My choice. After my examination I ask her if I will be having an ultra sound.
“What? A healthy young woman like yourself. You don't need an ultra sound.”
“But I just have this feeling that something is wrong with the baby,” I tell her, “I would feel better if we could check and make sure everything is all right.”
“My dear girl, there is nothing wrong with your baby. All women in their first trimester are afraid that something is wrong with the baby. It would be a waste of money to send you for an ultra sound. Trust me, everything's fine. Now you just run home and put your feet up. Relax, there's nothing to worry about.”
“All right,” I say, getting up to leave. Knowing that I don't trust her, knowing that I feel what I feel.
I take my neurotic self home to cry in a warm bubble bath.
* * *
I remember the guilt of the girl on the bed. After the birth, which had been longer than anticipated, she had been confused and tired. Exhausted. She thought she was prepared for the whole event, but you're never ready, even when it's expected. She'd been preparing for a birth and even though she hadn't actually wanted to be pregnant, hadn't actually wanted the baby, she hadn't wanted this either.
The guilt never goes away. Even now as I recall the events in my mind through a filter of passing years, I feel the fresh sting of my guilt, the dull anguish of my regret.
After the birth, nurse said I should sleep.
“You’re too tired to tend to baby,” she said.
“Have a bite of lunch and sleep a while,” she said.
Not knowing what else to do, I ate. Mouth opened, food went in. Mouth closed. Mouth chewed. Food fell lumpishly down throat. I slept. Then I woke.
* * *
A man in a white lab coat is standing over me.
“You're awake,” he says.
“Am I?”
“How are you feeling? Any pain or discomfort?” he asks as he stares at me. “It wasn't your fault, you know. Nothing that you did or ate. Not genetic. These things just happen some times.”
“Yes,” I say, wiping my face, “I understand.” But I don't.
“Is there any chance that you would like to donate the body to research. It might help us figure out the cause of these things,” the white coat babbles on.
“Donate the body?” Body?
“Well,” says Dr. White Coat as he leaves my room, “I'll leave this release form here. You can think about it for a couple of days.”
Donate. Donate? Joshua. I reach out my hand, but it's just so much air.
* * *
I remember the phone ringing. I was 22. It was John. He was working in the oil patch. I'd gotten a message to him.
“What do you want?” he asked through the hollow echo of the line.
“Um, John. Do you remember the last time we tried to work things out?”
“Yeah, so. What about it?”
“I'm, ah...pregnant.”
Silence. Click.
Phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing in my head.
* * *
Grace Hospital. Grace. I sit there, waiting. I've been shuffled around all day, like a lost file. I have to pee so badly. Waiting for the ultra sound. Eight and a half months pregnant, full bladder. After the test they send me out to the hallway again, to wait for the specialist
“Oh, you can go to the bathroom now, if you like,” they say.
No thanks, I'll wait till my bladder is so full that it bursts and floods the halls, and I float out of here.
Waiting for the specialist.
The specialist calls me into his office to show me the ultra sound.
“Here's the baby's head, and here are the fingers.” Ten
“Here are the feet. The toes.” Ten
“That's the heart.” Beat, beat, beat.
“And here is where the kidneys should be, but there are none.”
Ten fingers, ten toes, no kidneys, bub-bye...
“None?” I repeat staring wide-eyed at the wall, trying to penetrate its whiteness. “None,” he confirms.
“Uh hum,” I say, “could they have seen that if I had had an ultra sound at the end of my first trimester?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the specialist.
“Oh,” I say as I become unexpectedly aware of a fly buzzing around my head, and my tongue, which is suddenly half a foot long, darts out of my mouth, snagging the fly. I swallow it and leave the specialist’s office.
* * *
Nurse informs that baby is back from autopsy. He has been taken to the hospital chapel. Minister is waiting. My father arrives with the dress I asked for. He pressed it himself. Sweet. I try to brush my hair. It's so tangled. I become very impatient and rip the brush through my hair. Large chunks of hair float to the ground. I throw the brush at the wall. It lands with an echo on the cold tile floor. Dad puts the dress on the bed beside me but it falls to the floor in a wrinkled heap. I fall down beside it, grabbing the fabric into my hands and squish it in tight fists.
“I hate this dress, Daddy. I hate this dress!” I scream as I pound the dress into the floor. Nurse arrives with a sedative. Daddy holds me tight and rocks me. Cold tiles hold us up, prevent me from slipping. Joshua.
* * *
No one can look at me when they speak to me. They stare at the floor. Pat me on the shoulder when I cry. Tell me the grief will pass. Tell me it's good to cry, to let it all out. They don't even know why I'm crying. They think I cry because the baby died, and yes, that is part of it. But only part.
* * *
Sometimes I pretend that what happened that day at the hospital was a mistake. That my baby lived and another baby died. That there was a terrible mix-up. I imagine that I'm fifty years old and I live in an old Victorian house in the country. I live alone with five cats. I have an enormous flower garden full of roses, giant dahlias, snapdragons. A thick vine of clematis, with purple blooms, climbs the arch over the front gate. I sit rocking in my rocking chair and the doorbell rings. When I open the door a young man is standing there.
“Mom?” he says.
I throw my arms around his neck. He looks just like his father.
“Joshua!”
* * *
I don't know which part of the guilt is worse, the guilt associated with the fact that my son died alone, or the guilt of having practically condoned his death. I don't know.
My son died in the arms of a stranger, or possibly alone in a plexi-glass bassinet. The fact is I don't know where he was when he died. But I know now, as I probably knew then, that I should have been with him. But I slept.
What's worse though, is that I let my son die. Yes, I did. Though in fact, he only had half a chance of surviving more than a few hours or days. The doctors at Grace Hospital insisted that I deliver my son there so that they could administer every possible medical procedure to him. But since my son would be born with only one pea-sized shriveled kidney, what would have been the point of so much invasive medical intervention?
My son would never leave the hospital. Never run around outside in the crisp autumn air. Never build a snowman. Never say mama. Never splash through the waves at the beach, chase crabs through tide pools or leave his foot prints in the sand. What would have been the point? They might have been able to keep him alive for four hours or four days. He needed a kidney, they couldn't give him that.
I delivered him in my small, home town hospital. The same hospital that I had been born in, where all we could do was witness his passage though this world.
* * *
In the chapel it's dim. Candles burn. A little bundle rests on the table, wrapped in white. His whole body is covered, wrapped like a mummy. He's a mummy. No, I'm a mummy. I'm supposed to be a mommy!
“I want to see his face,” I say, reaching towards the bundle. “I want to hold him.”
“Don't unwrap his face,” my father begins, “it's... it’s…just leave him.”
For heaven’s sake just say it! Donated. Dissected. Dead.
I stand silent in front of the bundle. Time is frozen. This is my moment of judgement. I believe this even though I'm not even sure that I believe in God.
Too late to change my feelings about the pregnancy.
Too late to express any amount of love towards the baby.
He only ever felt my resentment, and then I abandoned him.
I never meant for things to happen this way. Never hoped for this.
And now it’s too late.
* * *
Years pass. Eventually people can breathe around me again. I buy booties for other people's babies and turn inside out so no one can see the color of my grief. Last week I went to the eye doctor. I hadn't had my eyes checked since the birth of my daughter four years ago. The doctor flipped the little lens things in front of my eyes.
“Is this better or worse?” he asked.
“Worse.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I can't read the letters on the bottom of the eye chart.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I still can't read the...” Flick, flick.
“Better or worse?”
“Better, but...” Flick.
“Well,” he said, “You don't need to change your lenses. This is almost exactly what you have now.”
“But...”
“I wouldn't bother if I were you...”
“But I...”
“Be a waste of money to change the lenses for such a small difference in the prescription.”
“All right,” I said as I left the office.
* * *
I never wanted the baby. This is the most difficult aspect of the guilt. When I found out that I was pregnant I was terrified. Horrified. For reasons that I don't understand any better now than I did then, I chose not to have an abortion. I just couldn't do it. However, I did everything I could think of to induce a miscarriage. Threw myself down a flight of stairs. Punched myself in the stomach until I threw up. But he stayed put.
Everyday that I was pregnant I willed the baby to die and drop out of me. Prayed that it would. And in the end, he did drop out of me. He did die.
Somehow, I killed him.
* * *
It’s very bright in the delivery room, or suite as they like to call it. Nothing sweet about it. Everything is sterile, metal, bright. They keep swabbing me with what feels like ice, as though they know my secret and are punishing me. I know this is a ridiculous thought. I’m sure it’s only disinfectant of some kind. I’m tired, ridiculously tired. I fall asleep between contractions. I fall asleep when they tell me to stop pushing. While I sleep I dream of a little boy with brown hair, lots of it. He’s a sweet little chub-chub. We’re at the beach and I make him put on a silly sun hat, like the one my grandmother used to make me wear. He gives me a bucket full of broken shells. I trade him for my bucket, which has a kidney in it. He takes the bucket and as he does the tide sweeps in and pulls me out to sea. He’s safe on shore. He waves good-bye then runs to meet my mother. She waves too, and shouts something to me...
PUSH!
My eyes fly open and a nurse is shaking me, telling me to push. Last big push and it’s over she tells me. The doctor’s face is hovering somewhere below my knees. He’s pulling, prodding, pulling. Then smiling he announces that it’s a boy! The room is silent as we wait for the first squawk...then we hear it, air into lungs, a cry pierces the sterile air. Then stops. The doctor holds the baby up for me to see. The baby, my son, hangs in the air between the doctor’s hands. His tiny arms and legs stir mechanically, every movement an effort. He looks at me through tiny squinting eyes, draws air into his lungs, and whispers “murderer”. Then his head lolls over his limp body and a last wisp of breath escapes quietly into the silence. Murderer.
PUSH!
My eyes fly open. A nurse is holding my hand.
“Last push,” she says, “then it’s over.”
* * *
The other day I was sorting through some old boxes of stuff. Stuff. We collect it, pack it around for years. We sort it out. Keep some, get rid of the what we don't need. And this is life, really, isn't it? -- sorting through stuff.
I found his birth certificate. Joshua David, born October 12, 1981. Weight, delivered by...and so on. My daughter came into the room and found me crying. We talked about Joshua for a while. I cried a little more. She held a tissue up to my nose.
“Blow, Mom,” she said. “You don't need to worry about it, Mom. I'm still your baby. Rock me like I was a teeny, tiny little baby. Ok, mom?”
She climbed into my lap and started sucking her thumb.
I rocked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Tide Pool'.
Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights, in publication since May 10, 2000
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____________________
by Morgana BraveRaven
Running down the beach at Grandma's, three girls in silly sun hats. Tide's out. Miles to the water's edge. Everything is so far away when you're a kid. I want to run out to meet the tide. Run and run and run through the heavy salt air. But I stay near the warm shallow pools. Patches of deep green, slippery weed caught in shimmering pools, reflect the hot sun. I dig my feet deep into the wet sand. Spin and jump making one foot print, then another. Jump from print to print, then back. The footprints fill with water. Little pools. Foot pools that become little dips in the sand. I watch the prints fill with water. Soon the tide will wash over them. Wash, wash, wash over. You'll never know they were there at all.
* * *
The girl on the bed, wrapped in a sheet, is me. I can remember, if I pretend it's not me. I see her sitting there. Nurse arrives. Tears, big like balloons, slide down her cheeks. She holds a bundle, soft bundle. Blue flannel. The girl takes the bundle. Unwraps him carefully, gently, not to wake him. Sitting cross-legged, she lies the little bundle in the space between her knees, holds his little hands. Examines the tiny foot that grew backwards. Did that hurt? She caresses it. Little ear, too far down. No matter.
Minutes pass, nurse is back. I wrap him back up, careful, so careful. Hold him close, cuddle, squeeze. My cheek rests on his soft dark curls. Nurse reaches for him. I turn away, but her long spaghetti arms still reach. Latch on to blue flannel. Leave us leave us leave us alone! Another nurse arrives, injects me with sleep, and I float float float to heaven. I'm coming, Joshua, Mommy's coming...
* * *
The doctor's office. A woman. My choice. After my examination I ask her if I will be having an ultra sound.
“What? A healthy young woman like yourself. You don't need an ultra sound.”
“But I just have this feeling that something is wrong with the baby,” I tell her, “I would feel better if we could check and make sure everything is all right.”
“My dear girl, there is nothing wrong with your baby. All women in their first trimester are afraid that something is wrong with the baby. It would be a waste of money to send you for an ultra sound. Trust me, everything's fine. Now you just run home and put your feet up. Relax, there's nothing to worry about.”
“All right,” I say, getting up to leave. Knowing that I don't trust her, knowing that I feel what I feel.
I take my neurotic self home to cry in a warm bubble bath.
* * *
I remember the guilt of the girl on the bed. After the birth, which had been longer than anticipated, she had been confused and tired. Exhausted. She thought she was prepared for the whole event, but you're never ready, even when it's expected. She'd been preparing for a birth and even though she hadn't actually wanted to be pregnant, hadn't actually wanted the baby, she hadn't wanted this either.
The guilt never goes away. Even now as I recall the events in my mind through a filter of passing years, I feel the fresh sting of my guilt, the dull anguish of my regret.
After the birth, nurse said I should sleep.
“You’re too tired to tend to baby,” she said.
“Have a bite of lunch and sleep a while,” she said.
Not knowing what else to do, I ate. Mouth opened, food went in. Mouth closed. Mouth chewed. Food fell lumpishly down throat. I slept. Then I woke.
* * *
A man in a white lab coat is standing over me.
“You're awake,” he says.
“Am I?”
“How are you feeling? Any pain or discomfort?” he asks as he stares at me. “It wasn't your fault, you know. Nothing that you did or ate. Not genetic. These things just happen some times.”
“Yes,” I say, wiping my face, “I understand.” But I don't.
“Is there any chance that you would like to donate the body to research. It might help us figure out the cause of these things,” the white coat babbles on.
“Donate the body?” Body?
“Well,” says Dr. White Coat as he leaves my room, “I'll leave this release form here. You can think about it for a couple of days.”
Donate. Donate? Joshua. I reach out my hand, but it's just so much air.
* * *
I remember the phone ringing. I was 22. It was John. He was working in the oil patch. I'd gotten a message to him.
“What do you want?” he asked through the hollow echo of the line.
“Um, John. Do you remember the last time we tried to work things out?”
“Yeah, so. What about it?”
“I'm, ah...pregnant.”
Silence. Click.
Phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing in my head.
* * *
Grace Hospital. Grace. I sit there, waiting. I've been shuffled around all day, like a lost file. I have to pee so badly. Waiting for the ultra sound. Eight and a half months pregnant, full bladder. After the test they send me out to the hallway again, to wait for the specialist
“Oh, you can go to the bathroom now, if you like,” they say.
No thanks, I'll wait till my bladder is so full that it bursts and floods the halls, and I float out of here.
Waiting for the specialist.
The specialist calls me into his office to show me the ultra sound.
“Here's the baby's head, and here are the fingers.” Ten
“Here are the feet. The toes.” Ten
“That's the heart.” Beat, beat, beat.
“And here is where the kidneys should be, but there are none.”
Ten fingers, ten toes, no kidneys, bub-bye...
“None?” I repeat staring wide-eyed at the wall, trying to penetrate its whiteness. “None,” he confirms.
“Uh hum,” I say, “could they have seen that if I had had an ultra sound at the end of my first trimester?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the specialist.
“Oh,” I say as I become unexpectedly aware of a fly buzzing around my head, and my tongue, which is suddenly half a foot long, darts out of my mouth, snagging the fly. I swallow it and leave the specialist’s office.
* * *
Nurse informs that baby is back from autopsy. He has been taken to the hospital chapel. Minister is waiting. My father arrives with the dress I asked for. He pressed it himself. Sweet. I try to brush my hair. It's so tangled. I become very impatient and rip the brush through my hair. Large chunks of hair float to the ground. I throw the brush at the wall. It lands with an echo on the cold tile floor. Dad puts the dress on the bed beside me but it falls to the floor in a wrinkled heap. I fall down beside it, grabbing the fabric into my hands and squish it in tight fists.
“I hate this dress, Daddy. I hate this dress!” I scream as I pound the dress into the floor. Nurse arrives with a sedative. Daddy holds me tight and rocks me. Cold tiles hold us up, prevent me from slipping. Joshua.
* * *
No one can look at me when they speak to me. They stare at the floor. Pat me on the shoulder when I cry. Tell me the grief will pass. Tell me it's good to cry, to let it all out. They don't even know why I'm crying. They think I cry because the baby died, and yes, that is part of it. But only part.
* * *
Sometimes I pretend that what happened that day at the hospital was a mistake. That my baby lived and another baby died. That there was a terrible mix-up. I imagine that I'm fifty years old and I live in an old Victorian house in the country. I live alone with five cats. I have an enormous flower garden full of roses, giant dahlias, snapdragons. A thick vine of clematis, with purple blooms, climbs the arch over the front gate. I sit rocking in my rocking chair and the doorbell rings. When I open the door a young man is standing there.
“Mom?” he says.
I throw my arms around his neck. He looks just like his father.
“Joshua!”
* * *
I don't know which part of the guilt is worse, the guilt associated with the fact that my son died alone, or the guilt of having practically condoned his death. I don't know.
My son died in the arms of a stranger, or possibly alone in a plexi-glass bassinet. The fact is I don't know where he was when he died. But I know now, as I probably knew then, that I should have been with him. But I slept.
What's worse though, is that I let my son die. Yes, I did. Though in fact, he only had half a chance of surviving more than a few hours or days. The doctors at Grace Hospital insisted that I deliver my son there so that they could administer every possible medical procedure to him. But since my son would be born with only one pea-sized shriveled kidney, what would have been the point of so much invasive medical intervention?
My son would never leave the hospital. Never run around outside in the crisp autumn air. Never build a snowman. Never say mama. Never splash through the waves at the beach, chase crabs through tide pools or leave his foot prints in the sand. What would have been the point? They might have been able to keep him alive for four hours or four days. He needed a kidney, they couldn't give him that.
I delivered him in my small, home town hospital. The same hospital that I had been born in, where all we could do was witness his passage though this world.
* * *
In the chapel it's dim. Candles burn. A little bundle rests on the table, wrapped in white. His whole body is covered, wrapped like a mummy. He's a mummy. No, I'm a mummy. I'm supposed to be a mommy!
“I want to see his face,” I say, reaching towards the bundle. “I want to hold him.”
“Don't unwrap his face,” my father begins, “it's... it’s…just leave him.”
For heaven’s sake just say it! Donated. Dissected. Dead.
I stand silent in front of the bundle. Time is frozen. This is my moment of judgement. I believe this even though I'm not even sure that I believe in God.
Too late to change my feelings about the pregnancy.
Too late to express any amount of love towards the baby.
He only ever felt my resentment, and then I abandoned him.
I never meant for things to happen this way. Never hoped for this.
And now it’s too late.
* * *
Years pass. Eventually people can breathe around me again. I buy booties for other people's babies and turn inside out so no one can see the color of my grief. Last week I went to the eye doctor. I hadn't had my eyes checked since the birth of my daughter four years ago. The doctor flipped the little lens things in front of my eyes.
“Is this better or worse?” he asked.
“Worse.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I can't read the letters on the bottom of the eye chart.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I still can't read the...” Flick, flick.
“Better or worse?”
“Better, but...” Flick.
“Well,” he said, “You don't need to change your lenses. This is almost exactly what you have now.”
“But...”
“I wouldn't bother if I were you...”
“But I...”
“Be a waste of money to change the lenses for such a small difference in the prescription.”
“All right,” I said as I left the office.
* * *
I never wanted the baby. This is the most difficult aspect of the guilt. When I found out that I was pregnant I was terrified. Horrified. For reasons that I don't understand any better now than I did then, I chose not to have an abortion. I just couldn't do it. However, I did everything I could think of to induce a miscarriage. Threw myself down a flight of stairs. Punched myself in the stomach until I threw up. But he stayed put.
Everyday that I was pregnant I willed the baby to die and drop out of me. Prayed that it would. And in the end, he did drop out of me. He did die.
Somehow, I killed him.
* * *
It’s very bright in the delivery room, or suite as they like to call it. Nothing sweet about it. Everything is sterile, metal, bright. They keep swabbing me with what feels like ice, as though they know my secret and are punishing me. I know this is a ridiculous thought. I’m sure it’s only disinfectant of some kind. I’m tired, ridiculously tired. I fall asleep between contractions. I fall asleep when they tell me to stop pushing. While I sleep I dream of a little boy with brown hair, lots of it. He’s a sweet little chub-chub. We’re at the beach and I make him put on a silly sun hat, like the one my grandmother used to make me wear. He gives me a bucket full of broken shells. I trade him for my bucket, which has a kidney in it. He takes the bucket and as he does the tide sweeps in and pulls me out to sea. He’s safe on shore. He waves good-bye then runs to meet my mother. She waves too, and shouts something to me...
PUSH!
My eyes fly open and a nurse is shaking me, telling me to push. Last big push and it’s over she tells me. The doctor’s face is hovering somewhere below my knees. He’s pulling, prodding, pulling. Then smiling he announces that it’s a boy! The room is silent as we wait for the first squawk...then we hear it, air into lungs, a cry pierces the sterile air. Then stops. The doctor holds the baby up for me to see. The baby, my son, hangs in the air between the doctor’s hands. His tiny arms and legs stir mechanically, every movement an effort. He looks at me through tiny squinting eyes, draws air into his lungs, and whispers “murderer”. Then his head lolls over his limp body and a last wisp of breath escapes quietly into the silence. Murderer.
PUSH!
My eyes fly open. A nurse is holding my hand.
“Last push,” she says, “then it’s over.”
* * *
The other day I was sorting through some old boxes of stuff. Stuff. We collect it, pack it around for years. We sort it out. Keep some, get rid of the what we don't need. And this is life, really, isn't it? -- sorting through stuff.
I found his birth certificate. Joshua David, born October 12, 1981. Weight, delivered by...and so on. My daughter came into the room and found me crying. We talked about Joshua for a while. I cried a little more. She held a tissue up to my nose.
“Blow, Mom,” she said. “You don't need to worry about it, Mom. I'm still your baby. Rock me like I was a teeny, tiny little baby. Ok, mom?”
She climbed into my lap and started sucking her thumb.
I rocked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Tide Pool'.
Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights, in publication since May 10, 2000
Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
=> http://www.sykaroinsights.com
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Hiccup
Hiccup
by Morgana BraveRaven
“It started with a BOOM! man – or… or maybe it was a Crack! I don’t know, but I’m telling you – it was weird.” Reggie muttered, shaking his head anxiously, somewhat in disbelief himself. He sat on the cement step outside the front door and, muttered as he picked away at the label of his Jones soda, occasionally glancing up at Wade who sat on a chair at the top of the porch. “It was just friggin weird”.
“It’s the heat, man. Dun worry ‘bout it”, Wade remarked, as he kicked his feet out in front of the chair while giving a loud “eeeeeaahh,” as he stretched his excessively long legs out in front of him, “it be the heat is all”.
“No, man, yer not listening to me. It’s not the heat. I was in the grocery store, there was a boom, no, it wasn’t a boom, it was a B O O M ! And then everything was so quiet. It was spooky, man”.
“I tell you, it’s the heat. It’s affecting yer brain,” Wade responded as he snapped open a cold can of cola. “I want chips. Where’s the chips you bought?”
Reggie looked over at Wade. “Huh?” he asked as he pulled at the waist of his jeans, noticing that it was beginning to tear apart at the seam.
“The chips, man. You went to the grocery for chips you dumb shit. I want some damn chips. Where are they?”
“Dun know”, Reggie responded, swatting at an excessively large and loud black fly that kept trying to dive into his soda. “Man, this fly is like glue for my soda,” he fretted while swatting obsessively at the fly, knocking the soda over and causing it to spill into his shoe. “Aw damn! Bloody fly!” Reggie cursed as he righted the bottle then removed his wet shoe and sock. “You got some shoes I can borrow till mine dries?”
“No,” Wade replied. “Who the hell wears shoes and socks in this heat anyway? You ought’a invest in a pair of sandals or something. Hey - where’s those chips anyway?”
“I Dun Know ! Are you deaf. I dun know where they are… Hey! Hey, Jimmy, get ‘way from my damn shoe,” Reggie began as Wade’s matted red setter, smelling the sweet soda, tried to make off with the soggy footwear. Reggie reached towards the dog, grabbing the shoe, trying to pull it free of Jimmy’s slobbering grip. “Gimme the shoe, Jimmy. Give Me My Shoe!” Reggie shouted as he pulled at the shoe. “Uuwaaa! Damn it, Jimmy – Give!” he pleaded with the drooling, matted, beast of a dog, giving a last mighty tug on the shoe.
There was the sound of tearing, and a thud as Reggie fell back onto the stair empty handed as Jimmy ran off around the corner of the house to the back yard with the prized shoe. “Shit, man, your dog just ripped my shoe and took off with it”.
There was laughter. Wade was laughing so hard he rolled off his chair onto the porch.
“Shit, man, yer an ass. Yer friggin dog just wrecked my shoe!”, Reggie barked at Wade as he reached over for the remains of his soda, climbed the steps to the porch and poured the last of the now warm soda over Wade’s head.
“Ha! Oh, man, you crack me up! Ha Ha Ha,” Wade replied as the warm soda dripped down his face. He stuck his tongue out to catch a dribble, “Root beer. Man, you know I don’t like root beer. I totally prefer cream soda. Ha Ha Ha! Hey – where’s the chips. I really need some chips to go with this soda,” Wade continued laughing as the Jones dripped from his chin on to his shirt.
“Shit, man, yer an ass,” Reggie said as he tossed the empty bottle at Wade then turned and made his way down the stairs, down the walk to the gate, then onto the street and away from the house.
“Hey,” Wade shouted after him, “shut the gate or Jimmy will get out and steel your other shoe. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, go find those chips, will ya!”
Reggie returned to the gate attempting to close it, but the latch would not catch as the latch pin seemed to be too far from the hook and the gate just kept falling open. He shoved the gate wide open and carried on without looking back at Wade, walking stiffly down the street towards the intersection, wondering to himself where he was going, muttering in the heat of the afternoon, and cursing when his one bare foot landed on an unanticipated sharp stone on the sidewalk, “Ouch! Shit!” he stammered as he hopped along trying to nurse his foot while continuing to walk.
Within a few minutes Reggie stood in the parking lot in front of the grocery store. He hobbled through the parked cars stopping occasionally to look around the parking lot. Everything looked normal. People came and went. No ambulance. No fire or rescue vehicles – nothing … but how could that be? There had been a loud boom. It had happened while he was inside the store. Was he at the check-out, or just walking towards it? He couldn’t remember. Reggie carried on into the store. He walked through the door, and stopped. The automatic door closed behind him. He took a step back, activating the door, which opened again. He continued to walk forward then step back for a minute, the door responding; open, closed, open, closed, until Eaton came over from the customer service desk. “Aahh – whatcha doin Reg?” he asked.
“Huh?” Reggie replied.
“Well, hell, are you coming or going? Shit, man, you don’t look too good. Hey – where’s yer other shoe?”
“Huh?” Reggie continued staring into the store. He appeared to be looking for something, some evidence of the boom he had heard earlier. Spilled groceries in the isles. Injured people – something… but there was nothing. Reggie attempted to take a few more steps into the store, but Eaton stopped him.
“Hey, man, you can’t go into the store with a bare foot, man. That’s a health and safety reg’lation right there.
“But… the boom. What was it?” Reggie queried as he tried to push past Eaton to get a look at the isles in the far corner of the store.
“Reg, you look like crap. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, but just sit here and wait till I get back. Lemme see if I can find you a shoe or something and then you can have a look around,” Eaton insisted as he pushed Reggie into a chair near the entrance of the store. Reggie sat while Eaton disappeared down the soup isle and through the swinging doors in the produce department. Five minutes later Eaton reappeared carrying a single broken red thong and some duct tape. “Here,” he said as he thrust the broken thong at Reggie, “it’s broke, but we can just wrap a bit of tape around it. Should hold till you get yourself sorted out here.”
Reggie fumbled with the thong but managed to hold it to the bottom of his foot as Eaton wrapped the duct tape over the top of Reggie’s foot then under the sole of the thong and back over the top of Reggie’s foot again. The finished product looked like some kind of bizarre bedroom slipper, but the tape held effectively.
“It’s the wrong foot,” Reggie mumbled.
“What are you talking about, man.”
“The damn thong – it’s for a left foot. That’s my right foot.”
“Whatever, man – It works. At least you have somethin on your foot now. So what’s so important in the store then – what were you going on about?”
“The B O O M. You were here, you must have heard it. About two hours ago?”
“No, I heard nuthin, man. Dun know what yer talking about,” Eaton responded as he pulled at the shoulder seam of his shirt which felt like it had stretched apart somewhat.
Reggie pushed past Eaton, into the store. He wandered up and down the isles and past all the cashier’s check-outs, but everything was perfectly orderly, as though nothing at all had happened. But something had happened. He had been walking up to the check-out to pay for his purchase when suddenly there had been a loud BOOM! and everything had changed. The air had become more dense – heavy, and thick – almost buttery, and he himself, his body, had expanded on the outside, but somehow felt as though he had imploded somewhat on the inside, as though all the cells in his body, at a molecular level, had taken a great breath in, in unison, and some had become stuck in a traffic jam somewhere between his throat and his stomach as they rearranged themselves, while others marveled at all the newly created space in his somewhat expanded body.
And then there had been the sound – or rather, the non-sound. The sound of density, just hanging in his ears. The sound of absolutely nothing as though sound had never existed at all, and the very fabric of existence had shifted two inches to the left. Then the non-sound had given way to crackles, and he had become aware of people moving around him, walking in slow motion. Grocery items hung in the air. Bags of chips. Steaks. Apples and bananas. Very Matirx-esque. And then the air and all it’s contents began to rattle and the grocery items slowly settled back down, and a woman began walking towards him taking long, slow strides as she cut through the buttery air, her long hair flowing like thick water behind her, and as she passed him she had said something, but the sound of her voice had been so dense, he could not understand what she had said. He had watched her walk out of the store, and as the automatic door opened to let her pass, a sound like a slow cool wind filtered into the store; wwwwhooowwwip! And suddenly, what ever it was, was over and a normal pace immediately resumed around him like nothing at all had happened.
Reggie stood, looking around. He shook his head. Shit, he thought, something had happened. Something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Hiccup'.
Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights
Since May 10, 2000
Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
http://www.sykaroinsights.com
by Morgana BraveRaven
“It started with a BOOM! man – or… or maybe it was a Crack! I don’t know, but I’m telling you – it was weird.” Reggie muttered, shaking his head anxiously, somewhat in disbelief himself. He sat on the cement step outside the front door and, muttered as he picked away at the label of his Jones soda, occasionally glancing up at Wade who sat on a chair at the top of the porch. “It was just friggin weird”.
“It’s the heat, man. Dun worry ‘bout it”, Wade remarked, as he kicked his feet out in front of the chair while giving a loud “eeeeeaahh,” as he stretched his excessively long legs out in front of him, “it be the heat is all”.
“No, man, yer not listening to me. It’s not the heat. I was in the grocery store, there was a boom, no, it wasn’t a boom, it was a B O O M ! And then everything was so quiet. It was spooky, man”.
“I tell you, it’s the heat. It’s affecting yer brain,” Wade responded as he snapped open a cold can of cola. “I want chips. Where’s the chips you bought?”
Reggie looked over at Wade. “Huh?” he asked as he pulled at the waist of his jeans, noticing that it was beginning to tear apart at the seam.
“The chips, man. You went to the grocery for chips you dumb shit. I want some damn chips. Where are they?”
“Dun know”, Reggie responded, swatting at an excessively large and loud black fly that kept trying to dive into his soda. “Man, this fly is like glue for my soda,” he fretted while swatting obsessively at the fly, knocking the soda over and causing it to spill into his shoe. “Aw damn! Bloody fly!” Reggie cursed as he righted the bottle then removed his wet shoe and sock. “You got some shoes I can borrow till mine dries?”
“No,” Wade replied. “Who the hell wears shoes and socks in this heat anyway? You ought’a invest in a pair of sandals or something. Hey - where’s those chips anyway?”
“I Dun Know ! Are you deaf. I dun know where they are… Hey! Hey, Jimmy, get ‘way from my damn shoe,” Reggie began as Wade’s matted red setter, smelling the sweet soda, tried to make off with the soggy footwear. Reggie reached towards the dog, grabbing the shoe, trying to pull it free of Jimmy’s slobbering grip. “Gimme the shoe, Jimmy. Give Me My Shoe!” Reggie shouted as he pulled at the shoe. “Uuwaaa! Damn it, Jimmy – Give!” he pleaded with the drooling, matted, beast of a dog, giving a last mighty tug on the shoe.
There was the sound of tearing, and a thud as Reggie fell back onto the stair empty handed as Jimmy ran off around the corner of the house to the back yard with the prized shoe. “Shit, man, your dog just ripped my shoe and took off with it”.
There was laughter. Wade was laughing so hard he rolled off his chair onto the porch.
“Shit, man, yer an ass. Yer friggin dog just wrecked my shoe!”, Reggie barked at Wade as he reached over for the remains of his soda, climbed the steps to the porch and poured the last of the now warm soda over Wade’s head.
“Ha! Oh, man, you crack me up! Ha Ha Ha,” Wade replied as the warm soda dripped down his face. He stuck his tongue out to catch a dribble, “Root beer. Man, you know I don’t like root beer. I totally prefer cream soda. Ha Ha Ha! Hey – where’s the chips. I really need some chips to go with this soda,” Wade continued laughing as the Jones dripped from his chin on to his shirt.
“Shit, man, yer an ass,” Reggie said as he tossed the empty bottle at Wade then turned and made his way down the stairs, down the walk to the gate, then onto the street and away from the house.
“Hey,” Wade shouted after him, “shut the gate or Jimmy will get out and steel your other shoe. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, go find those chips, will ya!”
Reggie returned to the gate attempting to close it, but the latch would not catch as the latch pin seemed to be too far from the hook and the gate just kept falling open. He shoved the gate wide open and carried on without looking back at Wade, walking stiffly down the street towards the intersection, wondering to himself where he was going, muttering in the heat of the afternoon, and cursing when his one bare foot landed on an unanticipated sharp stone on the sidewalk, “Ouch! Shit!” he stammered as he hopped along trying to nurse his foot while continuing to walk.
Within a few minutes Reggie stood in the parking lot in front of the grocery store. He hobbled through the parked cars stopping occasionally to look around the parking lot. Everything looked normal. People came and went. No ambulance. No fire or rescue vehicles – nothing … but how could that be? There had been a loud boom. It had happened while he was inside the store. Was he at the check-out, or just walking towards it? He couldn’t remember. Reggie carried on into the store. He walked through the door, and stopped. The automatic door closed behind him. He took a step back, activating the door, which opened again. He continued to walk forward then step back for a minute, the door responding; open, closed, open, closed, until Eaton came over from the customer service desk. “Aahh – whatcha doin Reg?” he asked.
“Huh?” Reggie replied.
“Well, hell, are you coming or going? Shit, man, you don’t look too good. Hey – where’s yer other shoe?”
“Huh?” Reggie continued staring into the store. He appeared to be looking for something, some evidence of the boom he had heard earlier. Spilled groceries in the isles. Injured people – something… but there was nothing. Reggie attempted to take a few more steps into the store, but Eaton stopped him.
“Hey, man, you can’t go into the store with a bare foot, man. That’s a health and safety reg’lation right there.
“But… the boom. What was it?” Reggie queried as he tried to push past Eaton to get a look at the isles in the far corner of the store.
“Reg, you look like crap. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, but just sit here and wait till I get back. Lemme see if I can find you a shoe or something and then you can have a look around,” Eaton insisted as he pushed Reggie into a chair near the entrance of the store. Reggie sat while Eaton disappeared down the soup isle and through the swinging doors in the produce department. Five minutes later Eaton reappeared carrying a single broken red thong and some duct tape. “Here,” he said as he thrust the broken thong at Reggie, “it’s broke, but we can just wrap a bit of tape around it. Should hold till you get yourself sorted out here.”
Reggie fumbled with the thong but managed to hold it to the bottom of his foot as Eaton wrapped the duct tape over the top of Reggie’s foot then under the sole of the thong and back over the top of Reggie’s foot again. The finished product looked like some kind of bizarre bedroom slipper, but the tape held effectively.
“It’s the wrong foot,” Reggie mumbled.
“What are you talking about, man.”
“The damn thong – it’s for a left foot. That’s my right foot.”
“Whatever, man – It works. At least you have somethin on your foot now. So what’s so important in the store then – what were you going on about?”
“The B O O M. You were here, you must have heard it. About two hours ago?”
“No, I heard nuthin, man. Dun know what yer talking about,” Eaton responded as he pulled at the shoulder seam of his shirt which felt like it had stretched apart somewhat.
Reggie pushed past Eaton, into the store. He wandered up and down the isles and past all the cashier’s check-outs, but everything was perfectly orderly, as though nothing at all had happened. But something had happened. He had been walking up to the check-out to pay for his purchase when suddenly there had been a loud BOOM! and everything had changed. The air had become more dense – heavy, and thick – almost buttery, and he himself, his body, had expanded on the outside, but somehow felt as though he had imploded somewhat on the inside, as though all the cells in his body, at a molecular level, had taken a great breath in, in unison, and some had become stuck in a traffic jam somewhere between his throat and his stomach as they rearranged themselves, while others marveled at all the newly created space in his somewhat expanded body.
And then there had been the sound – or rather, the non-sound. The sound of density, just hanging in his ears. The sound of absolutely nothing as though sound had never existed at all, and the very fabric of existence had shifted two inches to the left. Then the non-sound had given way to crackles, and he had become aware of people moving around him, walking in slow motion. Grocery items hung in the air. Bags of chips. Steaks. Apples and bananas. Very Matirx-esque. And then the air and all it’s contents began to rattle and the grocery items slowly settled back down, and a woman began walking towards him taking long, slow strides as she cut through the buttery air, her long hair flowing like thick water behind her, and as she passed him she had said something, but the sound of her voice had been so dense, he could not understand what she had said. He had watched her walk out of the store, and as the automatic door opened to let her pass, a sound like a slow cool wind filtered into the store; wwwwhooowwwip! And suddenly, what ever it was, was over and a normal pace immediately resumed around him like nothing at all had happened.
Reggie stood, looking around. He shook his head. Shit, he thought, something had happened. Something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Hiccup'.
Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights
Since May 10, 2000
Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
http://www.sykaroinsights.com
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