Thursday, June 23, 2011

Pieces of Me Part IV

One morning in the fall of 1984 as I was making my husband a nice fresh egg salad sandwich for his lunch I opened the mayonnaise and made the mistake of looking at it and promptly realized I was pregnant. The by now all too familiar heat raced through my body, my mouth watered uncontrollably as I tried to not lose it, a cold clammy sweat broke out all over my body and I let out a strangled “Well damn it to hell” as I tossed the eggs, the bread, the mayonnaise and my morning coffee into the sink.

My husband rushed into the kitchen, shirt undone, face still have lathered with shaving cream and seeing me hunched over the sink, mayonnaise slicked knife still clutched in one  hand making horrible gagging sounds and moaning said (this is why I love men, right here) “Is something wrong?” While I resisted the urge to turn and stab him with the mayonnaise knife right where his motile little marathon swimmers nestled all smug in their beds I could not help but shout “Does it look like something is freaking wrong?”  Not being a dimwit, he took in my posture, my flushed face, my aggressive almost to the point of “The Exorcist” manner of speaking and tone of voice and jumped up and down, clapping his hands with joy saying You are pregnant! Yahoo, whoopee and any number of other exclamations of unrestrained joy.
After the birth of our son the previous August and the success of his first year my dear hubby, who at one point had thought about leaving me because I had conceived, was ready for a soccer team of his own. He was talking four, five, six, hell TEN kids. He wanted to dance around the kitchen, to call our parents, to tell our daughter and toddling son. I wanted to quit sweating and heaving.
As he bounced about I lay on the cool linoleum floor and wondered how I would ever tell him that this was it, the last one, no more, no how, no way did I ever want to feel that surging heat that meant 18 more years of my life belonging to someone else, of my heart alternately swelling with pride or quaking with fear and shriveling with guilt. My son was still not sleeping through the night, being plagued with vivid dreams even at the age of 1. This would mean TWO sets of diapers, TWO sets of bottles and TWO children clutching hungrily for me in the night. While I was only 24 it had taken me twice as long to get my figure back as it had at 18 (after my daughter was born). My house was covered with toys that stabbed bare feet, clogged toilets where tiny cars and He-Man tooth brushes had ‘accidentally’ fallen in while the bowl was emptying, other people’s children standing shoulder to shoulder with my own, lined up beside the bed staring at me, asking in hushed voices “Are you awake yet? We’re hungry” at 4 in the morning. Slamming doors, crying, shouts of “I HATE you”, singing, squealing, laughing, “I love you mommy”, cartoons and Sesame Street, the Chipmunks Christmas album in August played over and over and over again until I just wanted to scream “Give him the damn hula hoop already!” One more child we could squeeze into the maelstrom that was our teeny house, any more than that would kill me.
After the initial wrenching hour of discovery the pregnancy was smooth sailing. I took my son’s bottle away, telling him he couldn’t stay a baby forever, he was 14 months old at that point and I informed him it was just time to man up and use a cup. He pined for a week, begging me, crying and clutching my ankles, asking for just one more mommy please, just one more.  I would be gentle and firm and then go to my room and cry for the both of us. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon, as hormonal sleep claimed me I would put him with some crackers in the playpen, turn on terrible, trashy  TV for my daughter and pass out for an hour.
My husband was making decent money that year and we had health insurance, a rare occurrence, so other than the ordinary day to day stressors life was pretty sweet. I got rounder and rounder and bustier and bustier and slid through nine months of mild weather and happy holidays at a comfortable pace. As the time drew nearer I tracked down a second crib, bought a few items that were necessary and a few that were just for fun, something I hadn’t been able to do during the last pregnancy. Teddy bears and a soccer ball, pretty new green and yellow onesies and pajamas. At that point in time the sex of a baby was still a surprise and this time one I was not worried about in the least. Either-or since I already had one of each would be just fine with me. We settled on names early on and for the first time ever enjoyed the experience itself. My son who was an accident waiting to happen had me racing to the emergency room on a regular basis but the unborn baby was good as gold.
One reason why this pregnancy was such a joy was because I had decided it was the last, NO MATTER WHAT. We had been waging a mostly silent war fought in quick, hard battles when the children had gone to sleep. I was getting my tubes tied, it was decided, I had already filled out the paperwork, signed the disclaimers, made arrangements for my mother to help my husband with the kids while I was recuperating. He was in turns heartbroken, angrier than I had ever seen him, reasonable and pouty. The argument always came down to this… “When you carry the babies, nurse them and change them, you can decide how many we will have” It was a statement he just couldn’t argue with though he tried his damdest.
My baby was due on June 21st and I woke feeling heavy and achy and uncomfortable. I called my sister who kindly volunteered to chauffer me around so I could make sure everything was stocked, cleaned, fed, watered and ready so I wouldn’t have to worry about it after. We went grocery shopping, scrubbed floors and washed laundry, made beds, cleaned toilets and vacuumed. My husband cooked out on the grill and when, by midnight, nothing had happened to make me think the baby was going to come that night we went to bed.
I was dragged out of sleep by the cry of my son, lost in another dream he was thrashing about and shouting. I stood up to go to him and felt what can only be described as the bottom falling out, literally. I went from no labor to the final stage of labor in one quick hot instant. SHIT! I yelled at my husband who leapt up, naked as a jay bird and tangled in the sheets yelling at me in return SHIT SHIT SHIT. We both threw on clothes and I slid down the hall on my butt, yelling to my kids that everything was okay, aunt Mary was there and I would see them tomorrow with the baby. I bumped down the stairs still on my rear. I had a feeling that if I stood up the baby was going to fall out on its little head and we were 30 minutes from the hospital.
I was picked up and dumped into a chair which was dragged to the car where I was tipped, like a load of manure from a wheel barrow, into the front seat. I could see my sister dialing the phone, calling the doctor while she waved and yelled “Good luck!”. The car roared to life and we raced into the night. It was 2:07 AM.
My husband drove like a maniac, taking corners on two wheels, hammering the horn at the one unlucky car in front of us at that time of night. I would scream for him to slow the hell down but then another wave of contractions would hit me and I would scream “Hurry up! Hurry the eff up!”. We made the 20 mile trip through sleepy small towns in record time, arriving at the emergency room doors at 2:24. I had no choice but to stand, to wait for a wheel chair would have meant the baby coming out on the sidewalk. I am no stranger to embarrassment, no prude by any stretch of the imagination but I was ab-so-lut-ly not going to have my baby bare assed on a sidewalk in the middle of the night.
I began walking with my hands between my legs which were bowed like an old cowboy, quickly if not gracefully toward the entrance just as my midwife drove up. She tried to get me to lay down, wasn’t happening, she tried to remove my dress, unbuttoning one strap then the other only to find that I could, indeed, stop the baby from tumbling out AND button a button with one hand while suffering terrible contractions and cursing like a sailor. The three of us, myself, my husband and my midwife created a millipede like creature with flailing arms and awkward gait until we finally made it up to my room where we broke apart, myself to the bed, my hubby to the chair and the midwife in baseball catcher position at the foot of the bed. As nurses rushed in with the requisite instruments for tending to the new born I felt a lovely rend and knew my baby was tired of holding on. Looking down the length of the bed I saw the midwife smile and then tense. My husband and I both saw the lines deepen around her eyes, the tight set of her lips, and watched in horror as first our baby’s head, then feet, then head again, then feet again, then head flashed in front of her grim visage. At the end of the baby-gyrations she held a perfect little doll up over her head and yelled “it’s a girl and she is fine!” Apparently the cord had been wrapped around and around the baby and she had tossed and turned the little gem, unwrapping as she delivered her like a lovely gift at 2:31 on that beautiful, beautiful morning.


Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The End

I have been thinking about funerals today, the myriad of funerals and memorials I have gone to and what they did (or didn’t) do for me.
Funerals are always unique, always a little strange, always unsettling.  There were the big ones, my husband, my sons, my mother’s. There were also a lot for people to whom I had no great attachment but attended out of a sense of duty or respect for the family left behind. From each of these I took memories and sentiments, leaving in exchange a piece of myself in the form of tears or sadness settled down upon the casket or mixed in with the ashes or folded up with the flag and tucked away out of sight until the next service brings them rushing out leaving me to deal with the residual confusion of emotions all over again.
Never fear, I am not going to trot out my angst, lay bare my soul, set out my sins like platters of cheap  buffet food so you can pick through them, discreetly spitting out bits and pieces into your kerchief or a potted plant. Those are mine and God’s and I won’t burden or titillate you with them. What I am doing is planning what I want done in the event of my passing. This ought to be fun!
Pre-passing:
If I am laid up somewhere, a hospital or nursing home or whatever and you get a call from someone saying it’s time to say good bye please feel free to rush to my side. If you loved me, and I loved you it will be nice to say goodbye, I will miss you, take care and travel well. If you did not love me, and I did not love you it will be good for me to say see you, glad I am done with you and for you to say the same. This will give me an opportunity to fantasize about haunting you, making it rain on your picnics etc, finishing up my last hours with a bit of malicious cheer. You in turn can talk bad about me, literally for eternity after that point in time, so we should both be feeling pretty good.
After having been through two bed side vigils, one for a person I actively disliked and one for someone I loved totally I feel safe in saying I don’t want one. No-way-no-how do I want people that I love suffering through that. for everyone else there is no point. You will either stand rocking from foot to foot or sit slumped in a chair fighting a nap and wishing I would just hurry up and get it over with, text discreetly on your phones and leave often for water and bathroom breaks. All in all NOT a good experience for anyone involved. Go home at night, take your kids to the park during the day. If I am going you not being there is not going to change it.  One last thing. The nurses are paid for nursing, let them do it. I do not want my last hours spent watching my loved ones dealing with something as lousy as death.
I’m a Goner:
I have departed this vale of tears, time to get on the phone. First off, call everyone you think would want to know, either friend or foe. Do NOT call a church (or your favorite preacher). I try to be a servant of God, but I am just not too keen on churches in general and, frankly, most preachers. I have barely entered a church or listened to someone preach for 35 years. I am not such a hypocrite that I want one to talk about me when I pass. If doing so would make you feel better then I apologize, but I think my funeral should be about me. After all, this is my last hurrah, give me it in its entirety. Along with no religious trappings goes no casket. Please, cremate me. Bodies are so… extraneous when one has passed don’t you think? Ashes as well in the long run. I want them spread on the earth or the water, or shot up packed into a firework over the sea. Get rid of them. No urns, no boxes, no mantels or closet shelves. They are residue. I was so much more than that. The garden sounds good, or a creek, or hang the container out the car window as you speed down the highway. That is probably illegal but I do love seeing new places and it would make a hell of a photograph is someone had a camera handy! Last but not least, have someone with a sense of humor who loved and respected me write my obituary. Those things hang around forever and I want it to be a good read and I want to sound like a really interesting person. I am vain, what can I say?
Even though I am not a fan of most civilized rituals surrounding death I do love me a good wake. This, ladies and gents, is what makes a celebration of life, not a nod to death in my opinion. Music from Enigma to Billie Holiday to Eminem please! I won’t be offended if people feel the need to shuffle their feet. Dancing is glorious, I say go for it! Liquor should definitely flow freely but someone please keep an eye out. One wake I went to ended up with several women being groped by a drunk that didn’t even know the woman that died. Being evicted from a funeral would give the offender a good story to tell, if they remember it, as well as some lurid entertainment for the more staid attendees. A wake with a bouncer. I like that.
Children should definitely attend, hold it close to a park where they can run free together, calling to each other, shouting into the gloaming of the day. If they remember a lovely laughter filled adventure and not the reason behind it then we have done the job right. For generations cousins have gotten to know each other at weddings and funerals and now is no time to change that.
While I like the solemnity of dark clothes for a funeral, I like the sense of occasion they bring I am certainly not insisting on them for anyone. If I pass in the summer wearing black by choice would be downright masochistic and insisting on it would be sadistic. I am putting my foot down now though. If anyone tries coming into the wake with their pants down around their bottom and their boxers showing toss them out on their ear! If you didn’t respect me enough to pull up your pants why the heck are you at my wake anyway?
Feel free to tell stories about the stupid things I have done. Lord knows I have told plenty of them myself (this blog being a case in point). People are funny! If you want to talk about how I was no saint go home and do it (refer to pre-passing above). I screwed up plenty, I know this, we all do. If I haven’t managed to make amends by the day of my wake I am pretty sure it isn’t going to happen so get over it or trash talk me, just not at my party.
Post Wake
Remember me in some way and know that I have met up with so many I loved and am in a better (or at least vastly different) place.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Slick, The Chicken Hitcher

I know several people who have chickens. I find that, in general, they are inordinately fond of them. They tell chicken stories the way I find myself telling grandchildren stories. I try to catch myself before I whip out the latest pictures or talk about the glory of the little ones being potty trained. I realize that while I find them the most fascinating people on this planet  others may not. Chicken owners have no such boundaries apparently.
I have heard about the eggs hatching, the poopy butt checks, the number of little roosters that were supposed to be hens, the drama of hawks and other predators swooping in and snatching (or missing) them as they eat rocks in the yard. I have always had a hard time getting excited by these stories. I mean, chickens eat rocks. Rocks. In my opinion, enough said.
I am confessing all of this because I find myself at the age of 51 with a story to tell and that story involves a chicken. There are no pictures, I will spare you that.
The story begins like this; It is a beautiful summery Saturday morning. The birds are singing, the flowers are perfuming the gentle breeze and we are loading a saw with a blade that refuses to be straightened into the back of the truck. We are going to go pester my brother- in-law, Jack, who owns a similar saw into helping my husband figure out why the heck it is crooked and if it can be fixed or if we need to return it to the store from whence it came.
As we pulled up in the driveway he came ambling out of his garage with a chicken on his shoulders and a turkey on his heels. Both birds are adolescents and, quite frankly, I found  them less than attractive. The turkey threw itself on the hot concrete at my feet as if shot, spreading its wings out crookedly and laying it’s head at an impossible angle.  The chicken looked on from its lofty perch and pecked Jack’s ear as if to point out what an idiot the turkey is. I think the turkey must have had a stroke and the chicken is just ill mannered but Jack assured me this was not so.  Apparently, turkeys- like reptiles- enjoy sunning themselves. The chicken, Slick, thinks Jack’s ears are grubs. Overly dramatic turkeys and ear eating chickens not being my cup of tea  I go chat with my sister while the men folk fix the saw and talk turkey, literally

As we were leaving we stood around in the driveway chit-chatting about his and that and shooing off the chicken who keeps settling on the truck tires in the shade of the wheel  well. The saw is loaded back up, goodbyes are hollered back and forth a la ‘Waltons’  and we puttered off home.

By the time we got home it was over  90 degrees in the shade. A consensus was reached and we hopped back into the truck to go to the pool. Two hours were passed in sunning and soaking, the hottest part of the day idled away lovingly and languorously until our sinful enjoyment was brought to a screeching halt by a phone call. It was Jack, calling to tell us that we had run over his chicken as we left.  The way he pictured it the little bird was sitting on the tire, innocently enjoying the little bit of shade. As we backed out it MUST have leapt to its bony feet  and started running, sort of like a lumber jack in a log rolling contest. The chicken was obviously a superior athlete because he couldn’t find hide nor hair of it but he did see a chicken shaped grease spot at some distance up his road. I had an insane image of a plaid clad chicken with a teeny axe under his wing running for his life. This was quickly replaced by the image of a lovely pot pie just seconds into his tale. Sometimes my lack of empathy is down-right frightening.
I was horrified (and feeling guilty about the pot pie, savory looking though it was), my husband disbelieving, both of us saddened that SOMETHING had happened to Jack’s shoulder sitting pet. We sat around the pool for another 30 minutes but the fun had gone out of the day. We had killed Slick, apparently in a brutal and terrifying way. Back into the truck we went and drove home at a funereal pace to shower and change. After 30 minutes or so we came back out prepared to go to the grocery store and buy something (for some reason we all wanted chicken) for dinner. Realizing he had forgotten his wallet, my husband went back in and came out a few minutes later.

He was about halfway through the yard when he went to his knees saying ‘Oh My God’ over and over. Terrified, I ran to him, ‘What is it” I cried sure that he was pulling a turkey on me and stroking out at my feet. ‘It’s . Jack’s. Chicken.’ he gasped, pointing under the truck. I was afraid to look, knowing I would see little feathers caught up in the drive train or a rigored claw sticking out from the wheel well, baked by the sun and covered with flies..
I bent down to peer under the truck after preparing myself for the worst and Slick stared back at me with his beady little chicken eyes, very much alive and rather stuck on himself I thought. We stood there, struck dumb, all of us at this point were indeed monkey’s uncles, or sumabitches or darned.  It had been roughly four hours in terrible heat and Slick looked as cool and unruffled as If he had just stepped out of the coop.
Not being a chicken person I enlisted (okay, conscripted more likely) the help of our house guest in rounding up little Slick and made him ride back to Jack’s with the his body between mine and the fowl. Slick perched on my husband’s shoulder and looked out the window, turning and pecking his ear just as we pulled into the drive as if to say ‘thanks, grub’.
Jack was VERY happy to have his little bird back, the turkey stroked out at our feet , my husband proclaimed himself  the honorary guardian of the fowl and Slick had a hell of a story to impress the chicks with.