Neighborhood Update

Dude Across the Street finally removed the Gilligan's Island starter kit (hammock and suspended beer platform) from his front yard.

Leaving in its place for two days a rusty old lawnmower.

At least it's something different.

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.
-- Henry David Thoreau

Picture this: carpool-driving-road-warrior mom (call her LP) is on her way to pick up her Toddler-in-Residence from summer school. Radio playing. Loudly. Natch. A familar guitar riff pops out of the speakers, followed by a driving beat. Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”. LP drives circles around the school, singing along lustily, as is her habit, until the very long-ass song is complete. She is late to collect her young charge as a result. But the disapproving stares were worth it.
__________________________________

I was discussing the impact of the music of one’s youth on a internet forum recently with some lovely bright folks somewhat younger than I. Discerning music fans all, they were rightfully bemoaning the fact that the hallmark songs and sounds of their generation are poppy, cotton candy-esque and ultimately disposable. I feel for them, as the music of my youth had a profound influence on me -- and honestly, on who I am today. So, in that spirit, I took a little walk down memory lane.

During that time in my life -- those young adult years -- it was the early 1980s.

At that time, I experienced...

...Prince wowing everyone with Purple Rain;

...Michael Jackson and Thriller (which is arguably one of the great albums of all time, despite the fact that he's descended into disturbing madness and deviant behavior, effectively destroying any relevance he might have had today);

...the Commodores being funkycoolsoulful;

...the Rolling Stones still being relevant -- Tattoo You is splendid, even the ubiquitous "Start Me Up" -- a song I must crank up to eleven, even to this day;

...Genesis and Abacab changing how I listen to music, hearing the nuances;

...my eternally beloved Police, also changing how I listen to music -- with my brain in addition to my ears;

...the emergence of my too-cool-for-school R.E.M and their fellow Athens musicians, the B-52s (who I saw on a bill with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and the Who. Strange combo, great concert);

...the intelligent timeless songwriting of Billy Joel;

...my re-introduction to the classics of the 1960s, thanks to The Big Chill. I went through a brief phase when I didn’t listen to anything released after 1970 -- not a conscious choice, but just the frame of mind I was in. The Kinks. The Mama and the Papas, The Beatles. The Stones. The Monkees;

...the igniting of my appreciation of classical music thanks to Amadeus;

...the birth of my passionate love of jazz overseen by Al Jarreau and his seminal Breaking Away album and cemented by Harry Connick and the soundtrack for When Harry Met Sally;

...a young woman named Madonna who made some damn catchy dance music while capturing the attention of a nation with her brash style and cheeky attitude (and oh! those big-ass hair bows, skirts paired with leggings and jellies with ankle socks -- man, did I think I looked cool as shit in that getup...)

...the unexpected treasures found on college radio, where cutting-edge, inventive, experimental music was played, current mainstream trends be damned. I don’t live in an area where such a station exists at the moment, so I have to work a little harder to seek out those bands and artists who aren’t overexposed on Top 40 radio but whose fresh approach to music I crave. Never would have discovered Squeeze if not for college radio. And my life would have been just a smidge less complete.;

... the birth of MTV. When it was a renegade channel playing nothing but music videos. And what I watched religiously. Even while studying. (Which explains a bit about my GPA.) Duran Duran. The Fixx. Michael Jackson. Culture Club. Men at Work. Hall & Oates. The Go-Gos. The Bangles. We could actually see the music, sometimes portrayed in a very no-nonsense fashion, sometimes presented cloaked in the abstract, obscure or just plain weird. Anyone remember the Wall of Voodoo “Mexican Radio” video, with the guy’s face emerging from the bowl of beans? Who thinks up this stuff? And why didn’t they share what they were smoking when they were in the “creative” process?

Video didn’t kill the radio star.

It just forced him to hire a stylist.

I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music.
-- Albert Einstein

Memories intertwined with music are everywhere, especially during those impressionable young adult years. I was thrown out of a high school dance for singing, along with my incorrigible buddies, all the words to Jimmy Buffett’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?” very, very loudly. Acapella. My long-time boyfriend liked to listen to Kenny Rogers (sad but true; can't hear "Lady" to this day without feeling a little twinge of first love) while we made out and steamed up the windows of his Honda Civic. I hear Joe Jackson’s “Breaking Us in Two” and instantly go right back to my freshman year dorm room.

The opening notes of Hall & Oates’ “Out of Touch” reminds me of the boyfriend of a sorority sister of mine with whom I shared a fairly intense mutual crush (lots of lustful, knowing glances and serious, serious flirting), clandestinely acted on only once, but very memorably so. Sheila E’s “The Glamourous Life” puts me in the backseat of my college roommate/best friend’s vintage diesel Mercedes sedan, motoring down the road for a weekend away in Jacksonville. The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love my Way” sends me straight to a late night alterna-dance club called The Vatican which reigned for a short time as the place-to-be-after-2-am in Gainesville in 1986.

"(Keep Feeling) Fascination" by the Human League reminds me of a Friday afternoon spent dancing on a wall in the front yard of a neighboring fraternity house located on one of Gaineville's main drags, beer in hand, the other hand waving to cars (many with people I knew in them) as they rolled by. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” has me sitting on a bar stool at my favorite watering hole, drinking a Killians Red out of my special numbered bar-regular mug, eating a chicken salad sandwich and waiting for Jeopardy to come on at 11:30 pm, after spending the evening at the Journalism School. Sting singing “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free" reminds me of spending a Saturday afternoon during a Labor Day weekend in that same bar, spending my laundry change on beer, casually waiting for Hurricane Elena to hit the west coast of Florida.

INXS’s “What You Need” takes me back to late nights working on an intense Student Government campaign, where I was the communications guru whose primary job was tailing a bright but totally unfocused candidate in hopes he that wouldn’t say or do anything stupid. Especially after a couple of beers. And Heart’s “Alone” reminds me of the deep, unspoken, unrequited love I had for said fellow, about which I always suspected he knew, but never did anything about.

Music is nothing separate from me. It is me... You'd have to remove the music surgically.
-- Ray Charles

For every connection I just made, I’ve got a least a dozen more. Music is so much a part of me. I’m not the greatest musican or music scholar. I just know what I like. And am passionate to a fault about it. And I keep music around me as much as possible. My iTunes is rolling right now as I write this. Love & Rockets “So Alive," to be precise. Hypnotic song with a very sexy underbeat. Oh yeah.

I now realize how much of my life is defined by music -- where I was when I heard a song; what was playing when thus and such happened; why a set of lyrics can instantly make me happy or melancholy or thoughtful or joyous. And my musical tastes were truly defined during that critical young adult period in my life. When I was figuring out who I was, what I wanted, where I would go, the songs around me became ingrained. And I still listen to them today. As well as innumerable other songs discovered since. My iPod is a bottomless well, ready to hold any aural pleasure I can find.

And as I review the songs of my youth, the melodies of my soul, the lyrics of my psyche, I also can see the Bright Young Thing I used to be, just briefly. But just long enough to recognize her. And like what I see. Long enough to remember who she is and to subsequently motivate me to reaquaint myself with her. She's still here, in me. Never left. Hate how long it took me to realize that. I just gotta find out where's she's been hiding and make her relevant again (and hip... always gotta be hip.)

The cliche of the soundtrack of one’s life is strikingly accurate. At least in my experience.

And just as characters in a musical spontaniously break into song, so do I.

Doesn’t everyone?

And if they don’t, they should.

They’re missing out on one of life’s greatest joys if they don't.

Na nanana na nanana na na
na na na na nana.
Ah ah ah...
(“Dyslexic Heart” by Paul Westerburg)


Music is the vernacular of the human soul.
-- Geoffrey Latham

Mother and Child Reunion

My Gainesville boy Tom Petty said it best:

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

Man, did he have a point.

The most difficult part about Will’s way-too-close brush with mortality was the plain not knowing what would come next. (Ah -- see. “Mortality.” Back to those euphemistic words I took shelter in...) While his condition never deteriorated to that of the lowest of lows, he did have his moments of descent. Oxygen saturation was on a virtual trampoline, bouncing up and down, often with no rhyme, reason or logical explanation, other than the fact that Will didn’t like the position in which he had been placed, and his dropping sats were indication of his displeasure. Too much drama. Just like his mother. Infections were detected and treated. X-rays taken, issues noted, medicine administered.

He began to take breast milk as nourishment, which was a blessing and a curse. Due to my early delivery, my body never really figured out the whole “I’m a Mother!” thing, and pumping breast milk became a mighty challenge. Let’s just say that I was able to provide quality rather than quantity. And that just compounded my already rampant feelings of maternal inadequacy. Other than the fact that I did remember giving birth, there really was no tangible indicator that I was indeed a mother. Save for the feelings in my heart and the yearning of my soul. But that, while important, seemed to be woefully insufficient.

Neurological issues became the topics of the day. Will’s early head trauma and subsequent seizure activity were the focus of many doctors and other medical personnel. He began to have his head tapped, to alleviate the fluid buildup and pressure in the brain. Initially scary, that too just became part of the status quo, the routine, the necessary.

Days turned into weeks. Thanksgiving came and went. Our blessings, though sometimes hard to see, were indeed plentiful. And we did give thanks, for the road traveled thus far, and for traveling mercies provided as we forged ahead.

Will’s condition settled into an ebb and flow, with critical danger seemingly behind us. My husband began to travel again for work, which was another blessing/curse. It was good that Will was indeed stable enough for him to get back on the job, but it left me feeling somewhat alone and vulnerable. I know that it was hard on my husband to leave his family, but this introduction of the real world into our surreal world was a jarring experience for me, as I followed the hospital routine alone, flinching every time the phone rang, listlessly trying to sleep while my mind raced incessantly.

However, with time progressing, so did my opportunities to exercise some small material abilities. I began to change a diaper or two, reaching my hands through little portholes in Will’s isolet. I quickly learned the tricks of changing a boy once Dead-Eye Dick hit me straight in the forehead with a stream of wee-wee. We held hands -- actually, he held my pinky finger. Sheer bliss. And I was able to find him some clothes that weren’t great, but weren’t the doll clothes that other preemies often sported. So handsome.

And then, one nondescript morning, in early December, as I was doing something mundane around the house, the phone rang. It was Will’s day nurse. Telling me that he was having a particularly good morning and asking if I would like to come down and hold him. Talk about a rhetorical question.

The sun instantly shone brighter.

The birds sang just a little sweeter.

The sky was just a little bluer.

The part of me that had withered away began to spring ever-so-slightly back to life.

I was going to hold my baby.

For the very first time.

And the world was, just for a moment, a wondrous place.

My e-mail diary for that day could hardly do justice to my joy and excitement:
Will and I were able to spend real time together today, as I held him for the first time! We are beginning what is called Kangaroo Care – which basically involves a parent holding the baby outside the isolet for a short period of time. Will was placed on the top part of my chest, so we could have skin-to-skin contact. In this position, he was able to snuggle in and get comfortable, as he listened to my breathing and heartbeat – much as he did in utero. This activity has shown to be extremely beneficial to babies, as it helps with their physical and developmental well-being. I believe it’s a toss-up as to who loved our snuggle time more – Will or me… I don’t think I will ever forget that moment when his nurse put him in my arms for the first time. I found myself singing to him as we rocked together, and I discovered that the only songs I could remember all the words to were praise choruses, show tunes, and University of Florida fight songs – Will was treated to a medley of Jesus Loves Me, Before the Parade Passes By, Seasons of Love and We Are The Boys from Old Florida – eclectic, but fantastically representative of his mother.

It had been nearly six weeks since I had given birth.

But on that day, I became a mama.

Saturday Night Lullabye

Growing up, my Nana would often babysit my brother and me on Saturday nights. That meant we would watch what she wanted to on television. And that always meant an hour spent with Lawrence Welk and his merry band of entertainers.

All these years later, at 7 pm on Saturday, I still think about Norma Zimmer the Champagne Lady, A-Bobby and A-Cissy, and Myron Floren and his accordian. And, of course, Nana. But she is really with me each and every night as I put Will to bed. For this is the song we sing together right before he says his prayers:

Good night, sleep tight,
and pleasant dreams to you.
Here's a wish and a prayer
that all your dreams come true.
So now until we meet again,
Adios, au revoir, auf Wiedersehen

Good Night!

Now that he knows this song, it might be time to introduce a little Hee Haw into his repertoire.

This ditty could come in handy in many different circumstances; it has served me well over the years:

Where oh where are you tonight?
Why did you leave me here all alone?
I searched the world over and I thought I'd found true love.
But you met another and PFFFT!
You was gone.

With these gems under his belt, he just might be ready for TV Themes 101...

Aba Daba Damn Honeymoon

Mortality /Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep.
  - John Keats

There’s a name for it. A nickname if you will. Deemed thusly so by the wise, world-weary souls who have chosen as their life’s work to care for premature, critically ill babies.

They call it the honeymoon period.

It’s just like what it sounds like -- a time of indeterminate length when all is going well, when outlooks are rosy, when optimism abounds as one watches the health and the process of a micro-preemie. Which is what Will was.

And he had a lovely honeymoon period. Nines on his APGAR scores. (Educational Minute: The Apgar test is the very first test given to a baby, in the delivery room, right after he is born. The test was designed to quickly evaluate a newborn's physical condition after delivery and to determine any immediate need for extra medical or emergency care. APGAR: Activity, Pulse, Grimace, Appearance, and Respiration. The scale is from 1-10, with 10 being the highest. Rumor has it that only doctors’ children receive 10s.)

His heart valve closed appropriately, his jaundice dissipated. Things seemed to be going very well.

I was still in the hospital, feeling ok, but under close watch more for stress than anything. I watched football from my hospital bed, cheering as loudly as one can do in such an environment for my Gators (who beat Georgia) and my Bucs (who beat Minnesota). My husband rarely left my side, sleeping on an army-issue cot that provided nothing in the way of comfort. We had just come back to the room after a quick little Sunday night visit with Will when the phone rang. It was Will’s night nurse. And there was a problem.

Some pulmonary bleeding had made its presence known. Indicating the very real possibility of a bigger problem. In the brain.

Back we went, unsure of what we would be told. And after a brief consultation with the very young, exceedingly laid-back-to-a-fault on-call resident, we still had more questions than answers. All he could, or would tell us is that “the problem is very concerning.”

What the fuck does that mean, Dr. Dude?

“Very concerning.” That’s some real technical mumbo-jumbo there, fella.

Once Dr. Dude left, the nurse explained to us that this sort of thing -- some apparent brain hemorrhaging and bleeding -- was not uncommon in micro-preemies, and that tests would be run in the morning to determine exactly what was going on.

I was released from the hospital the next day, still wearing my maternity clothes, still questioning everything.

I began to develop the routine that would dominate my life for the next three months.

Wake up. Check the clock. Wait until 7:01 to call the hospital, the earliest possible moment after shift change from night to day staff. Find out how Will’s night was. Inquire when rounds were being held (no visitors, including parents, were allowed in the NICU until rounds were complete). Busy self with mindless activities. Try to figure out how to use the electric breast pump machine. Shower, drive to hospital. Spend time with Will. Chat with nurses, respiratory technicians, other parents. Talk to doctors, physicians' assistants and specialists. Fruitlessly resist urge to cry too much. Work hard to focus and process what was said about Will and his treatment. Leave before shift change (again, no visitors allowed). Go home. Remember to eat something. Stare at the TV. Do battle again with the breast pump machine. Call the hospital before going to bed. Try to sleep. Wake up to go to the bathroom and call the hospital again. Try to sleep again. Wake up. Repeat.

As the week progressed, Will began to ride the Preemie Express Rollercoaster, with good stability one day and problems the next. Tests were administered -- many CT scans -- to see what was happening in that noggin of his. Chest x-rays showed some issues with his little lungs. Infections began to pop up spontaneously.

The honeymoon was over.

After several days of tests and observations, the doctors called us in for a meeting. Will had indeed suffered a brain bleed, and a pretty severe one at that. He had the beginnings of chronic fluid build up in the brain and subsequent seizure activity and tendencies. And there was no way to tell what affect or turns this would have in the immediate and in the long term.

I wish I could tell you exactly what my reaction was, but exhaustion and sheer emotional numbness masked whatever it may have been. Not such a bad thing in hindsight.

We heard all the rhetoric, delivered in a very well-meaning fashion. I don’t want to downplay that. But to the doctors, caring as they were, Will was one of many patients. To me, he was the most important person in that room. And this horrible thing was happening to him. And that was inexcusable and incomprehensible in my eyes. My heart still aches with the memory.

Up and down, up and down we went over the next week and a half. Good days, tough days, oxygen problems, infections, electrolyte issues, cloudy chest x-rays. Stable. Not stable. Seizures, duress, agitation, irritation.

And all I could do was watch him through the Plexiglas of his isolet.

My dearest friend, my college roommate and not-blood-but-should-be sister came to visit from Atlanta for two days during all this, just to hold my hand. Such a welcome respite from the insanity.

She had just left for the airport when the phone rang. Will’s nurse. We were needed for a meeting with his neonatologist. Immediately. That’s never good. And it wasn’t. At all.

To this day, I cannot talk about this moment with any clarity or objectivity. Here are the words I wrote, miraculously, in an e-mail that afternoon.

Sun, 11 Nov 2001
This is a hard one to write, so bear with us. Will seems to be taking a southward turn again. More problems with his oxygen. The doctor suspects that some of this problematic activity may be attributable to seizures caused by his brain hemorrhage. They have been giving him a sedative/anti-convulsant, which settled him down initially, but they have had to continually increase the dosage. He is now having obvious seizure activity.

They will watch him over the next few days to see if his condition gets better, but if it doesn't, his doctors frankly told us that they may be running out of medical options for treatment.

Please continue in prayer for Will's head and healing.

It is only now, with time and some scar tissue that I can actually acknowledge what happened that day.

Will was in danger of dying.

The world turned black.

And part of me withered away.

Mon, 12 Nov 2001
Will had a decent day today. No seizures last night or today but he had one this evening while his night nurse was giving him his hands-on checkup treatment. Any sort of contact -- even having his diaper changed -- seems to agitate him. They are trying different anti-convulsant medications to see if something will work better for him. Good news on other fronts (he's gained weight--now 860 grams), but his head and his seizures are the obvious main concerns right now. They (and we) will keep watching him and see how he does.

Please pray for his head, and that he can rest peacefully and comfortably.

I remember nothing. I remember everything.

I felt nothing. I felt everything.

Out of control. Beyond my control. No control.

Tue, 13 Nov 2001
Today brought more of the same, I'm afraid. They are giving Will lots of medication for his seizures but he's still having them occasionally. He had a bit of a calm period while we visited him today, which was good to see. A neurologist is visiting him twice a day now and following his condition.

Please keep praying for peace and comfort for him. These are very tough days for us -- almost numbing in their intensity -- and it helps tremendously to know that there are so many who continue to talk to God on Will's behalf.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. One foot in front of the other. Words forming. Senses moving. Function. Function. What is normal? Will normal ever come this way again? Will I recognize it if if does?

Wed, 14 Nov 2001
Will had a good day today (and needless to say, so did his parents). His nurses said he was doing better all-around than yesterday. No obvious seizures detected today and his breathing looks better than we've seen it in weeks. Right now he's getting an electroencephalogram (EEG) over a 24-hour period to monitor his brainwaves and seizure activity, so hopefully we'll learn more about how his head is doing. He's back on breast milk so hopefully that will help him with weight gain, as well as build up his immune system to fight any infections. He also has graduated to a larger-size diaper -- it's these kinds of things that make a mother proud!

Finally. Exhale. Deep. Primal. Mournful. Relief. Temporary. Momentary. Real.

The rollercoaster was moving up the track, slowly, very slowly. But it was moving. Not stalled. Not stagnant.

There is so much more to be said about this. I’ve not allowed myself to process anything. Until now. I just couldn’t. Even now, seeing the words I wrote seem like they were composed by someone else.

But as I hear Will in the other room, singing along with The Wiggles and happily playing with his cars, I think that permission can finally be granted to my tortured soul. Can I let go of this melange of twisted emotion that I’ve been clinging to? I hope so.

I hate it.

It hates me.

Guess what? Here's that damn AHA! moment people are always talking about. Clarity via that virtual lightbulb going off.

I survived this horrific episode. Every parent's nightmare. Mortality up close. And way too fucking personal.

I am leaving the door open, so some solace can approach, creeping in quietly. Perhaps catharsis will follow suit, and with it, perhaps some self-forgiveness. Who knows.

It's all I can do to just open the door and wait.

I’m still a little dizzy from the rollercoaster ride.

Even now.

Go figure.

This is the spot where I am mortal.
        - Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

Pleasant Valley Thursday

So I go out to get my mail this afternoon (Nothing but junk. I feel bad for my mailman who delivered this to me in 90+ degree temperatures with 727 percent humidity only to have me take it right from the mailbox to the trash) and am stopped dead in my tracks by what’s going on in my across-the-street neighbor’s yard.

This guy is a real interesting fellow. I don’t know what his name is, even after living here for five years. He’s always just been The Dude Across the Street. He’s in the Merchant Marines (what is that, anyway -- I honestly don't know) and is often gone for weeks, even months at a time. He’s home now. And in honor of what looks to be a nice little stay, he has hung a ratty old hammock in his front yard, one side tied to his front house post, one side tied to a giant oak. Also hanging from said oak tree is a little platform, suspended by what looks like yellow marine rope. And on the little platform is a mini-cooler of beer. The front door of the house is open, allowing the dulcet tones of Iron Butterfly and “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” to sing through the neighborhood. Dude is nowhere to be found in this little vignette. But he’ll be back soon enough. That’s a given.

Now our neighborhood is delightfully modestly middle class, with families like ours, empty nesters, gay couples and single folks happily cohabitating. Having our own modern day Gilligan set up camp in his front yard is a big contrast from the well-tended lawns, flower beds and jog strollers (namely mine) that are commonly found along the block.

I don’t want to sound like one of Those Neighbors, who wave their fist in the air while shouting at the neighborhood kids to get off their lawn. But Dude has been known to only sport a pair of cutoff jean shorts for days at a time. And the thought of that visual, laying in that hammock, mowing through a 12 of Miller Genuine Draft and listening to a stream of Arena Rock! is enough to keep me going out the back door of my house for a while.

I’m just sayin’.

Better Living Through Chemistry

750 grams.

One and a half pounds.

Three apples.

Two good size baking potatoes.

A running shoe.

That’s the equivalent of what my baby weighed when he came flying into the world. 750 grams. A whisper can carry more weight than that.

Nearly five years later, the very thought of that seems somewhat unreal. Almost like it was someone else’s experience. Yet still undeniably mine.

To his credit, Will was in fact a long tall drink of water, coming in at 13 inches long. I can say this, because he’s MY child, but he looked like a little plucked chicken. Cute but odd.

I didn’t actually get to see him for several hours after he was born. He was whisked away through a very official, bunker-esque tunnel that connects our children’s hospital with the standard issue one. Bundled up in his isolet, with monitors and poles and bells and whistles, he had an entourage that would rival any presidential motorcade. By the time I was in recovery, I had seen countless visitors who, thanks to the amazing jungle telegraph that spread our news, dropped golf games and childrens’ parties and Home Depot runs to come and offer their love. As I moved from Totally Stoned to Barely Coherent, my husband, parents and a couple of close family friends has already ventured over to see Will. I held court in recovery, and then in my hospital room, the morphine still numbing my body and my mind. My anesthetized cheeriness was a counterpoint to the sobering faces of people who wanted to offer some support, but had no idea how. My pastor, a dear friend, asked me point blank how I was. I was said to have replied “I’m strangely calm about all this.” Again, the morphine speaketh. Better living through chemistry indeed.

Finally, the revolving door of my room slowed down, the phone stopped ringing briefly. And I was given tentative clearance to go see my baby. “Tentative” was all I needed to hear. Wearing two hospital gowns so as not to moon the whole of two entire hospitals, my husband helped me slide into a wheelchair, and off we went to find the mystery tunnel of connection, finding our way to Will’s home away from home -- the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). A daunting unit with a locked security door, we found ourselves in a world so unfamiliar as to be intimidating. Low lights, hushed tones, silent staff, shiny squeeky floors. Babies so tiny that they appeared to be on the verge of breaking under the slightest motion. Machines grinding. IV poles as complex as a family tree. Monitors with flashing lights, chronic beeps and an omnipresent warning system. Rocking chairs. Isolets. Fear. Anxiety. Hope.

Here is where my baby would live for who knew how long. Instead of within me. Without me.

Is it any wonder that I began to cry...

My tears flowed freely as we met with Will’s neonatologist, who kindly tried to explain to us what was going on, what they would be doing for Will, what they were looking for in regards to his progress. My husband, the levelheaded engineer, absorbed it all. I was unable to process a damn thing. Words like ventilator, bilirubin, jaundice, infection were brought up. They meant nothing to me. Oh to have been able to rest in that naiveté.

And then, finally, I saw him. Nestled in between two long tube-like bean bags in a closed dome, complete with portholes, was my baby. My Will. Beneath the IV tubes and monitor leads and ventilator tube and tiny eye mask there was my son. Thrown fresh from the compromised safety of my womb into this mechanical necessity.

I was mesmerized by him, by every feature, by every movement. His little head was covered in black hair. My nose in miniature poked up on top of the vent tube. Tiny fingers moved, shaped as if designed to make beautiful music. And I sat, counting every breath he took, noting every beat of his heart as broadcast by the monitor which documented his every move. My heart filled with joy at the sight of him. My soul resonated with maternal love. My spirit valiantly tried to keep up but was woefully unsuccessful. Its numbness could not be assuaged.

And then it dawned on me. This observation post was as close as I would be able to be to him. Relegated to be on the outside looking in.

I could not hold my child in my arms.

I could not feed him from my breast.

I could not comfort him when he cried.

I was a mother from a distance.

My position had been usurped by hospital personnel, machines and medicine.

As I went back to my hospital room, under the orders of the NICU staff, my eyes spilled over with tears. But I’m still not sure to this day precisely why I was crying or what specifically I was crying for. Could have been for Will. For my husband. For me. For this untenable place that the failure of my body to properly care for my infant son had thrown us all into. Most likely all of the above.

Those were bitter tears -- tears of frustration, of sorrow, of loss, of longing. And I can still see the stains they left on my cheeks to this day.

Welcome to motherhood. Keep your hand inside the car at all times. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened. Hope you enjoy the ride.

Just Because It Seems Like the Thing to Do

Two songs running through my head today. Felt the need to download them out of my brain and share them with the rest of the world. Don't say that I didn't warn you...

I recall just walkin' down the street
Tryin' to escape the city heat
I saw her from the corner of my eye, eye, eye
Yeh, she looked so good, I thought I'd die

My heart went bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang-bang-bang

Somethin' said I shouldn't waste no time
If I'm ever gonna make her mine
I walked right up and said "how do you do, do, do?"
She said "I bet I do as good as you"

My heart went bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang-bang-bang

I remember when I held her tight
(Bang-shang-a-lang)
Felt like holdin' dynamite now
(Bang-shang-a-lang)
What's that ringin' in my ear?
(Bang-shang-a-lang)
Tell me ain't those bells I hear!
(Bang-shang-a-lang)

Bang bang!
Shang-a-lang
Bang bang!
Shang-a-lang

Bang bang bang!
Shang a lang a lang
Bang bang bang!
Shang a lang a lang

Now she's gonna spend her life with me
And we'll be as happy as can be
Of course I love her more than I can tell, tell, tell
Sunday afternoon we'll hear the bells
And they'll go...

Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang-bang-bang

Oh they'll go...

Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang
Bang-shang-a-lang-bang-bang . . .

-------------------------------------------

Though I've tried before to tell her
Of the feelings I have for her in my heart
Every time that I come near her
I just lose my nerve
As I've done from the start

Every little thing she does is magic
Everything she do just turns me on
Even though my life before was tragic
Now I know my love for her goes on

Do I have to tell the story
Of a thousand rainy days since we first met
Its a big enough umbrella
But its always me that ends up getting wet

Every little thing she does is magic
Everything she do just turns me on
Even though my life before was tragic
Now I know my love for her goes on

I resolve to call her up a thousand times a day
And ask her if shell marry me in some old fashioned way
But my silent fears have gripped me
Long before I reach the phone
Long before my tongue has tripped me
Must I always be alone?

Every little thing she does is magic
Everything she do just turns me on
Even though my life before was tragic
Now I know my love for her goes on

This, That and the Other

I'm fascinated, intrigued and more than a little encouraged by Al Gore's political resurgence these days. It’s interesting to note how, nearly six years after the debacle that was the 2000 Presidential Election, he’s the one smelling slightly rosy and looking, dare I say, tanned, rested and ready. Maybe Big Al’s not necessarily the exact answer the Democrats are looking for in 2008 -- it’s too early do anything but speculate longingly. However... with the disturbingly ridiculous Democrat mindset saying out of one side of the mouth that the nomination of Hilary is a foregone conclusion but saying on the other that she’s not electable, I’m looking for anything that remotely resembles a life preserver. Or even carries a whiff of common sensical hope.

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File this under Stuff I Really Want But Do Not Need:

Amazon has a cross promotion with the upcoming movie The Devil Wears Prada and is offering a really cool bag/clutch/tote thing designed by the film’s costume designer, the always unique Patricia Field. I need another purse like I need another hole in the head... what woman doesn't... same thing with shoes. I once spent an evening at a private event at Nordstrom, holding court in the shoe department, drinking Cosmos and trying on more shoes than Imdela Marcos. It was, frankly, better than some supposedly good sex I've had. But back to the tote... I’m not sure I’m going to be able to resist this one. It's just too damn cool.

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Latest must-see TV guilty pleasure: Supergroup on VH1. Ted Nugent is bat shit crazy and doesn’t give a damn who knows it. Sebastian Bach is the epitome of an aging narcissistic front man. Who knew that Scott Ian, he of Anthrax, that really weird long chin beard (but very handsome face) and endless appearances on those I Love the Decade of Your Choice shows, would turn out to be the voice of reason. And in the opening credits, a cartoon Jason Bohnam spontaniously combusts behind his drum kit in an homage to Spinal Tap. It doesn't get better than that.

Snippets of the so-bad-it's-good dialogue:

"I still agree with me." -- Uncle Ted

"I've been autographing tits since 1986. It's my job. It's what I do." -- Sebastian Bach

Awesome. So, so awesome.

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Speaking of rocking... the car began to shake one day last week as I was running some sort of necessary errand. Radio blasting loudly, me singing along. I turn around to see Will, in his car seat, head-banging dancing to Guns n Roses Welcome to the Jungle. My son, my son. How proud I am yet again of you. He also shows similar appreciation for the Stones’ Start Me Up, most Prince tunes and, his favorite and mine, the Police’s Roxanne. My beloved 18-year-old cat is named, of course, after this song, and Will likes nothing better than to bust out with an intonation-accurate rendition of the chorus right in her kitty witty face. How great is that, I ask you...

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Favorite song of the week: Dixie Chicks Not Ready to Make Nice. Great song, haunting video. Those girls have great chutzpah. Good on them. Enough said.

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I swear that the older a woman gets, the price of her beauty necessities goes up proportionately. I just spent a solid amount of money on sunscreen, SPF 50, for face and body, as well as sunscreen and after sun products for my glorious (and colored) head of hair, in anticipation of our week-long vacation at the end of the month on Captiva Island. Solid investment, I think, in light of the options, but still... ouch.