seeing as i was all wrapped up in the birthday of my dead daughter, i missed the opportunity to share about husband's 9/11 experience as an NYPD officer. (quite a week we'll have from here to eternity, huh?) every year since then, i've circulated the emails he wrote to friends and family, you know, in an effort not to forget. no one has forgotten, but the emails, they are raw and touching, and anyway, here they are:
9/12/2001
I want to thank all who called and or emailed their concerns about my safety during this catastrophe, i arrived on scene at ground zero at the world trade center about 1030 am right after the towers collapsed........what i witnessed in the next 17 hrs is something i must live with for the rest of my life and pray none of you ever ever have to be a part of in your lifetime. my partner and i pulled 2 people to safety from the rubble and pulled dozens more who were already dead either crushed or burned.....we managed to escape the third building collapse simply on adrenaline alone..........other firefighters and police did not. we were finally ordered to leave and were rushed to a nearby makeshift trauma center at the Chelsea piers and treated for heat exhaustion, smoke inhalation, and shock which we did not even realize we had. our blue uniforms were covered in ash and pulverized concrete turning them white. i thank you again for you concerns......it means more than you know considering how close to death we came today. please pray for my fallen brothers who will number somewhere near 300 and for our firefighting brothers who's loses will almost double that number. i will be working 12 hr shifts from 4pm to 4 am so please bear with me if responses are somewhat delayed for the next couple of days. please give blood if you are in the area and stay out of NYC at all costs.....national guards, and the marines are now stationed to aid us. On a personal note i am absolutely awestruck, speechless, heartbroken, and in denial as to this cowardly act of terrorism......im sure it will set in soon enough, and i dread every minute of it. its late and im physically and emotionally spent.....stick together my friends.
9/13/2001
your words of encouragement have lifted my spirits and and give me more reason and hope to deal with this on a daily basis. today we dug, and sifted and seemed to get nowhere....our efforts were delayed for hours due to possible collapses of three surrounding buildings.......the wait was nothing short of agonizing. for my friends who have tried to call my cell, the phone lines are down and the cell connections are few and far between with very week signals. As far as ground zero is concerned.......there is a constant smoldering of ash and fire with a thick cloud hanging over the site forever......the smell is almost indescribable; a mixture of burning debris and concrete.....and it is everywhere......there are rescue workers everywhere and as we pass each other there is an unspoken meeting of our eyes that seems to explain it all combined with the appearance of our uniforms.....there is not a lot of talking going on as we all seem to know there will be many many bodies coming out of this wreckage with little chance of survivors...how do you begin to accept the loss of what could be 20,000 people? many of us keep looking up hoping we will see those famous towers above us but they never seem to appear......our precinct has become a makeshift headquarters with cops from all over the city assigned to our area stopping in to rest and we have received food donations from very generous local churches and aide groups. a list of names of missing Police Officers has been issued and it is lengthy. we have witnessed firehouses turned into living shrines as new yorkers come to drop off flowers and offer condolences and food. i took some pictures today of the devastation but stopped because i felt wrong doing it. we were told shortly after 11pm that the Police effort in the rescue would be cut drastically and this has torn our hearts out....we must now stand by and keep the area clear and open for all emergency vehicles and try to answer the typical radio calls. our fallen are trapped and buried and we can not even help......i cant even convey how this makes us feel.....the hours are wearing us down physically and our morale is very low. I still cant believe this has happened i just want to help and not leave with the hope of finding someone alive but it gets less and less likely. those brave people on the planes who knew those poor people in the towers who never had a chance. this is a nightmare.
9/16/2001
it is now past 11pm on 9/16/01 and i am finally home after what seems much longer than 4 days. my last shift at work was 46hrs long in which time my partner and i went AWOL from our assignments to continue our digging effort to try to find survivors. we did not find any. the night of the rain storm we worked feverishly through the night with members of the LA County urban rescue team and their search dogs.....the dogs; some trained to find live scents, some trained to find death known as cadaver dogs. we climbed the rubble and followed the dogs and marked spots everywhere they stopped and barked and dug......there were many many spots, each we marked with bright orange tape and i tried to mark as many of the sites with a makeshift cross as well.....materials and size were problematic. we found an 18 wheel truck crushed and pulverized beyond description....it was right at the very edge of the destruction......its occupant no doubt tried in vain to escape the carnage around him and was literally 10 feet from the edge of the debris field......some 4 hrs later after we called in welders, tractors, and a crane we saw what was left of the truck....it had been reduced to inches in some places......the occupant was unrecognizable to the untrained eye. we continued our search and actually found several pieces of the airplanes.....one piece with a portion of the red lettering from American airlines.....the FBI was notified and they sent in a team to remove the debris. An encouraging aspect of our search revealed deep "voids" in the rubble where we hoped we would find some survivors or some bodies........we found neither. it seemed as if we were being punished and we knew we would have to dig til we dropped to find anyone among all of this...... my partner and i managed to navigate the rubble and avoid the still burning fires hidden deep beneath till we found ourselves just a few feet from the still burning remains of the WTC. an eerie twisted, tortured, corner piece....all that was left of tower 2. there was an opening and what appeared to be an extremely large void going straight down for what seemed to be 60-100ft below us was actually the street.......the rubble was that high. we yelled down but no one answered back. the rains came and we were ordered to abandon the search.......during the breaks in the storm we continued but again had to retreat. we holed up for the storm in a corner bar called the ST. Charlies bar on Albany and Carlslyle St. all the windows were blown out, there was no electricity, and the place was covered in dust. this would be our new home for the next few hours. to our amazement there was a makeshift triage center in there along with many firefighters and other cops from the city as well as construction workers. we all shared in a toast to our fallen and voiced our anger and frustration through the night. cars and trucks had been placed on top of each other across the street to make way for equipment. out of nowhere a yellow cab seemed to come alive with its light on and horn blasting......my partner having reached his limit, screamed at the empty, crushed cab and soon others joined in as well. we were all exhausted and frustrated........we knew there would be no survivors and some would never be found or identified........some of the nurses cried, some of the firemen cried.....hell we all cried at one point. morning came and we tried to resume the dig but footing was made impossible by the rain. soon after word came down that this was no longer a search and rescue operation and that all searches would be halted indefinitely.......the big equipment would be brought in to remove the larger debris....our job it seemed was done. defeated, tired, and filthy my partner and i walked back to our precinct in the rain, hoping the wetness would wash away all we had seen.....it did not. we had just 2 short hours to get ready for our next 12 hr shift. we would not be sent back into ground zero again and knew no other cops would as well. from 4pm till 9am the next morning we were posted six blocks away on Broadway......sentenced to watch all the utility trucks, loaders, tractors and endless emergency vehicles head into the zone in a vain attempt to find people. not much was said between us that night, a comfortable silence if you will, a quiet time to remember and reflect. my god there was such destruction and we were helpless to do anything about it. our efforts were in vain, there were no survivors and never will be....those who came out alive were only rescuers who were injured trying to help the others. we knew how this experience would change our lives and how it had brought us closer than ever together.......we shared in each others pain and we never left each others side. our punishment in all of this is to be a survivor and to be forced every single day into remembering what we saw. the outpouring of American pride has never been so great and we witnessed that too. walking down the west side highway to get to the site, the sidewalks were lined 5 deep with well wishers,: women and children, men and grandparents, black, white, chinese and everyone in between....these people cheered us offered us home made food and just wanted to touch us as we walked.......we walked tall, we walked proud, and gave these people reason to believe even in the shadow of the task at hand...... I thank them and i thank you for all of your words of support and encouragement. I couldnt have made it with out you. Someday we will all get together and have a good cry over this and remember those who have fallen and those who are scarred from searching for them. I am home with my wife now and plan to spend every minute i have with her before i go back to work on Tuesday.....Surround yourselves in friends and family and talk about this experience. we will move on, our lives forever changed, our security forever threatened......be proud, we will rebuild. Thank you all again.
9/25/2001
My friends and family, Its now been 14 days since all of our lives changed and we still find ourselves looking for answers and digging out of the destruction. For the first time since 9/11 i went into the portion where the plaza used to be. For those of you who remember it, it was vibrant and full of life with a giant golden globe just behind the north tower. All that remains eerily enough is that golden globe. It has a large dent in it but it still stands, as bright as ever. It is the only thing not destroyed on the entire WTC site. It sits among a sea of twisted girders and wreckage as high as some of the buildings left over. There are rescue workers still combing the site for survivors, but they know as we all do there aren't any. They look like little ants as they criss cross their way over the piles. The dog trainers ask us for our assistance every now and then by posing as "bodies" in the rubble. We will go off so the dogs cant see us, put some of the lighter debris on ourselves and wait for the dogs to find us. This is to alleviate the depression of not finding survivors for the dogs. They get so excited when they find us, its like they are recharged and all they want to do is get back in and find more live ones. The smell coming from the site grows each day. I cant not explain what the smell of death is like, and i definitely cant explain what over 6000 bodies smell like. That's the hardest part to deal with. There are still over 6000 people out there in the rubble, buried so far under our feet we cant even begin to imagine pulling them out for their families. So far the one thing that brings tears to my eyes and those around me is when they find FDNY, NYPD, or Port Authority bodies. Usually they bring a dog in on a part with a strong scent. The workers concentrate their efforts on that site until they find something. If it is a fireman, or cop all work immediately stops. Cranes are shut off and the area becomes very quiet. Men from their respected companies or precincts are called in. A small ceremony is performed right in the middle of all this chaos, and they place the body, or what's left of it on a stretcher. An American flag is handed down making sure everyone touches it and it is draped over the remains. Depending on how deep or far in the body is they'll either hoist it out with a crane or walk it out. Then the hard part comes. It is placed on small police or fire buggy, and all work outside the site comes to a halt. All our hats come off and an aisle of people is made, rescue workers, construction, PD, FD, nurses and anyone around. One of us will call attention and then everyone salutes as the body goes by, the salute is held until they have placed the body in an ambulance and is taken away. I usually begin to loose it at this point as i am in uniform and people are following my lead. I shed tears of pride and tears of sorrow for these men and women who lost their lives here. It is a moving experience, one that was repeated three times the other night as we found an FD, and two Port Authority cops. We have yet to find any NYPD officers that were lost, and it saddens me to think of their families that so desperately want the closure. Maybe soon. Maybe. The work continues round the clock and it seems that i too am working round the clock. Our shifts begin about 4pm and end usually around 7am, putting myself in bed by 830am, only to get up and do it all again. The hours are rough and exhausting but when i get down or really tired i take a walk over to where they have cards and candles set up from the children. I read them and it gives me renewed hope. My friends, please remember this is far from over. Holy War has been declared on us and as soon as we strike at those terrorist bastards, they will come looking for their cowardly payback striking any civilians they deem necessary. There are possibly thousands of them floating around just waiting, so i implore you to remain on your guard and be aware of your surroundings and those around you. If something does happen do not be afraid to fight back. Its funny how before all this, the cause of the month was racial profiling and how terrible and unconstitutional it was. Now we are being told and ordered to profile the Arabs in any instance. Always a knee jerk reaction. Anyway, stay safe my friends, and protect your family and those you love at all costs. If they hit they will come at NYC again so i will be ready as well. Remember those who have fallen in the wake of this tragedy and those who rose above to dig them out and rebuild. We forget all to easily in this country and i pray you never forget and keep the same fire burning in you throughout these trying times. Thank you for letting me express my feelings through writing. My outlets are limited and there is only so much i can place on my wife.
your friend, m.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
be-ing
i can talk about p@ige without crying. i can talk about her story, my story; i can talk about the whole thing front to back without flinching. i tell people, strangers, that my baby, my daughter, died on her due date.
i feel the need to tell people about p@ige, but not because i want attention. i've never been an emotional attention-seeker; that was one of my biggest issues with having triplets- i hated the attention. my need to tell people about my 40-week stillbirth is that people don't think that kind of thing actually happens! people in general know that "miscarriage is common," and they "don't tell anyone about a pregnancy until after 12 weeks." but stillbirth? it's still a shock; it's still an alienating, lonely fucking shock. telling people that my daughter died at 40 weeks makes one person they saw, in the flesh, whose baby died. and maybe, one day, it will happen to someone they know, or even to them. and maybe, they will remember that girl in the supermarket/library/tattoo parlor that birthed a full-term dead baby. and maybe they won't feel so much like an asshole freak of nature. i don't want our babies to be dirty little secrets anymore.
don't get me wrong. i don't initiate the conversation about my dead baby unless we are already talking about our respective children, or if we're talking about something i'm doing that was directly inspired by my p@ige. even so, considering the nature of conversation between near or actual strangers, it comes up alot.
my only problem is wording.
i usually say my baby, or my daughter, died on her due date last september. people rarely ask questions, they just say they're sorry, which is totally fine. but really, there's this strange feeling i get when i say it (besides the obvious, telling a stranger my baby died inside me)...it's this feeling that it's not quite true.
i actually just figured this out on her birthday. it was not at all the constant tear-fest i anticipated. i went along with a couple of my plans, stopping at the hospital and getting a photo of her plaque (i also ran into both my OB AND my special nurse, which was strange because she NEVER works during the week), and making her cake. then i went to therapy. i only wanted to talk about p@ige and related topics; i made a mental list and it was all fine and good until words flew out of my mouth that, strung together, meant i felt like a fraud for telling people my baby died.
because really, she was not born alive and then died...yet i still say she was my baby. to my mind, a baby is someone you hold alive in your arms, even if only for one breath.
was she real?
she was a real baby that grew inside me, getting ready to live. but she died. was she ever really a baby?
saying all that out loud made me lose it. i cried and sobbed and all the things i hate doing in front of someone else. i'm not good at emotion. i hate it. i abhor it.
i guess my only problem is NOT wording. it's the fact that words betray me. words make me painfully aware that i grieve someone who never really was. i say all those things to myself and to people and to the universe with an emotionally dead voice. it sounds good and it makes me feel like i'm *doing* something about all the fucked up shit i feel inside. i'm good at actions.
conflicted as i am, i will never stop saying it.
i feel the need to tell people about p@ige, but not because i want attention. i've never been an emotional attention-seeker; that was one of my biggest issues with having triplets- i hated the attention. my need to tell people about my 40-week stillbirth is that people don't think that kind of thing actually happens! people in general know that "miscarriage is common," and they "don't tell anyone about a pregnancy until after 12 weeks." but stillbirth? it's still a shock; it's still an alienating, lonely fucking shock. telling people that my daughter died at 40 weeks makes one person they saw, in the flesh, whose baby died. and maybe, one day, it will happen to someone they know, or even to them. and maybe, they will remember that girl in the supermarket/library/tattoo parlor that birthed a full-term dead baby. and maybe they won't feel so much like an asshole freak of nature. i don't want our babies to be dirty little secrets anymore.
don't get me wrong. i don't initiate the conversation about my dead baby unless we are already talking about our respective children, or if we're talking about something i'm doing that was directly inspired by my p@ige. even so, considering the nature of conversation between near or actual strangers, it comes up alot.
my only problem is wording.
i usually say my baby, or my daughter, died on her due date last september. people rarely ask questions, they just say they're sorry, which is totally fine. but really, there's this strange feeling i get when i say it (besides the obvious, telling a stranger my baby died inside me)...it's this feeling that it's not quite true.
i actually just figured this out on her birthday. it was not at all the constant tear-fest i anticipated. i went along with a couple of my plans, stopping at the hospital and getting a photo of her plaque (i also ran into both my OB AND my special nurse, which was strange because she NEVER works during the week), and making her cake. then i went to therapy. i only wanted to talk about p@ige and related topics; i made a mental list and it was all fine and good until words flew out of my mouth that, strung together, meant i felt like a fraud for telling people my baby died.
because really, she was not born alive and then died...yet i still say she was my baby. to my mind, a baby is someone you hold alive in your arms, even if only for one breath.
was she real?
she was a real baby that grew inside me, getting ready to live. but she died. was she ever really a baby?
saying all that out loud made me lose it. i cried and sobbed and all the things i hate doing in front of someone else. i'm not good at emotion. i hate it. i abhor it.
i guess my only problem is NOT wording. it's the fact that words betray me. words make me painfully aware that i grieve someone who never really was. i say all those things to myself and to people and to the universe with an emotionally dead voice. it sounds good and it makes me feel like i'm *doing* something about all the fucked up shit i feel inside. i'm good at actions.
conflicted as i am, i will never stop saying it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
the actual day
i've been thinking about what i would write today.
would i post a bunch of pictures, neatly documenting all that i have left of my pregnancy and birth of a baby that didn't live? would they, in a colorful row, evidence that i am indeed NOT crazy...that i am a mother to a dead baby?
would i bake the cake (red velvet), decorate it (whipped cream cheese frosting and strawberries and pink sugar crystals), photograph it (in my usual suck-ass picture-taking style), and then post it and tell about how i nearly lost it in the supermarket yesterday? how i thought about how one year ago yesterday i was wandering around the supermarket with husband, looking at all the babies and talking about how we were going to have her any minute, buying nursing bras and newborn diapers, with a dead baby in my belly? how i tried to hide some tears while trying to decide whether to buy one of those stupid *1* candles? how i then decided that the 1 candle would be way to creepy, even for a deadbaby-crazy mom?
the day is here, and i have no pictures to post. i have my stack of stuff: a positive pregnancy test, some photos of a pregnant me, some photos of a dead baby girl, a stained baby hat and receiving blanket, some letters of condolence, a couple of letters of donations in her name. let's not forget, and i almost did, a cardboard box of ashes in a gray plastic shopping bag. not much. who said recently that it's the ego that holds on to objects to prove that we are? i don't even know if i got that right...i just know that i believe it. i just know that i don't need those things to know her. i don't need those things to know it really happened to me. i don't need those things to keep me anchored in that time and place, because really, what she has given to me has no time or place or weight.
this thing has two lives: my suffering as a mother to a dead baby and all the raw, fleshy, memory-laden sadness and anger...and my growth and learning as a mother to a baby that will only teach me about myself and life and never piss me off with diapers exploding with shit, waking me up in the night, and fighting relentlessly with her siblings. the first mother needs to have stuff; the first mother needs to revel in the things, the evidence, the horror...she needs the memories, the details. the second mother wrote that airy shit in the last paragraph.
but today, today is the actual day...
i bought some chocolate mimosa tree seeds last week, and i want to start them today. mimosa trees have tiny, ferny leaves that close up at night (and when touched) and big, fluffy, pink perfumed flowers. the regular variety has green leaves, but the chocolate has brown. it grows 3-6 feet per year, with a 10'-30' shade umbrella. i think it is the perfect tree for sitting under...whichever mother i am that day.
i finally, after calling to follow-up about four times over the past year, got the call that p@ige's plaque is up in L&D. can you imagine it took this long? i might go over and see it today. and take a picture. (i hope it's not too hard to get a good photo of it, being brass and all...i suck.)
i want to try to write a letter to the sister of a co-worker who's carrying a baby with anencephaly. she wants to carry the baby to term. i want to tell her that her choice is beautiful- that she can appreciate what she has as the delicate thing it is, especially because i wish i knew i needed to when i was pregnant. i also want to give her a listing of blogs that i found written by moms who chose what she is choosing...because i am always surprised by the number of people who still have no idea what blogs are, and i don't know what i would have done without my deadbabymafia. (and in doing so i hope you all realize what i really mean to say is thank you, except in a much deeper way than those words can ever express...)
i want to contact the village cemetery and find out how we can create a small stillborn area where parents can scatter their baby's ashes. i imagine that some will choose to scatter their ashes there because they can't afford a plot and headstone, but others will choose it simply because they didn't realize they would need a place to visit when they were sitting in a hospital bed making decisions about their dead baby. i have no idea what that space would look like, if its creation is even possible, but i want to find out.
those are all the things i imagine i can do today...but this day, this actual day, my alive daughter told me that we need to wait for everyone to come over before we sing the happy birthday song.
"not this time," i told her, "nobody is coming over for this birthday. it's just for us."
i will try to extend her memory out of our bounds; i will try to plant and photograph and write and dedicate. i wonder if i will ever get over the fact that p@ige is only for us.
would i post a bunch of pictures, neatly documenting all that i have left of my pregnancy and birth of a baby that didn't live? would they, in a colorful row, evidence that i am indeed NOT crazy...that i am a mother to a dead baby?
would i bake the cake (red velvet), decorate it (whipped cream cheese frosting and strawberries and pink sugar crystals), photograph it (in my usual suck-ass picture-taking style), and then post it and tell about how i nearly lost it in the supermarket yesterday? how i thought about how one year ago yesterday i was wandering around the supermarket with husband, looking at all the babies and talking about how we were going to have her any minute, buying nursing bras and newborn diapers, with a dead baby in my belly? how i tried to hide some tears while trying to decide whether to buy one of those stupid *1* candles? how i then decided that the 1 candle would be way to creepy, even for a deadbaby-crazy mom?
the day is here, and i have no pictures to post. i have my stack of stuff: a positive pregnancy test, some photos of a pregnant me, some photos of a dead baby girl, a stained baby hat and receiving blanket, some letters of condolence, a couple of letters of donations in her name. let's not forget, and i almost did, a cardboard box of ashes in a gray plastic shopping bag. not much. who said recently that it's the ego that holds on to objects to prove that we are? i don't even know if i got that right...i just know that i believe it. i just know that i don't need those things to know her. i don't need those things to know it really happened to me. i don't need those things to keep me anchored in that time and place, because really, what she has given to me has no time or place or weight.
this thing has two lives: my suffering as a mother to a dead baby and all the raw, fleshy, memory-laden sadness and anger...and my growth and learning as a mother to a baby that will only teach me about myself and life and never piss me off with diapers exploding with shit, waking me up in the night, and fighting relentlessly with her siblings. the first mother needs to have stuff; the first mother needs to revel in the things, the evidence, the horror...she needs the memories, the details. the second mother wrote that airy shit in the last paragraph.
but today, today is the actual day...
i bought some chocolate mimosa tree seeds last week, and i want to start them today. mimosa trees have tiny, ferny leaves that close up at night (and when touched) and big, fluffy, pink perfumed flowers. the regular variety has green leaves, but the chocolate has brown. it grows 3-6 feet per year, with a 10'-30' shade umbrella. i think it is the perfect tree for sitting under...whichever mother i am that day.
i finally, after calling to follow-up about four times over the past year, got the call that p@ige's plaque is up in L&D. can you imagine it took this long? i might go over and see it today. and take a picture. (i hope it's not too hard to get a good photo of it, being brass and all...i suck.)
i want to try to write a letter to the sister of a co-worker who's carrying a baby with anencephaly. she wants to carry the baby to term. i want to tell her that her choice is beautiful- that she can appreciate what she has as the delicate thing it is, especially because i wish i knew i needed to when i was pregnant. i also want to give her a listing of blogs that i found written by moms who chose what she is choosing...because i am always surprised by the number of people who still have no idea what blogs are, and i don't know what i would have done without my deadbabymafia. (and in doing so i hope you all realize what i really mean to say is thank you, except in a much deeper way than those words can ever express...)
i want to contact the village cemetery and find out how we can create a small stillborn area where parents can scatter their baby's ashes. i imagine that some will choose to scatter their ashes there because they can't afford a plot and headstone, but others will choose it simply because they didn't realize they would need a place to visit when they were sitting in a hospital bed making decisions about their dead baby. i have no idea what that space would look like, if its creation is even possible, but i want to find out.
those are all the things i imagine i can do today...but this day, this actual day, my alive daughter told me that we need to wait for everyone to come over before we sing the happy birthday song.
"not this time," i told her, "nobody is coming over for this birthday. it's just for us."
i will try to extend her memory out of our bounds; i will try to plant and photograph and write and dedicate. i wonder if i will ever get over the fact that p@ige is only for us.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
cut, torn
well, the boy has arrived.
after days and days of talking to my sister about when and how and what the fuck regarding her impending labor and birth, it happened, but certainly NOT quite the way i expected. (NO SHIT, right? did i just say EXPECTED??? well, yeah, i kinda did expect it to go smoothly and normally...it wasn't ME, after all. don't i sound like a spoiled friggin brat?)
her water broke on sunday morning and i drove down there asap. i got her walking, walking, and more walking. nothing. after about 5 hours of dragging her sticky slimy self around town without a contraction to speak of, off we went to the hospital...where we learned that she was GBS+...ummmm...shouldn't the doctor told her that? shouldn't the covering doc have checked that when my sister called in when her water broke?? it was right in the chart at the hospital, yet the covering asked my sister whether she knew (no) and then told her to do whatever she wanted.
ummmmmmm...am i an asshole or isn't GBS with a broken water a cause of term stillbirth??? was the covering doc going to call us back if my sister's "whatever she wants" included NOT going to the hospital until contractions started (which would have meant, pretty much, not for a long, looooooong- maybe into days- time)? maybe i am just over-sensitive.
we arrived at the hospital at about 4pm and they started her on pitocin, the scary, labor-inducing, monster contractions drug.
nothing. nothing. noooooooooooope! no contractions.
NO LABOR.
they upped the pitocin all night and finally turned it off at 3am. they tried again at 7am, to no avail. c-section was called for 10.30.
words can't describe what was going through me. my mind and flesh were so confused...i was bracing for being present for this labor and delivery, bracing for the envy and the plain heaviness of it all and then...nothing.
i was relieved yet very, very sad about her having a c-section.
i have never minced words, i have never tried to perfume my shit thoughts and feelings. i've always been brutally honest here, so i admit i was relieved that i didn't have to be slapped in the face, AGAIN, by someone with the same parents as i have. i'm relieved i don't have to be the fucking family freak...again...alone.
i carried triplets and my cervix never shortened or softened or opened. after (still)birthing paige (by c-sec) on her due date, the doctor told me he didn't think i would have gone into labor spontaneously seeing as my cervix was not soft, shortened, or open at all. my sister didn't go into labor after her some bloody show, ruptured membranes, and hours of a shithouse full of pitocin. maybe i would have had problems from the beginning...without triplets...even with one baby. maybe i never would have had the birth i think i lost because i got pregnant with triplets and an automatic c-section. maybe my fantasies are just that. maybe i can't know shit about shit so why wait around for things to keep disproving my *poor me* theories?
really, why bother?
moving on, the baby boy is really quite adorable. i am certainly NOT the baby ohhhing-goooing type, but he is pushing me into a *want a baby* phase. luckily those phases are short-lived, you know, considering i'm all let-go-and-let-the-powers-of-the-universe about getting pregnant.
reproduction is NOT what it's cracked up to be.
after days and days of talking to my sister about when and how and what the fuck regarding her impending labor and birth, it happened, but certainly NOT quite the way i expected. (NO SHIT, right? did i just say EXPECTED??? well, yeah, i kinda did expect it to go smoothly and normally...it wasn't ME, after all. don't i sound like a spoiled friggin brat?)
her water broke on sunday morning and i drove down there asap. i got her walking, walking, and more walking. nothing. after about 5 hours of dragging her sticky slimy self around town without a contraction to speak of, off we went to the hospital...where we learned that she was GBS+...ummmm...shouldn't the doctor told her that? shouldn't the covering doc have checked that when my sister called in when her water broke?? it was right in the chart at the hospital, yet the covering asked my sister whether she knew (no) and then told her to do whatever she wanted.
ummmmmmm...am i an asshole or isn't GBS with a broken water a cause of term stillbirth??? was the covering doc going to call us back if my sister's "whatever she wants" included NOT going to the hospital until contractions started (which would have meant, pretty much, not for a long, looooooong- maybe into days- time)? maybe i am just over-sensitive.
we arrived at the hospital at about 4pm and they started her on pitocin, the scary, labor-inducing, monster contractions drug.
nothing. nothing. noooooooooooope! no contractions.
NO LABOR.
they upped the pitocin all night and finally turned it off at 3am. they tried again at 7am, to no avail. c-section was called for 10.30.
words can't describe what was going through me. my mind and flesh were so confused...i was bracing for being present for this labor and delivery, bracing for the envy and the plain heaviness of it all and then...nothing.
i was relieved yet very, very sad about her having a c-section.
i have never minced words, i have never tried to perfume my shit thoughts and feelings. i've always been brutally honest here, so i admit i was relieved that i didn't have to be slapped in the face, AGAIN, by someone with the same parents as i have. i'm relieved i don't have to be the fucking family freak...again...alone.
i carried triplets and my cervix never shortened or softened or opened. after (still)birthing paige (by c-sec) on her due date, the doctor told me he didn't think i would have gone into labor spontaneously seeing as my cervix was not soft, shortened, or open at all. my sister didn't go into labor after her some bloody show, ruptured membranes, and hours of a shithouse full of pitocin. maybe i would have had problems from the beginning...without triplets...even with one baby. maybe i never would have had the birth i think i lost because i got pregnant with triplets and an automatic c-section. maybe my fantasies are just that. maybe i can't know shit about shit so why wait around for things to keep disproving my *poor me* theories?
really, why bother?
moving on, the baby boy is really quite adorable. i am certainly NOT the baby ohhhing-goooing type, but he is pushing me into a *want a baby* phase. luckily those phases are short-lived, you know, considering i'm all let-go-and-let-the-powers-of-the-universe about getting pregnant.
reproduction is NOT what it's cracked up to be.
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