For Deb - Rule #112 of What I Wish Someone Told Me about Pregnancy

As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.

Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.

The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.

All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.

I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.

An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.

The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.

I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.

I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 3

These wounds won’t seem to heal

This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along
- Evanescence

Getting older: responsibility, relationships, career, realizing mortality. I am barraged everyday with yet another strike to sanity - the insane are normal and all the rest are merely fools. You want me to smile and laugh and sing, and smell the flowers and watch the birds soar, maybe even get out of bed? Put a lime in the coconut and then we’ll talk.


Really. Drinking laws, smoking restrictions, drug abuse, skyrocketing therapy and happy pills, murder, theft, earthquakes and tsunamis, starvation, homelessness, pollution, guns, everywhere sadness and pain. I can’t wake up out of insomniac sleep and hug a tree now, can I? I did as a child. I was protected by parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, and surrounded by cousins and friends. I never thought that those protections would crumble and leave me exposed to life. And no one prepared me. You just can’t teach life, you have to live it.

My cousin Reenie gave me a single star sapphire earring to wear. We are both named after our grandmother, Irene. Irene is Eirhnh in Greek, meaning peace. The earring is a memory, reflection, bond that ties us together and to our family; it reminds us of the symbol we stand for, and perhaps a secret key to my identity.

Eirhnh si ton agnonti= Peace be unto you.

I found myself waking up on the morning of March 3, 1999 a bit groggy and worse for wear. I had spent the night before celebrating my birthday with friends, consuming too many Amstels, enabling me to numb the sadness of my grandmother’s death. Upon waking, reality began to slap me around. My stomach barked, not just from over-consumption, but nerves. I could hear the movement of my parents, siblings, and aunt trying to get ready for the funeral: six people fighting silently for showers. Even with all the commotion, an eerie silence filled the air. I got out of bed and fumbled about the shower, accepting the inevitable.

After preparing myself, and finding my appearance appropriate for the church and respectful of my grandmother’s memory, I took my black-clad self upstairs to see if my father needed any help. I was not surprised to find him feeling weak and anxious. His new experimental chemo treatments had left him drained of life and as helpless as a child. On top of this physical torment he would be burying his mother. His emotions, similar to my own, were a mix of relief that she would no longer be suffering and sadness for her loss. The depression that was growing inside him debilitated him even more.

My mother and I helped get him dressed and cleaned up. We attached his suspenders to his dress pants, helped him button his shirt, put on his socks, clipped his fingernails, and attempted to tie his tie. I could not help it when the tears welled up in my eyes. This was my father.

When I arrived at the church, I looked around and saw all my cousins, now grown with families of their own, and many of my father’s boyhood friends. Over the years a large rift had developed between my father and his sisters and brother-in law. I remember the days of family gatherings and feasts around my grandparent’s table. Lately, none of the holidays were celebrated around a festive table; no visits over coffee and dessert were had. The Grand Canyon separated cousins and aunts and uncles. Now at the matriarch’s funeral we were united for the first time in uncountable years.

I finally brought myself to say, “Goodbye,” to my grandmother. I walked up to the casket with Erica for support. For the first time since I was told she had passed, I felt an ocean form in my eyes. She looked beautiful. I saw her just two weeks before; she had looked less than human: her hair was stringy and oily, face drawn and pasty, as she slumped in her wheelchair, cluelessly staring out the window. She smelled of age and neglect. Now she had a peaceful grin, her hair fashioned as it had been in my childhood, her make-up was soft and natural, and she was dressed in her favorite dress, a bold purple and fuchsia flowered party dress. This was the grandmother whom I had loved. She was finally at peace and accepted it. I was glad to have this as my parting image of my grandmother. I felt our connection even more so at this moment, for I was named after her, and she had now passed it on to me.

The priest finished the service with a eulogy that actually made the family snicker. He either didn’t know my grandmother that well or he was just trying to console us with beautiful words. He talked about my grandparents as a team and never speaking harsh words to each other, which was laughable; their relationship of 60+ years was never without raised voices or name calling (we wondered if the priest just really didn’t understand Greek). Then he went on to say that my grandmother never complained, especially about her miserable condition in old age. This, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. My grandmother would constantly say, “What life is this? Why did God do this to me? Why can’t I just die instead of living like this,” and others just as these. I looked around at my father and his two sisters to see them shaking their heads and even giggling over this. It lightened the somber atmosphere.

After the absurd eulogy everyone went up one last time to say, “Goodbye.” I hadn’t realized how many people had come into the church during the service. There were friends of the family that I hadn’t seen since my adolescence; people that my father grew up with and were his best friends, with whom he’d lost touch. At this point the sorrow seemed to shift from that of my grandmother’s death to my father for his pain and the consuming cancer that afflicted him. Wave after wave of people would give their condolences to my father’s family, then would face him and clasp his frail frame. They didn’t want to move on; they were holding onto my father as if they were holding onto his life. It became the morbid foreshadowing of his death. And the tears welled in my eyes. Even though my father has always been a difficult man these people still loved him. Everyone seemed to share the same guilt for letting the insignificance create gaps in time. When people came up to me they hugged me too tightly and said, “I’m sorry.” When I looked into their eyes I knew why. I understood the years and the human ways of trying to ignore and conquer time. I felt the pain of people regretting the things that had been placed between themselves and unconditional love. It was not my own life that flashed before me, but my father’s.

The burial was quick as the March wind attempted to blow the sorrow away from us. The rain that was expected waited until we filled our cars and drove on. The flowers that we placed on top of the casket were as bright and colorful as the dress my grandmother wore inside her bed of white satin. There were no more tears. She was at eternal rest. We were going to miss her, but now there was no more suffering. The crowd of family and friends departed the cemetery with arms around each other reminiscing about the grandmother whom we all loved.

Everyone reconvened at Alexander’s for the memorial luncheon. My father went home because he couldn’t eat or swallow. When I told his friends this they were sad because they wanted to spend time with him, to wipe away the years that had passed between them. Before the meal my uncle, my father’s brother-in-law, made a speech. He gave this long-winded speech in Greek, but then followed with the important parts in English.

He said, “George and I may have never seen eye to eye or gotten along very well, but we do share something that goes beyond personal differences: we deeply loved the same woman, his mother, Irene. This woman did everything and anything for her family, and sacrificed much of her self for it. It is time to learn this lesson that she left for us; love each other, family is most important, and never let differences interfere with this love.” Then he came over to me, gave me a hug, and said, “Your father and I may not like each other, but I love him, please tell him that.” No one else heard these final words, but I spoke them to my father when I got home – a tear followed a line in his cheek and he smiled.

My cousins and I sat together, comparing stories about our grandmother. We laughed at her superstitions, smirked at her incessant candy distribution, and chuckled at her unwavering faith in the uses of Jean N’ate. We walked down memory lane, talking about the family feasts during the holidays at my grandparents’ home. We poked fun at each other as if we were children again at our grandparent’s house and took turns rambling over our grandmother’s words of wisdom. The morning had faded into afternoon and now evening. We were celebrating our grandmother’s life by allowing her to bring our family back together.

Life’s lessons are what we choose them to be.