it is serious

I should be asleep right now. I need to be asleep. Really, what I mean is that I need rest. My body, soul, and mind are exhausted. I've done more crying than I care to admit...or can remember. A word, a look...it doesn't take much. I have never felt stress or sadness as I do now. Of course, I have not had to deal with Richie's health issues before. No, not like this.

I can't seem to separate myself from what is happening. I can't allow myself to think the thoughts that have been dancing through my head. I spoke to a woman who had an experience similar to what I'm going through now, and the things she said to me were scary because it's how I feel. She is talking about it now, having survived for almost 18 years. I try to find strength in those types of stories. It's odd the places I seem to be finding strength. I relish, even more, in helping others. Unfortunately, I fear it's a selfish act aimed at distracting myself.

I have sat down to write so many times. I know that I will feel some comfort, some release, if I can just write. My tears fall so hard. I rub the dried salty water circles they leave on my desk and I can feel the pain pushing against my eyelids. I never imagined such an absolute. Richie is so young. He can't understand what's happening to him...maybe that makes it worse. Maybe that makes it easier. If it were my diagnosis instead of his, I would not hurt as much as knowing that my son will always suffer.

I've been told to examine the positives...it's better this than that. I am thankful for those that do not know this pain. I am also frustrated with the responses of those that can't understand. Or don't want to. I have heaved myself out of the denial that I was so comfortable wading in. I can't force anyone else out of theirs. Honestly, I really do believe that everyone will be affected by this differently and will cope in their own ways. I don't have the energy to judge or care how others choose to live. For those of us that have gathered to support Richie, as well as each other, well...that's where my focus lies.

The simple and ambiguous questions popular with tragic events are rising in my throat. I'm ready to scream. I want answers that aren't available. They don't exist. I want to step outside of this nightmare and breathe - if only for a moment. There is a long road before Richie. I hope against all hope that I can adequately prepare him for the life he will be forced to lead.

I think about the kubler-ross model and I can't help but wonder...is there a way I am supposed to feel? If I lack one emotion or feel another in excess, does that offer insight? I can't help but let Richie be my only concern. I would have to make a very sincere effort to tear my senses from being completely wrapped up in him. Even then I doubt I could feel half of what others guess I should be. I can't get angry. That seems to surprise many. Was the diagnosis missed? Is there a person to blame onto, and if so, who? That is form of negativity I just won't give in to. It's not even that I can't feel anger, but I don't think it's fair. Of course, this is all pretty new so maybe I'll get to the machete wielding, vengeance seeking, vindictively reckless stage soon enough.

just old light

Richie and I have been back in Texas for nearly a week. It was a nightmare getting home, but I'm over it. Not over it enough to share the experience. It's a new week with it's own set of problems.

Richie had his appointment with his pediatrician this morning. First thing, bright and early. 20 minutes after our scheduled time, he was taken in and stripped to be weighed and measured. Verdict? My kids got a big (BIG) head. Not freakishly big, but beyond the average silly looking toddler-sized head. Not a problem. No growth otherwise. I'm not surprised, just disappointed. Not in Richie, or myself, but if you are a mom you know the disappointment I'm talking about. In early morning hours, like now, I can sit here with my lap top and blame myself for lacking the ability to alter Richie's piece of universe to make him a normal, healthy toddler. Thankfully they didn't give me too much to dwell on numbers before the nurse shoved me into another room to wait for the pediatrician to show up.

This part of my day is called waiting.

I thought Richie was going to bounce off a wall and through the window of the tiny room we were confined to. Just as I braced myself for lift-off, in walked Dr. Never-on-time. He entered the room with Richie's chart in hand and open, reading it. Before he even sat down he started asking me questions about Richie's delivery and premature birth. When he is done asking his questions, we discuss Richie's size. He's been teasing us, like he might stay in the fifth percentile, but now he's back in the third. I have always thought that there is a connection between his GI problems, yet undiagnosed, and his compact packaging. I brought up this concern to the pediatrician and got Richie a referral to a pediatric gastroenterologist. I won't be satisfied until there is an answer, and treatment, if necessary. I'm hopeful but guarded.

The day got off to a strange and uncomfortable beginning since Richie's appointment was so early. By the time I finished Rocky Balboa tonight, I was ready to get in bed. I always check in on Richie. Consequently, after dragging my feet up the stairs, I opened the baby gate and walked in to sneak a peek of my sleeping angel. I stepped lightly over some closet organizing accessories that I had left on the floor, to get to Richie's crib. I can't see him, so I assume he cuddled up in a different corner of the crib than usual. Nope.

The baby is not in the crib.

Richie is sprawled on the floor on his back. Just sleeping soundly, on the floor. This is strange considering that I laid him to sleep in his crib. Somehow my little climber got out. The list for tomorrow starts already with (1) checking Richie for bumps, bruises and the kind, and (2) calling Babies R Us to order the Wendy Bellissimo toddler bed guard rail for Richie's toddler bed. It will take 3 to 4 months for the special order item to actually arrive, so until then I will be duct taping my child to his crib mattress. It's a good thing I always close the baby gate at Richie's bedroom doorway since his room is at the top of the stairs. Oh my gosh, I can't even think of if I hadn't. Thankfully he was somewhat safe...ish. I had the baby monitor on and didn't hear a peep out of him, nor a thud. Therefore, I conclude that he didn't actually hit the floor but scaled the walls to bring himself soundly to the floor. Then, being worn out, sprawled out on his back and took to dreaming. I may also be making a journey to the emergency room tomorrow morning if I notice any bruising, swelling, or other injuries. But, I'm sure he's fine. Like I said, my little monkey must have scaled the walls to a soft landing on the floor. I'm going to lay in bed and repeat that for a while.

Oh! Lolli! Lollipop!

Richie had his first ever lollipop yesterday. When I handed it to him (unwrapped and ready to be devoured) he looked at it with excitement and started waving it in the air. Apparently, I needed to point out that it was not a toy. I pretended to take a nibble, as he instantaneously gained comprehension. What followed was more adorable than I can say! He cupped the base of the sugary treat itself, and began gnawing. It was no time at all before he was all sticky with grape flavored drool. It took him ten minutes to leave absolutely no indication that he had tried so hard to get even the tiniest bite. He was fed up and finished. I had plenty of pictures.


"I'm not so sure I am supposed to eat this..."





"Eat it? How?"





"Ok, mom, you can tell me how this works now..."





"Oh! Oh! Oh! Is that sugar I taste? ... Just remember; you gave it to me, mom!"




I refrain from sugar and caffeine 99.9% of the time. Maybe one of Richie's grape-flavored kisses gave me a sugar rush.
Either that or I am spiraling into California-loving-madness.
That's right. You heard me.
I have decided to ignore the fact that two weeks is simply not enough time. I will be spread thin as I hurry to spend adequate time with everyone on my growing list. I have changed my mind a dozen times already as to how I will ration all the hours in a day. As the day nears when Richie and I will fly out of San Antonio, I am releasing my choke hold of control. Everything will work out. I am going to purchase hundreds of those little sugar-free lollipops; as long as I can keep Richie happy on the plane, everyone should be happy.

As I resolve the issues that led to previous concern, I develop all kinds of new, though equally neurotic, concerns. I had hoped that Richie would have grown by now. It is true that I have no influence over his current lack of growth, but I wish I had more to say than "Well, we are meeting with specialists..."

I do tend to dwell upon my son's small size; add the flourish of a mother's overly-attentive anxiety and subtract the comfort of a partner. Can you comprehend the way I worry after him? I try to trust the doctors to make the right diagnosis and suggest fitting treatment. At best, I am resolved to a feeling of apprehension. There are too many questions, and never enough answers.

Three Minutes Later

I have a new theory on reincarnation. By "new", I mean new-to-no-one-else-but-me. I present a brief, and ambiguously misdirecting, introduction to my idea on life after life.

Birth.
Death.
Life.

I know I was alive before I became who I am now. I am detached from those memories though. The best way I know to describe the feelings I have about my life, before my son was born, is to say that it's like hearing so many stories about who I was that I feel familiar with that person, but so completely detached that it may as well have been someone else. I felt the same way about the first eighteen years of my life, during my pregnancy. After my son was delivered at the hospital, even those significant eight months faded away. I was the first in a series of myself and my childhood friends to have a baby (only because my son was born prematurely and a mere few weeks prior to Jennie's little girl). Due, partially, to the fact that my friends and I were all having babies within less than a year, I recounted my pregnancy, labor and delivery countless times. I feel a connection to that period in my life, but less vividly than even the day after my son was born.

The day my son was born I lost all selfishness. With that burden lifted from my soul, I became the person I am today. My thoughts and concerns centralize themselves strictly around Richie. Every part of my life is devoted to him. As, I feel, it should be. In no obligatory way, I feel blessed and very honored to be a mother. The one trait I have acquired, which may not be so desirable as the others, can only be described as judgemental. At least, I feel that I am judging those that do not necessarily give wee ones proper care. When I examine the animosity I feel towards neglectful care-withhold-ers, it comes down to a protectiveness over all innocence. I have always been maternal and nurturing, by nature. I might be making excuses for behavior I don't care to admit I indulge in. Either way, I find it despicable when those who should be protecting their young, do not. Since I have become a mother my standards for myself, as well as anyone with children, are progressively strict. She said I would one day, and I now understand what my mother meant when said she loved me too much.

I could hate you, but I don't want to

It's a not-so-typical night in May; the third, to be exact. I am summoning the courage to take a pregnancy test. I know I am not pregnant, but I need confirmation. So, why am I so nervous? I am in the bathroom at my (already pregnant) best friend's apartment, waiting the obligatory three minutes for a second line to not appear.

tick. tock. tick. tock.

No.
It can't be.
"Jennie, this isn't a line...right?" I wonder, now, if my best friend took the time to consider lying to me just before affirming that we were both staring at two pink lines. Yes, the man I had left in the dust of my hasty escape from San Diego, had impregnated me with his drunken sperm. Condoms, depo, alcohol, one man, and one woman; add those variables together, in the right order, and you get a baby. I was surprised at the joy he seemed to get from hearing the news that "we" were expecting. Considering all that had passed between us when we lived together, I decided my astonishment was misplaced.

Why wouldn't he be as elated as I?

One year and six days after the longest conversation Nathan and I had to date, I discovered that the answer would never be what I wanted it to be. Loving him was never easy, but always worth trying for. Eight months later, he still does not have the capability to shock me. As I over analyze the last words between us, I can't imagine how horrible it would be to have a son that I didn't have the chance to meet, as is the case since Nathan was deployed the morning Richie was born. I have to assume that he is afraid of being daddy to a son he's never known, otherwise I find it impossible to fathom his disregard.

Perhaps it was Nathan's absence that sent me into single-parent mode, but I doubt it. With him being enlisted, we were both realistically aware of the time we would spend apart. I don't remember exactly when, or why, I felt that I would be raising our son alone. We started out so right. We had it all figured out. Maybe it was our arrogance that led to this flaming downfall. I could muse about the ups and downs of our relationship until the end of time (and I probably will), but I doubt I will ever understand what actually happened. I doubt he will either.

I never had expectations for Nathan and I. Everyday with him, I felt blessed. I didn't know what could happen, or would. I did feel certain, however, that he would make a good father to our baby boy. My heart breaks in ways I didn't know were possible as I see Nathan throw money at Richie, as though that could somehow compensate for all that he lacks as "daddy". I find myself wondering whether or not men that father children feel any attachment to them at all, beyond obligation. Men (is it more appropriate to say "boys"?) seem to be oblivious to the true nature of creating life. I suspect women would feel a deeper connection as they do carry the child for nine months before the men ever get to meet said child. For all the excuses I can, and do, make for Nathan, I still don't come close to comprehension. My efforts prove to be a mere distraction from the reality that Richie's father is the type of man that demerits parenthood.

My son is barely fourteen months old and already I dread the day he will ask all the questions I will never be able to answer.