A day like yesterday

A day like yesterday makes me wonder how I made it to the end of the day. It began not much unlike any other day, at about 4:00 in the morning. I first reached for my phone to check the time and confirm that my body was functioning as expected, waking me up at the set hour before the rising sun. I used to have a policy of not going to bed with my phone, but since giving up on the digital large numbered radio clock to guide me through the night hours I returned to my trusty phone. And while said clock still sits with its cord strewn alongside it on bedroom floor, it is merely another object for me to put away rather than a functional piece of furniture. A hour after I had brought it back from my parents, hooked it up and set up the time, Yousef had decided that it was a new "toy" and went about setting the alarm, changing the dial and turning up the volume. When it went off at an odd hour one day, I decided that was the end of that attempt at a "normal" life.

After I verified the time, I took a quick peak at my inbox to see if I had any "important" emails; of course there were none - nothing unusual. Then, I checked Facebook to see what others have been up to and to arm myself with topics for morning conversation. I barely gave it a minute and decided it was a waste of the morning minutes. I will surely be returning to it throughout the day to distract myself from whatever else I would be doing. By the light of the phone, I made my way down the stairs.

In the kitchen I set about putting the dry dishes away, heating water up for coffee, tea and oatmeal and getting Jannah-Rae's lunchbox ready. It was Wednesday so all she needed was "sides." Wednesdays are pizza days and three dollars from Baba bought her lunch. Earlier on in the school year I had thought I would allow her pizza from the school as a "treat" every once in a while but that soon became a routine. It wasn't that I was against pizza per se, I just didn't want her to eat pizza made from unknown ingredients. So I sent her with homemade pizza a few times, then life got the better of me on Wednesdays and she joined her friends in their weekly indulgence. I set out her sides: frozen peas and fresh blackberries, labelled the containers and counted the change. I made the oatmeal, brewed the coffee and sweetened my tea. Then I headed towards the living room couch and turned on my laptop. Today, I was going about my morning in reverse: I was going to tend to things first and meditate later. Except that later never came.

Soon after I sat down I heard footsteps on the stairs; it was Jannah-Rae and she was not looking good. "My throat hurts," she said and that was the beginning of a long day at home. She had a fever, was coughing and sneezing and she was not going anywhere but back to the room. I, too, wasn't going anywhere either and had to make the best of a day at home with a sick child and an overactive toddler. My day was going to be interesting.

We started with food and tried different things: cereal with milk, toast with honey, bagel with cream cheese, boiled eggs. A few bites of each and on to another choice. The dishes in the sink began to pile. Then we worked on a wooden sail boat; the sails are still missing. We moved on to assembling Yousef's workbench; it arrived with broken parts. We tried doing puzzles; pieces covered the living room floor. I tried a "contained" activity and handed the kids foam, a plastic box and figurines; Yousef sprayed it on the carpet. Trains and tracks weren't any better; the trains went flying down the stairs. We tried the i-Pad but when it was time to hand it back Yousef had a complete meltdown.

And so went the day, from one activity to another and from one screaming session to another. All the while, JR was doing her best to stay upright and cheerful attempting to eat and drink but not managing to do as much as she should. She dozed off a few times, took a couple doses of medicine and lounged on the couch. She was clearly not herself and try as I could to make her feel better, she was just sick and needed love and attention.

I kept watching the clock; the hours were ticking by so slowly. It was only 10:30 one time. Then it was only 2:00. We had four more hours till Jeff got home. Then, it was 4:30 and by the time it was 5:30 I was out of ideas, energy and the will to go on. So when I almost tripped on Jeff walking up the stairs my spirits lifted; now we could all get in the car and go for a drive to cut off the last hour of the day and change the scenery. And out we went, for juice and treats. It was after 7:00 when we returned and bed time got started. Jannah-Rae was fast asleep within minutes of getting in bed while Yousef decided to be "cute" and delay bedtime. He kept playing "peek-a-boo" and giggling, asking for water and the bathroom, wanting to eat and see Baba. Shortly before 8:00pm he stopped giving me kisses and surrendered to sleep. It had been a long day.

How I made it from 4:00am to 8:00pm without losing my mind is a mystery to me. In the midst of everything I managed to make, and eat, lunch and dinner, fold, and put away, a load of laundry, pay three bills by phone, put up plastic on three windows, and read two chapters from my book. I did not yell at the kids, express frustration or complain about my situation. I could have screamed at Yousef for spilling the juice, or for throwing the popcorn on the floor, or for emptying the foam canister on the bedroom floor. I could have lost my patience with him over the tantrums, the multiple change of clothes, or the torn pages of the catalog. But I chose otherwise. I turned a blind eye to the mess, looked over the trash and walked around the clutter. I took it hour by hour and looked for the fun a midst the chaos. I laughed rather than frowned, hugged close instead of shoved away. I took part in their life rather than try to control it. I became one with them, rather than stand apart. I told Yousef to pose while I took photos of him pushing shaving cream unto the floor. I enjoyed cleaning up the mess.

Yes, it was a rough day. But it was also blessed. It was a reminder of all the wonderful things that make up my life. True, Jannah-Rae was sick and that put a damper on the day, but she is with us, and that is all that matters. She, her brother and her father are what make a day like yesterday a wonderful day.

Birthday Boy

A year ago today the stars aligned, the universe conspired and God gave his word: I was to have a son! Not another girl as the maternal fetal medicine doctor had written on that piece of paper she gave Jeff. Not another girl as Jeff later told his late grandfather. Not another girl as I later would come to know. Not a sister for JR. Not Josephine Ramez as Jeff and I decided to name her. Not Josie as JR got used to calling her. Not a third female to outnumber Jeff. But a boy. The son I had always wanted. The son I thought I was going to have during my first pregnancy. The son I most probably lost during the second and third pregnancies. The boy who would carry the name onward. A brother to JR. Another man in the house to hold it together, to balance it out, to make it whole. A year ago today we received the news and were left speechless. To this day, still, I often find myself much of the same ~ I wake up and amaze at the boy laying next to me; the son I always wanted never thought I would have.

Happy birthday Yousef. You have been a miracle, a blessing, a gift.

The Story ~ The End, Part 2 ~ A Boy!

When I left in a rush that morning, I did not hug JR nor did I kiss her goodbye. I was so preoccupied with my condition and so wrapped up in making phone calls and looking online that I gave her little to no attention. I darted out the door as soon as Jeff walked in without looking back. Of course I told her where I was going, and I did say goodbye, but had I known that this would be the last time she saw me for five days, I would have exited differently. I would have sat her down, hugged her tight, and bid farewell to what remained of being an only child. I would have explained to her the reason I was leaving and told her about the day I would come back home. But instead I left her with Teta with nothing more than “Goodbye Jannah-Rae, I am going to the doctor. See you soon habibti.”

The OB gave us one order of business three minutes after we walked into the examination room: check into Labor and Delivery immediately. Do not go home, do not pack, do not take care of unfinished business. Go straight to the hospital and do not leave. I had severe preeclampsia and there was only one way to resolve it: birth my baby.

At 10:00am we took up one of the “mother in labor” parking spots. At 10:05 I was checked in, banded and escorted to a monitoring room. I was strapped down, hooked up and put on show. Decisions were made for me and I was a spectator in what started as another day but turned into the longest 18 hours of my life.

For the next few hours, nurses rotated in and out. My OB dropped by. I was told repeatedly that things were “under control”. But they were far from it. My blood pressure was all but falling, and I was at risk of a seizure. I needed to lay low, stay calm and be patient. I also needed a lot more medical interventions.

I was hence moved to another room and strapped down even further. IV drip, fetal monitor, contractions monitor, catheter. I was a living disaster. I was so bloated that it took the nurse three tries to find a vein for the IV drip. It also took her two tries to properly insert the catheter. The pain of delivering a baby had thus commenced and I was not even in labor. Minutes later, my water broke. I thought the worse. I thought the end was a doomed beginning. But at the time there was nothing we could do to haste the conclusion. We had to wait. I had to be on magnesium, to be monitored, to be pumped up with liquids. I puffed up even further and cried even more. I needed an end in sight and I watched the clock. But the end was still further away.

The minutes clicked away. Five thirty came and went. The OB was ready but the operating room was not. I was getting cranky and nasty. I was miserable. I was sick beyond my, or anyone’s, control. And yet I had to wait. I was hungry, thirsty and anxious. I could not contain myself any longer.

Finally a glimmer of hope walked into the room. It was the anesthesiologist. Not only that, but he was the same doctor who was present at JR’s delivery. What luck! I got wheeled away. A cold room never felt so good. It was my turn and I was finally going to get better. The magic wand had been waved and I was going to be myself again. The nightmare that started with bed rest and ended with severe preeclampsia was soon to be over. Little did I know, though, that these thoughts were merely wishful.

When Jeff and the OB walked in together, it was time to get things moving. A little cut, a little suction, a little blood and the baby was out. “Here is your son!” announced the surgeon. A good set of lungs, but “a son?!” “A boy?!”  Did I hear correctly? Were they talking about my baby? The baby I had been carrying for 36 weeks and 3 days? I was not having a son. I was having a girl. The sonographer told us so. She confirmed it more than once. The maternal fetal medicine doctor wrote it down on that green piece of paper she handed to Jeff. That was the news Jeff has shared with his dying grandfather. We were having another girl. Jeff was going to be outnumbered. We were going to be a family of three ladies and one man.

What happened to Josie? Where is Josephine Ramez? JR’s sister? The little baby girl who was going to wear JR’s clothes again? For whom I had spent hours washing, drying, hanging, folding pinks and reds and whites and purples. The little girl who was going to be little. No. I did not hear correctly. I am drugged and sick. I could not have just birthed a son.

I was crying and laughing at the same time. I asked to see. I had to see for myself. I did not believe. I needed proof. I needed anatomy. But the doctor was right; it was a boy. The boy I had always wanted. The son I had dreamed of. The boy I had wanted to grow up with as a little girl. The male who would carry on the family’s name. Joseph Ramez Mike.  6 pounds 8 ounces and a head full of hair. My son.

 

A mother's robe

I bought it when JR was four months old. I was baffled by it, overwhelmed, tested. I tried it; it challenged me. I frantically sought help, and received it. Later, I mastered it, and started wearing it ~ constantly, fondly. It became me. Over and around, and above and through. Tie at the front, tie at the side, tie to my life.

I treated it with care and respect. I reached for it all the time. On me is where it belonged. Everyday, like my hair, it accompanied me on trips. Where ever I went, it was there. It witnessed milestones, made memories, became immortalized. It took in the scenery, watched the days go by, listened to conversations. It went on airplanes, and in cars. It got packed in a suitcase, and fell on the ground. It got tasted, cuddled, soiled. It became part of the family. It was family.

For months it was a constant in the household. The garment above all garments. Then, one day it stopped. JR grew. It was the end.

I washed it, dried it, folded it and "bagged" it. I needed to protect it. I handled it with care. It was my history, my heritage, my future. It got "boxed" up. It was far, but safe.

Then, one day it began again. Yousef was born, and the story re-commenced where it was left last. Out of the box, out of the bag, but not out of practice. Again it became my second skin, the natural extension of my being. One again, I could not live without it, nor would I try. I reach for it before I dash out of the house. I reach for it when I am in the house. I feel "naked" without it. It is there where I cannot miss it - and yet sometimes I do.

Once again it is loved, needed. It is Joseph's favorite setting. It holds him close to Mama, and takes him places. It brings him home.

And after a long day, it rests. Perched high and away from curious hands, it goes to "sleep." Up the next day for another adventure.

I cannot imagine my world without many things, but without my wrap, it would be even more unimaginable.