Life

This is a mall in Dubai, teeming with life (and fish) where Sir Renaissance is for three weeks.  I miss him.

Today I finished working on the memorial book of the Message mom who died.  (Message is the anglo-mother community in Paris and we reunite through a website and various activities).  She died in November from placenta acretia, leaving behind a newborn, an 18 month old and a five year old.  She made it to the hospital and gave birth by planned C-section, but passed away the next day.

A group of us each decided to each take a year (2004-2009) of her time in the Message community and copy all of her posts that would tell something about herself, her children, how she viewed life, etc and then put them into one book.  I took 2009, the last year she was alive.

As I copied the last month of her life, post by post, and read about the mundane things (what furniture to buy to accommodate the baby clothes), the stressful things (what if I start bleeding at home – do I call a taxi?  The firemen might only take me to the closest hospital, and not the high-risk one), the agonizing things (how will my baby girl handle my being in the hospital 2 whole weeks?  We’ve never been separated before!), and the preparatory things (what last minute things will I need to pack for the hospital?  Three onesies seems a bit skimpy.  DH is going to have to acquaint himself with the washing machine), my heart twisted painfully inside of me. Her last post was congratulating another mom who had just given birth with the cheerful words, “now it’s my turn.  I’m literally just checking in before leaving for the hospital.”

I remember a friend describing her father in a way that seemed to me, at the very least, neglectful.  She was very close to her mother, but then her mother got cancer.  My friend was six, the older of two girls, and when she asked her father if they were going to go to the hospital to visit her mother he retorted, “she’s dead!” before snapping his newspaper back open and continuing to read.  I’m sure he didn’t know how to handle the emotions himself, but my friend was left to go into her room, close the door and cry because her mother had died and she had no one to comfort her.

This is singularly my greatest fear – to not be there to raise my children.  Or is it to lose a child?  Or my husband?  In any case, I am so affected by stories of loss, that in order to keep breathing, I have to hold on to the fact that most people do live normal, long, healthy lives.  The tragedies are a minority.

I remember things.

I remember Sir Renaissance sitting across from me in the french restaurant in SoHo on the one-year anniversary of us dating, the ring on the table that came out of nowhere, and him saying, “one year is not good enough.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  Will you marry me?”  I was floored.  Earlier he had given me a diamond bracelet, dashing all my hopes for a proposal.  I was going to have to wait a whole other year for him to save up for a ring.  When his friend heard about the proposal, she said, “You’ve set the bar high!  Now all the girls are going to say, “I see my ring; but where’s my bracelet?”

I remember coming out of the bathroom and Sir about to say that my toast is burnt, but upon seeing me with a stick in hand and a look on my face, only manages “Your ……” 

”Pregnant!” I finish for him.

Some seven months later (not a singular story, but one of the more delightful), we’ve just arrived in the building after a flight from Paris and a long taxi ride from JFK to Battery Park City and he says he’s going to check the mail.  I respond, barely moving my lips, that I’m going to head up.  Our apartment is across from the elevator and the doors open ding! Sir exits the elevator, only to see the entire contents of my travel purse thrown down the hallway, the key in the door, and vomit all over the door, the rug and the walls of the corridor.  “I couldn’t get the door open,” I wail.

I remember Young Knight being handed to me after having spent a long time with the doctors in reanimation.  He wasn’t breathing when he came out, but I was trembling from the fever that had followed me throughout my labor and pushing and wasn’t aware of what was going on.  When finished with the reanimation, they brought him to me on his way to NICU for some bonding with his mother. With a true maternal instinct, I glossed over the shock of seeing a purple fleshy baby that looked nothing like Young Lady’s delicate bird-like features (even straight out of the womb).  I caressed his head and told him that I was his mommy, that he was my prince and that I would love him forever, and other such soothing words and touches.  The nurses left him much longer than anticipated and this contact with his mother stabilized his vitals so much he was able to skip the NICU and stay in the regular nursery just down the hall from me.

I think of Petit Prince smashing his jaw against mine, trying to relieve the agony of teething, but never biting me because he knows it will hurt me.  I think of him putting his two little hands on my collarbones and looking at me, then putting his arms around my neck and hugging me, only to repeat the process.

I think of the little plants that are making their way through the dirt for the first time under my care (at least I hope they’re plants and not weeds), and the fact that they are going to do this season in and out for as long as I live in my new home.  I am greeted by an explosion of green with pinks and yellows and whites interspersed throughout, and even my back living room window gives a full view of large leaves sashaying in the breeze.

I picture the three children in the bubble bath last night, their faces turned towards mine laughing, and each with a new haircut that makes them look so grown up.

I picture my Sir doing a close-up of his lips on the skype camera tonight to give each of us kisses, much to the delight and giggles of us all, from baby to wife.

And more.  A myriad of memories and experiences ….

– playing on the huge empty water slide after hours as a lifeguard, while a few kids lingered with their fingers through the fence, staring in longingly,

– dancing on the tables in college with a wild abandon I’ve not found (or wanted) since,

– riding on a motorbike down long, long strips of earth in between golden rice paddies, picking litchis in the mountains, and eating them on stones in the middle of a river, their shells floating downstream,

– waking up out of a minor coma after being hit by a taxi in New York City and seeing the world through a long tunnel.

– traveling all over Asia, visiting four cities in two weeks, discussing their country’s finances (in a bid to get advertising) when all I had gotten was a “C” in my college course “Introduction to Business,”

– having the New York City wedding of my dreams to the husband of my dreams on a budget of $8,000, primarily because I had such generous friends contributing their talent (most of with whom I am still friends),

– carrying an emaciated, yet heavy, baby back to the orphanage to be buried because I was with him when he drew his last breath,

– living in a tiny little dream house in France with swinging doors to accommodate the friends coming to visit, and having vision for the charming house and garden that it will one day be,

Life. If I have the luxury to reflect on my life while facing my death, I think that I shall be content.

* This post originally appeared in my former blog, Perfect Welcome, and may contain some modifications or discrepancies in the names or comments.

Comments

I love to hear from you, friends. You can comment using the box below or your Facebook profile. But FB doesn't notify me of new comments, so if the post is more than a week old and you want to make sure I see your comment, it's better to use the comment box. Merci!