I started this blog by mentioning that I died in childbirth. I think I want to
make today's post about that. Not because that's somehow special or awesome or
even all that uncommon. Childbirth is still one of the most dangerous times in
a woman's life. Even in the best of circumstances. I am not even vaguely
exceptional or interesting in that. Nope, I think I just figured out what I
could learn from that and that's what I want to discuss. (I pretend you are all
listening. Shut up it's my blog .)
It all seemed so boringly normal at the time. I was merely a
little overdue. I wasn't finding labor all that horrific. There I was, all big
and bad-ass, an experienced mom. I was gonna sail right through this. When
Fisty Pants' heart slowed on the monitors. And then did it again with the next
contraction. And again. So they started an emergency c-section. And then,
unbeknownst to me, her heart stopped. All I knew was all hell broke loose. The
surgeon started throwing the instruments onto the tray. And yelling. They
slapped a mask on my face and that was it. I don't remember anything until I
woke up after. Except for two things. One is this nagging feeling that I've
forgotten something. The second is this incredible feeling of calm. I knew I
was fine . I knew Feisty Pants was breathing. Everything else was details. It
was a Catholic hospital. They kept asking me if I wanted a priest for FP. I
didn't. I knew if only for that moment that everything was good. That's where I
got my rollercoaster ride analogy for raising a disabled child. It's not the ups
and downs. It was that first seemingly calm ride up that first big hill where
all seems peaceful before you hit the downward side.
That last paragraph is remarkable for one thing. I am not calm
person. I have adhd. I have the personality of um, er let's say a husky.
(Read that as stubborn and hyper.)I've had to learn the hard way to think before
I speak.( Shut up. You have no idea what I manage to keep to myself.) Most of
time, I am multitasking like a meth addict and tripping over my own feet . But
that one moment of complete and utter calm has not yet left me completely. (I
wish I could call it up at will, but I will take what I can get.) I felt it
again when watching people do cpr on Feisty Pants when she was ten months old.
And when a hospital was trying to bully me into signing for a tracheostomy.
Times like that.
I am thinking upon this for two reasons. My eldest is about to
go through all this on her own. Hippie Pants is sweet and funny and awesome and
scattered and right now, a little scared by the enormous change about to happen
to her. I want so much to lend her that "everything will be ok no matter what "
feeling to her. She's had a scary and huge year. Last year started with her
standing by the grave of her boyfriend. She has withstood accidents, murder,
friends coming and going as their own lives gel into adulthood. It ends with a
new life and a chapter as her life that begins to gel in ways she did not
expect. I want to know that she knows she is made of stuff that can withstand
anything.
The other reason is that yesterday, Feisty Pants had a case
of the Mondays. She's not sleeping well. She is feisty and stubborn and self
willed in the best of times. When she is cranky, she will pull out the
feistiness and use it like a light saber. Trying to cheer her up, we pulled out
the big guns. (Dancing to music.) Her new obsession is the song Happy. ( Which
I highly recommend btw, but be warned. It is musical crack.) It worked, with in
a few minutes. We were stupid and laughing and dancing like the dorky fools we
are.
And that's when it hit me. What I cannot quite remember.
What I have yet -almost eleven years later, to be able to put into words. For
some reason, for whatever reason, when I died something flipped a switch. Or
Something flipped a switch. For me now, happiness, like love and mother and
life- is not a noun. Happy is a verb. I hope you all find your verbs too.
Especially you, Hippie Pants.
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