Wednesday, December 31, 2003

This is kind of my therapy blog. The stories I write down are simply anecdotes from my life; until I write them, that is. The following story is for me, but I'm willing to share. I'm putting it here for two reasons. 1. It's a story that I want to tell. 2. The woman about whom I'm writing does not read this blog, although her Hubby does. I don't want to bring any pain to either of them. To Mr. J, I plead: It still hurts like crazy, I need to write it out, please understand.

The Mighty Quinn

My best friend and I have been through a lot. Twice we have tried and failed to open a small business. We have taked and laughed and cried, like good friends do. She has carried me more times than I care to admit here. She always has a warm smile and an open door. Always. The story begins with an open door.

N opened the front door to Chasmyn's home, and welcomed me inside. As usual, the place was quiet, homey and spotless. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was wafting from the kitchen, and her home was a pleasantly warm contrast to the nippy October air. I wanted to find my friend and give her a big, joyous hug. I wanted to share the happiness. Coffee placed a distant second that night.

Chasmyn had called me at around 8 o'clock at night. It was October 20th, 2000. She thought she might be in real labor. Having been there myself I asked a lot of silly questions and decided she might just have this baby in the next 24 hours. I showered to wash away the smell of cigarettes, Chasmyn doesn't smoke. Then I meditated while waiting for her next phone call. It came a little before 10 pm.

I kissed my hubby and hugged my son, telling them I didn't know when I would be back, and drove to Chasmyn's house. I was one of a very few people invited to Chasmyn's home birth. I spent the drive time reminding myself not to say anything stupid or crude. I was born without a faux pas filter, and I never really developed one later, either.

The select group, myself included, sat in the living room drinking coffee while Chasmyn worked her way through the various stages of labor. We had a lot of fun waiting. You could say it was some of the best waiting ever. There was a point where I sagely advised, "You're about halfway through the transition phase. It's the worst, but it will be over soon." Chasmyn responded, "You don't know! You can't possibly know!" And we fell out of our seats with laughter. Well, all of us guests. Chasmyn was too busy to laugh, and I don't think she thought it was funny at all.

The doula was on time, the doctor had gotten lost and was late; but he was there for the important part. He had given himself plenty of time. (There is one doctor in St. Louis who does home births. I expect he's a busy man.)
Chasmyn delivered on a bed with 50 billion pillows, being held by her mother, her hubby, and her closest friends. She would push, and we'd all push with her. Everyone was touching her when she pushed Quinn into the world. (well, everyone but me, I was holding a video camera, and it doesn't matter, I was touching her in spirit)

Quinn was born with a caul, a sign of good fortune for the child. I heartily agree. Anyone with J and Chasmyn as his parents would be fortunate indeed.

I went home feeling blessed by this newborn's presence. I felt I had witnessed the birth of a child who would touch the world. I expected great things of him. I thought about my own birth experiences and recalled the looks of wonder on the faces of my friends, and decided that although my children were special, they were nothing compared to Quinn.

Two days later, Chasmyn called me from the hospital. Quinn wasn't eating. He cried all the time. His breathing was labored and his lips were purple. Quinn was born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, and my best friend was faced with some very tough choices. She could put her 2 day old son on a waiting list for a heart transplant, she could hope he became healthy enough for a series of experimental open heart surgeries, or she could take him home and give him what the doctors called "compassionate care". Compassionate care means caring for your child until they die.

I didn't scream, gnash my teeth, or throw sharp pointy objects at the universe for letting this happen. I didn't even think about that kind of drama until later. Instead, I drove to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I waited with her family and friends, while J and Chasmyn sat with Quinn in PICU. They were taking turns bringing people to visit their son. Can you believe that? I probably would have been balled up in as corner, rejecting the world. They invited their loved ones to see their son.

There's more to the story, of course, but I'm done writing about it for now. It hurts too damn much. I'll let you off the hook, though. They opted for the series of surgeries, and Quinn thrived for 2 years and 8 months. He died June 19th. He went in for a comparatively simple valve replacement, and just didn't recover. You can read his story, in his mother's words here

Friday, December 26, 2003

First Boyfriend, First Kiss

In Catholic school, I had earned the nickname "Medusa" for my wildly curly red hair. Some genius in my class pulled one of my bouncy locks one day and commented, "Your hair is like snakes. Medusa!" The nickname stuck, and didn't do a whole lot for my self-image.

Then I transferred to public school, where nobody knew my nickname. I was "the new kid", and it was great. Everyone but me had a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I picked a kid who would be handsome when he finished growing up, and we began dating. For 5 months, we held hands on the bus ride home. That was it. We held hands.
His stop was before my own, so I really only held hands for half the bus ride. Then I'd switch seats and sit in front of my friend Ben. He was a lot more fun than my boyfriend, but he wasn't good eye candy. My boyfriend was cute but clueless. I'd spend half the bus ride listening to stupid jokes, laughing and trying to look interested. The only thing I was truly interested in was getting kissed. I wanted this kid to give me my first kiss. I wasted 5 months of my youth waiting for a kiss that never came. Eventually I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. He said, "No." So I said, "Then I'm going to break up with you." He said, "Good." And that was that.

After the break up, I spent all of the bus ride leaning over the seat and talking to Ben. He didn't tell stupid jokes, he talked about interesting stuff. His world was so different from my own, although we lived less than a mile from each other.

First of all, he had both parents. Secondly, his parents let him do stuff that my mom would never let me do. Like playing D&D or owning weapons. He had a bb gun, knives, nunchucks and throwing stars.

We would yack during the ride and continue the conversation at the ice cream place. The ice cream place was only open in the summer, so we would sit on the picnic bench outside and not be disturbed. We would talk for about half an hour, then Ben would ask me for a kiss. Every day I would scream, "Ew! No!" And every day he would steal my purse and say, "I'm not giving your purse back until you kiss me." I would then kick him in the shin, grab my purse and leave in a huff.
There was no way this guy was going to be my first kiss! He was too skinny. His hair was too dark. And he sniffed all the time because he had allergies. My first kiss was supposed to come from Prince Charming, not some sickly little boy.
Except that sickly little boy began to grow on me. I had so much fun hanging out with him, and the walk home became a very lonely walk indeed. One day Ben snatched my purse and made his request, and I thought, "Why not? You've got to kiss somebody."

So I kissed him.

I thought of soap operas, and tried to kiss like it looked like they kissed on the shows. It was an open mouth, no tongue kiss; and it was no big deal.
I waited more than a year before telling Ben that he was my first kiss.

I suppose persistence pays off.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

I changed the date and removed the duplicate comments. If you haven't been here in a few days, there are new stories below my request post.
A Request

I have written enough material for two books already, and I'm not half done with the stories. I've been stuffing the raw tales into Microsoft Word and doing some refining. Some of my stories must absolutely go into the book. I insist on it. :p
These are my favorites, the ones I look back on and laugh or cry (or both)
Drunks
More on Drunks
The Race War That Wasn't
...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!
Shopping
Wednesday Is Dumpster Day
The Sad Story Of Mr. Brown
Biker's Code Of Ethics
Payphone Perverts
Hanging Out aka why poor kids don't go to college
Independance Day
The California Bum
Why You Shouldn't Skip School Warning Potentially triggering rape story
The Neighbors Downstairs

Some of these are integral to the book, some are just writing I'm proud of.

So here's my request. Which stories are your favorites? Which ones would you like to see in the signed copy I send to you loyal 6 readers?

Saturday, December 20, 2003

Pre-Neighborhood Santa Story

I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.

He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.

Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.

Christmas rolled around and Mom, J and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone. The unlucky altar boys carry candles, the lucky ones carry either the Bible or the Monstrance.

We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.

After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.

I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got nice gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.

I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "M and D will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."

Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.

The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.

Thursday, December 18, 2003

Discovering Drugs

When I was 14, I was invited to a party in the downstairs apartment. I asked mom if I could go. She said ok, because I would only be right downstairs. I met Kenny out on the porch, and he told me he thought I was old enough to "learn how to party" and that was why he had invited me. We went inside and he introduced me to his friends while mixing up a screwdriver.

This was my first real drink.
Growing up Catholic, I'd had wine at church; but that is no more than a sip. Growing up with an Italian family, I'd had watered wine at holiday get-togethers. I had never had vodka before. Before the party was over, I was totally plastered.

I walked around sipping my screwdriver and chatting with Kenny's friends. They spent a lot of time talking about their cars. Pretty soon, my screwdriver was all gone. Kenny noticed my empty glass and brought me another drink. He asked me if I was having fun, and I politely responded, "Yeah, this is great."
I smiled up at him while thinking the party was dumb. The radio was playing annoying hard rock; I preferred top 20 stuff. The guys only talked about things that didn't interest me. I was bored, but I felt I should live up to Kenny's supposition that I was old enough to party. I didn't want to let him down.

The party got much better when the alcohol hit me. Things became interesting. I realized I didn't have to care about the rusted-out piece-of-shit that somebody was "fixing up". I could let them talk, and just enjoy watching how they lit up whenever they thought about their car. The range of emotions on these guys faces was amazing. I found myself surrounded by guys telling me all about their cars, and through that, themselves. I could see that some of them would always be losers, and some of them would be able to stick to their tasks; eventually resulting in a nice looking car.

I excused myself to take a bathroom break, and received the shock of my life. I passed the mirror. Being staggeringly drunk, I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.
I saw a stunningly beautiful girl, and stopped to look at her. I hadn't seen this girl at the party, she must have just come in. Then I recognized my freckles on the girl in the mirror. It was me, and I was beautiful!
I spent a lot of time looking at myself. I wanted to go home and see if I was pretty in that mirror too, but I didn't want mom to know I was drunk; so I stayed and played with my newly-discovered attractiveness. I let one of the guys start kissing on me, and then we were laying down on the couch kissing. I was really relaxed and it felt good. About the time the guy had gotten a hand down my pants, Kenny came to the rescue. He lifted the guy by his shirt and said, "Dude, She's 14."
The guy fled from me like I had started sprouting roaches.
I became very embarrassed and went home.

A few months later Kenny introduced me to pot. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I believe Kenny was trying to teach me the ways of the world in the safest way possible. He slowly opened my eyes, and stayed with me to keep me out of trouble. I suppose I should be grateful. He put a lot of effort into watching over me. I think he did it because he was head over heels in love with my sister. I think he didn't want her to get hurt by seeing me get hurt. I know I didn't start doing stupid things until I'd changed my circle of friends.

The most valuable thing I learned from Kenny was "Just say no thank you." The people doing drugs are fine with that. The usual response is, "More for me!"

Thursday, December 11, 2003

Snow

Poverty looks like peeling paint on wooden windows, broken glass patched with tape, flat tires, and barren yards where even the weeds fear to grow.
Poverty smells like stale beer, cooked cabbage, urine and Roach-Ex.
Poverty feels like despair. Day in and day out, it seeps into you and weighs you down.

Snow is everything that poverty is not. Snow is white and sparkling, it covers everything and weighs practically nothing. I have always loved snow. I love watching it drift in the air. I love watching it coat the world. I love clearing the sidewalk, and I love playing in it.

My sister and I would build snowmen in the back yard, because they would be safe there. If we built them in the front yard, the snowmen would get knocked over and the remains would be thrown at passing cars. We went sledding on cardboard boxes until my sister found a real sled at a yard sale. And we threw millions of snowballs.
The boys in the neighborhood would shove rocks in their snowballs before throwing them. We got revenge by dipping ours in the gutter and making slush balls. All of us threw things at the busses. We would hide behind cars, with a stash of snowballs and bombard the bus as it came down the street. It gave us a feeling of power to smack a snowball against the bus window, where some working stiff was resting his head.
I never attacked the homeless people, but a lot of the other kids did. Woe to the hapless bums on a snow day. The neighborhood kids would run at them with their arms full of rock encrusted snowballs, and bombard the poor fellows. The homeless would inevitable hunch their shoulders and wander away. They never fought back. Perhaps that's why I didn't take part in the game. I couldn't see the fun in attacking someone less powerful than myself.

One year we had an honest-to-God blizzard. The total snowfall that week was more than 2 feet. The kid next door dug snow tunnels all over his yard. He was out there most of the day, moving snow.
I was so excited. Finally enough snow to build an igloo! I grabbed the snow shovel and made a giant mound of snow in the back yard. Then I couldn't figure out how to turn a mountain of snow into an igloo. I thought I should make the snow a little denser first, so I smacked the mound with the shovel to firm it up. Then I had a small, dense mound. Hmm. I added more snow and tamped it down again. My mound was not noticeably larger.
Eventually, after several hours of work, the yard was half empty and I was the proud owner of a 5 foot high flat-bottomed snowball. I went inside to have some hot cocoa and think about this. Sometime during the snow moving, I had come up with a brilliant idea. When snow is a day or so old, it gets a layer of ice on the top. If I could create a layer of ice, I would have a see through igloo. How cool is that?
I took a cup of water outside and poured it on my snow mound, but everything the water touched turned to slush. This clearly wasn't working out as I'd hoped. Never one to give up easily, I filled the spray bottle mom used for misting the plants, and tried spritzing the snow mound.
Better.
It still turned to slush, but not as much. I spritzed the entire mound and went inside for the night. I was cold, my mittens were wet, and I was thinking the whole thing might have been a waste of time. The next morning, my snow mound had been trampled by the kids who lived downstairs.

I have since learned the mechanics of building an igloo. I went about it in entirely the wrong way. :)