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