Harlene

Mother and Child by Ronnie Biccard

Every time she saw the girl, Harlene Johnson would say a silent prayer to Lord Jesus to give her the strength to smile and keep her mouth shut.

“Mornin’ Missus Johnson.”

Strength, Lord, Harlene thought. Just give me strength. “Good mornin’ to you, too. How’s your momma and daddy doing?”

“Oh, fair to middlin’. They’re worried sick about Frank, Jr., but I keep telling Momma that the Lord will deliver him back home to us.”

‘Cause you and the Lord are real close, I’m sure. You know how he loves lying little tramps.

“Well please tell them both they’re in my thoughts and prayers. Junior, too.”

Harlene breathed a sigh of relief as the young woman smiled, nodded and flitted off to greet a group of her school friends.

Lord knows they need prayers with a son off in war and a daughter like you.

Harlene could feel the lines in her forehead deepening and her cheeks growing flush. Her hands began to shake.

I’m sorry, Lord. Please forgive me for my hateful thoughts.

She took a deep breath and ran her hands down the front of her jumper right as Lorraine Booth approached from across the fellowship hall.

“Why Lorraine, hon, did you get a wave in your hair?

*******************************************************************

It was quarter to one by the time Harlene left church. She knew Emmit would be waiting outside for her when she arrived home. A small part of her dreaded seeing her son, which in turn brought a twinge of shame. But Harlene occasionally allowed herself the indulgence of resenting her son, justifying her feelings with thoughts of all she’d done for him.

As she turned onto Mullins Street, she could see Emmit standing in the yard. Her sister-in-law, Tallie, was sitting in an old metal folding chair with a bowl in her lap, undoubtedly breaking beans or shelling peas.

Emmit ran to the carport, waiting for Harlene to pull up. Before she could even get the emergency break set, her son had the door open and was pulling at his mother’s sleeve.

“Momma, did you go to the Lord’s house? Did you go there, go there today?”

Harlene forced a smile as she got out of the grey Chevette.

“Yes, dear. You know I go to church on Sunday mornings.”

“But Momma, you didn’t get me up. You didn’t get me up for the Lord’s house. How do I get to heaven without going to the Lord’s house? I need to go, Momma.”

“Emmit, the Lord will understand if you aren’t there. He knows you love him in your heart of hearts. We’ve talked about this. We talk about this every Sunday.”

“I know, Momma, but I love to hear the choir sing and putting my money in the plate. And I want to go and do the talking back to the preacher.”

“It’s called responsive reading, Emmit, not talking back. And you’ll get to go back. Just not now. We gotta wait ‘til September.”

“Why September, Momma?”

‘Cause that’s when she leaves this town.

“That’s when the worst of the heat is over. You know how bad the heat makes you feel, hon.”

“They has fans at church, Momma. They has fans. I’ve always managed to be nice and cool.”

Harlene suddenly felt very tired. And very old.

“Emmit, no more talk of this. We read our Bibles every night and your Aunt Tallie plays hymns for you all the time. You’re getting enough church at home right now. The Lord’ll understand if you ain’t there on Sunday morning.”

“But Momma, that’s the only place I get to see her…”

Harlene winced at the word “her.”

“Dammit, Emmit, that is enough!” she snapped, instantly regretting both her words and her tone as Emmit flinched and backed away from her. He dropped his head and made his way to the porch, past Tallie and her bowl. She watched his lanky frame disappear into the house.

Harlene closed the door of the car and walked toward the house. As she climbed the three stairs up the porch, Tallie kept her eyes on the peas in her bowl as she spoke.

“Har, you gotta take that boy back to church. You can’t keep him locked up here forever.”

“I will take him back. But not ‘til school starts.”

“You gonna have to forgive that girl ‘ventually, Harlene. Lord don’t like us to harbor hatred. Makes our very hearts hard.”

“It’s not hatred,” Harlene snapped. “I’m just protectin’ my son. My only son.”

She opened the screen door and glanced over her shoulder at her dead husband’s sister.

“’Sides, that girl ain’t yet to ask for forgiveness.”

******************************************************************************

Maxine McCalahan was seventeen when she married Louis Bethune, a twenty-year-old farmer’s son who convinced Max to cross state lines, lie about her age and become Mrs. Bethune. She was pregnant before her eighteenth birthday and gave birth to the first of four children in the spring of 1944.

The baby, a girl, was named in honor or her great grandfather, Harlow Bethune. Louis took one look at his new daughter and fell head over heels in love.

Harlene was as good a baby as anyone could want—-sweet natured and independent. She rarely cried and seemed just as content in her crib as in the arms of her mother.

It got around town quickly that Maxine Bethune was suffering from a bad case of the baby blues. Louis had confided to his mother that Max didn’t seem to like to hold the baby and that he would often come in from the fields to find Harlene in her crib, his wife sitting on the back porch smoking a cigarette and crying. Ella Bethune, who disliked Maxine solely for being born a McCalahan, made a point to share this news with her hairdresser, sewing circle and her Sunday school class.

Maxine’s bout with the blues lasted longer than the usual few days. Six weeks after his daughter’s birth, Louis found himself doing the largest share of feeding and changing. He would return from work to find a hungry—but oddly quiet—Harlene in her crib, her diaper soaked and soiled.

Then one day when he came home for lunch, Harlene was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Maxine was nowhere to be found. She didn’t arrive home for almost three hours.

As she walked through the door, Louis, holding their sleeping daughter to his chest, could not contain his anger.

“What the Sam Hill do you call yourself doing, leaving our baby alone?”

“Louis, calm down ‘fore you wake her up. I just had errands to run. Now move if you will, I need to soak awhile.”

“Errands? What errands? What was more important than watching after our daughter?”

“You’re blowin’ this way out, Louis. I fed her ‘fore I left. Not like she’s gonna get into anything anyway. She can’t even roll over yet.”

“What if somethin’ had happened? A… a fire, or somethin’?”

“There wasn’t no fire. Nothin; happened. She’s fine. I’ll bet she slept the whole time.”

As she breezed past him, removing her coat and tossing it on the sofa, Louis fought the urge to grab his wife. He wanted to shake her and scream at her for leaving their child alone, helpless. He took a deep breath and addressed her as she made her way to their bedroom.

“God only knows who saw you out there, Maxine. Don’t you think they were wonderin’ where the baby was? What are they gonna say?”

When she turned on him, there was fire in her eyes, but not the fire she had lacked since the baby’s delivery. It was anger as fierce as his own. She took a step toward him, her thumbs clenched inside her fists.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what they say!”

Louis sucked in a breath and stepped back. He wasn’t sure whether it was Max’s anger or the blasphemy she had never even uttered before that rocked him most. He took in a shaking breath and stepped back, setting the baby down on the couch.

He met her eyes and cautiously chose his tone.

“I don’t understand, Maxine. I don’t understand why you’re doing this. She’s just a little baby—“ His voice broke. “Our little baby. Why don’t you wanna take care of her?”

Maxine stopped but didn’t turn around. She felt like a bubble, ready to burst if blown any bigger. She knew better than to tell her husband the real reason she didn’t take care of the baby.

Maxine hated her new responsibilities, even more than she’d hated being pregnant. She hadn’t wanted to have a child, but being young and motherless since the age of six, she had no knowledge of how to prevent it. She had hated the way her body expanded and the lines it left in her soft skin. She hated the mornings spent leaning over a bucket, throwing up until she dry heaved. And as she lay with her legs spread on the delivery table and writhed in pain, she had secretly sworn this would be her first and last.

Now she hated all of the late night feedings and disgusting diapers. She hated the sour smell on her clothes from where the baby spit up. She hated being stuck at home all day with no one to talk to, her schedule dictated by someone else.

But mostly, she hated the way her husband stared at this child like it held the secrets of life. She hated how he no longer kissed her deeply when he arrived home. She hated the way he ran his fingers across the baby’s cheek.

The baby. She was sick and tired of the baby. She was tired of hearing about the baby and talking about the baby and even looking at the baby. All Louis cared about was that little lump of a human.

“I am going to soak for awhile, Louis. We can talk about this when you simmer down.”

As she shut the bedroom door and began to undress, she could hear her husband weeping in the next room, his sobs punctuated by occasional words.

“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Never, not even when he’d been angry enough to raise a hand to her, had Louis apologized to Maxine. Could it be he finally realized how little attention he’d paid his wife? Did he possibly understand how lonely and unhappy she was?

Maxine crept to the door, cracking it open just enough to see her husband sitting on the couch. Harlene, awake now, was across his lap, her eyes gazing up into his face. As he rocked, his tears fell into her pink baby blanket.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

And then, in an almost whisper, “Don’t worry. Daddy will take care of you. Daddy will always take care of you.”

Maxine shut the door. Her lips parted, trying to form around a word.

Lost, she said, though no sound came from her lips.

I have lost.

***************************************************************************

“Now Harlene, I need you to listen and listen good. I know it hurts, I know you’re scared, but you must keep breathing, must keep pushing!”

Harlene shook her head and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I want Sam!” she bellowed. “Get him in here now!”

The nurse cooed and pushed Harlene’s hair from her face.

“Now Missus Johnson, you know we don’t allow the men back here. We’re trying to spare them from seeing all of this.”

“Sp-spare him? He ain’t a fool! Get him back here! I need him, don’t you see that? I need him!”

The doctor and nurse glanced at one another, their eyes drifting to the nurse across the room, diligently working on the child Harlene had just delivered. The doctor nodded his head toward the door.

“But Doctor Wilson, we—“

”Hush. Just go get the father.”

Better he see us in here trying to save that baby, he thought.

The nurse hurriedly left the room.

“Harlene, I need a couple good pushes to get this baby out. Can you do that for me?”

Harlene sobbed from both exhaustion and fear. She was yet to hear a sound from her firstborn child. Sam burst through the door, ahead of the nurse, and rushed to Harlene’s side.

“I’m here, Har, I’m here now. Shh, I’m here.”

“You have to get her to push, Sam. A couple more pushes and we’ll have the other one delivered.”

Sam took Harlene’s hand in his but looked at the doctor.

“Other one? You mean one’s been born? Where is it? I don’t hear no crying, Doc!”

Harlene wailed and pulled at her hair as she was struck by both a contraction and the reality she would soon face. The doctor pushed away from the table and dropped his head. He spoke without looking up.

“We delivered one, Sam. They’re working on him, doing all they can do. But we can’t forget about the other one. I need her to push.”

Sam turned to his wife and took her other hand in his own.

“Look at me, Harlene. Look right here in my eyes.”

Harlene locked eyes with her husband, clutching his hands hard enough to breakt them. Sam began to take deep breaths, occasionally whispering, “It’s gonna be fine” and “You can do this.” Soon she was doing the same. Within a few short moments, she was calmer. A look of determination returned to her face, her impending sorrow momentarily forgotten.

“I’m ready,” she said quietly. “I can do this.”

In took only two hard pushes for the tiny life inside Harlene to enter the bright, cold delivery room.

“Please breathe,” she heard the doctor saying. “Please, God, please breathe.”

Suddenly a squall pierced the air as the newborn spent his first breath making known his arrival.

“Thank God!” one of the nurses shouted.

Thank God, Harlene thought, as exhaustion took over and she lost consciousness.

John

When I told people that John and I were going to have a baby, I was often told, “Your marriage will never be the same.” We were “warned” that we would never have a life again, that our sex would be nonexistent, that we would totally focus on our child and neglect one another. One acquaintance told me, “John needs to accept that he just won’t matter as much to you once the baby arrives.” Another woman actually said, “Oh, it’s a girl? You’re being replaced. She’ll be the lady in his life now.”

Now, I could have let all of this terrify me, imagining a lifetime in an unfulfilling marriage. However, I believe that in relationships—as in life—there are things beyond our control and there are things we can influence and decide for ourselves. Though I knew that having a child would change our marriage in many ways, I was determined that it would not be for the worse. Yes, I knew our “carefree” days were coming to an end, but that is why John and I waited eight years before trying to have a baby. We wanted that “us” time so that we’d be ready to give our time to our child unselfishly. And I knew that a baby would demand endless time and attention, but I made a vow to also find time to nurture our marriage so that Amelia could grow up in a happy home with parents who loved her AND loved each other.

I learned quickly, however, that no one wanted to hear my plan. Other parents would laugh or scoff at me and say, “Just wait—you’ll see.” I’m learning more and more that people project their unhappiness and frustrations on others. They try to predict how bad things will be for other people because deep down they hope it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Misery loves company, you know?

Throughout my pregnancy, though, there was one POSITIVE “prediction” I kept going back to, one that I’d actually heard a couple of years before. A friend of mine told me, “When you see him hold that baby for the first time, it will change the way you look at him forever.” I stored that away in the back of my mind, reminding myself to come back to it eventually and see if it’s true or if it was just her sentimentality speaking.

What I discovered is that it is true, or at least it was for me. The way I look at my husband, even the way I feel about him, forever changed the day A. was born. However, it didn’t just begin when I saw him hold our baby, though. It actually began before.

Throughout my pregnancy, people would frequently ask if we were excited (like I’d say no??). I would often reply, “Yes, we’re excited, though I think John is more excited than I am.” And thankfully, he was. I had a lot of anxiety about being pregnant and found the entire nine months to be quite stressful. I honestly believe it was John’s excitement that helped get me through it. He’s always been a sweet guy, but I began to see a tenderness in him I’d never seen before. Just watching him when he’d talk about Amelia would encourage me to stay positive. I laughed at him when he got his Droid and the first thing he downloaded was a contraction counter, but it made me happy that he was so eager to be part of her birth.

If you’ve read my baby story on my previous blog, then you know that I went into the hospital to have Amelia on a Monday morning and didn’t have her until Tuesday morning. Those 24 hours were exhausting and, at times, terrifying. But there was one constant throughout the entire ordeal of my labor and delivery—John.

John’s excitement didn’t wane during the 24 long hours we were at the hospital waiting for Amelia to arrive. It took the form of taking care of me. In the ten hours or so before the pitocin started my contractions, he made sure I was both comfortable and comforted. He never once complained or acted remotely annoyed when I asked him to (please) “get me this” or “bring me that.” He didn’t seem the least bit bored (though I know at times he must have been). They were our last moments together before adding to our little family, and he seemed to understand how important it was for him to be there with me, even if it meant just sitting in the room watching television.

Once my contractions started, John helped me through the pain and took turns with mom rubbing my back. Though I was in a lot of pain, it was comforting knowing that he was there close to me.

When I found out I would need the epidural that I’d so wanted to avoid, he assured me it was the only way and that everything would be okay. He promised me that it didn’t mean I was weak or had failed in any way.

And when I totally broke down from the pain, exhaustion and fear, he stood by my bed and did everything he could to keep me focused and calm while I cried and screamed. He’s honestly the one thing I remember during that terrible half hour. Whenever I’d open my eyes, he was there, saying my name quietly and holding my hand. Though he probably doesn’t think he was helping me, just knowing he was seeing me at my worst and staying beside me meant everything to me. I knew once I got to the other side of the pain, that once it was all over, he’d still be there.

Once I had the epidural, things got scary with the baby’s heart rate and my blood pressure. I didn’t even know at the time how touch and go it was. However, being confined to the bed, temporarily paralyzed and hooked up to various monitors and an IV and oxygen made me feel trapped and anxious. I started shutting down emotionally. Everyone in the room was focused on my physical needs; no one seemed to notice my emotional state… except John. He saw me giving up and didn’t let me. I look back now and see those moments as proof of the connection we have and I thank God for sending me a man with whom I can have such a connection.

When the time arrived to push, John and my mom stood on either side of me to hold my legs and help me through the delivery. I had originally decided I wanted to deliver kneeling or squatting

because it was more natural and allowed gravity to take its course. However, there was a small part of me that also hoped it would prevent John from seeing what was “going on down there” during labor. I mean, c’mon… we all know it AIN’T pretty. Of course, I was unable to delivery in either position due to the epidural, so they cranked the table up into a sitting position and pushed my legs behind my ears (well, it felt that way.) John basically had a front row seat for the whole show. I thought I’d be self conscious, but by that point, I wasn’t. The last 24 hours had taken away any small lingering doubts I’d ever had about him or our relationship. I’ve hears of women insisting their husbands not look, but there was no way I was going to deprive him of watching Amelia be born. And I’m so thankful I did! Watching the expression on his face when

she started crowning was all the incentive I needed to keep pushing as hard as I could. He was grinning from ear to ear and about to burst from excitement. It made it even more exciting for me.

And then… she was here. Purple and crying and lying on my chest. It was the single most beautiful moment in my life. I honestly can’t remember exact details since I was both exhausted and totally high on life at the moment. What I do remember, though, is my baby and my husband. Watching him look at her. Him kissing my forehead. His total concentration when he cut the umbilical cord. I had never loved him more than I did at that moment.

After a few minutes, they cleaned her up, wrapped her up and handed her to him. Which brings me back to what my friend had told me about seeing him hold her. I don’t know if it was just seeing him hold our baby or if it was the culmination of everything we’d been through during the labor, but it did change the way I look at him. Watching him hold our baby girl so gently, so protectively, was a powerful moment. I said a silent prayer to God in my heart for giving our child such a loving father… and for giving me such a loving husband.

Some of you have seen the picture on my Facebook of John holding her. There is a large tear rolling down his cheek as he stares down at her. It is my very favorite picture and I know it will mean so much to Amelia someday.

That night, after everyone had left and we were finally alone, John crawled into my hospital bed with me and Amelia. I don't want to write about the details of our conversation, but it was a moment I will never forget as long as I live. As we lay there with our newborn daughter in the dark quiet of my room, I knew nothing would ever be as important to me as my husband and child. I fell in love all over again with my husband that night.

I look at him with new eyes now. Even now, a month later, I love to watch him hold our daughter. I love how he kisses her tiny hands and feet and how he quietly talks to her. I love the way he is so gentle yet so strong. Every time I see him hold her, I honestly fall in love just a little more (if that's even possible).

And for those who said I’d be “replaced”? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as loved as I do right now. Having a child has brought us so much closer and has ushered in an even stronger intimacy between us. I guess I could attribute it to sharing a child and having a “common goal” or something, but it’s more than that. We have this little piece of us, this living proof of our love for one another, and we are so excited that we get to raise her together. “Mommy and Daddy” are our titles now, but they didn’t replace “Husband and Wife.” We are both and it is wonderful.

Today is our nine-year anniversary. I look back on our wedding day and marvel at how far we’ve come and how much we’ve grown since then. My heart is full of joy and I have never been so content. I am so blessed to be married to a man who is the love of my life, my best friend, my confidante. He is the father of our beautiful baby girl and the protector of our family. He is my husband and my hero. And whether he’s holding our daughter or holding my hand, I am constantly thankful that God chose to cross our paths and bring us together nine years ago.

I love you, John.

A Baby Story

I've had so many people as me about my labor and delivery that I feel I can tell the story in my sleep. I never realized when I declared my desire to have a natural birth that so many people would take an interest in whether or not my birth plan became a reality. To be honest, there's parts of the day that are a bit fuzzy, but here's what I remember, starting on Monday, August 2nd. It's going to be long because I'm doing this for myself, too, as a way to document Amelia's arrival for myself. Some of this may also be a little more information than some of you want to read, so be warned.

I had been sick most of the weekend with some sort of bug that turned my stomach into a nuclear reactor. About 4:30 that morning, I got up and soaked in the tub. Once I got out, I threw up (again) and then crawled into the recliner to eat some crackers and watch CNN. Around 5:30 or so, I heard John in the bathroom throwing up. Just great, I thought. Now we're both sick. I went to tend to him and we both eventually crawled back into bed.

Around 6:30, I felt this weird sensation. It only happened once and was like electricity running in a line down my belly. Then I had a contraction. I got up and went to the bathroom where I noticed my pants were a little wet. Dang, I thought. Must have wet my pants. (This, by the way, is not entirely uncommon during pregnancy). When I stood up to go to the closet and get another pair of pajamas, I suddenly found my feet getting an impromptu baptism. Let me pause here to tell you something: I've always been told that when your water breaks, it's not like in the movies. Well, folks, mine was. And it didn't stop after the initial "gush"... but more on that in a moment. I stood there for a minute registering what was happening. I had made the decision during my pregnancy that when my labor started, I'd labor at home until either my contractions got close enough to warrant going to the hospital or until my water broke. I never imagined my water would break FIRST, forcing me to head to Labor and Delivery before my contractions even started. So there I stood in a puddle, mentally modifying my birth plan.

I calmly walked to the bedroom (leaving a "trail" all the way) and woke up John.

"Honey, I think my water broke."

"Wha?"

"I think my water broke."

At this point, he said something that I wish to God I could remember. I was in too much shock at the time to register exactly what it was, but I know it was COMPLETELY unrelated to what I was telling him and at the time I thought, I'll laugh about this later.

"John, listen to me, my water broke. I think I'm going into labor."

His eyes opened wider as he took in what I was saying.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, either my water broke or I've lost all control of my urinary system and need to go to the hospital anyway."

He got out of bed and we both headed to the bathroom to get ready and pack. We were surprisingly both very calm and relaxed. I knew I wouldn't be taking a real shower for a few days, so I climbed in to get clean and wash my hair. When I got out, I discovered a new problem. My water didn't "break and stop." Nope, it continued. This presented a problem: any clothes I put on would get soaked but I couldn't very well walk around nude and "christen" the bathroom floor. John suggested a towel. So for the next 45 minutes or so, I got ready with a navy terry cloth tail following me everywhere.

We loaded up the car and headed to the hospital (with me sitting on a garbage bag). I told John to take me to McDonalds so that I could get a biscuit. I was starving from being sick over the weekend and knew that once I got to the hospital, I wouldn't get to eat. (I wish now I'd ordered three sausage biscuits because that little biscuit didn't get me far over the next 24 hours).

Once we arrived at the hospital around 7:45, I text my nurse midwife to let her know we'd arrived. We headed to the check in desk. Luckily, I'd been "storked" several weeks earlier, so they had all of my information. They asked me have a seat for a minute while they got my file and printed my bracelet. Before I could even get fully seated, though, I felt everything get warm. John looked down as water seeped through my Adidas pants. Up until that moment, I'm not sure he entirely believed my water had broken. You know how those science people like their proof-- ha ha. His whole demeanor changed, though. We told the lady at the counter that I needed a towel because my water was breaking (again? Isn't it broke by now?). This prompted her to find me a NEW chair... a WHEELchair. Within 3 or 4 minutes, I was being wheeled into L & D.

I got undressed, put on the super-stylish hospital gown, and settled in to wait on Holly, the nurse midwife (who is also an absolute ROCK STAR and MIRACLE WORKER--more on that later). She came in and checked me to verify my water had indeed broken and to check my progress. I was 80% effaced and NO centimeters dilated. We discussed the plan for the day. Since I wanted to do it natural if possible, Holly told me she'd let me chill and come back to check my progress at lunch.

So I chilled for the next four hours or so with the monitors on my belly. Every once in awhile, I'd have a very minor contraction but nothing else. Mainly I just complained (constantly) about being hungry.

Around lunch time, Holly returned. I was now 90% effaced but still not dilated. I asked if we could wait it out a little while longer. Holly was all for it but told me that since my water had broken so early, I would need to start antibiotics when she returned after she got off work. I told her how hungry I was and she left for a minute and returned with banana popsicles. They might as well have been a steak dinner at that point.

Holly left to return to the clinic and I chilled some more, having a random contraction here and there. Around 5:00 or so she returned to check me again. I had actually dilated to 1 centimeter which, yes, was slight progress, but not anything close to being enough. In addition to the antibiotics, we decided it was time to start me on Pitocin. Though I'd wanted to avoid it, everything was just moving way too slowly and at this point it had been 10+ hours since my water had broken. Holly had a dinner to attend, so she told the nurses to start the Pit around 7:00.

The nurses started the antibiotics and fluids and I spent some time up walking around and visiting with family over the next hour or so. Around 7:00, the nurse came to start the Pitocin. It didn't take too terribly long for it to kick in and pretty soon my contractions were coming more regularly and with more intensity. Unfortunately, most of them were in my back. Women had told me about back labor when I was pregnant, but it is so much more painful than I anticipated. I won't lie--it was bad, bad pain. The abdominal pain was no worse than cramps I'd had during my period, but the back pain was pretty hellacious. I handled it pretty well, though, with the help of John and my mom. I spent the next few hours using my breathing exercises and alternating positions. I found the rocking chair to be good for handling pain, as well as leaning over the bed (which was raised up above my waist) and having John and mom rub my lower back.

After about four hours or so on the Pit, I told John I wouldn't be opposed to some Stadol. I was managing the pain but it was wearing me out. What I didn't realize, however, was that once they gave me the Stadol, I wouldn't be allowed out of bed. And that was NOT a good thing. Though the Stadol took the edge off a little bit, I couldn't handle the pain so well while lying on my back. Fortunately, Holly came in to check me again. After all the contractions, I was just SURE that she'd tell me I'd dilated to 8 or 9. No such luck. Though I was completely effaced, I had dilated from 1 cm. to a WHOPPING 2.5 cm.

I knew at that moment what was coming next, but I didn't want to accept it. My water had broken over 12 hours earlier and the four hours on Pitocin had been exhausting after all day in the hospital. There was no way I would be able to continue at the rate I was going without risking Amelia's safety (and the necessity of a c-section). It was time for an epidural to help me relax and to help the labor progress. I had been against an epidural since day one, not only because I wanted to experience labor but also because the thought of an epidural terrified me--not so much the needle going in my back (though I do HATE needles), but being basically paralyzed from the waist down. I started crying. Holly, John and momma tried to keep me calm and keep me rational. They all told me this was what had to be done and that I shouldn't feel like I'd failed in any way. I finally agreed to the epidural and signed the paper.

This is the ugly part that I'm not so proud of. For about the next half hour or so (I hope to God for the sake of my family and everyone in the L & D wing it wasn't any more than that), I gave up on my breathing exercises and trying to deal with the pain. To be honest, I think I just totally gave up in general. I was exhausted and angry and depressed and scared to death. And my anxiety was amped up even more because I knew that John and mom would have to leave the room during my epidural. So instead of "hoo-hoo-heeing" through the contractions, I... well, I screamed. I screamed as loudly as I possibly could. I screamed so loud that I literally couldn't feel the pain at times. For those of you who know me, it's no secret that I'm a fairly loud person anyway, so you can imagine how loud I got. No one could console me. And while I'm not sure I could have controlled it, I wish I had. I think I may have traumatized my mom. She told me later how hard it was to see and hear me in that much pain and misery. It wasn't my finest moment, but there's not much I can do now but try to laugh about it.

The anesthesiologist arrived. The first (rather curt) words out of his mouth were "What's with all this screaming?" He told me he wouldn't do my epidural if I was going to scream. It kind of pissed me off at first. I mean, I'm in pain. Would it kill him to be a little kinder? I realize now, though, he didn't have time to be warm and fuzzy and indulgent. He was needed all over the hospital and he didn't have time to wait for me to get my wits about me. And he wasn't about to risk my well-being and his career on a screaming crazy woman. And in the end, I'd rather get my epidural from someone who is serious about his job than someone who wants me to feel all warm and fuzzy.


While the anesthesiologist got everything prepared, I proved that I could be quiet and still during my contractions. I didn't do it on my own, though. Holly was there with me the whole time, keeping me focused and calm. It was soon time for the procedure. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding Holly's hands. She pointed to her forehead and said, "Put your forehead to mine." And eye to eye with Holly, I breathed my way through three contractions without moving (or screaming). The anesthesiologist started talking to me and even complimented me on my breathing. He told me I was surprising happy when I wasn't screaming. ha ha

I'm not going to lie: though the epidural didn't really hurt that much, the sensation I felt was worse in my opinion. I absolutely hated the feeling when the numbing agent was injected. I could feel my body going numb, slowly becoming paralyzed. It was just like in my nightmares.

They finished my epidural, got me into bed and put in a catheter. At this point, things get a little blurry because a lot of stuff started happening. Plus, I was an emotional wreck and had basically started shutting down. I can remember telling mom several times, "I'm trapped." I don't remember the order in which everything happened, but basically the baby's heart rate started dropping after every contraction and my blood pressure started dropping pretty drastically (around 90/40). I remember people looking kind of alarmed but I was too out of it to ask many questions. The result of all this was me being hooked up to a lot of tubes and monitors and stuff. They took me off of the regular monitors and inserted a fetal monitor that attached to the baby's scalp and an internal contraction monitor. In addition to the four or five bags of fluids I got over the course of my labor, they also pumped fluids into me to "bathe" Amelia since my water had broken so early in the day. I remember looking at one of the nurses and saying, "Are y'all going to stick a cord up in there and charge your cell phones, too?" I also got epinephrine twice for my blood pressure and they put me on oxygen, too. All this in addition to the blood pressure cup squeezing the crap out of me every ten minutes (in case I haven't mentioned it before, I HATE getting my blood pressure taken).

I'm not sure exactly how touch and go it was to be honest, but John told me the next day that he was really afraid they were about to wheel me back to the OR for a c-section. The good news is that I didn't have to have a c-section. The bad news is that I still had 8 more hours to go!

Once they got the baby and me stable, Holly left to get some sleep. John and mom stayed with me for awhile. My body was completely dead from the waist down and I had to depend on them and the nurses to move me. Periodically, I'd ask them to squeeze my feet, hoping I'd feel something. I was totally miserable. Plus, the hunger I'd had earlier in the day was replaced by an agonizing thirst that no amount of ice chips could satisfy. I started craving orange Gatorade for some reason.

As we marched on toward morning (and the 24-hour mark), the nurses came in periodically to check my progress. By around 6:30, I was fully dilated but they wanted to let me "slide" for a little while and let the baby move farther down into the birth canal. I was honestly too tired to be excited at this point.

About an hour later, Holly came in and told me it was time. I felt a rush of adrenaline as they sat me up and and repositioned the bed. Soon my legs were in these big furry stirrups, with John on one side and momma on the other. Holly told me I was going to grab my legs and push hard like I would if I were trying to poop and that I would keep pushing for ten seconds. At 7:50, I started pushing with my contraction. Well, I tried to push. Being completely numb makes it difficult to know if you're even pushing at all. It took me awhile to figure out exactly how to push, but once I did things went very quickly. It was actually really exciting. Holly was cheering me on the whole time. John was grinning from ear to ear and the look on his face was making me more and more excited. My mom, bless her, kept pushing with me. We laughed and told her not to pass out (or poop! ha ha) Soon they told me the baby's head was starting to crown and asked if I wanted a mirror. I said no because I was already having trouble staying focused on even counting (they actually had to count out loud for me!) I kept pushing like crazy and at 8:12 AM on August 3rd, Amelia made her exit from me and her entrance into the world!

When she came out, she was the most beautiful shade of lavender. In fact, my first words were, "She's so purple!" They put her on my chest and I was absolutely in love at first sight.

Chapter Three (Untitled Collaboration)

V.Cassidy/A.Guthrie





I’ve wasted a lot of my life sitting on my ass in front of a TV. Well, I personally don’t consider it wasted, but most people would. I can always reference something in life to some small exchange of dialogue in some B movie where I learned a lesson in Technicolor courtesy of MGM or the like.

I end up saying shit all the time comes straight out of a movie. Hardly anyone else has the particular talent to pick up on the fact that I am a total plagiarist. A couple of years ago, I had a lengthy exchange with a young woman in Overton Park. She told me I had helped her understand her mother’s problems better than any therapist she’d seen and that I should take the twenty bucks she offered me.

I took the money but have felt guilty ever since. Everything I said to her I got verbatim from The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. I gave her nothing but a rehashed page from a 30-year-old TV script, and she gave me genuine gratitude and enough money to eat on for over a week.

I am a plagiarist. Even my Quixote-esque move to the streets is a cliché. The noblest thing I have ever done is a damned after-school special.

Now what am I doing? Waiting on the dude that ruined my life so I can cathartically avenge myself in some ridiculous way?

“I vow to be original this time!” I say, much too loudly. People steer wide around me and quickly cut their eyes at me and then away. Crazy homeless dude talking to himself. Cliché.

I fucking hate myself sometimes.

I’m cracking. I know this. But there’s still time. Time to get Bob. Time to wall his ass up in some dreary passage way. Shit, that’s from Night Gallery, 1967, via the old Poe story. How do I kill this prick in a way that is uniquely me?

I pull in a drag on a Swisher Sweet I lifted from the Exxon as I make my way back downtown. I am at the crosswalk across from Autozone Park, in full sun. Right where Bob came by. Feels great on my busted face. Bob is a creature of habit. That burger he had was not some miserable squashed thing from Burger King. It was a diner burger with a nice little wrapper to hold in all the toppings. Got to be Hueys-to-go.

TV taught me how to pay attention. There are no mistakes or accidents in TV. Every damned thing happens for a reason. For a reason, dammit.

I blow smoke as the wind shifts and feel my eyes turn red. I flick the ashes and stick the thumb of my other hand in my one unbroken belt-loop in my jeans. “Anyone have the time?” I say to the 11:15 crowd, as casual as a Delta lawyer.

“11:16, Punchy,” says the police officer who is suddenly in my face. Same craggy old beat-cop that was so helpful yesterday. “Time to get movin.’”

“Officer,” I say as obsequiously as I can manage, “I’m meeting someone here in a few minutes.”

“Oh, no shit,” he says as he takes my arm, “Elvis?”

Considering the fact that just yesterday I saw a formerly dead, bloated guy at this intersection, the notion of running into The King gets me tickled. Suddenly, I’m laughing. Hard. Real genuine soulful guffawing.

“Elvis!” I say nearly doubled over and feeling a head rush that’s affecting my balance. “Oh, damn that’s funny….”

“So what’s in the cigar, friend? I’m not that funny,” he says while holding me up with one very powerful arm and reaching behind his back with the other.

My laughter abruptly stops when I feel the cold steel on my wrist.

“Other hand, Punchy,” he says as casually as if he’s asked me to pass the salt. “You seem a bit too out of it, even for out here. You’ll scare the tourists.”

I’m terrified. Not about being arrested. That happens occasionally. It is an occupational hazard in my line of work. I have made a spectacle of myself a bit, and I am tired enough from lack of sleep to appear inebriated. I get his concern. But I am terrified that I’ll miss Bob.

“Seriously, man, I really am meeting someone. Here, let me walk the line, touch my nose… Z, Y, X, W…”

He has one hand securing my cuffed wrists behind me and the other on the collar of my light jacket.

“I’m arresting you for public drunk,” he announces, a little louder than I think necessary. “Let me tell you your rights.” He Mirandizes me as we move down the street.

I strain against him enough to see the street but not enough for him to interpret me as resisting arrest, hoping to catch a glimpse of a black SUV. Total time since I was cuffed is about twenty seconds, and we are already in a fairly unused alley with no patrol car in sight. He hasn’t radioed anything about what he is doing or who he has arrested. In fact, he doesn’t have a radio.

I’ve watched enough television to know something is not right. Not right at all.

“Hey, Officer,” I say, as conversational as I can with my feet touching the ground every third step or so. “I’ve been here awhile, and I don’t think I know you. Transfer from somewhere?”

We “unroofed” tend to know the local law enforcement fairly well. New faces show up downtown only rarely. I look at his shirt and finally notice that there is no pin with his name on it. I get a sour feeling in my stomach.

He turns me around against the sun-warmed brick of the alley with his hand on my throat.

“Yeah, transferred,” he says as his free hand goes to his pistol, “from Phoenix.”

I hear the schick of metal against leather as he pulls his pistol, then a dull sickening thud that seems to shudder through both of us. I may have pissed myself a bit.

He lurches forward and his grip on me loosens. Suddenly he’s hugging me like a lost brother. He slumps to the ground like a sack of wet sand, and I see Brennon smiling behind him, a length of re-bar in his hand.

“Brennon, you stupid fuck!” He cowers and the light goes out of his eyes like a scolded puppy who’s piddled the floor. There is a distant sense of pride I feel for him, but I can’t acknowledge it right now. “He wasn’t gonna kill me, Brennon!” I say this because it makes sense, but my pounding heart tells me I don’t believe it.

“Do you…” Brennon says, a mixture of fear and awe in his voice, “do you think I kilt him?”

I make myself look down. I have seen dead people a few times on the highway or frozen in alleys but am unacquainted with the freshly deceased.

The guy is at least in his fifties but powerfully built. Like a boxer from bare-knuckle days. I’m still bothered by the fact that he doesn’t have a radio. What kind of cop goes out without the ability to call the cavalry?

Glancing around to make sure no one has followed us to investigate, I crouch down and begin searching him. Attached to his belt is a cell phone. I pocket it and continue looking. By the time I’m done I have found the phone, a wallet, a small bottle of white pills. No sign of a badge or anything identifying him as a police officer.

“C’mon, Bren, we gotta head out before the real fuzz show up.”

“You won’t tell will you? You won’t tell that I hit him?”

“I’m not telling anyone shit. Let’s go.”

“I’m a cop killer. They’ll kill me… they’ll…”

He begins to convulse, doubling over into himself sobbing. For someone with absolutely no sense, he sure has a sense of mortality.

I turn and face him, grabbing his shoulders with my hand.

“Look, Bren, he’s not a real cop. He’s pretending. You were defending me, so no one is going to arrest you.”

Not that you’d ever convince a jury to convict him. One look at Brennon, one word out of his mouth, and you know that this kid couldn’t maliciously hurt anyone. Half mental kid takes out a thug posing as a police officer? At the worst, he’d end up in a psych ward with three meals a day and a bed.

We make our way back to the street, blending in the best we can with the lunch crowd. It’s hard to blend when no one wants to stand within ten feet of you, though. I try to decide where we should go from here. Somewhere safe, somewhere I can piece my thoughts together and figure out what the hell is happening.

Sammy’s. It’s not far and by the time we get there, the lunch crowd will be finishing up. Maybe he’ll even offer us something to eat. Sammy’s good people. Real good people.

Chapter Two (Untitled Collaboration)

Chapter Two (Untitled Collaboration)

V.Cassidy/A. Guthrie

“Hey, man, hey, where you been?”

Brennon’s standard greeting. Always concerned that I’m having fun without him. Or that I won’t come back.

It seems I’m the only person who really gives a shit about him. Sadly, a shit is about all anyone would give. Brennon may possibly be the most pitiful human being I’ve ever encountered.

And I worked in L.A.

I first crossed paths with Brennon about a year and a half ago. He looks to be in his early to mid twenties, but he says he’s sixteen. The guys who know him say he’s been sixteen for at least three years. No one knows what happened to him around the time of that magical birthday to put his brain on a permanent age loop.

DHS removed Brennon from his parents’ home when he was in elementary school sinc they were running a meth lab out of their trailer. They would sometimes use Brennon as a guinea pig, testing up their new batch of goodies. Shits and giggles.

He claims to have three sisters, none of whom he has seen since. From what I’ve pieced together, he’s been in at least eight different foster homes and state facilities. Each one with new rules, new schedules and inevitably a new shrink.

But there was no name for Brennon’s condition. Med school doesn’t equip doctors to treat sheer fucked-upness. Nonetheless, the list of diagnoses turned into a laundry list of mental illnesses. Depression. Anxiety. Borderline personality disorder. PTSD. ODD. ADD. And with each diagnosis came a different set of pills, a new regimen of treatments. What was left of Brennon’s fragile, meth-ridden mind and psyche was eradicated along the way. The road to hell, you know?

I found him after a couple wannabe-gang bangers beat the shit out of him behind a Piggly-Wiggly after school one day. He couldn’t tell me where he was living at the time.

No one came to look for him. No one seemed to care.

Now he’s living on the streets where a real diagnosis isn’t necessary. Everyone out here just falls somewhere on the crazy spectrum. Treatment? Booze.

“I’ve been out Brennon.”

“I brought you a fruit.”

Ah, the cantaloupe.

“Yes, Brennon, I know. Thank you.”

“It was a big fruit.” He drops his voice and looks at me seriously. “And dangerous.”

“The fruit was dangerous, Brennon?”

Brennon’s lopsided smile, a hint of mischief.

“No, getting it. Getting the fruit. That was dangerous.”

It’s getting dark and I’m too tired to even ask, though I’m sure he’ll elaborate

“I’m sure it was Brennon.”

I unpack my blanket and fold it out on the ground. Lying down, I close my eyes as Brennon continues to talk about his “big fruit” adventure.

Behind my lids, a carousel of images revolve.

Hannah. Angie. A house. A car.

Round and round the faces go, where they’ll stop…

But the prevailing image is that of a man—-Bob. Bob smiling, sneering, laughing, screaming. The Bob I knew and the Bob from today.

A thousand memories rush over me, accompanied by a wave of nausea.

Airplanes. Women. Cars. Whiskey. Cocaine. Hotels. Lights. Camera.

Action.

I sit straight up on my pallet, fighting for air. I have fallen asleep. My clothes are soaked in sweat and my nose is bleeding again.

Brennon is snoring, sleeping what I pray is the dreamless sleep of the innocent. I jab him gently.

"Hey, Brennon, what's the date?"

He is the easiest person to wake I have ever seen and the most placid when jarred from sleep.

"You got a date?" he says, soulfully interested, bright-eyed with an unruly mop of sandy brown hair. He could be just some regular kid rolling over in his own warm bed and waking to exchange secrets in the dark with his brother.

"No shit-for-brains," I say mock-harshly. "What is the date of the year?"

Since I tend to lose track of days, I’ve bestowed the honor upon Brennon of keeping up with a small calendar. Brennon takes his job quite seriously. Pretty handy, when your days are only divided by the traffic and the specials in the deli dumpster. He sits up, rubs his eyes and digs the calendar from his pocket.

“Is it after midnight?”

“Pretty sure.”

"Then today is June 7th," he says, beaming. He gently puts the calendar back in this pocket and lies down. He is out again within five seconds.

I vomit, profusely, managing to get a few feet from my friend before I do.

The swirling miasma of the bizarre that is my life comes sharply into focus. The shitstorm swells to unload my guts on the stained alley way beneath the early Summer stars.

"Five years," I say through spit and undigested pieces of pasta. "Five years."

I sit, Yoga-style, not even bothering to wipe my mouth of the mess, real Hollywood homeless-crazy-like.

"Bob," I say, fearful that this is the next stage in my march toward true, unredeemable, whacked sonofabitch talking to himself, living in the past, rubbing food in the hair, burnt-brained raggedy man homeless. "Bob, you motherfucker, you've got some explaining to do."

You see, one undeniable talent I have learned from those who are unwashed and unroofed is never, never doubt what your senses are telling you—too cold to go to sleep, cops are coming, don’t eat the salmon. And never take false security in the idea that you’re just insane. That crackhead standing over you while you’re sleeping off a whiskey bender may not be your imagination.

I cover Brennon with my blanket, hoping it will offer him assurance that I’ll return. I grab my Wal-Mart bag and begin walking

I make my way out of downtown, up Union Avenue. After I cross over the Interstate, I find myself in front of the Methodist Hospital. I don’t really know where I’m going, I just need to walk.

The traffic heading out of the city picks up a bit. The drivers mostly appear young so I assume things must be winding down on Beale. It’s around 3:00, 3:30 maybe. I can only hope that I’m killed if I’m mowed down by a drunken frat boy. Then again, a wheelchair might make this gig easier. Everyone loves a cripple.

I hear a noise. A helicopter flies above me, heading for the regional trauma center a block away.

Tragedy in southern California today. A helicopter crash has claimed the lives of three people. Early accounts say that two adults and a minor were killed when the helicopter in which they were riding crashed during high winds. No additional information has been released at this time.

My hands are over my ears and I am running against my will. It takes a moment for my brain to make my legs stop. I look around, struggling to catch my breath and orient myself. A gas station. Fast food. Doctor’s office. I’m almost four blocks away from the hospital now. And at some point I crossed in front of traffic to the other side of Union.

Jesus, seven years and I still lose all semblance of sanity when I hear one of those giant metal mosquitoes.

I can still feel the wind ripping at me, the sand in my eyes.

I can still hear Bob’s bark, see him sneer.

Goddammit, either he flies lower or I’ll hire another pilot who can follow orders! Tell him to do it!

Once again, it all comes back to Bob.

Numb, I sit down on the sidewalk outside of the gas stations front door.

I strain my mind, trying to remember each detail from yesterday. SUV. Black. Not your run of the mill Chevy or Ford. Mercedes maybe?

I try to remember Bob’s face. Bob before he was swollen and blue. Pasty skin. Dark thinning hair. Jewish nose.

No, not this guy. This guy looks like he retired from the pages of a Calvin Klein ad circa 1997. Older and lined, but blonde, tan and still slightly chiseled. Perfect teeth between sneering lips.

But there was something, something about the way he shook his cheeseburger with one hand and gripped the steering wheel with the other. Something about the way he wore his sunglasses low on his nose. Something about the way his mouth twisted when he said “dipshit.”

There are some traits, some characteristics that no amount of surgery or therapy can change. We are who we are. Kabbalists refer to it as a “soul print.” It is the essence of who we truly are, that which make us each unique. Some believe this spiritual fingerprint connects us with other souls on earth. For Bob, it is just a brand that makes it easier to distinguish him from the other assholes in the herd.

Yes, the Aryan poster-child behind the wheel of the luxury SUV was my old friend Bob. My old dead friend Bob.

On the sidewalk, cradling my head between my knees to focus, I try to wrap my brain around this seemingly impossible conundrum. How does a guy that I watched die end up in my city, 1,500 miles from the hole he was buried in? And why the fuck doesn’t he look like Bob? I recognized him but why didn’t he recognize me when I look pretty much the same?

The door behind me opens into my back. I wince and turn around. A young man with a thick accent asks if I’m planning on buying anything. I say no but offer to sweep the parking lot in return for a hot cup of coffee. He disappears briefly and returns with a broom. He says something in his native language and tosses the broom at me.

As I sweep the lot, I try to remember how many times I used a broom in my old life. I never helped Angie with the housework. My mother was dead before I turned five, and my father hired people to clean our house. And while this task should remind me of my humble stature in life, I find a sense of pride. I am bettering my world. I am returning order. I am the broom god, determining the destiny of my garbage minions.

Fuck, I just need some coffee.

Dawn is arriving, and I make a decision. I will find Bob. I don’t know how I’ll find him. The city is full of assholes in SUVs. But it’s not like I have anything else to do with my time.

Chapter One (Untitled Collaboration)

"Brother V" and I have been collaborating on a story for several years now. To my knowledge I've never posted an excerpt for feedback. This is a rough draft of Chapter One. Fire away...



The cantaloupe is the color of bruises, blue babies and death.

I wonder why Brennon went to the trouble of stealing food when all he takes is what no one else would want anyway.

Moral ambiguity about stealing, perhaps? Not me. Not with food, anyway. I rarely have to resort to stealing, though. There's enough throwaway food to go around. Canned goods, fresh fruit, nuts, vegetables, candy, choice unused portions of prime rib, veal cutlet, uneaten pizza two hours cold— it’s all about knowing which places only serve the best and throw out what the rest of us would deem edible.

There are plenty of hardships being homeless but going hungry? No way.

I debate tossing the wretched fruit in the trash but fear it will upset Brennon. In his mind, he has gone through a lot of trouble to acquire our "lunch." Poor bastard isn’t used to street life yet. He still thinks people are watching him; he doesn’t realize that no one gives a damn anymore. He’s just another vagrant like me, one more soul whose eyes would never be met by a passing stranger.

We're hit by stray bullets, killed by drunk drivers, tortured by bored adolescents.

We are cellophane.

I toss the cantaloupe aside and attempt to ignore the gnawing in my gut.

It’s said that the list of truly important people would fit easily on one page, typed and double-spaced. The rest, according to Nietzsche, are the "bungled and the botched".

For Brennon, being botched and bungled sure takes up a lot of time.

I stand and gather up my few belongings: a tattered patchwork quilt that had belonged to my grandmother, a copy of Billy Budd, my one change of clothes, and a small Gideon Bible. The latter was a gift from one of the "suited men,” the ones who walk around the street handing out little testaments as if reading them would fill our stomachs and put shelter over our heads. I actually read it once. Well, parts of it. I use pages out of it from time to time as makeshift rolling papers for when I lift a bag of pot off of a sleeping stoner in Overton Park.

I fold my blanket around these articles and stuff them in a plastic Wal-Mart bag. I step out of the alley and meander toward Union Avenue.

The heat monkeys from car exhaust and sun-baked pavement are already climbing through the air. It’s not even noon yet.

It can be exhilarating, the living energy of the continual human activity. I often watch television in doctors’ offices for a few hours before they figure out I’m not a patient and throw me out. I’m partial to the Discovery Channel. I especially love the insect specials, the swarm of manic activity that takes a termite hive from a few inches to 10 or 20 feet. Very impressive.

I wasn't always homeless. Sometimes, though, in a sick way, I wish it had happened sooner. The insight it has given me is nothing short of remarkable. Want to be a fly on the wall? Want to truly observe without being observed? Lose your job and your home and your family. Any true anthropologist studying the highest primate on the planet would give his eyeteeth to have seen what I've seen.

I move with the flow, finding the rhythm and the pace. I can tell what time it is without a watch. I can smell the midmorning coffee and the Tic-tacs. I can see the toothpicks flicking in the greasy lips of the overfed. I can feel the mild food frenzy. Lunch. Early. 11:00, maybe 11:15.

Friday. You can feel that weekend anticipation in the air.

I addle up next to a suit. Good-looking guy with a trim, lean look. Killer lawyer. I have to ask him the time since his coat sleeves come past his wrists. "It's about 11:15," he says, smiling slightly.

We stand in the warm wind of June, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. I know I smell a little like rotten apples and he’s downwind.

Killer Lawyer, Rumpled Vagrant. Leather valise, plastic bag. Armani, Salvation Army.

There is acceptance, alignment, a feeling of place.

Yeah, right. This guy is scared right down to his Ivy League bones that he is one slick deal, one bad case, one trip downtown to score some cheap ass away from smelling like rotten apples.

The light changes and he quickly manages to lose himself in the lunchtime crowd. Most likely I’m already forgotten; but knowing that for a moment, just for a moment he thought, What if? brings me a sick sense of satisfaction. I mean, it's not that I wish my life on anyone. Regardless of the insight I’ve received, spending the night on a bench sure as hell ain't no comparison to a suite at the Peabody.

See, I’m sort of a moral traffic light. I’m someone a smart parent would use to scare the hell out of his underachieving smartass kid. Look where you’re headed. Wanna end up like him? It ain’t hard to look at me and see what I was once.

Sometimes I think I have it better than all the other bums I come in contact with. They've never been able to walk into a tailor and be fitted for a suit. They've never sat down in a five-star restaurant and ordered a $200 bottle of wine. Hell, some of them haven't slept in a bed in 20 or 30 years unless they intentionally got caught lifting something so they could spend a night in a jail cell. And forget about bathing. When you're on the street, a warm shower is a luxury. Hell, sometimes a cold one feels like heaven.

No, all they've known is shelter food, hand me downs, sleeping in the rain, and the occasional charity of a passing stranger.

Then again, perhaps they have the advantage. Unlike me, they don't know what they're missing.

I get lot of grief from my fellow vagrants. I’m a bit of novelty, you could say. That bit about old habits dying hard? Completely true. Nothing big, just little things. Like when I get up off of the ground and dust my pants. Doesn't do much good when they haven't seen soap and water for two weeks but it's just the natural thing to do. And manners. Excusing myself after a burp is the equivalent of performing standup. Encore! Say that ‘excuse me’ shit again!

Hilarious.

It’s the ghosts of my past life. An echo of the person I used to be.

Survival. That’s all these guys care about. Manners and hygiene become a much lesser priority when you’re sleeping under a newspaper.

"Hey, watch where you're going, dipshit!"

Of course it's my fault. No one would ever get close enough to accidentally run into me. I look over my shoulder in the direction of the offended party. Our eyes meet.

SUV. Black, sleek, snarling metal monster with an asshole staring out of it at me. An asshole I know. I never forget an asshole.

Old life. Lunches, trips to Vegas, this asshole and me downing Tequila sunrises and banging cocktail waitresses in the elevator.

"Bob?"

"Move, you fucking junkie, you’re making me late!” He shakes his 11:00 cheeseburger at me with every syllable.

Bob?

I suddenly don’t feel so good. Bob. Bob puking and turning all sick and blue on me in a pool at the Marriott.

I'm pointing, questioning, looking and not believing.

"Hey, Bob," I say like we're in an elevator.

He lays on the horn and I know the cops are coming. “Hey, Bob,” the blast from the horn drowns my own screaming voice just before I pass out. “Man…you’re dead…”

Warm blood. Mine. On my lips. Must have busted my nose on the asphalt.

"Where am I?" I ask. It's what you're supposed to say when you come around. It's a tradition of bad screenplays and TV scripts. Even in my state of confusion, I cringe at the cliché.

Police officer, holding my head in his hands and looking bored and pissed.

“Side of the street,” he replies. “Home sweet home, buddy.” Cliché. Cringe.

I can stand.

Am I okay? Yeah.

Get moving? Sure. Got a busy schedule.

I meet the eyes of those around me, a talent that does not come easily. It is something I have slowly acquired. They are still staring.

A woman in a blue suit purses her lips and slightly squints her left eye. Disgust, perhaps?

A young mother attempts in vain to hush her small son as he inquires as to if I’m one of those bad men who asks daddy for money.

A man close to my age stands on his toes at the back of the crowd. The red light on his digital recorder pointed at my face.

Channel Voyeur. Jerk.

I pick up my belongings and begin to make my way from the middle of the crowd. It sickens me that they have more interest in the possibility that I am dead than they ever would if they saw me walking down the street. I brush by two teenagers. One complains about the way I smell. It doesn't bother me. Can't think about that now. Like I said, schedule to keep.

Surviving on the streets is all about timing. A mere fifteen minutes can make the difference between eating good and eating shit. Hell, if you're good enough, you can score some decent fare sometimes. Like this little Russian joint not far from where I sleep. They throw out buckets of food every day, leftovers from people who ordered something that sounded cool and then ate two bites. It's just knowing when to get there and then arriving before all the other vultures. Last week I had mango pork for dinner. It wasn't warm and I had to fish it out of the dumpster, but it can't be any less sanitary than some of those Chinese places I used to eat at back when I was still a functional part of society.

My head hurts. It reminds me of the blood I tasted earlier. Probably dried on my face by now. I look around for a fountain, puddle, anything. Nothing. Suppose I’ll have to go inside somewhere. There's a burger joint not far ahead. Probably my best bet. Nothing too fancy in a place where they allow the patrons to write on the walls.

I can tell I must be in quite a state of disarray by the faces of passing pedestrians. Well,
in a worse state than usual. I quicken my step and am careful not to bump into anyone. My courtesy is unnecessary, though. People are keeping more of a distance than even I’m used to.

I walk up the two steps to the front door, carefully opening it with out touching the glass. Old habits again.

The burst of cold air and the smell of burgers frying are at the same time heavenly and sickening. I look around for the bathroom. The restaurant is busy; the pace, hurried. Only a few at the front notice my entrance. I see the sign at the back: Men. As I make my way back, a waitress taps me on the shoulder.

“Sir, smoking or…”

She stops when I glance over my shoulder. I wait for her to gasp, to scream, to possibly call for a manager. Surprisingly, she says nothing. She looks nervously around and nods her head toward the bathroom.

I have found it is the little things we must be thankful for in this life, even if it’s only a waitress who silently agrees to turn a blind eye to a blood-encrusted homeless guy.

As I make my way to the back, a four-year-old kid shoots a toothpick at me from his straw. I give him a little smirk which his mother sees. Not knowing what has prompted me, she turns him around in his seat and shoots me a scathing look.

I enter the bathroom and look around. More writing on the wall. Literally. Phone numbers. Professions of love. He was here. She was here. It seems everyone but my grandmother has been in this bathroom at some point, Jesus included.

I check out the stalls. Empty. I walk to the sink and look in the mirror. My nose is indeed busted. Blood is caked around my left nostril and has run all the way down to my upper lip and the corner of my mouth. There is also a fairly deep gash above my left eye. It has already started swelling.

I turn the knobs and adjust the water temperature until it is lukewarm. I should probably clean my hands before I touch my face. Infection is a real bitch when you have no health insurance.

I pull the lever on the soap dispenser, hoping the slippery substance will smell like the flowery stuff my wife used to buy for our bathroom. It smells like a hospital.

This is the way we wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands...

The song comes from nowhere, and it takes me a moment to recognize it.

...this is the way we was our hands, so early in the morning

Hannah's face flashes in my mind, her little hands engulfed by mine as we sing our silly song.

I wash the soap off and cup my hands. The water stings as it washes across the lacerations on my face. Sharply, I inhale.

I bend farther into the sink and allow the stream to run over my entire head. I pray that the water will wash away the blood and dirt. And the ghost of a little curly-haired girl..

I stand up and shake my head. I push my hair back from my eyes. For a moment, I can see the old me. Hair slicked back, my normally olive skin even darker from the sun. Bob used to say that I looked like an extra out of a Scorsese movie.

Bob.

The black SUV roars back into my mind, complete with asshole. There’s no possible way it could be Bob. Bob’s been dead for—nine years? Ten? Time flies when you’re having fun.

It couldn’t have been Bob. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the possibility. I saw him die. I went to his funeral. I consoled his wife. I visited his grave to curse the day I met him.

Bob.

My buddy, my pal.

And the guy who conveniently offed himself and left me to deal with the shit storm our lives became.

There has to be an explanation. They say everyone has a twin. Maybe this guy just looked like Bob.

Maybe I’m cracking up. It’s a small wonder that I’ve held up as long as I have. Maybe I’m heading toward “crazy homeless” as opposed to “regular homeless.”

Or maybe Bob isn’t dead.

I dry my face, wiping away any lingering traces of blood and my old life.

The One Where I'm Knocked Up

Prologue


I suppose I should at least address that I'm pregnant, almost 34 weeks actually. I must say the past 7 to 8 months have been... well, interesting. And by interesting I mean exciting, frustrating, fascinating, depressing, exhilarating, and about forty-five additional "ing" words. For those of you who have never been pregnant, let me tell you that no book can prepare you for the adventure of being knocked up.


When I first got pregnant, I read Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs since I was told that she wrote about the stuff no one tells you. And while this is true (seriously, there are a couple chapters that have proven especially valuable), her book only scraped the tip of the proverbial iceberg. No one--not even the fearmongers who produce those What to Expect books--can truly tell you what to expect. Every pregnancy is different and every woman approaches pregnancy differently.

With that said, I want to share some of my experiences and feelings about pregnancy. I'm not sharing this as a guide or as advice for other pregnant women. I mean, if someone reads this and can identify with what I have to say, BONUS! but please don't misinterpret this as any type of guide to pregnancy.


Am I Glowing Yet?

Before I got pregnant, I remember women saying things like, "I never felt more beautiful than when I was pregnant." I didn't question this because, even without being pregnant myself, part of me could understand why they felt this way. Despite the extra weight and stretch marks, these women had a life growing inside them. Their body was nurturing another life and that made them feel like a vessel, something sacred and beautiful. When I got pregnant, I fully expected to feel this way. The first few months, however, I just felt sick. Every. Single. Morning. And most afternoons, too. I also felt like I had mono, constantly exhausted. Then, as my pregnancy progressed and my body started to change, I kept waiting for the way I felt about my pregnancy to change. I wanted to feel special, to feel beautiful. I wanted to get that damned "glow" everyone talked about. I didn't. I felt increasingly more tired and bloated and UGH-ly. There were days I even felt resentful. I wondered, How on EARTH does a woman who DOESN'T want to be pregnant survive pregnancy? I found myself feeling increasingly more guilty and depressed, even questioning my ability to BE a mother. I'm now in my last trimester with only 6 1/2 weeks to go and to be honest, I still don't feel beautiful--and I've been lucky enough to NOT get stretch marks! But I feel bloated and achy and, well, kind of gross. I struggle to pull myself off the couch. I pee a little when I sneeze. My body looks soft and dumpy (well, more so than usual). Every morning is a struggle to find an outfit that makes me look pregnant and not just fat. Maybe that's shallow, but I AM still a woman and most women would be bold-face LYING if they said they didn't care if they look fat. I'll go so far to say that I don't even like being pregnant. I like the end result of pregnancy--I'm super excited about the baby arriving. But when I see a woman like Michelle Duggar, I question her sanity. There have been times I've actually become kind of angry when women tell me how much they LOVED being pregnant.

Perhaps these feelings are more normal than I think. Maybe no one just talks about feeling this way because they're afraid of the reaction they'll get from women who enjoyed pregnancy. Regardless, it's how I feel. It doesn't mean I don't love my baby. It doesn't mean I won't be a good mother. I think of it as being like someone who hates to fly but loves getting to her vacation destination. The journey is hard but the end result is going to be totally worth it.


To Poke or Not to Poke

If there's one thing I've learned to refrain from discussing (unless asked directly), it's my birthing plan. I am one of those crazy (or so I've been told) women who has decided not to have an epidural. Now, I'm not totally opposed to pain relief (paging Dr. Stadol), but if I can make it through labor with only breathing and screaming, that would be great. The reactions I get from women when they discover my plan range from "Are you effing nuts?" to "You go girl!" to actual laughing in my face and eye rolling. One person actually started soliciting bets from those around us as to how long it would take me to break down and beg for an epidural. Some women have acted downright offended, like I'm judging them for having an epidural. Other's have even been mean. One woman's reaction was to snarl, "So you think you're some sort of superwoman, huh? You just wait."

This isn't a judgement call. I don't think any woman who has an epidural is weak or "bad" or wrong. I think every woman is entitled to making her own decision, whether she chooses natural birth, an epidural or an elective C-section. I just personally don't want an epidural. Can I say 100% that I won't break down during labor and beg for one? Well, no. I've never had a baby. I can't say anything 100%. I can say, though, that I feel strongly enough about this that it's going to take a lot to get me to that point.


I don't understand the women who hate on me for making this decision or the ones who even treat me like I'm downright stupid. Look, I know I'm in for a world of pain. And I would be lying if I said I'm not scared. But I'm also excited. I don't look forward to the pain, but I feel so blessed to have the opportunity to share in the joy and strife of birth, to be a part of this experience that women around the world have been taking part in for thousands of years.


New Baby/ Old "Babies"

Many of you know that I have two "fur babies." John and I adopted our Lady right after our 1st anniversary. She was a rescue dog who had been abused. Over the years, she has presented many challenges that are typical of a dog with her background. She has also, however, been a constant source of joy and comfort for us. She has seen us through many storms, both literal and metaphorical. There have been times that no one could make me feel better, that the only solace I could find was to wrap my arms around her and cry into her furry little neck. I have always been a dog lover, but Lady has changed the way I look at every dog. It will sound ridiculous to most people, but when I see a stray, I see my Lady and it literally breaks my heart. I start and end every day with my Lady and feel so blessed that God gave her to us.

Our Abbie came to live with us in the fall of 2005. Abbie is a totally different dog. She's more independent, less concerned about having our attention or approval. She's happy-go-lucky and loves everyone. The only problems we faced with her were housebreaking and dominance (she liked to boss Lady around when she first arrived). Abbie is my "cuddle bunny." Every night, I crawl into bed, situate my pillows (I've gone from two to five by the way since I got pregnant) and call, "Babbie! Belly!" Abbie crawls under the covers, snuggles up against me and off to sleep we go. I've literally gotten to the point that I hate sleeping in hotels because I don't have my Abbie. I can't honestly say I have the same relationship with Abbie as I do with Lady. It might seem I don't love Abbie as much. I just love her in a totally different way. She's my little bouncy ball of sunshine. Where Lady can be so needy, Abbie is my mellow girl.

By this time, you may be thinking, "Amber, why are you talking about your dogs? Isn't this about your pregnancy?" Well, it turns out that pregnancy prompts other people to bring up dogs quite frequently. I have been assured by many people that (1) my dogs will "just be dogs" once the baby arrives and (2) I will cage/throw out/get rid of the dogs once the baby arrives. People don't seem to realize that just as there are different parenting styles with children, there are also people who view dogs as more than animals or "surrogate" kids you get rid of once the real kids arrive. Our dogs are not just pets. to us While John and I both know that we will love our children in a totally different way than we do our dogs, it does not mean we will love our dogs any less. Once someone told us that we'd have to get rid of Lady once we had children. Our response? We just wouldn't have kids as long as we have her.

I resent when people insist that I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to my dogs. Sometimes I wonder if they are projecting personal guilt, that they feel bad for neglecting their own dogs when the baby arrived. Dogs and children can co-exist in the same house. It may take some extra work, but it's possible. When we decided to have a baby, we knew there would be sacrifices. That's why we waited so many years to have children. When it comes to our dogs, that doesn't mean we will give the dogs up or push them aside. We will sacrifice time, though. It means we will have to work a little harder to "blend" our family together.

I hope and pray our little girl loves animals, especially dogs, as much as her daddy and I do. I would be a little heartbroken if I couldn't share this part of my life with her.

Final Thoughts...

For nine months, be prepared for endless advice. Some of it will be good, and some of it will be frustrating. Store away the useful stuff and just nod and smile through the rest. But don't let anyone tell you how your pregnancy should go or how you should feel. Every woman is different. Our bodies react differently as do our emotions. I guess the only advice I'd give a pregnant woman or a woman planning on becoming pregnant is this: your pregnancy is your pregnancy. You're entitled to your feelings, to your birth plan and even to your dogs. This is the only advice I wish someone had given me before pregnancy. While you may share morning sickness or cravings or spontaneous fits of crying with other women, your pregnancy will be unique to you. Don't let anyone make you feel weird or wrong over how you feel. If you are excited about becoming a mommy and are taking care of yourself and the baby growing inside you, it's no one else's business as to how you feel or the decisions you make.

Six and a half weeks to go...