Baby B

First post of the new year! Yay, yay, hurray!

May my prize be paid in gold and chocolate! Or maybe just in free (But trustworthy and reputable!) babysitting because Gods know I have yet to take an uninterrupted piss, an unshared bite of something too sinfully good for anyone, or a moment where the ear piercing "MOMMY!!" doesn't throw me into some shade of panic. Take, for example, the sack of bones thud followed by the 'im in pain and its actually real' cry I heard today from downstairs. What with the crummy weather outside and my worsening hip injury, I ended up hobbling and hopping to the stairs on one leg and doggy crawling up to the second floor where I find one child pale and standing at attention in the hall while the other is buggery with tears and snot on the floor all red faced. Something about swinging small kid around and big kid dropping her on her head I just dont know. I need a fucking break. My breaks without kids usually involve errands. I DONT WANT TO BE AN ADULT!!!

Lets face it though, I was never quite a kid. Ive had nearly a 23 year run as an adult in 27 years of life. But those were really situations out of my hands. I was a kid playing at being an adult in an attempt to stay sane and alive. I left that life when I was merely 15 and thought I was, in some doggy-paddle sort of way, coming up for air.

I was 17 when a 1am 'feeling' landed me in the bathroom staring at two pink lines.

I will tell you now that I thought my world had finally crashed around me. I was fucked (ha!, ironic huh?) and it just cant get worse for a 17 year old emancipated kid.

I was maybe 5 or 6 weeks along the first time I stretched out in an obstetrician's torture table to take a peek at the baby that was causing me some concerning pain.
Any time a radiology tech says 'oh', its not good. I dont care what you have to say about it.

Oh.

Oh theres two heart beats here Ms. Jimenez....

Two? No...how could there be two...

My life seems to be toggle-controlled because this was one of the first times my life changed at the flip of a switch. Two tiny little heart beats, slightly overlapping and not at all in step with each other, came through faintly across a watery world. I watched dazed as the tech recorded each little life sound wave and catalogued them Baby A and Baby B. She measured each kidney shaped body and pointed out Baby B nuzzled close to the placenta wall facing away from Baby A. Ha, sibling disagreements already.

It cant get any worse I had said. So it did. But now I have twins on the way and its go big or go home right? Cant get any worse for a pregnant 17 year old alone in the world but for her unemployed boyfriend and her dead in the water Air Force Academy candidacy, right?

I think I was 4 or 5 months along desperately searching the black and white screen for Baby B. Wheres Baby B?!
"Sometimes this happens...its called the disappearing twin syndrome..."
Where does a whole baby DISAPPEAR TO?!?
"...The child was likely not viable enough to progress and your body did away with it to allow for better nutrient supplies for the more viable twin..."
Where did Baby B go...

Paddle swimming gets old.
I named Baby A Iris Elizabeth. Iris for the Goddess that brought messages down to earth from Heaven on a rainbow, the sign of peace after all the rain.

Ive never quite admitted this but I named Baby B Gregory. Gregory William.
I dreamt of him a few times. Unruly brown curls and chocolate eyes that would have melted me each time. In one dream he looked at me knowingly as his sister jumped into my arms and he then just disappeared. I think of him more than I should, when I look at Iris and think: Fuck Im crazy for thinking this way.
But what if he had stayed? Would I have lost both babies? Would I have had to see one leave me after knowing their little face?

Iris was born miraculously.

I had asked my stepmom what REAL contractions felt like. She said they felt like you needed to poop but couldn't.
I woke up at 3 am with a nagging pain in my tummy. I tried ignoring it and going to sleep but couldn't  Finally I got up and went to the bathroom. Man was my stepmom right about how they felt.

Strapped into the labor bed, I was told I wasn't a single bit dilated but had doctors concerned that my contractions were so strong and close together. In all the commotion I watched my child, who had made my belly bottom heavy, suddenly swim up and seemingly try to crawl into my rib cage. The nurses rushed in and gave me orange juice.

"Her heartbeat is irregular and slow. You need to take sugar and see if we can get her to liven up... you're going to have to have a C Section tonight"
I hadn't even finished the juice before nurses were unhooking my bed and the anesthesiologist was prepping me for an emergency C Section.

"Were losing her heartbeat"

I was the most chicken shit mother to ever have a Cesarean. Ill admit it. I cried and I yelled for fear.
The surgeon, Dr. Pepper (I kid you not!), was very quick. It wasn't very long into the procedure when I heard him say: "Well, she's blonde!"
Noon on the dot, January 21st, Iris was born.
But I didn't hear her cry... I asked everyone why I couldn't hear her. They chuckled and commented on her just being quiet as the delivery nurse briskly walked away with a little bundle to her work station. No sounds. No cries. The nurse rubbed her and wiped away the gunk, that much I could see. Then she stepped aside as Daddy came to see Iris and I glanced this little lily white baby, lazily lifting an arm and letting it fall down. Downy head of the finest blonde fuzz...

The nurse swiped Iris's eyes and pulled a pink and blue cap over the peach fuzz, then wrapped her up in a striped hospital blanket, leaving nothing but a sleeping peaceful face.

"Say hi Momma.."

"Hello my little Iris flower..." A kiss on the button nose and they rushed her away. A kiss and that was all.

It took 24 hours to see her again. I was sure I had imagined the little angel having touched her soft nose to my chapped lips. She was ill. The doctors couldn't tell why her T-cell count was so high and had her installed in the Newborn ICU. I wasn't allowed to touch her, for with my fever I could very well make her worse. I was done waiting by the 24th hour and to hell with wheel chairs that never came. I got up and walked the long corridor to the NICU, trailing little dots of blood from my emergency incision, damned if I wasn't to see my own child.

Iris spent 14 days in a little clear box, her little arms taking turns being strapped to a board that enabled 2-3 IV ports each. I spent hours each day just holding her to my heart, blessing the sound of her breathing and her little fist grasping me close.

To say that Iris is the gentlest of souls puts it mildly. She may not always follow directions properly, nor abide the rules as she should...but she is a kind and mindful girl. She has a moral compass I envy from time to time, and an innocence that seems otherworldly in its wiseness. Sometimes she seems like too much soul for one body, when she looks up at me and smiles like she knows what Im thinking. Or when she brings me a tissue to wipe away tears I swore no one knew about nor could hear. This is the baby girl whom when I fell sick with the flu and she was barely 2, brought me a blanket and herself a box of cheerios settling in quietly on the couch for 4 hours and guarding her mother. When I look at her playing quietly I wonder if I would have the sight had Gregory held on. I wonder also what it would of been like to see two little heads bent over some game, same age, same height, same birth. None the less, each year, on the 21st of January I celebrate her arrival in my world and I thank life that she at least made it.

I wont say this keeps me from losing my mind over her having taken her little sister and swinging her about the room till she collided with the floor. Nor that sometimes they both drive me to drink....Im not a saint.

This year we celebrated with Japanese food, cupcakes at school, and her very own recurve bow. My little fighter wants to follow in Momma's footsteps. Except I hope she has much better aim.

I look at her, all 9 years now, and sometimes feel like that 'too much soul for one body' is what happens when two children sharing a womb end up as just one. Is it crazy to think I didnt much lose him entirely?

Happy Birthday Doll-face. Thank you little sound-wave Baby B; Gregory.

Of Bribes and Year's End

Starting my truck requires bribery now a days.

Most mornings (or afternoons, or evenings...or just whenever), it likes to trick me.

Iris opens the driver door, propels herself over the car seats and opens the passenger door (that door refuses to work with a key). I haul Aeva in who is always too busy hugging a toy or as of late, a leap pad, to bother weaving arms into her harness. Digging for the bottom of the 5 point harness stuck under her ass CANNOT be a welcome morning routine but I kid you not, she never helps the issue. With Aeva snugly restrained, feet banging on the dash, I run around the back of the truck making sure that Iris is as comfortably settled in the back jump-seat as possible and I hop into my seat. I insert the key into the ignition, hear the beeping sound alerting me to power in the cabin so I turn the key and

Dead.

I cannot tell you how many freezing cold mornings I just slam my forehead on the steering wheel. Theres only one way to fix this and it comes with a good dose of frozen fingers, fear of electrocution, and public humiliation. I have to bribe the be-damned hunk of Harrison Ford Steel to start. Heres how I do it:

Popping the hood, I come up the driver side of the truck sliding my hand down to the latch soothing the now stubborn beast.
"Its ok there big guy...juuuuust looking to see what ya look like this morning"
Finding the terminals on the batteries, I inch in carefully.
"Whats this?? Are your connectors loose? Well Ill just check and see..."
Before you know it I yank off the negative terminal and the Beast sets off its car alarm, rousing every goddam nosey neighbors attention on this ghetto ass block. Silencing it requires pulling off the positive terminal while being careful that the negative terminal doesnt slyly tap back into the game and fry me something toasty.
With both terminals off the battery, the Beast is silenced.

"Ha! AND what?!"

There are two exposed fuses in the maw of the Beast that have a tendency to confuse me. One is of apparent value to the Ford, the other could fizzle out and die without grunt of care. Recently i've marked the important fuse and its this one I yank out with frozen fingers this morning....and drop into the guts of the engine. Fun-fucking-tastical. Luckily I have long fingers, small wrists, and a desperate need to reach the fuse at any fleshy cost.

Come here my precious....
"See there Beast? I have your fuse. You want your fuse back you say? Well theres only one way to go about that....you must let that engine purr, or chortle or what ever is necessary in order to get us chugging along 295 cuz I GOTS ta go! Deal?"
I can only imagine that this inanimate and inconsiderate metal wreck on wheels nods its head? Hood? Shocks??? Appealing to my humanity for the return of its buck toothed fuse. I let it watch me think a minute, admiring the little piece in the gray light of the ass-crack of dawn.
Pocketing the fuse, I replace the negative terminal first and then cautiously connect the positive terminal all the while hoping it wont zap the ever living crap out of me. Ive got metal in my body and horrible luck with machinery... you tell me not to worry...

The cabin light coming on is a sign that so far, were good. The Beast has given me a false sense of hope a few times before, but not today. Today when I turn the key, the Beast roars to life and even does a little shimmy to show its enthusiasm. Jumping back out, I replace the fuse, unhook the hood and let it slam. I pat the beast and climb in.

It seems that this year is personified in my decrepit Found On Road Dead Ranger. Its been crappy. I went from Jeep Compass smooth living, to begging a two seater truck to just make it one more trip...one more day. There is much compromising, bribing, and plain ol sucking-it-up now a days for me and the gals. We've moved too many times and began to find boring days to be the most appreciated days of all. I've learned to rely on myself, and myself alone because when youre locked out at 1 am, Maintenance will NOT pick your lock so fucking keep a spare key SOMEWHERE.
Theres a lot to be said about the past year but its just that...past. Its almost nearly chronologized in this blog, all my one step forwards 10 steps back choreographing my own little cha-cha. I cant tell you that I am better today, because I dont always feel it, but I am alive. Im ... wiser. Im able to take in situations without just sitting down and giving up or hiding under my covers until Ive cried it out of my system.

Today the girls and I toasted the arrival of a new year freshly bathed (to clean off any impurities of the past), with money in our hands (for financial stability in the coming year), yummy food in our bellies (that we may never find our selves hungry), Sparkling Apple-cranberry Cider (for the sheer loveliness of simple things to be enjoyed), and poppers... for joyful noises in our coming year of Restoration.

CHEERS!

Sandy Hook

I first heard about it, like most everyone else, at work.

20.

I was in an office full of coworkers whom have kids. There was discussions about what they could do to prevent it from happening to their own children. What we as a country could do to preventing it from happening again.

I put my head down and delved deeper into my stack of paperwork. I will not think.

I was delayed in leaving work due to my work load. I shouldered my bag at 15 past my usual exit time, got in my truck and drove steady. I will not rush.

My daughters excitedly greeted me with squeals and stories of a school field trip. I listened and commented. I will not panic.

I switched off the local radio station.

At home I let them stand in the kitchen with me and make a hodgepodge dinner from left overs, handed out juice boxes and settled on the couch with bowls in our laps to watch a DVD. Uneaten dinners still went unrewarded with dessert.
I offered up hot cocoa in mugs we designed, popped in a second DVD to the girls' surprise, and snuggled in the dark. 9pm. 1030 pm. 11pm. Tired girls made their way up the stairs having surpassed even a weekend bedtime.
I crawled in bed and had fit full dreams. Night terrors.

Most everyone that reads the words I write tell me I have a way with these words. I write like I speak. I am able to commit to paper things that others have difficulty expressing even verbally.
Where are my words now? I am unable to wrap it around the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary. Why are my words unable to penetrate grief and unravel it in a form for others to read and understand?

These little ones are gone. They barely touched this earth and from it they were stolen. In believing that we are all part of one consciousness, one soul...I believe that they have reached our Greater Form and are free from the pain and anguish and terror they must of felt. But the grief and pain is always for those left behind isnt it? Thats the reality of it. We who stay behind are left with a lifetime, however long or short, of grief and sorrow for those we no longer walk the path with.

These parents. They cherished the 2 pink lines such few years ago, Im sure. They prepared their entire world for an arrival of a life, the greatest achievement we could ever be granted. They took care to wipe runny noses, and child proof homes. They kept doctor appointments and taught self awareness. They held little hands growing bigger, skin made of their own skin, and knew that this child was theirs and theirs alone. This child they knew like they could never know another being in this existence. This anchor to life here, this purpose in a small little frame and upturned face smiling brightly.

There are no words for me to try to express what is only a FEAR of a call saying my child is gone.  A FEAR. That in my absence someone has dashed the breath of the little one who is the better form of my very soul.

They say a teacher shielded children and paid for it with her life. They say that others tried the same. Some failing. Some not. Their absolute bravery for children not even their own...the love that buoyed them through the sacrifice.

I dont care to hear what gun laws/behavioral health could/could not have done. I dont care to see or know about the odios excuse for a human who brought this upon innocent children. These things dont matter right now. They cannot change a fucking thing.

Ive met with death, of that Im sure. There cannot be anyone who at some point in their life hasnt thought: whats the point? I know I have. That very question was poised to me by Death while inside the wreck of my vehicle some few years ago.
'Whats the point?' It asked as my vision narrowed and I felt a calm release just up ahead. In that narrow tunnel I saw my Iris, head bowed over a scraped knee. Alone and without me. 'I could never kiss another boo boo' were my exact thoughts at her desolate image. So I started to scream. She is my point, as is Aeva. My children are my point, reason, and purpose in life. Without me, who would be there to guard and love them like only I can?

Those parents...

Ive seen my dearest friend hold her only child and know whats to come. Hold her close as she released from this world.
I have hugged friends who held in little boxes the child who was born without breath.
I have myself grieved the loss of two angels who I never got to hold.

These parents...they held these children and KNEW them...planned their future knowing their voice and interests and scent...Yet someone took them.

From far away they get told.

My girls dawdled today. They both took their sweet sweet time getting bathed and dressed for bed. In PJs they both sat on the couch with me and watched Cinderella until Aeva herself asked to go to bed. Im exhausted, they have a million bedtime rituals, and my injuries are particularly achy today.

But I am just tucking them into bed. Kissing eyes that are merely sleepy. Smoothing faces I will see in the morning. They are my point. And they are alive.

Oh little souls.... the grief resounds in my soul. And your parents...I cant ever even imagine.

Ho Ho Holy Fudge Sticks

Baltimore was most definitely NOT my top choice of towns to live in when it came time to find my own place. Its busy, noisy, dirty and dare I say ghe-heh-toe.
That, my ebonically challenged friends, is my way of sprucing up the word that best describes my dwellings: Ghetto.
Im not going to get into what exactly makes this place so.....Urban....but understand that I dont enjoy the firehouse alarms and Police sirens every quarter of an hour. The first time I heard the firehouse let out its wailing alarm I thought: OMFG! Were under attack!!
I quickly ducked as did the girls and we kept an ear out for 'The Big Voice' to tell us what to do next.

Apparently only military bases have those kinds of sirens. This one was just for the fire rescue.

Naturally, what with the constant authorities running amuck, my friends became concerned that I would need protection in case of a house invasion.
Get a gun! They said. A nice little glock with a safety!
Ha! I rather a shot gun! Scariest sound in the world!
So is its price tag unfortunately.

I got this guys! I got this! I have a broad sword! An honest to God broadsword. Stands 3/4s of my height and possibly just as heavy. Unsheathing it is a struggle but I was confident that I could wield it should someone dare break in during the night. I envisioned myself standing at the top of the stairs, a mighty sight, sword poised and ready to slay any heathen who dares cross my threshold uninvited.

What actually happened was I glued up an alarm system that went off when contact with the door sensor was interrupted. It conveniently failed to stay glued at around 3 am that same night, rousing me panicked and disoriented with its 'wake-the-dead' shrieking. I bypassed the sword, smacking into the bedpost, dresser, and door jam before unsteadily reaching the apex of the stairs, taking 3 wobbly steps down and tumbling the entire rest of the way.
Good news? If I had picked up the sword id be a mess.
Better news? Im sure even a thief would think twice about robbing a woman crazy enough to launch herself unarmed as ammo at his entrance.

Ah, good times. Good times.

But its not just me. No. See, I decided to go out to a bar called Howl at the Moon one weekend with a friend to listen to the dueling pianos and relax with a few drinks. Being that Baltimore is pitifully parking-challenged, and I dont need a DUI, I called a cab.
Dont EVER get into a 'cab' that lacks the Taxi signage, meter, nor visible licensure to operate. No matter how confident your 'friend' is.
First and foremost, no good cabbie immediately launches into his views on pot and the government's plot to control us through its illegal status. I started to question his sobriety when the words 'at least when you smoke you only like, sleep for a while and then get up and like, live again. Cuz alcohol and meth, they like make you sleep and you never come back man' came along
Somewhere with in a mile of the bar my cabbie decided to stop. In the middle of the street. Wayyyyyy before a green light.
Both my friend and I kept ducking to see if perhaps we had stopped at a red light that was too far above us to see from the back seat. Nope. No red light.
Thats when genius said: "Oh man, this isnt a light! Whoa, guys, why didnt you tell me this wasnt a light?"
Id of jumped out if wasnt held down.

Yesterday I thought it would be nice to try to make life here in Bmore much more ... normal. I ran into Walmart and grabbed a long box labeled 'Christmas Tree-6 ft tall' and raced home to show the girls. Today, after dinner, we broke into the box and voila: The grown up version of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, tilt and all.

And fuck 6 feet. I can see over the top of it and I KNOW I havent grown vertically lately. The bedamned thing is scrawny and gnarled and every penny a $20 buck slump.
Much like me and this situation we call home, the girls took to it in excited little voices, lacing the plastic threaded wires with strings of lights and shiny baubles on hooks and making it merry. Theyve lit it up and placed sweet candy canes all on its pokey branches, making it a tree worthy of gifts and joy.

The bottom half of lights has fizzled the fuck out.

I aint seen nothin'.

2 Little Monkeys

One of the perks..ok the ONLY perk of not being fully divorced is that I am still able to go on base at Ft. Meade and see the doctors there under my soon to expire Tricare coverage. There isn't a spouse anywhere in the military that has never complained about Tricare at least ONCE and yet,...

Is it sad to say Ill regret losing my Tricare more than the Ex?

....I need to buy a little bicycle bell because Im going to Hell in a handbasket...

Like any good military nurse, my LPN ran me through the gamut. Height, weight (ug, blindfold-led), blood pressure, temp, agonizingly personal questions.

"Any anxiety? Depression?" Ha, what military spouse doesn't experience that?
"Yea."
"Are you getting treated for it?"

Fact of the matter is I havent seen a psych for a great long time. I've always been more of an after-action review gal. I put my head down, push through, and once Im on the other side of the battle field I come in for damage assessment. Being a Psych student you'd think Id practice what I will one day preach: Ask for help.

"No. Im not."
Eyebrow raise.
"Im putting in a consult."
Well, ill stick it in the recycling bin.

For all of my pains and troubles the doctor pretty much tells me Im stupid, this whole appointment is stupid and for my efforts I get a FluMist cuz, you know, that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with what I came in for. Makes perfect sense in the Military Clinic world. Trust me on this one.

Great day to have a runny nose too. There I am sniffling, trying to look for tissues, but grateful that Im not being poked with a needle.
Until the nurse stops by in passing and takes my "FluMist Informational Pamphlet" and replaces it with "FluShot Informational Pamphlet"

"Sorry doll, Doctor didn't realize you're Anemic. We have to give you the shot."
Classic. Me.

On the drive home I mulled over the chat the Nurse had with me about reaching out for help with depression. I dont like to take pills. I dont enjoy sitting in a chair and 'talking about my feelings', thats what this blog is for.

"See there?! I tol' you I got MUSCLES!" Aeva has kicked the dash and is now using the resistance to flex what I can faintly see as her calf muscles, pant leg pulled up as high as she can reach from her 5-point restraint system. Which isn't much. I rein that sucker in TIGHT.

"Im gonna be a SUPER hero!"
"Oh yea? Whats your super hero name?"
"Aeva Zazzle D!"

Iris and I both laugh at her choice which humors Super Aeva Zazzle D not.

"Is. Not. Funny."
"Ok, ok, ok,..so what will Aeva Zazzle D do?"
"Im gonna keel aww da snakes!! Im gonna run real fast and Ima help you with my super powers!"

Im starting to worry about my daughter's fascination with killing things at this point. Earlier this week she slipped me a absurdly large post card of a disgusting Cicada (thanks Bass Pro Shop...instructive assholes) saying: "Dis bit me lass mornin'" Not two seconds later a stink bug zooms between us landing squarely on the TV screen.

Jogging in place, arms flailing, Aeva's face resembles the 'Scream' mask...not a sound coming out of her mouth till she spots her boot, grabs it and yells:

"I KEEL IT!!"

Thank god for my cat-like reflexes.

As we are reaching the home stretch on this cold, wet, windy, and pokey day Iris has started up our rousing chorus of "Down By The Bay". We butcher it like pros. Scaring fellow drivers when they see all three of us bellowing children songs and bouncing in our seats. Im by no means a good singer but Im really fucking this chorus up, my voice cracking and horribly out of tune because thats just how we like it best when Aeva, ever the umpire, gets upset.

"Im MAD at you!"
"Why?"
"Because."
"Because what?"
"Dont SAY dat word!!"
"Word."
"GAHHH!!"
"Why are you mad?"
"Im gonna sing now. Ima sing wit Iris"

Iris is great at ignoring us. She's well on past the Bay and on to "5 little Monkeys".  Aeva adds her quiet little voice, slowly swaying in her restraints.

"You sing too now momma"

Momma doesn't need to call the Doctor. She's got her Monkeys right here with her and they make her all better.

Because of you...

Sweetest Jasmine,

The first email I read from your daddy, I was certain he was a woman.

“Jodie Uhl writes:

We will be by this afternoon to pick up the formula”

I don’t think Id ever met a male Jodie, and most of the folks on the local Freecycle group were women. I had posted a huge bottle of formula my then 2 month old Aeva didn’t need and your daddy had set up a pick up from my house.

And he was LATE.

Granted I wasn’t really in any hurry to get the formula picked up but was afraid of having anyone knock on the door and wake my sleeping infant. I was a tad neurotic back then.

“Jodie Uhl writes:

Im sorry were so late! We will be there soon! “

Ofcourse, by the time I got that email, Aeva was sound asleep and I was keeping close watch on her so that nothing would disrupt her.  I was determined to give Ms. Uhl a stern look of disapproval when she arrived.

A huge red SUV pulled up in my driveway. License plate MAXAMOS, a tribute to your mother’s personality. When I open the door there’s a man there, ear splitting grin on his face.

“Hi! I’m so sorry were late! We got stuck at the hospital with my daughter’s chemo session. We tried getting here as quickly as possible”

Chemo?? Daughter? Is this who they’re getting formula for? My mind went on a tilt. If she’s young enough for formula and she’s in chemo…

A month or so ago I had just lost my step-mother to a terrible form of cancer that had coated all her vital organs and weren’t even visible in scans. I had taken the 14 hour drive to Miami 3 days post-partum solely to bid her farewell. She had lived a life, perhaps not as long as we’d of wished, but she had had years of it.

I felt so embarrassed for my insensitivity and annoyance with your dad that all I could sputter was:

“Is she ok?!” Because of course, you idiot, no one EVER undergoes chemo when something is wrong….

“She’s alright, just tired. Would you like to see her?”

How can I describe the first time I saw you? I don’t think words can ever convey the way my heart both swelled and cracked into so many pieces.

You were tiny. 7 or 8 months old and hardly bigger than Aeva. You were slumped over in your ridiculously pink car seat, sleeping away the unavoidable exhaustion from chemo, wearing a frilly little bathing suit. It was slow motion going for me. My eyes skimming over your little bowed head, the scars pulling the breath from my lungs in sharp rifts. Little hands cupped, palms to the sky. Skinny little legs and fat little piggies painted, in pink of course, each dotted with a minuscule rhinestone.

A hand reached out to stroke the stubble of hair on your head, pulling my attention up and across you to your mother.

“This is my wife, Stephanie.”

She was, and is of course, beautiful.  Dark hair cropped short and a quick smile. It was then that I found out she was Puerto Rican and in the Army at the base that I lived in. Being that I am Cuban, your mom and I instantly clicked. We promised to keep in touch with each other, share recipes, and hang out. We could commiserate together the lack of good coffee and real food.

I held it together long enough to close the door behind me before I ran to Aeva who was stirring. I scooped her up and fell to my knees crying. My selfish heart wringing itself out: It could have been my daughter…my daughter…

Your story is very long. Multiple chemo and radiation sessions. Multiple hopeful surgeries. A Hemispherectomy. I lost count of how many facebook statuses from your parents included a trip to the hospital. How many texts we exchanged about where the progress of the cancer was.

I regret never having had the time to drive out to your hospital a few hours away to see you. See, back then I had such petty little worries. I was too busy. Too concerned with things that needed to get done. I had a household to run and children to take to and from activities. A husband and a life that kept me going, going, going.

After your hemispherectomy we all held our breath. We waited a while for you to come out of the haze of such a delicate operation. You had half your brain removed in an attempt to take the tumor that kept multiplying ever more rapidly each time doctors intervened. They even took some from your brainstem.

I waited to see that smile of yours again. It was my point of reference. You got it from your father I think. The way you could smile from ear to ear. Jasmine was Jasmine if she was smiling.  I am currently switching between this piece and all your pictures on your mother’s facebook and all I see is smiles. Tubes and smiles. Scars, and smiles. Machines, bandages, ports, and smiles. Smiles. SMILES.

There was an evening that we went to your house for dinner. My husband at the time, Iris, me, and your playmate Aeva. As was usual for Your Highness, you were on your bouncer set upon the coffee table that was otherwise covered with medicines and all sorts of instruments. You were front and center to the large screen TV your daddy had Mickey Mouse Playhouse on. We always knew you liked something if you yelled at it, beating your chest with one hand while one foot kicked so hard I sometimes feared youd managed to kick yourself off that table.

Aeva had been taking turns between zoning out on Mickey and holding your hand to sway to the music when we saw her trying to find a space on the table with you. I ran to grab her and take her off the table but Jodie intervened. He cleared the whole other half of the coffee table and stood Aeva up on it.

“C’mon Jasmine! Dance!”

Aeva held your hand as she boogied to the ‘Hotdog dance’ and you kicked away, singing along too. As the song came to a close, Aeva hopped down in search of her daddy who had walked outside.

You started to scream.

It was piercing. I don’t think I had ever heard you scream like that. You turned as best as you could, seeking out where Aeva had gone, one arm waving franticly in her direction. My baby doll ran back to you. She climbed back up on the table and settled in, hand in hand with you, to watch Mickey Mouse.  That night when it was time to say goodbye, Aeva noticed your port over your heart and in her limited language skills told you:

“Jasmine has boo-boo on da heart? I kiss. I make it betta”

Everyone watched as she leaned down and kissed you right over your heart and you let her.

I wished, and dear gods, I prayed that my very mortal child had done you some good that day. I held that wish so strongly, that a simple kiss could heal you.

The day that I found out that there was nothing further anyone could do…It was a  tumbling effect. The wish didn’t work. There must be something. Some doctor. ANYTHING. We just CANT give up. I felt adolescent in my anger, lashing out at everything. Faulting those who had no fault. I wanted to steal you. Carry you running until I found the answer to your cure.

I wanted to escape my very body. I didn’t want to experience this pain and uselessness.

I am selfish, little one. If I felt this hurt, I couldn’t even imagine your parents’ pain.  And I didn’t. I crawled into bed and cried till exhausted, I fell into nightmares.

Heartbreak, loss, and pain are not new to me. I have learned how to cut it out of my life when it becomes unbearable and move on. I steel myself against the worst of the storm and turn away.  At time, I run away from it.

I went to visit you when hospice was being set up in the living room of that large house your parents bought with dreams to see you fill it with years of memories. Your room could come straight out of a page in a Pottery Barn magazine. The twin sized bed you never had the chance to sleep in. A miniature table ready for the tea party we had hoped you’d have. The closet your mother had filled with clothes for when you’d be old enough to start pre-k even. It was never a thought in her world that you wouldn’t.

I met Jessica then. She has eyes that see things we all miss. And a talent that brings her photography to life. I helped her set up for a photo shoot of you. Moving you gently, dressing you as the angel we have always known you are.  In every picture she took we saw your peacefulness through the clamour of hospital drips and machines. Everyone took turns taking a picture with you that day. I was scared to ask, to take away time we had so very little of. To seem…selfish again. Jessica told me to get up, to hold you and as I leaned in to kiss your sleeping little face, she snapped a shot.  It’s the photo on my wallet front.

There was no way to shut you out.

I had meant to, I think. I was told by someone I loved that I was stupid to stay so close, knowing I was only going to lose you.

Most evenings I was over at your house. The amount of visitors was staggering. From nurses, to church friends, to friends and family from out of state.  The local news came by to do a piece on your amazing life. I hung back and helped clean up the kitchen from all the food that was being delivered in a steady stream. I made coffee and your momma’s favorite: Café con Leche. Neither one of your parents would leave your side, not that anyone can blame them. Often I offered to watch over you while they took a few hours of rest. The best I got was your mom passing out beside you while I watched the slow rise and fall of your chest. Time was closing and I was afraid to see you leave us.

Selfish.

My house was being packed that 29^th of October. I was exhausted from going between my place and yours. Laying my pounding head down, I tucked my phone under my pillow and let myself curl around Aeva’s for just a little afternoon nap.

The phone went off, your mother’s picture on the screen, and I knew.

“Sherlin, this is Stephanie’s sister Janice. Jasmine is passing. Please. Hurry. Stephanie is asking for you.”

Along the way I got stopped by a cop and I didn’t care if he had given me the largest ticket possible so long as he didn’t make me miss you. I hadn’t planned to be there when you did. I wasn’t strong enough to watch my stepmother pass, I didn’t think I could see you pass. The child that could have been my child. The child I loved as much as my own children.

You were surrounded by family and loved ones.  I walked in not knowing what to expect. Someone, your father’s mother I think, grabbed me and held me.

No, no, no…too soon. But my darling angel I was just selfish. Your pain was greater than mine and it was time for you to be free of it.

Ive never been very good at waiting. I put myself to work making coffee, discarding empty soda cans, talking to your hospice nurse.

“Come sit next to me” your mother said.

She was holding you, stroking your little face, counting fingers and talking gently to you. She seemed a saint to me.

“Would you like to hold her?”

“No…you, please…”

I was so afraid to hurt you. To take time away…

Little piggies, painted pink. Your momma’s doing. She always doted on you.

I had cast your hands and feet in plaster that week. Stroking your fat little toes I contemplated why you hadn’t let me hold your little hand but had instead held mine, tucking your fingers beneath mine, your thumb resting against them. The cast came out perfect. Where were you leading me?

I stepped away before I lost my own composure, and your dad took my place. Coffee. That’s what I need. The Keurig wouldn’t cooperate with me. I came out to the living room again at the moment that someone said something funny and everyone slightly chuckled. I was looking at your Aunt I think. Everyone had glanced at someone else. No one was looking at you for one split second.

And in that split second, you left us.

Janice suctioned you. She listened for a heartbeat. I don’t think anyone could breathe.

Our shattered hearts all broke at once. Tears flowed and we keened for your release from this world. From between the quiet cries your grandmother raised her voice in song. A church hymn I believe. It didn’t matter. Slowly each person added their voice, our very souls in each word, bidding us understanding.

I always though I knew what strength and love were.  I was wrong.

Strength is a mother, your mother, washing your little body one last time as though it were the very first time. Gently cleansing you with warm water, washing the soap from your baby-soft hair, patting you dry and wrapping you up in a plush towel.  Dressing you in your prettiest little monkey-print dress, brushing the dark curls she loved so much and radiation couldn’t take from you.

Love is a father, your father, holding you on the couch. Laying down next to you, now free of machines and curling around you one last time, as though it were the very first time. Holding you close to himself and breathing you in. Snuggling his little girl. The world around him gone, no one existing but you.

And compassion. I didn’t know a damn thing about compassion until the funeral home came to pick you up. Walking out the front door with you in Jodie’s arms, your parents stopped short of the van. We all lined the walkway leading to the sight of your parents handing you over tenderly. Tucking a stray fold of your blanket around you. The man holding you glanced at the back of the van…and walked to the front. He sat down in the passenger seat and cradled your head, like an infant, turning you into his embrace.

Your little hand has led me a long, long way since that time. You helped prepare me for what was to come.

Strength, to face even the most dire of situations.

Love, to always give unconditionally.  

Compassion, to understand even in turmoil that others hurt too.

Because of you I have learned to be less selfish. To accept that with pain comes some beautiful lessons.

I have had the strength to love compassionately even when there doesn’t seem to be that option.  Even when I am hurt so deeply I cannot fathom there to be any release.  

And to smile, always smile through my tears.

It’s been a long long year dear angel. We miss you and love you forever more. 

Mothra's Revenge

There I am, peacefully laying in bed...drifting off to sleep...and I hear it.

The rasping of wispy wings. Closer...closer...CLOSER...

Ram rod straight in bed, in pitch dark I scramble for glasses and my trusty cell phone. Clumsily smashing my glasses on, I toggle the power button and my iPhone lights up all of a foot in front of me.

Wave it to the left. Nothing. Atleast not close enough to see.

Wave it to the right. Just the dresser. But it's there... I HEAR it...

*flutter RASP*flutter RASP*

I jump out if bed and punch the wall in my attempt to hit the switch.

And there it is.

What sort of moth IS it?!? It survived the frantic swatting, the shampoo bottle, and a goddamn DOUSING!

Maybe I WAS battling a zombie in there! It makes me think of those zombie ants and how those fuckers and being brain-controlled by a damn fungus.

So I took a cup, and a piece of cardboard and caught the bugger. There's just no way I'm going to sleep with it in my house yet again. It's a damn immortal moth. It can go haunt some other poor damsel. I need sleep and well shaven pits.

Here's a tip: don't try disposing of something out your front door by hiding behind it because your in panties and a shirt. Granted...I wasn't gonna risk the moth getting out of the cup by leaving it whilst I doned bottoms but I digress.
Hiding behind the door only inhibits you from properly seeing your captive out.

It took 3 times and one split decision to send all modesty to hell and just stand near naked at my front door to get the bugger out.

As one of my readers said: I battled Mothra. And unless that fucker can also key two locks...it's staying out.