The sunlight streams through the window in my room in a multiple of rays. We drank a lot last night, my husband and I. We came home to an empty house, had loud, uninhibited sex, the kind we rarely have since we are now responsible parents who lock the door to our bedroom and tell the kids we have to 'talk'. We fell asleep content and happy. I had snuggled into my husbands arms, laying my head on his chest. I allowed the beat of his heart act as a lullaby. I had one single thought before being swept into a complete dark oblivion: "Life is good."
Now I'm on the phone and on the computer, trying to get in touch with my manager and book an airline ticket. I have a client who is having a radio remote today and I must attend. I've called my manager several times and keep getting his voicemail. I slam the phone down and let out a mouthful of expletives.
Ian hands me a cup of coffee and I graciously accept it. He's calm, allowing me to freak about in a fury. I scream my thoughts, my annoyances. Why can't these kids leave my stuff alone? I can't find anything. Don't we have luggage? How is it we don't have a suitcase? Where are my shoes? Why won't my stupid manager answer his phone?
I'm mad. I'm so mad! I want to hurl something at the wall. I can't believe my niece, only seventeen, is dead.
It can't be possible.
It shouldn't be possible.
The specifics of Tina's death are complex, but this is what I know: she had been diagnosed with bipolar and was taking medications for the mental disorder. She was also taking medication for some unknown female problem, plus sleeping medication for insomnia. On top of all that, she hurt her back in gym a few days ago and the doctor had given her pain killers. Tina was close to three hundred pounds. She accidentally overdosed, her heart too weak to withstand the weight and all those drugs.
We know it was an accident. Tina was playing on the computer, fighting with her younger brother and asking her mom to take her shopping over the weekend. It was a regular, chaotic Friday night in their house. My stepsister, Marley, saw Tina acting funny and called the ambulance. Tina probably thought her mother was overreacting. However, she got on the gurney herself, talking to the paramedics.
My father, Jackie, and Marley were all at the hospital. Marley called my parents on the way to the hospital. She later confessed she was annoyed with Tina. She did not, by any stretch of the imagination, think her daughter was going to die.
When the doctor told them the horrific news, my father collapsed to the ground. He was inconsolable. Jackie had to call my brother, Joseph, to come to the hospital. She needed help her with our father.
Ian tells me that his mom has offered to keep the kids at her house for the day. I nod. The phone rings and it is my manager. I tell him what is going on. I am angry when he asks if it is truly necessary for me to leave the state for a funeral.
"I doubt they are planning to broadcast the funeral on the Internet," I tell him, trying to keep my voice low and not scream the same expletives I did earlier, "But if they do, then no, I guess I wouldn't have to leave the state."
This clues him in that we're not talking about an extended family member four times removed who I only speak to every ten years. This is my niece, I tell him again and then once more for emphasis. I hang up the phone and call him a few choice names.
Marley calls.
I tell her I'll be home. I'll be there soon. I keep saying this as if this...my arrival will do something. Bring her back? Make everything okay? I don't know. But to me...to me it seems to help. I need to be there. I need to make sense of this awful tragedy.
My father calls. Talking to my father isn't easy. I am not used to hearing my father sound defeated, sound broken. We don't talk long, but I tell him what time I will be arriving and that Traci will pick me up in Atlanta.
The day has turned to evening. I will be leaving on the red eye. Ian and I are sitting on the couch watching television. My head is humming. I have gnarled up terror in my chest, it hurts to breathe.
"I hate this," I tell my husband.
He doesn't say anything.
"Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Could you be a little more comforting?"
He scoots next to me and puts his arms around me but I push him away.
"Forget it," I tell him.
He sighs heavily. He's trying to be patient. He reaches for my hand to squeeze and knead. I scowl at him. How can he be so insensitive?
My anger is now directed towards my husband. He furrows his brow. My brain is heavy with a million of erratic thoughts...and there is this need to unload them before my head explodes.
"Just once! JUST ONCE I wish you'd act like you were a caring husband instead of a selfish ---!" I yell the curse in an exaggerated tone. I storm upstairs to our bedroom and slam the door. There is a book lying on the end table and I throw it.
Hard.
Marley lost her daughter. This isn't normal. I can't stomach the thought of something happening to one of my children...I won't. But there it is, in front of me. We have no power in this world...even when it comes to our own children. You can say whatever you will, but the truth of the matter is...no one's child is immune to a premature death.
Grief swoops in and overshadows anger. I cry. I cry for the teenager who never got the chance to have what I have, for the mother who would never see her daughter prove she could be an adult, and for the rest of us...who couldn't and shouldn't try to understand.
Ian walks in and without a word sits down on the bed with me. I tip over into his lap and allow him to hold me as I cry.
In a few hours, I board a plane.
Friday
Wednesday
And Death Stirs...Again (41)
2005
I am on a mission to remake my life. I have started from scratch, in which I've recreated my childhood for anyone who asks. Because of my perky attitude and southern charm, I've had people guess I was the head cheerleader in high school or even Homecoming Queen. I always reply with, "How'd you know?"
I have something to prove. I have this need to show everyone, including my family in Alabama that I can be successful. I also want to prove to myself that I'm far from the crazy person I once was...but the fact of the matter is, I'm still a little crazy.
I embrace the comfort of a facade, one in which I'm a person who has it all together. Look at me! Juggling a career and motherhood. Balance, WHATEVER. I'm tired of people telling me I can't have it all. I can. I will.
I'm impulsive and eager to be something...SOMEONE important. This is more for my parents' sake. I am still seeking their approval.
I go to work each morning in my high heels, carrying coffee and my handbag, listen to the office gossip and try to stay alert during the staff meetings. I tell everyone that I love my job, it's the best of both worlds...but I'm constantly stressed. Office politics are more like silly games and are not for the weak and sensitive...which unfortunately for me...I'm both. Of course, I hide it. I smile, laugh, tell jokes, and use my wit to hide the ongoing insecurity I feel around my co-workers.
I still have this need to seek my parent's approval. One day out of the blue, I call my mother. No reason. And just like that we are talking again. My mother is always asking me about my job and I'm eager to tell her. I like talking to my father and my stepmother on my cell and then having to cut the call short because I'm headed into a lunch meeting with a client. I can tell they are impressed.
Sometimes I bring up Traci and my mother shuts down. I honestly begin to feel as if she likes that her daughters aren't speaking to one another.
It's probably with this assumption, that Traci and I start talking again. No one remembers how we reconnect, but we do. We make peace and slowly start to rebuild a relationship, starting with the agreement that our mother is in need of medication. (Traci suggests marijuana.)
My mother has never been to Alaska, due to her fear of flying. She has never met my children, only my oldest daughter when I lived in Alabama. My father and stepmother have been to Alaska once in 2002, a year before Maw-Maw died. The week was a disaster. Instead of coming up to Alaska alone and spending quality time with their grandchildren they haven't seen, they decided to bring my stepsister's three kids...fourteen year old Tina, and eleven year old twins Amy and Kevin. Tina, overweight and spoiled by her grandparents, spent most of the trip causing unnecessary drama.
Despite Tina being a royal pain, I have a special fondness in my heart for her. I was eleven when Tina was born. Even then I felt a connection. Tina was the oldest of three kids and just like me she spent weeks at a time with her grandmother. Sometimes it was hard to remember that my father and Jackie were the grandparents and not Tina's parents. She spent so much time there, she even had her own room.
We are at a concert downtown. It is a Friday night. Ian and I are with another couple, drinking and having a great time. We stop at Humpy's and have food and more drinks. It is one of those nights I don't want to see end. The kids are at their grandmother's (Ian's mom) and we are taking advantage of having the night to ourselves. We can stay out and sleep in tomorrow.
We stumble in around two in the morning. We're loud because there are no kids we have to worry about waking up.
Around five in the morning, I get up to get some water when I notice my cell phone is blinking. I have twelve missed calls. The last call is from my sister Traci.
I call her back. She tells me Tina, now seventeen, is dead.
For the second time since I've been in Alaska, I make arrangements to fly back home.
Again, for a funeral.
I am on a mission to remake my life. I have started from scratch, in which I've recreated my childhood for anyone who asks. Because of my perky attitude and southern charm, I've had people guess I was the head cheerleader in high school or even Homecoming Queen. I always reply with, "How'd you know?"
I have something to prove. I have this need to show everyone, including my family in Alabama that I can be successful. I also want to prove to myself that I'm far from the crazy person I once was...but the fact of the matter is, I'm still a little crazy.
I embrace the comfort of a facade, one in which I'm a person who has it all together. Look at me! Juggling a career and motherhood. Balance, WHATEVER. I'm tired of people telling me I can't have it all. I can. I will.
I'm impulsive and eager to be something...SOMEONE important. This is more for my parents' sake. I am still seeking their approval.
I go to work each morning in my high heels, carrying coffee and my handbag, listen to the office gossip and try to stay alert during the staff meetings. I tell everyone that I love my job, it's the best of both worlds...but I'm constantly stressed. Office politics are more like silly games and are not for the weak and sensitive...which unfortunately for me...I'm both. Of course, I hide it. I smile, laugh, tell jokes, and use my wit to hide the ongoing insecurity I feel around my co-workers.
I still have this need to seek my parent's approval. One day out of the blue, I call my mother. No reason. And just like that we are talking again. My mother is always asking me about my job and I'm eager to tell her. I like talking to my father and my stepmother on my cell and then having to cut the call short because I'm headed into a lunch meeting with a client. I can tell they are impressed.
Sometimes I bring up Traci and my mother shuts down. I honestly begin to feel as if she likes that her daughters aren't speaking to one another.
It's probably with this assumption, that Traci and I start talking again. No one remembers how we reconnect, but we do. We make peace and slowly start to rebuild a relationship, starting with the agreement that our mother is in need of medication. (Traci suggests marijuana.)
My mother has never been to Alaska, due to her fear of flying. She has never met my children, only my oldest daughter when I lived in Alabama. My father and stepmother have been to Alaska once in 2002, a year before Maw-Maw died. The week was a disaster. Instead of coming up to Alaska alone and spending quality time with their grandchildren they haven't seen, they decided to bring my stepsister's three kids...fourteen year old Tina, and eleven year old twins Amy and Kevin. Tina, overweight and spoiled by her grandparents, spent most of the trip causing unnecessary drama.
Despite Tina being a royal pain, I have a special fondness in my heart for her. I was eleven when Tina was born. Even then I felt a connection. Tina was the oldest of three kids and just like me she spent weeks at a time with her grandmother. Sometimes it was hard to remember that my father and Jackie were the grandparents and not Tina's parents. She spent so much time there, she even had her own room.
We are at a concert downtown. It is a Friday night. Ian and I are with another couple, drinking and having a great time. We stop at Humpy's and have food and more drinks. It is one of those nights I don't want to see end. The kids are at their grandmother's (Ian's mom) and we are taking advantage of having the night to ourselves. We can stay out and sleep in tomorrow.
We stumble in around two in the morning. We're loud because there are no kids we have to worry about waking up.
Around five in the morning, I get up to get some water when I notice my cell phone is blinking. I have twelve missed calls. The last call is from my sister Traci.
I call her back. She tells me Tina, now seventeen, is dead.
For the second time since I've been in Alaska, I make arrangements to fly back home.
Again, for a funeral.
Monday
The Good Life (40)
2005
It's been two years since my grandmother passed away. Life has changed dramatically. I am visible, a person in the corporate world. Here I sit, in my high heel shoes, sporting short spiky hair and a gray, yet firm fitting business suit. Instead of working, I'm doodling on a piece of paper... daydreaming.
It's been nine months since I traded my sweat pants and milk stained shirts in for business suits and heels to work outside the home. On an impulse, I applied for a job in radio advertising. My official title is: Radio Marketing Professional, which is long for "Selling Radio Spots". I love it, not because of the sales aspect, but because I'm able to write the commercials and have some say in how they are produced. Sometimes, I even voice the commercials. This is a dream come true for me. No one loves the sound of my voice as much as I do.
Bradley, my cubicle mate is a Jehovah's Witness and is going through a divorce. He is not an active Witness and when he recognized me as another 'Jdub' during my orientation, he panicked. He went to all of the employees and told them I was a Jehovah's Witness and begged them not to tell me about his...well, endeavors which could possibly lead to him being disfellowshipped.
What he didn't know (or couldn't have known) is that I was hardly the type of person to pass judgement on a fellow Jehovah's Witness. Doubts about the religion were already wrapping around my heart and sometimes took over my thoughts. My attendance to meetings were erratic. If I did go, I went alone and did not take the children. I hardly read my Bible. Death still creeps into my dreams.
I fear my doubts regarding the religion will become known. I can't handle the possibility of being shunned and being labeled an Apostate. The thought of it makes me sick. Whilst I don't believe in half of the Jehovah's Witness doctrine, I keep up the charade. I WANT to believe.
I am twenty-eight years old. I am married. I am a mother of four children. I look good and for the most part I'm happy. Life is good. We have two vehicles, own our own home, and our children are well-adjusted. Our evenings are filled with soccer and hockey practices, dance and music lessons and plenty of outings together as a family.
We are picture-perfect.
I'm in a whirlwind of activity. I have this overwhelming desire to succeed, to be the best I can be at everything. I am an actress, putting on a show for my co-workers, telling jokes and pulling pranks. Bradley and I have become best friends. We confide in each other about the religion and often take our lunch breaks together. We go over the Bible and we ponder the question that is asked among Witnesses: "If we aren't in 'The Truth' where would we be?"
Ian is okay with Bradley and my friendship, and I think deep down he's hoping this friendship will actually persuade me to leave what he has dubbed, "The Witless Program." Sometimes, I forget Bradley is a guy and think of him more as a girlfriend or as he would rather me say, a brother. We fight like siblings and sometimes will go weeks without talking to one another, despite sharing a cubicle together. (I am the Queen of the icy silent treatment.)
I'm on fast forward. I believe my past is behind me and it doesn't enter into my world...for today, I am a person who has had a great childhood, a stable upbringing, a teenager who was full of chastity and innocence.
I'm one hell of an actress.
No one knows the real me.
It's none of their business.
I ponder over spiritual subjects and pray for guidance, but it is half-heartily. I'm having fun. I feel as if I have the best of both worlds, a flexible work schedule in which I never miss a field trip, margaritas with girlfriends, a loving husband and a popular website. I'm starting to be noticed as a writer. I've hit my stride and I can't help but think, "YES! I'VE MADE IT!"
I do not need religion or even God. I think I've wasted many years worrying about God and religion that at this point in my life...I want to have a little fun.
I deserve it.
Right?
Note To Reader
Dear Reader,
There are 60 Chapters in this book.
In the published book, the book will be in four parts.
My hope was to finish uploading the remaining chapters by the weekend, but life happened...and time escaped me.
I will be working diligently in uploading the final chapters.
Thank you so much for your kind emails and comments. It is encouraging to know you, the reader, is taking the time out of your day to come here and read my story.
Thank-You,
Jaime Kay Chase
Author
There are 60 Chapters in this book.
In the published book, the book will be in four parts.
My hope was to finish uploading the remaining chapters by the weekend, but life happened...and time escaped me.
I will be working diligently in uploading the final chapters.
Thank you so much for your kind emails and comments. It is encouraging to know you, the reader, is taking the time out of your day to come here and read my story.
Thank-You,
Jaime Kay Chase
Author
Sunday
A Birth Story (39)
Six weeks after giving birth, I sit down to write my baby's birth story:
Better is the end afterward of a matter than its beginning. Better is one who is patient than the one who is haughty in spirit.” ~Ecclesiastes 7:8
I have thought about how I would start my baby’s birth story for weeks now. I couldn’t make a decision on where to begin. This pregnancy was more than just the awaiting of our baby-but a deeper emotional growth in myself. From the very beginning- I knew this pregnancy would be different from my others, but I had no idea of the changes that would occur in my life during this pregnancy.
In March of this year, I received a call that my grandmother-Maw-Maw was dying. I arrived in Alabama four days before she died. I’ll never forget the night I arrived at the hospital and went to her bedside. It had been six years since I had seen her last. She was lying in the bed. Her oxygen mask seemed to take over her whole face. She was thinner than when I last saw her. I tried not to cry as my Aunt Sondra squeezed her hand and whispered, “Mama, look who is here.” Her eyes opened and when she saw me, she beamed: ”Jaime Kay! I’ve been waiting for you!”
During that last week of her life, I was alone, comforted only by the little one growing inside me. Sometimes when things got to be too much-I’d think about the upcoming birth and how soon I would be able to hold my baby in my arms.
At the time, we had no idea of the sex. I told Maw-Maw that if the baby was a girl we would name the baby after her. I asked her what she thought I was having. With a firm voice, she replied, “It’s a girl.”
She passed away on a Friday. By then, I was worn out emotionally. Certain family members were rude. There were religious barriers which caused pain and isolation.
It was a terrible week.
Though the months after were hard emotionally, I gained a new appreciation towards my husband and children. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my new baby. I can’t even begin to describe the bond that had already been established long before her arrival.
The Long Wait
My Midwife is a small lady with a voice that is soothing and calm. Over the last seven months I have enjoyed my visits with her. I looked forward to having her be at the birth. I was able to express my concerns and fears with her.
On June 27,2003 I began what I had thought was early labor. I made the call to my midwife's apprentice, "Lou" and let her know what was going on. I told her that the ‘contractions’ were painful but slightly different from what I knew contractions to be. Though I kept being told by Lou that it was contractions, I dismissed my own feelings. This was the beginning of a lot of self-doubt about my body and what was happening.
It was also the start of a very long week.
During the week, people started to know that I was ‘in labor.’ The countless emails from friends all over the country and the daily ‘check in’ calls were appreciated in more ways than I can express. My husband was put on ‘phone duty’ as I tried to relax. I tried to not concentrate on the physical and emotional pressure of delivering.
Five friends who I dubbed: “The Fab Five” checked in with me daily. Three of them came and got our children to give us a break. The kids had a blast with each of them and this generous gift was something our children needed. They needed a break from their parents as well! The other two were our birth attendants. Each coming over giving their support, helping out and most of all being encouraging. They have no idea how their friendly smiles and peaceful attitude decreased the mounting stress I was feeling. Each acted as if this was just another activity in their lives, not a crisis. That was a true gift.
It was Saturday and still no baby. Lou came over to check to see if I made any progress. She told me I was five centimeters. YES! Halfway there! I gave my husband a look of triumph since he had been telling me over and over that I wasn’t in labor. (Like he'd know!)
Sue, my midwife's partner came over that evening to check on me, since the birth would be very soon. Lou had been mistaken.
I wasn’t five centimeters- but only TWO! Talk about your false alarms!
On Sunday, my midwife came to our house. She and I took a very long walk. After feeling the baby, she told me the baby had most likely been turning. That would explain the ‘different’ pain I was experiencing.
Sunday falls into Monday and then Tuesday. My husband was beginning to get impatient because he had already took time off from work, expecting we would be having a baby. I was starting to feel rushed.
I wanted to have this baby when she was ready, but the stress of ‘time’ was getting to me.
On Tuesday evening, I felt a leak. (Yes, a leak.) I called Sue since my midwife's husband was having surgery and Sue came right over. She checked me and determined it was my back waters leaking. (Yes, leaking.)Growing tired and frustrated, I asked her to break my water! Forget about the stupid leak...burst it already! I knew that once my waters broke I’d have this baby...BECAUSE THAT IS HOW IT WORKS.
She said she would like to try other methods of inducing first.
On Wednesday we started these induction methods which can only be described as taste bud torture. Every thirty minutes I was putting black cohosh (which tastes like warm dirt) under my tongue and then swallowing it. (Seriously. WARM DIRT.) This kept the contractions going. Later that night, I was given a nice concoction of dieter’s tea, recharge, and castor oil. (Gag, already. You know you want to.)
That night, I slept- although restless. No progress with the labor. I knew time was an issue, since they believed my waters were leaking and regulations state that I had to be in ‘active’ labor within 24 hours or I would have to go to the hospital to have the baby.
Around 10 am Thursday morning, Lou came over and asked how I was feeling. Visions of the castor oil appeared in my mind and I retorted, “Crappy.” (I pride myself in being witty even in the worst of times.)
A few hours later, Sue came over to give me my options. I was facing hospital transfer because I wasn’t progressing. This annoyed me! In a tired and annoyed voice, I said “If you’d just break my waters I’d have this baby and we all could go on with our lives!”
Sue agreed to break my waters and by then I was four centimeters. After Sue broke my water, she and Lou LEFT ME. Sue’s last words to me were that if my contractions start to become five minutes apart then...AND ONLY THEN, I am to call her.
Ian took the kids to McDonald’s and I told him to fill up the tub. “Oh, we got plenty of time.” He said. I knew we didn’t and filled it up myself.
I was alone for about thirty minutes which was a blessing. The contractions were getting stronger and closer together. It was during this time that I was finding ‘my groove’. I began to get a little nervous and immediately started to pray. I asked for God to remove the fear and give me strength. I could deal with the contractions-just not the fear.
With each contraction, I would hum softly. I don’t know why, but with my eyes closed and humming-it seemed like the right thing to do.
Natural endorphins were kicking in and I could feel myself opening.
I realized I hadn’t been timing the contractions, but they were indeed coming closer together! I called Sue and told her she better get to my house soon! By her tone, I don’t think she was taking me too seriously. C'mon!!! She broke my water, what did she think was going to happen?
I was leaning over the couch when I felt that unspeakable urge to push. My immediate thought was “NOT YET!” It was too soon. Ian was still at McDonald's with the kids. Which ironically, he almost missed Jacob's birth because he was debating on whether to head straight to the birth center or go to McDonald's for a sausage biscuit...but I digress...
Sue arrived and I greeted her with:“I HAVE TO PUSH!”
She responded with: “Don’t push!”
“I’ve got to get in that tub,” I told Sue. I got in. The warm water was calming and eased the intensity of the contraction-but not the urge to push. Sue checked me and as if it were her idea said, “Why don’t you push? Go ahead and push if you want to!”
Well, why didn't I think of that?
I squatted along side the tub. Sue’s fingers were still inside me when I started to push. It did not feel good! She was all up in my space. I told her to get her stubby fingers out!
She told this was where I would want to rush and she didn’t want me to tear...blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. I didn't want to hear it. “Just get your hands out!” I yelled.
“Okay, you do it then," she snapped.
I made a face, similar to one a three year old would make and said, "I will."
I inserted two fingers inside me and my breath caught. I could feel the baby’s head! I began to push gently, feeling the baby ease herself downwards.She was still pretty high, but with each push she was gently moving down. "That's it, Little One," I whispered.
This little baby and I were working together! With my fingers on the tip of her head, I knew she had hair! I knew it would be a matter of minutes and she would be in my arms.
Ian and the kids rushed into the house. Ian took his place behind me... outside the tub (Being in the tub with me is a little too gross) and kissed my forehead.
The baby’s head began to crown.
I pushed out her shoulders and there was pain! I lost my bearings and grabbed my ankle. Forget gentle voices and calming thoughts. I yelled! “Get this baby out!”
With all of my might I gave one last push and there she was! My baby began to float up to the surface. I reached out and grabbed her.
Commotion filled my house, but I was oblivious to the noise. I held my baby and felt tears fall down my cheeks. Unlike my other births, I didn't feel the numbness typical of going through natural childbirth. I was able to feel my emotions.
My little one opened her eyes and I kissed her.
There isn’t anything comparable to the warmth of a newborn baby.
“Welcome, Little One,” I whispered.
Ian touched her head and kissed me. “Wow!” he said.
We both laughed and gazed at our baby.
“She’s finally here,” Ian said.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
It was Maw-Maw that taught me the true nature of a mother’s bond with her child. I lost her in March, but on July 3, 2003, I gained this little baby girl. I know she will teach me many lessons in the years to come
Better is the end afterward of a matter than its beginning. Better is one who is patient than the one who is haughty in spirit.” ~Ecclesiastes 7:8
I have thought about how I would start my baby’s birth story for weeks now. I couldn’t make a decision on where to begin. This pregnancy was more than just the awaiting of our baby-but a deeper emotional growth in myself. From the very beginning- I knew this pregnancy would be different from my others, but I had no idea of the changes that would occur in my life during this pregnancy.
In March of this year, I received a call that my grandmother-Maw-Maw was dying. I arrived in Alabama four days before she died. I’ll never forget the night I arrived at the hospital and went to her bedside. It had been six years since I had seen her last. She was lying in the bed. Her oxygen mask seemed to take over her whole face. She was thinner than when I last saw her. I tried not to cry as my Aunt Sondra squeezed her hand and whispered, “Mama, look who is here.” Her eyes opened and when she saw me, she beamed: ”Jaime Kay! I’ve been waiting for you!”
During that last week of her life, I was alone, comforted only by the little one growing inside me. Sometimes when things got to be too much-I’d think about the upcoming birth and how soon I would be able to hold my baby in my arms.
At the time, we had no idea of the sex. I told Maw-Maw that if the baby was a girl we would name the baby after her. I asked her what she thought I was having. With a firm voice, she replied, “It’s a girl.”
She passed away on a Friday. By then, I was worn out emotionally. Certain family members were rude. There were religious barriers which caused pain and isolation.
It was a terrible week.
Though the months after were hard emotionally, I gained a new appreciation towards my husband and children. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my new baby. I can’t even begin to describe the bond that had already been established long before her arrival.
The Long Wait
My Midwife is a small lady with a voice that is soothing and calm. Over the last seven months I have enjoyed my visits with her. I looked forward to having her be at the birth. I was able to express my concerns and fears with her.
On June 27,2003 I began what I had thought was early labor. I made the call to my midwife's apprentice, "Lou" and let her know what was going on. I told her that the ‘contractions’ were painful but slightly different from what I knew contractions to be. Though I kept being told by Lou that it was contractions, I dismissed my own feelings. This was the beginning of a lot of self-doubt about my body and what was happening.
It was also the start of a very long week.
During the week, people started to know that I was ‘in labor.’ The countless emails from friends all over the country and the daily ‘check in’ calls were appreciated in more ways than I can express. My husband was put on ‘phone duty’ as I tried to relax. I tried to not concentrate on the physical and emotional pressure of delivering.
Five friends who I dubbed: “The Fab Five” checked in with me daily. Three of them came and got our children to give us a break. The kids had a blast with each of them and this generous gift was something our children needed. They needed a break from their parents as well! The other two were our birth attendants. Each coming over giving their support, helping out and most of all being encouraging. They have no idea how their friendly smiles and peaceful attitude decreased the mounting stress I was feeling. Each acted as if this was just another activity in their lives, not a crisis. That was a true gift.
It was Saturday and still no baby. Lou came over to check to see if I made any progress. She told me I was five centimeters. YES! Halfway there! I gave my husband a look of triumph since he had been telling me over and over that I wasn’t in labor. (Like he'd know!)
Sue, my midwife's partner came over that evening to check on me, since the birth would be very soon. Lou had been mistaken.
I wasn’t five centimeters- but only TWO! Talk about your false alarms!
On Sunday, my midwife came to our house. She and I took a very long walk. After feeling the baby, she told me the baby had most likely been turning. That would explain the ‘different’ pain I was experiencing.
Sunday falls into Monday and then Tuesday. My husband was beginning to get impatient because he had already took time off from work, expecting we would be having a baby. I was starting to feel rushed.
I wanted to have this baby when she was ready, but the stress of ‘time’ was getting to me.
On Tuesday evening, I felt a leak. (Yes, a leak.) I called Sue since my midwife's husband was having surgery and Sue came right over. She checked me and determined it was my back waters leaking. (Yes, leaking.)Growing tired and frustrated, I asked her to break my water! Forget about the stupid leak...burst it already! I knew that once my waters broke I’d have this baby...BECAUSE THAT IS HOW IT WORKS.
She said she would like to try other methods of inducing first.
On Wednesday we started these induction methods which can only be described as taste bud torture. Every thirty minutes I was putting black cohosh (which tastes like warm dirt) under my tongue and then swallowing it. (Seriously. WARM DIRT.) This kept the contractions going. Later that night, I was given a nice concoction of dieter’s tea, recharge, and castor oil. (Gag, already. You know you want to.)
That night, I slept- although restless. No progress with the labor. I knew time was an issue, since they believed my waters were leaking and regulations state that I had to be in ‘active’ labor within 24 hours or I would have to go to the hospital to have the baby.
Around 10 am Thursday morning, Lou came over and asked how I was feeling. Visions of the castor oil appeared in my mind and I retorted, “Crappy.” (I pride myself in being witty even in the worst of times.)
A few hours later, Sue came over to give me my options. I was facing hospital transfer because I wasn’t progressing. This annoyed me! In a tired and annoyed voice, I said “If you’d just break my waters I’d have this baby and we all could go on with our lives!”
Sue agreed to break my waters and by then I was four centimeters. After Sue broke my water, she and Lou LEFT ME. Sue’s last words to me were that if my contractions start to become five minutes apart then...AND ONLY THEN, I am to call her.
Ian took the kids to McDonald’s and I told him to fill up the tub. “Oh, we got plenty of time.” He said. I knew we didn’t and filled it up myself.
I was alone for about thirty minutes which was a blessing. The contractions were getting stronger and closer together. It was during this time that I was finding ‘my groove’. I began to get a little nervous and immediately started to pray. I asked for God to remove the fear and give me strength. I could deal with the contractions-just not the fear.
With each contraction, I would hum softly. I don’t know why, but with my eyes closed and humming-it seemed like the right thing to do.
Natural endorphins were kicking in and I could feel myself opening.
I realized I hadn’t been timing the contractions, but they were indeed coming closer together! I called Sue and told her she better get to my house soon! By her tone, I don’t think she was taking me too seriously. C'mon!!! She broke my water, what did she think was going to happen?
I was leaning over the couch when I felt that unspeakable urge to push. My immediate thought was “NOT YET!” It was too soon. Ian was still at McDonald's with the kids. Which ironically, he almost missed Jacob's birth because he was debating on whether to head straight to the birth center or go to McDonald's for a sausage biscuit...but I digress...
Sue arrived and I greeted her with:“I HAVE TO PUSH!”
She responded with: “Don’t push!”
“I’ve got to get in that tub,” I told Sue. I got in. The warm water was calming and eased the intensity of the contraction-but not the urge to push. Sue checked me and as if it were her idea said, “Why don’t you push? Go ahead and push if you want to!”
Well, why didn't I think of that?
I squatted along side the tub. Sue’s fingers were still inside me when I started to push. It did not feel good! She was all up in my space. I told her to get her stubby fingers out!
She told this was where I would want to rush and she didn’t want me to tear...blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. I didn't want to hear it. “Just get your hands out!” I yelled.
“Okay, you do it then," she snapped.
I made a face, similar to one a three year old would make and said, "I will."
I inserted two fingers inside me and my breath caught. I could feel the baby’s head! I began to push gently, feeling the baby ease herself downwards.She was still pretty high, but with each push she was gently moving down. "That's it, Little One," I whispered.
This little baby and I were working together! With my fingers on the tip of her head, I knew she had hair! I knew it would be a matter of minutes and she would be in my arms.
Ian and the kids rushed into the house. Ian took his place behind me... outside the tub (Being in the tub with me is a little too gross) and kissed my forehead.
The baby’s head began to crown.
I pushed out her shoulders and there was pain! I lost my bearings and grabbed my ankle. Forget gentle voices and calming thoughts. I yelled! “Get this baby out!”
With all of my might I gave one last push and there she was! My baby began to float up to the surface. I reached out and grabbed her.
Commotion filled my house, but I was oblivious to the noise. I held my baby and felt tears fall down my cheeks. Unlike my other births, I didn't feel the numbness typical of going through natural childbirth. I was able to feel my emotions.
My little one opened her eyes and I kissed her.
There isn’t anything comparable to the warmth of a newborn baby.
“Welcome, Little One,” I whispered.
Ian touched her head and kissed me. “Wow!” he said.
We both laughed and gazed at our baby.
“She’s finally here,” Ian said.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
It was Maw-Maw that taught me the true nature of a mother’s bond with her child. I lost her in March, but on July 3, 2003, I gained this little baby girl. I know she will teach me many lessons in the years to come
Breakdown (38)
The plane ride home is long and uncomfortable. I'm achy, tired, and I think the flight will never end. I watch three movies back to back, but the baby keeps kicking me in the ribs and I can't concentrate.
It is snowing when the plane lands in Anchorage. I call my husband on my cell as soon as the plane has landed on the runway. I wobble off the plane and immediately feel relief. I'm home.
The kids are happy to see me. I have never been away from my children this long before. I hug each of them and fall into my husband's arms. There is something safe and reassuring whenever he holds me. No matter how tightly his hugs are, there are moments in which I long to be even closer to him. This is one of those times. Once I am in his arms, I don't want to leave and I bury my head into his chest.
For the next few days, things get back to normal. There is the usual hustle and bustle of Mommy Life. Even though I'm back into my regular routine, I can't help but think back to my conversation with Jackie. I'm still in shock my sister confided in her about Gilbert. They do not have what you would call a close relationship.
I thought the easiest way to talk with Traci concerning Gilbert would be online. There is something less intimidating about talking via Instant Messenger. One evening, she and I are on the Instant Messenger and I ask her about the conversation with Jackie. I never say anything about the abuse I suffered. I am selective with my wording. I am basically fishing, wanting to know how much I could confide in her and wanting her to confide in me as well.
Traci automatically goes on the defensive, but she doesn't deny the conversation took place. I let the matter drop, but I do type that if she ever wants to talk to me, I will always be there for her.
I am not prepared for what happens next.
It is in the afternoon. I am sitting on the floor with my two boys playing with them. My oldest daughter and her little friend are watching The Little Mermaid and eating graham crackers. The day has been fairly easy; the kids have all been in great moods, and the weather outside is beautiful. Yet, despite all of the ease of the day, I have an uneasy feeling. I woke up with knots in the pit of my stomach. I am overcome with dread and worry.
I tell Ian when he calls from work.
"I feel weird, Ian. I can't explain it, but I feel as if something bad is going to happen."
"Nothing bad is going to happen. Take a hot bath when the kids go to sleep. You are probably still a little jet-lagged."
I decide Ian is right. I'm just tired and soaking in a hot tub does sound nice.
I'm expecting a phone call from my midwife, so when I hear the phone ring, I do not check the Caller ID. I answer the phone holding my son to my hip who has decided moments before to decorate himself with a black permanent marker.
"Jaime?" It's Uncle Gilbert.
"Oh, hi Gilbert," I say a little out of breath as my son tries to squirm away from me. I drop the phone in an effort to keep a hold of him, but he runs away. I sigh and pick up the phone. Gilbert is already talking, not realizing I have dropped the phone.
"..."spreading lies about me starting with Traci."
"Huh?" I place the phone to my other ear. "What are you saying? I dropped the phone."
"You've been telling Traci lies about me."
It takes me a second to realize what he is talking about. When I do understand, I'm filled with rage.
"Let me tell you something," I say trying to keep my voice low and clear. "I haven't told Traci anything. Traci told Jackie and my step sister you were a filthy pervert which we both know you are" I pause allowing the words to sink in. "I don't know what Traci told you, but I haven't told her anything. I asked her about that conversation, but if you are alluding to what I think you are alluding to, you know what the truth is!"
I slam the phone down. I am shaking.
An hour later, the phone rings again. I see it is Gilbert's number. I can't believe his audacity. I let the machine pick it up.
It's Tabby.
"Jaime Kay, this is Tabby," she is practically singing in a sarcastic voice. "I just want you to know no one believes your lies, so you can just stop with your little stories, okay there sugar pie? No one believes you darling. Bye-bye!"
I am sick to my stomach. It is one thing to keep the secret for years, but to have both of them blatantly call me the liar is more than disgusting. It is evil.
I try to call my sister to ask her why she would say those things, but she doesn't take my phone calls. My mother falls back into the victim role and will not discuss it. It is too much for me...I climb into my bed and don't leave it for a week.
I'm filled with grief. I feel as if I'm choking on something that wasn't meant to be digested and I can't get it to come up. I toss around in my bed and cry in agony.
I want to die.
The pain of having my own mother dismiss me as if this were all just a casual disagreement between siblings is devastating. I feel as if I'm speaking in a different language and the rage boils to the surface. I'm angry with my sister for what seems to me as a betrayal. No one in the family will talk to me. I'm a pariah. My husband has had enough and tries to call my sister and Gilbert. They do not take his calls.
While I am hurt by my sister's actions, I do understand why she did it. The family ties we have with our aunts and uncles are unique and sensitive. My sister and my mother's identity is linked with those people. It is an oddity that is hard to explain, but I know my sister is protecting herself. She has lost a grandmother and to be black-listed from a family that lives in such close proximity to her is frightening.
If anyone can deal with being black-listed it is me. I'm across the country in Alaska. Perhaps she reasoned that I would be okay with it. I don't know what went through her mind. I can only speculate. I do know my sister and know she is not a person who acts with malice.
I will not speak to my mother and sister for two years.
It is snowing when the plane lands in Anchorage. I call my husband on my cell as soon as the plane has landed on the runway. I wobble off the plane and immediately feel relief. I'm home.
The kids are happy to see me. I have never been away from my children this long before. I hug each of them and fall into my husband's arms. There is something safe and reassuring whenever he holds me. No matter how tightly his hugs are, there are moments in which I long to be even closer to him. This is one of those times. Once I am in his arms, I don't want to leave and I bury my head into his chest.
For the next few days, things get back to normal. There is the usual hustle and bustle of Mommy Life. Even though I'm back into my regular routine, I can't help but think back to my conversation with Jackie. I'm still in shock my sister confided in her about Gilbert. They do not have what you would call a close relationship.
I thought the easiest way to talk with Traci concerning Gilbert would be online. There is something less intimidating about talking via Instant Messenger. One evening, she and I are on the Instant Messenger and I ask her about the conversation with Jackie. I never say anything about the abuse I suffered. I am selective with my wording. I am basically fishing, wanting to know how much I could confide in her and wanting her to confide in me as well.
Traci automatically goes on the defensive, but she doesn't deny the conversation took place. I let the matter drop, but I do type that if she ever wants to talk to me, I will always be there for her.
I am not prepared for what happens next.
It is in the afternoon. I am sitting on the floor with my two boys playing with them. My oldest daughter and her little friend are watching The Little Mermaid and eating graham crackers. The day has been fairly easy; the kids have all been in great moods, and the weather outside is beautiful. Yet, despite all of the ease of the day, I have an uneasy feeling. I woke up with knots in the pit of my stomach. I am overcome with dread and worry.
I tell Ian when he calls from work.
"I feel weird, Ian. I can't explain it, but I feel as if something bad is going to happen."
"Nothing bad is going to happen. Take a hot bath when the kids go to sleep. You are probably still a little jet-lagged."
I decide Ian is right. I'm just tired and soaking in a hot tub does sound nice.
I'm expecting a phone call from my midwife, so when I hear the phone ring, I do not check the Caller ID. I answer the phone holding my son to my hip who has decided moments before to decorate himself with a black permanent marker.
"Jaime?" It's Uncle Gilbert.
"Oh, hi Gilbert," I say a little out of breath as my son tries to squirm away from me. I drop the phone in an effort to keep a hold of him, but he runs away. I sigh and pick up the phone. Gilbert is already talking, not realizing I have dropped the phone.
"..."spreading lies about me starting with Traci."
"Huh?" I place the phone to my other ear. "What are you saying? I dropped the phone."
"You've been telling Traci lies about me."
It takes me a second to realize what he is talking about. When I do understand, I'm filled with rage.
"Let me tell you something," I say trying to keep my voice low and clear. "I haven't told Traci anything. Traci told Jackie and my step sister you were a filthy pervert which we both know you are" I pause allowing the words to sink in. "I don't know what Traci told you, but I haven't told her anything. I asked her about that conversation, but if you are alluding to what I think you are alluding to, you know what the truth is!"
I slam the phone down. I am shaking.
An hour later, the phone rings again. I see it is Gilbert's number. I can't believe his audacity. I let the machine pick it up.
It's Tabby.
"Jaime Kay, this is Tabby," she is practically singing in a sarcastic voice. "I just want you to know no one believes your lies, so you can just stop with your little stories, okay there sugar pie? No one believes you darling. Bye-bye!"
I am sick to my stomach. It is one thing to keep the secret for years, but to have both of them blatantly call me the liar is more than disgusting. It is evil.
I try to call my sister to ask her why she would say those things, but she doesn't take my phone calls. My mother falls back into the victim role and will not discuss it. It is too much for me...I climb into my bed and don't leave it for a week.
I'm filled with grief. I feel as if I'm choking on something that wasn't meant to be digested and I can't get it to come up. I toss around in my bed and cry in agony.
I want to die.
The pain of having my own mother dismiss me as if this were all just a casual disagreement between siblings is devastating. I feel as if I'm speaking in a different language and the rage boils to the surface. I'm angry with my sister for what seems to me as a betrayal. No one in the family will talk to me. I'm a pariah. My husband has had enough and tries to call my sister and Gilbert. They do not take his calls.
While I am hurt by my sister's actions, I do understand why she did it. The family ties we have with our aunts and uncles are unique and sensitive. My sister and my mother's identity is linked with those people. It is an oddity that is hard to explain, but I know my sister is protecting herself. She has lost a grandmother and to be black-listed from a family that lives in such close proximity to her is frightening.
If anyone can deal with being black-listed it is me. I'm across the country in Alaska. Perhaps she reasoned that I would be okay with it. I don't know what went through her mind. I can only speculate. I do know my sister and know she is not a person who acts with malice.
I will not speak to my mother and sister for two years.
Saturday
Beulah (37)
Jackie and I are sitting at the kitchen table. I watch my father pour a huge cup of hot chocolate and then sprinkle shredded cheese into his cup.
"That is disgusting," I say.
"Shut your mouth, girl," he says teasingly. "This is good stuff, right here." I make a face as I watch him gulp it down. He kisses Jackie on the cheek and puts his cup in the sink. We watch him walk back to his bedroom. He sits in his recliner and turns up the television as loud as it can go.
"Is he hard of hearing or does he just like to watch TV that loud?"
"He likes it," she says with a laugh.
I lean back in my chair and sip on my hot chocolate. Jackie and I make casual chit-chat.
The evening is somewhat splotchy and I don't remember how the conversation went from joking to Gilbert.
This is what I do remember:
Jackie tells me a few months ago my sister and stepsister were at her house. My sister tells the two of them that Uncle Gilbert touched and kissed her when she was a little girl. Jackie asks me if he had ever did anything inappropriate to me.
I tell her yes. I tell her everything.
To tell the truth about this secret is liberating. No harm can be done to me for telling this truth. She can believe me or not believe me... it doesn't matter anymore. Jackie does believe me and apologizes profusely for not seeing it and stopping it when I was younger.
We decide not to tell my father. Why tell him now? We know what my father would do.
That's what I remember.
On Sunday, the three of us attend a meeting at the Kingdom Hall. The three of us pose for a picture after the meeting. I'm dressed in a black skirt, black maternity top and black heels. I'm in the middle of my father and stepmother. We smile behind the brick building with the sign KINGDOM HALL OF JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES behind our heads.
We eat at the steakhouse I worked when I was sixteen. I recognize a few of the cooks still working there. The restaurant hasn't changed, although the waitresses aren't wearing uniforms...only aprons. I think this is totally unfair.
I pass the booth where I first met Fred. I can see my sixteen year old self and my best friend Kelly talking as we rolled silverware. I can actually hear her give me advice and asking me to babysit her little girl. I wonder where Kelly is now...
We leave and head home. Maw-Maw's funeral is tomorrow. Apparently that morning there had been a family gathering at the funeral home. Grandchildren were asked stories about Maw-Maw that would be part of her eulogy.
I wasn't invited.
I don't remember where I slept on Sunday night. I do not remember how I got to the funeral.
On Monday, I am sitting in the parlor before the funeral. The only one I really speak to is my sister. I do remember asking Tabby if this is harder than when her father died at thirteen. She says this is harder because she is older and was closer to her mother. This will be the last civil conversation we will ever have.
I keep it together until the music starts playing. As a family we stand in a line. We are categorized...children, grandchildren, and then in-laws. Somehow or another I'm shuffled in with the in-laws...which in this family means you aren't real family. My sister moves to be near me. (Our brother is one of the pall bearers.)
As we walk into the chapel and I see Maw-Maw's casket, a sound comes out, almost like a pitiful cry. The sound comes from me. I didn't expect to break, but the finality of everything hits me. This is it. I will never see my grandmother again. This is really GOODBYE.
The pompous preacher speaks. Someone sings Sweet Beulah Land and How Great Thou Art. To this day, I can't hear those hymns without getting choked up.
The funeral is over. We drive to the cemetery. I end up standing, but my brother, bless his heart, sees me standing and offers me his chair.
There is a prayer.
And then it is over.
I see Heath's aunt. She comes over to me and tells me she is sorry and asks me questions. Who did I marry? How many kids do I have? Did I know Heath never married? I want to to ask, "Heath who?" but decide not to be rude.
I talk with my childhood best friend Kristi. I also talk with Cal Shear. Cal was a guy I had a huge crush on most of my adolescence. A few days after my sixteenth birthday he asked me out. I made the mistake of asking Candi to double date with us and he dumped me for her. (It didn't help that Heath was like a barnacle and cried that I would date anyone other than him. And since I needed help with algebra...I acted like it wasn't a big deal. Karma is a weird thing though, because Candi dumped Cal after a few months. We both agreed at my grandmother's funeral that he deserved it.)
Memories.
At Maw-Maw's house everyone is gathered to eat and socialize. Frozen lasagna, salads, casseroles, huge jugs of sweet tea, everyone is lined up for the buffet. This reminds me of the social gatherings we had when I was growing up. The only person missing is Maw-Maw.
I sit on the front porch swing. Uncle Jay comes and sits down beside me. Uncle Jay weighs 300+ pounds and I am afraid the swing is going to break. He teases my grandmother's sister in law Dolly about being Pentecostal.
"You shouldn't make fun of her religion," I tell him.
"Whatever," he says spitting out some chewing tobacco over the railing into the yard. "You're in a cult."
My cousin Tamra is here and some of my aunts are whispering about her. Apparently, Tamra left her husband and two kids for an older man who has three kids that she is now raising. A few months ago, Tamra was on the Maury Povich show to talk about having a boyfriend who was controlling.
Traci says only in this family would everyone call each other to tune in to see their own kind humiliate themselves on national television. "I guess it could be worse. She could've been on there getting a paternity test." (We thought this could still be a possibility, but to our own disappointment, Tamra never reappeared on another talk show. We did hear she tried out for Jerry Springer but was not 'trashy' enough. Go figure.)
It is now evening.
Everyone says good-bye. I listen to my aunts fight over my grandmother's items. My sister gives me a "I TOLD YOU SO" look. I grab a few cards and I'm allowed to take a painting that had been mine when I lived with her.
I am tired. I want a good night's sleep before my long plane ride tomorrow. I take one last look around the house and try to tune out the bickering. I don't feel Maw-Maw anywhere.
When I leave, I do not look back.
"That is disgusting," I say.
"Shut your mouth, girl," he says teasingly. "This is good stuff, right here." I make a face as I watch him gulp it down. He kisses Jackie on the cheek and puts his cup in the sink. We watch him walk back to his bedroom. He sits in his recliner and turns up the television as loud as it can go.
"Is he hard of hearing or does he just like to watch TV that loud?"
"He likes it," she says with a laugh.
I lean back in my chair and sip on my hot chocolate. Jackie and I make casual chit-chat.
The evening is somewhat splotchy and I don't remember how the conversation went from joking to Gilbert.
This is what I do remember:
Jackie tells me a few months ago my sister and stepsister were at her house. My sister tells the two of them that Uncle Gilbert touched and kissed her when she was a little girl. Jackie asks me if he had ever did anything inappropriate to me.
I tell her yes. I tell her everything.
To tell the truth about this secret is liberating. No harm can be done to me for telling this truth. She can believe me or not believe me... it doesn't matter anymore. Jackie does believe me and apologizes profusely for not seeing it and stopping it when I was younger.
We decide not to tell my father. Why tell him now? We know what my father would do.
That's what I remember.
On Sunday, the three of us attend a meeting at the Kingdom Hall. The three of us pose for a picture after the meeting. I'm dressed in a black skirt, black maternity top and black heels. I'm in the middle of my father and stepmother. We smile behind the brick building with the sign KINGDOM HALL OF JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES behind our heads.
We eat at the steakhouse I worked when I was sixteen. I recognize a few of the cooks still working there. The restaurant hasn't changed, although the waitresses aren't wearing uniforms...only aprons. I think this is totally unfair.
I pass the booth where I first met Fred. I can see my sixteen year old self and my best friend Kelly talking as we rolled silverware. I can actually hear her give me advice and asking me to babysit her little girl. I wonder where Kelly is now...
We leave and head home. Maw-Maw's funeral is tomorrow. Apparently that morning there had been a family gathering at the funeral home. Grandchildren were asked stories about Maw-Maw that would be part of her eulogy.
I wasn't invited.
I don't remember where I slept on Sunday night. I do not remember how I got to the funeral.
On Monday, I am sitting in the parlor before the funeral. The only one I really speak to is my sister. I do remember asking Tabby if this is harder than when her father died at thirteen. She says this is harder because she is older and was closer to her mother. This will be the last civil conversation we will ever have.
I keep it together until the music starts playing. As a family we stand in a line. We are categorized...children, grandchildren, and then in-laws. Somehow or another I'm shuffled in with the in-laws...which in this family means you aren't real family. My sister moves to be near me. (Our brother is one of the pall bearers.)
As we walk into the chapel and I see Maw-Maw's casket, a sound comes out, almost like a pitiful cry. The sound comes from me. I didn't expect to break, but the finality of everything hits me. This is it. I will never see my grandmother again. This is really GOODBYE.
The pompous preacher speaks. Someone sings Sweet Beulah Land and How Great Thou Art. To this day, I can't hear those hymns without getting choked up.
The funeral is over. We drive to the cemetery. I end up standing, but my brother, bless his heart, sees me standing and offers me his chair.
There is a prayer.
And then it is over.
I see Heath's aunt. She comes over to me and tells me she is sorry and asks me questions. Who did I marry? How many kids do I have? Did I know Heath never married? I want to to ask, "Heath who?" but decide not to be rude.
I talk with my childhood best friend Kristi. I also talk with Cal Shear. Cal was a guy I had a huge crush on most of my adolescence. A few days after my sixteenth birthday he asked me out. I made the mistake of asking Candi to double date with us and he dumped me for her. (It didn't help that Heath was like a barnacle and cried that I would date anyone other than him. And since I needed help with algebra...I acted like it wasn't a big deal. Karma is a weird thing though, because Candi dumped Cal after a few months. We both agreed at my grandmother's funeral that he deserved it.)
Memories.
At Maw-Maw's house everyone is gathered to eat and socialize. Frozen lasagna, salads, casseroles, huge jugs of sweet tea, everyone is lined up for the buffet. This reminds me of the social gatherings we had when I was growing up. The only person missing is Maw-Maw.
I sit on the front porch swing. Uncle Jay comes and sits down beside me. Uncle Jay weighs 300+ pounds and I am afraid the swing is going to break. He teases my grandmother's sister in law Dolly about being Pentecostal.
"You shouldn't make fun of her religion," I tell him.
"Whatever," he says spitting out some chewing tobacco over the railing into the yard. "You're in a cult."
My cousin Tamra is here and some of my aunts are whispering about her. Apparently, Tamra left her husband and two kids for an older man who has three kids that she is now raising. A few months ago, Tamra was on the Maury Povich show to talk about having a boyfriend who was controlling.
Traci says only in this family would everyone call each other to tune in to see their own kind humiliate themselves on national television. "I guess it could be worse. She could've been on there getting a paternity test." (We thought this could still be a possibility, but to our own disappointment, Tamra never reappeared on another talk show. We did hear she tried out for Jerry Springer but was not 'trashy' enough. Go figure.)
It is now evening.
Everyone says good-bye. I listen to my aunts fight over my grandmother's items. My sister gives me a "I TOLD YOU SO" look. I grab a few cards and I'm allowed to take a painting that had been mine when I lived with her.
I am tired. I want a good night's sleep before my long plane ride tomorrow. I take one last look around the house and try to tune out the bickering. I don't feel Maw-Maw anywhere.
When I leave, I do not look back.
Handle With Care (36)
On Saturday morning, I arrive at my Dad and Stepmom's house. I need to spend a little time with them, since I've been spending my days at the hospital and nights at Aunt Sondra's.
Jackie and I talk at the kitchen table. We muse over an issue of The Watchtower. The religion has brought the three of us closer and there is a calming peace between us.
It's a little weird. I'm not so religious that I don't acknowledge this. Somewhere in the midst of our laughter and ease with one another, I hear the theme music for The Twilight Zone.
I walk upstairs to the room that used to be mine and I'm surprised to find it exactly the same as when I left it nine years ago. It's as if time has stood still. The same floral bed spread is draped over the bed. A poster of LL COOL J is taped to the wall, only now it has frayed edges. My jewelry box that Fred gave me is still on the nightstand. I'm slightly disappointed to find it empty. (I can't help but hope...maybe there was a diamond in my past I forgot about.) My hope chest my mother gave me is still at the foot of the bed. I'm immediately brought back to being sixteen years old and start rummaging through things. I open the hope chest and I am shocked to see it is full of items from my teenage years. Everything is still there...journals, day planners, pictures, yearbooks, scrapbooks, and clothes. I doubt my parents have ever bothered to look inside. At the bottom of the chest there are a few condoms and even an empty wrapper of one. This is proof they have never looked inside the chest. I know for a fact if they had found condoms (I know they are my condoms since each one is decorated with: BELONGS TO JAIME KAY... why, I felt the need to label them is beyond me.)I would have heard about it. CONDOMS in a hope chest? This is grounds for a hanging. (Condoms in the night stand would have been forgivable...but never in something as endearing as a hope chest. I'm quite sure this is quoted somewhere in the Bible: "Thou shall not keep condoms used for fornicating in hope chest.")
I open an old journal. The journal begins in 1991 and ends in 1995. I read about the "Treatment Facility", living with Maw-Maw, meeting Fred, the pregnancy, Matthew, and some rather dark passages that shows how sad I really had been. The journal ends on December 29, 1995. I write about being pregnant with my daughter and making plans for my upcoming wedding.
I read my writing:
"I know I'll never be able to explain this to Matthew, but I'm going to be a mother now. My baby will come before any happiness I may have had for myself. It's time to grow up!!!!!
My next diary will be about being a mommy and everything else is not worth remembering!!!!! I may burn this diary because when I read these past entries I'm ashamed. What an idiot! Wouldn't it be great to just burn the past like I can this diary? But seriously...I'm done. So see ya later Diary of moronic and stupid things!"
Inside the diary I find a picture of Matthew and I. I know this is the only picture we had ever taken together. We are both wearing white polo shirts and faded blue jeans. Did we plan this? If so, we succeeded in looking like dorks. We are sitting on a couch and he has his arm around me. I am smiling brightly and he is smirking. By my hair style and color, I know the year is 1994 and probably taken before he left for Washington.
I look happy.
I find a scrap book with three letters from Matthew. Only three. I read each one. He writes about his job, the scenery in Washington, his love for skydiving. The letters do not tell me anything about his feelings for me. It's as if we are pen pals and he is writing to a friend. I try to find something to collaborate my memories of him, but there isn't anything. I only find a few cards that are funny and little notes he scribbled in a hurry.
I push it all aside and look through pictures of me as a baby and toddler. I find school papers and pictures my eighth grade best friend Candi and I took of each other. I laugh. Candi was the 'beautiful and popular' girl in school.For an entire year I had the 'privilege' of being her best friend. Looking at the pictures, I realize something I didn't see back then...I was pretty cute myself. How did I not know it? How did I think I was beneath this other girl? Why didn't someone shake some sense into me back then? Would it have made a difference? If I had believed for one second I was worth something special, would I have chosen a different path? Would I have finished high school and went to my proms because I had every right to be a normal teenager too? I had been deserving enough to have my chance at being a kid. I just didn't believe it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
I can't help but cry. I'm sad. My grandmother is dead. I'm sitting in my old room looking through things to remind me of a past I've worked so hard to forget. Why am I doing this?
I decide to give myself a break and walk downstairs.
What I didn't know is that this haunting of the past is the beginning. I am about to get slapped hard across the face with accusations, lies, and secrets.
Everything will break and tear from the inside out. It would rip in such a way that it will never be able to be pieced back together.
Jackie and I talk at the kitchen table. We muse over an issue of The Watchtower. The religion has brought the three of us closer and there is a calming peace between us.
It's a little weird. I'm not so religious that I don't acknowledge this. Somewhere in the midst of our laughter and ease with one another, I hear the theme music for The Twilight Zone.
I walk upstairs to the room that used to be mine and I'm surprised to find it exactly the same as when I left it nine years ago. It's as if time has stood still. The same floral bed spread is draped over the bed. A poster of LL COOL J is taped to the wall, only now it has frayed edges. My jewelry box that Fred gave me is still on the nightstand. I'm slightly disappointed to find it empty. (I can't help but hope...maybe there was a diamond in my past I forgot about.) My hope chest my mother gave me is still at the foot of the bed. I'm immediately brought back to being sixteen years old and start rummaging through things. I open the hope chest and I am shocked to see it is full of items from my teenage years. Everything is still there...journals, day planners, pictures, yearbooks, scrapbooks, and clothes. I doubt my parents have ever bothered to look inside. At the bottom of the chest there are a few condoms and even an empty wrapper of one. This is proof they have never looked inside the chest. I know for a fact if they had found condoms (I know they are my condoms since each one is decorated with: BELONGS TO JAIME KAY... why, I felt the need to label them is beyond me.)I would have heard about it. CONDOMS in a hope chest? This is grounds for a hanging. (Condoms in the night stand would have been forgivable...but never in something as endearing as a hope chest. I'm quite sure this is quoted somewhere in the Bible: "Thou shall not keep condoms used for fornicating in hope chest.")
I open an old journal. The journal begins in 1991 and ends in 1995. I read about the "Treatment Facility", living with Maw-Maw, meeting Fred, the pregnancy, Matthew, and some rather dark passages that shows how sad I really had been. The journal ends on December 29, 1995. I write about being pregnant with my daughter and making plans for my upcoming wedding.
I read my writing:
"I know I'll never be able to explain this to Matthew, but I'm going to be a mother now. My baby will come before any happiness I may have had for myself. It's time to grow up!!!!!
My next diary will be about being a mommy and everything else is not worth remembering!!!!! I may burn this diary because when I read these past entries I'm ashamed. What an idiot! Wouldn't it be great to just burn the past like I can this diary? But seriously...I'm done. So see ya later Diary of moronic and stupid things!"
Inside the diary I find a picture of Matthew and I. I know this is the only picture we had ever taken together. We are both wearing white polo shirts and faded blue jeans. Did we plan this? If so, we succeeded in looking like dorks. We are sitting on a couch and he has his arm around me. I am smiling brightly and he is smirking. By my hair style and color, I know the year is 1994 and probably taken before he left for Washington.
I look happy.
I find a scrap book with three letters from Matthew. Only three. I read each one. He writes about his job, the scenery in Washington, his love for skydiving. The letters do not tell me anything about his feelings for me. It's as if we are pen pals and he is writing to a friend. I try to find something to collaborate my memories of him, but there isn't anything. I only find a few cards that are funny and little notes he scribbled in a hurry.
I push it all aside and look through pictures of me as a baby and toddler. I find school papers and pictures my eighth grade best friend Candi and I took of each other. I laugh. Candi was the 'beautiful and popular' girl in school.For an entire year I had the 'privilege' of being her best friend. Looking at the pictures, I realize something I didn't see back then...I was pretty cute myself. How did I not know it? How did I think I was beneath this other girl? Why didn't someone shake some sense into me back then? Would it have made a difference? If I had believed for one second I was worth something special, would I have chosen a different path? Would I have finished high school and went to my proms because I had every right to be a normal teenager too? I had been deserving enough to have my chance at being a kid. I just didn't believe it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
I can't help but cry. I'm sad. My grandmother is dead. I'm sitting in my old room looking through things to remind me of a past I've worked so hard to forget. Why am I doing this?
I decide to give myself a break and walk downstairs.
What I didn't know is that this haunting of the past is the beginning. I am about to get slapped hard across the face with accusations, lies, and secrets.
Everything will break and tear from the inside out. It would rip in such a way that it will never be able to be pieced back together.
I Know This Much Is True (35)
Maw-Maw will never wake up. We alternate sitting by her bedside. Around noon, I start to get hungry. Aunt Patrica wants to talk with me. She asks if I will go to lunch with her and Uncle Jay.
She apologizes for snapping at me days ago. I forgive her. She is trying to make amends. I can see this is hard for her, watching her mother die slowly. Despite my problems with my aunts and mother, they are hurting too. They are about to lose their mother. They are dealing with the pain of this and who can blame them for lashing out? I realize I'm an easy target. Aunt Patricia can forget her 'undignified behavior' (as she called it) as soon as I leave. It will be as if it never happened.
Jaime who?
I'm not one of them. They know it. I know it.
The entire time we are eating lunch, the conversation is forced. Uncle Jay was the rich relative I called years ago when I was a single mother. He told me he would get back to me when I asked for help. He never did and we haven't spoke since. Of course, this is never brought up. I can't help but wonder their reaction if I were to take a long sip from my chocolate malt and inquire, "Hey, Uncle Jay, remember when I was almost forced to live on the streets in Alaska and asked to borrow two hundred dollars for a down payment on an apartment? Weren't feeling charitable then, huh? Or were you just broke?" I would laugh...a real Har De Har Har, and then call for the check.
Instead, I smile as they tell me about their European vacations, their new vehicles, their charity work and give them kudos for helping a relative buy a car. I agree with them...they are awesome Christians. They take their What Would Jesus Do? sticker seriously.
We are eating scrambled chili dogs at Dillingham Pharmacy. I can't remember the last time I've had a scrambled chili dog that tastes so good. I concentrate on the food, ignoring them...ignoring the entire reason I am back here in the south eating with my rich relatives. If this chili dog weren't so good, I would be offended. These rich relatives buying me lunch at a pharmacy to say "I'm Sorry" when the day before they ate lunch at a fancy restaurant with other relatives. It proves where I stand, but I don't care. It's that good of a chili dog.
I'm pregnant. She could have given me a plate of M&M's with a side of pickles and I would have forgiven her and then ask for seconds.
Yes, I forgive Aunt Patricia and I too apologize for saying Martha Stewart is Satan. Of course, Martha isn't Satan! I was totally out of line for saying such a thing about someone I don't know. Aunt Patricia agrees. "Martha is a good woman," she says in response to my apology. I belch in response.
Maw-Maw's hospital room is full. I don't recognize half the people there. I wish some of them would leave. They are too loud, laughing and carrying on like idiots. My grandmother could die any second and these idiots are talking about football! Traci and I go out to the waiting room. Uncle Gilbert is watching the news about Iraq. Traci and I discuss the irony of Christians being okay with innocent Iraqi civilians dying.
"They deserve it," Uncle Gilbert tells us.
"Iraq didn't attack us," my sister points out.
"They were in on it," Uncle Gilbert tells us.
"No they weren't! So are you saying God only wants Americans to live? Their lives are not as valuable as ours?" Traci is on a roll and I'm enjoying it. Uncle Gilbert is trying to explain his stance but he takes too long and Traci is now talking about how insurance companies are evil and should be abolished.
We continue to watch the news, Iraq is being bombed. It is horrible. My mom tells me she is scared for me to get on a plane. I tell her it will be fine.
It is evening. The sky is dark. I notice Maw-Maw's legs are turning an odd color. I show Traci her legs. My sister tells me she overheard the nurse saying this would happen. She is losing circulation in her legs and it is moving upwards to her heart. I start to cry and my sister hugs me. For Traci, this type of affection is odd, but so is this situation. Watching someone die is not normal. We are both crying.
I sit by my grandmother. I hold her hand. Aunt Tabby holds her other hand. I will not move and offer my seat to anyone in the room although it is hinted for me to do so. I ignore them. I will not let go of her hand.
Aunt Tabby's preacher walks in. Longer time passes between Maw-Maw's breaths. We know it is soon. I look up to see the stupid, pompous preacher look at his watch. I know Maw-Maw doesn't like this preacher and I'm irate he's even here. He taps his foot impatiently. I glare at him. He notices my glare and stops. He looks at the floor.
"I love you, Maw-Maw" I whisper in her ear. I kiss her cheek. I touch her face, smoothing out her wrinkles. As I stroke her hair, the memories flood to the surface. I see myself at three years old climbing up in her lap and playing with the loose skin on her neck. I remember her laughter when I said that her skin looked like fried chicken. I watched in my mind's eye, Maw-Maw carrying me on her hip, playing with my hair, and scratching my back to help me fall asleep. Maw-Maw taught me about Jesus. When she told me there was a God because He talked with her, I believed her. Maw-Maw never lied so if she says that God exists...I believed. I squeeze her hand. "I still believe, Maw," I whispered.
There is warmth in her hand...but seconds pass and there is a spark. It's quick and her hand is cold. At that moment, the baby inside me moves with such urgency that it is painful. I look at my precious grandmother's face and I know.
Maw-Maw is gone.
I look around the room. Everyone is hugging someone. The baby continues to move inside me and I feel a rush of emotion hitting me at once. I can't breathe, I can't cry, I can't speak. The person who has loved me unconditionally my entire life is gone.
And although, I've known this moment was looming, it is still difficult to be in it. I squeeze her hand tightly...as if the harder I squeeze she would come back.
I do not remember ever letting go of her hand.
She apologizes for snapping at me days ago. I forgive her. She is trying to make amends. I can see this is hard for her, watching her mother die slowly. Despite my problems with my aunts and mother, they are hurting too. They are about to lose their mother. They are dealing with the pain of this and who can blame them for lashing out? I realize I'm an easy target. Aunt Patricia can forget her 'undignified behavior' (as she called it) as soon as I leave. It will be as if it never happened.
Jaime who?
I'm not one of them. They know it. I know it.
The entire time we are eating lunch, the conversation is forced. Uncle Jay was the rich relative I called years ago when I was a single mother. He told me he would get back to me when I asked for help. He never did and we haven't spoke since. Of course, this is never brought up. I can't help but wonder their reaction if I were to take a long sip from my chocolate malt and inquire, "Hey, Uncle Jay, remember when I was almost forced to live on the streets in Alaska and asked to borrow two hundred dollars for a down payment on an apartment? Weren't feeling charitable then, huh? Or were you just broke?" I would laugh...a real Har De Har Har, and then call for the check.
Instead, I smile as they tell me about their European vacations, their new vehicles, their charity work and give them kudos for helping a relative buy a car. I agree with them...they are awesome Christians. They take their What Would Jesus Do? sticker seriously.
We are eating scrambled chili dogs at Dillingham Pharmacy. I can't remember the last time I've had a scrambled chili dog that tastes so good. I concentrate on the food, ignoring them...ignoring the entire reason I am back here in the south eating with my rich relatives. If this chili dog weren't so good, I would be offended. These rich relatives buying me lunch at a pharmacy to say "I'm Sorry" when the day before they ate lunch at a fancy restaurant with other relatives. It proves where I stand, but I don't care. It's that good of a chili dog.
I'm pregnant. She could have given me a plate of M&M's with a side of pickles and I would have forgiven her and then ask for seconds.
Yes, I forgive Aunt Patricia and I too apologize for saying Martha Stewart is Satan. Of course, Martha isn't Satan! I was totally out of line for saying such a thing about someone I don't know. Aunt Patricia agrees. "Martha is a good woman," she says in response to my apology. I belch in response.
Maw-Maw's hospital room is full. I don't recognize half the people there. I wish some of them would leave. They are too loud, laughing and carrying on like idiots. My grandmother could die any second and these idiots are talking about football! Traci and I go out to the waiting room. Uncle Gilbert is watching the news about Iraq. Traci and I discuss the irony of Christians being okay with innocent Iraqi civilians dying.
"They deserve it," Uncle Gilbert tells us.
"Iraq didn't attack us," my sister points out.
"They were in on it," Uncle Gilbert tells us.
"No they weren't! So are you saying God only wants Americans to live? Their lives are not as valuable as ours?" Traci is on a roll and I'm enjoying it. Uncle Gilbert is trying to explain his stance but he takes too long and Traci is now talking about how insurance companies are evil and should be abolished.
We continue to watch the news, Iraq is being bombed. It is horrible. My mom tells me she is scared for me to get on a plane. I tell her it will be fine.
It is evening. The sky is dark. I notice Maw-Maw's legs are turning an odd color. I show Traci her legs. My sister tells me she overheard the nurse saying this would happen. She is losing circulation in her legs and it is moving upwards to her heart. I start to cry and my sister hugs me. For Traci, this type of affection is odd, but so is this situation. Watching someone die is not normal. We are both crying.
I sit by my grandmother. I hold her hand. Aunt Tabby holds her other hand. I will not move and offer my seat to anyone in the room although it is hinted for me to do so. I ignore them. I will not let go of her hand.
Aunt Tabby's preacher walks in. Longer time passes between Maw-Maw's breaths. We know it is soon. I look up to see the stupid, pompous preacher look at his watch. I know Maw-Maw doesn't like this preacher and I'm irate he's even here. He taps his foot impatiently. I glare at him. He notices my glare and stops. He looks at the floor.
"I love you, Maw-Maw" I whisper in her ear. I kiss her cheek. I touch her face, smoothing out her wrinkles. As I stroke her hair, the memories flood to the surface. I see myself at three years old climbing up in her lap and playing with the loose skin on her neck. I remember her laughter when I said that her skin looked like fried chicken. I watched in my mind's eye, Maw-Maw carrying me on her hip, playing with my hair, and scratching my back to help me fall asleep. Maw-Maw taught me about Jesus. When she told me there was a God because He talked with her, I believed her. Maw-Maw never lied so if she says that God exists...I believed. I squeeze her hand. "I still believe, Maw," I whispered.
There is warmth in her hand...but seconds pass and there is a spark. It's quick and her hand is cold. At that moment, the baby inside me moves with such urgency that it is painful. I look at my precious grandmother's face and I know.
Maw-Maw is gone.
I look around the room. Everyone is hugging someone. The baby continues to move inside me and I feel a rush of emotion hitting me at once. I can't breathe, I can't cry, I can't speak. The person who has loved me unconditionally my entire life is gone.
And although, I've known this moment was looming, it is still difficult to be in it. I squeeze her hand tightly...as if the harder I squeeze she would come back.
I do not remember ever letting go of her hand.
The Yellow Sky (34)
The night before my grandmother is to die, I lay on my aunt's cigarette reeked couch and go over in my mind the day's events. Despite my fatigue, I have a hard time falling asleep. The familiarity of my sleeping on a couch in a trailer that smells like filthy cigarette smoke doesn't escape me. It wasn't too long ago that the smell represented so much about my life. Back then, I looked as if I had it all together...from a distance, of course. Smiling sweetly with a southern accent, gracious and kind. Yet, the closer someone would get to me, the truth usually came out.
I was broken. Garbage. Selfish. Bitch. Whore. Liar. I run the list in my mind like a teacher calling roll. I thank God for allowing the blessings in my life, for allowing me to have what I always wanted, but probably didn't deserve. I have a husband who loves me, healthy and beautiful children, a loving home. Yet, deep down, wedged in between my soul and heart, the question remains: Is it real? Am I really the mother who loves her children so much that she would sacrifice everything, including her own life, for them? Am I really the wife who would fight for her husband? Standing by him forever and never in a million years hurt him... because the love...oh the love...is too intense to sacrifice, especially now that this woman knew it really existed.
Is this the real me? Or could it be that I'm an impostor? What if the truth is I am the selfish bitch who never really grew up. Maybe I only care about the pain I endured as a child and can't find closure to move on. What if I wake up one day and decide that I need something else? The thought is painful and I fight back the tears. While I could never imagine my life without my husband and children, I still fear that I will somehow screw it up.
I sleep.
I dream.
I'm in a car. Fred is driving. I smell Drakar, his cologne. I reach out and touch his face. He still looks the same. I'm me. Me today. Pregnant. I look out the window. The sky is a dark blue. I watch in surprise and then delight, as the sky turns from blue, to purple, to red and then yellow. I'm amazed and struck by the beauty of the sky's ever changing colors. I turn to Fred to ask if he notices the sky, but he's gone. Matthew is in the driver's seat. He smiles. I smile back.
"Looking good, kid," he says.
I rub my hands over my pregnant belly. I feel the baby kick. Matthew coughs and then continues to talk.
"I knew you would be okay. Remember when I was driving you home to your dad's house and I said you were going to be successful? Look at you now. You're a mom! You have what you always wanted. You did good, kiddo."
We keep driving. He pulls into a field with a huge movie screen up ahead. "You like drive-in movies?"
"I love drive-in movies! My Aunt Tabby used to take me when I was a little kid. I thought this place closed down."
He nods. It's dark now. The yellow sky is now black and the movie starts. It's full of color, but the movie itself is confusing. It isn't the movie that has my attention. It is the stars in the sky. They're diamonds, shining brightly and these diamond shaped stars are chirping like birds.
"It's great isn't it? Stars sing when someone's soul is about to pass over."
"Pass where?"
The chirping turns into a ringing sound. It gets louder.
"The phone is ringing, Jaime." I look to see Matthew pointing and I wake up.
My Aunt Sondra is on the phone. "We'll be there soon," I hear her say.
I sit up and we look at each other.
Finally, she says, "They say she doesn't have long."
I don't say a word. I head to the bathroom to get dressed.
We drive to the hospital in silence. I look up at the sky and notice the sun is shining brightly and gives it a pale yellow tint. I squint and my vision blurs from the sun. I close my eyes and I see diamonds in the shape of stars. When we get out of the car to walk into the hospital... birds are chirping.
I was broken. Garbage. Selfish. Bitch. Whore. Liar. I run the list in my mind like a teacher calling roll. I thank God for allowing the blessings in my life, for allowing me to have what I always wanted, but probably didn't deserve. I have a husband who loves me, healthy and beautiful children, a loving home. Yet, deep down, wedged in between my soul and heart, the question remains: Is it real? Am I really the mother who loves her children so much that she would sacrifice everything, including her own life, for them? Am I really the wife who would fight for her husband? Standing by him forever and never in a million years hurt him... because the love...oh the love...is too intense to sacrifice, especially now that this woman knew it really existed.
Is this the real me? Or could it be that I'm an impostor? What if the truth is I am the selfish bitch who never really grew up. Maybe I only care about the pain I endured as a child and can't find closure to move on. What if I wake up one day and decide that I need something else? The thought is painful and I fight back the tears. While I could never imagine my life without my husband and children, I still fear that I will somehow screw it up.
I sleep.
I dream.
I'm in a car. Fred is driving. I smell Drakar, his cologne. I reach out and touch his face. He still looks the same. I'm me. Me today. Pregnant. I look out the window. The sky is a dark blue. I watch in surprise and then delight, as the sky turns from blue, to purple, to red and then yellow. I'm amazed and struck by the beauty of the sky's ever changing colors. I turn to Fred to ask if he notices the sky, but he's gone. Matthew is in the driver's seat. He smiles. I smile back.
"Looking good, kid," he says.
I rub my hands over my pregnant belly. I feel the baby kick. Matthew coughs and then continues to talk.
"I knew you would be okay. Remember when I was driving you home to your dad's house and I said you were going to be successful? Look at you now. You're a mom! You have what you always wanted. You did good, kiddo."
We keep driving. He pulls into a field with a huge movie screen up ahead. "You like drive-in movies?"
"I love drive-in movies! My Aunt Tabby used to take me when I was a little kid. I thought this place closed down."
He nods. It's dark now. The yellow sky is now black and the movie starts. It's full of color, but the movie itself is confusing. It isn't the movie that has my attention. It is the stars in the sky. They're diamonds, shining brightly and these diamond shaped stars are chirping like birds.
"It's great isn't it? Stars sing when someone's soul is about to pass over."
"Pass where?"
The chirping turns into a ringing sound. It gets louder.
"The phone is ringing, Jaime." I look to see Matthew pointing and I wake up.
My Aunt Sondra is on the phone. "We'll be there soon," I hear her say.
I sit up and we look at each other.
Finally, she says, "They say she doesn't have long."
I don't say a word. I head to the bathroom to get dressed.
We drive to the hospital in silence. I look up at the sky and notice the sun is shining brightly and gives it a pale yellow tint. I squint and my vision blurs from the sun. I close my eyes and I see diamonds in the shape of stars. When we get out of the car to walk into the hospital... birds are chirping.
Thursday
The Final Conversation (33)
The house is muggy and damp. But it still smells like her. This is Maw-Maw's house.
My sister Traci and I walk into the house. We are whispering to each other which is silly...no one is here. We are easily spooked which is also silly. Maw-Maw isn't dead, we say.
We do not say that she could be soon.
It is hard for me to believe this, despite what the doctors and nurses have told us. Maw-Maw was talking this morning and a few of us leaned over her bed for pictures. She could snap out of it and be well. She could live another decade or even two decades.
It is Thursday afternoon and my sister and I have left the hospital. We have decided to visit Maw-Maw's house. We've told no one where we are going.
We head to Maw-Maw's bedroom and open up the last drawer in her dresser. The picture drawer. And just like we had done when we were kids, we took out each picture. We spend the next couple of hours looking at our Mom and her sisters as children and teenagers. We pour over thousands...including pictures of us when we were little. I find cards from me and even a card from Matthew. He had given Maw-Maw a card before he left for Washington.
"I forgot all about him giving her a card," I tell my sister.
She rolls her eyes. "You and your boyfriends," she teases. I ignore her. I pick up a picture of our parents when they were dating. Our mother was nineteen, our father twenty-one.
"It's hard to believe our parents were ever that young," I say.
"Yeah, hate and beer will age you."
My sister. She has a way with words.
"You know," she says holding up a picture of our mother as a senior in high school, "You should really take something of Maw-Maw's while you have the chance. Otherwise, it's all going to be gone."
I shake my head no. "No. She's alive. I can't."
"Suit yourself."
We put all the pictures back and did a search through the house to make sure everything was in its place. We are standing in the living room when a gust of cold wind blows right through us.
We both stare at each other. "Did you feel that?" Traci stutters.
I nod. "I think we should leave now," I whisper.
We are walking towards the door when we hear the kitchen floor squeak as if someone is walking on it.
"I'm NOT going in there to look!" I say and I push her out the door.
We run down the stairs of the porch and into Traci's car. Safely inside and half a mile down the road we look at each other. Traci, always artistic and colorful with her choice of words, belts out a few expletives.
"It would be just like her to die and haunt us for messing around with her pictures," Traci says.
We walk timidly into the hospital and enter her room. We are almost in tears because we think our grandmother has died. We are quite relieved to see her sitting up in bed.
"Hi Maw-Maw!" we say cheerfully. She eyes us up and down and says, "You two put all those pictures back in my dresser? I didn't see you lock my front door. I hope you locked it!"
Traci and I look at each other. Our eyes ask the question: "How did she know?"
Before we can recover, Maw-Maw changes the subject and asks us where her Momma went.
Traci tells Maw-Maw that her mother is at her house looking through her chester drawers. "You know, for pot, Maw-Maw. Making sure you aren't smoking the good stuff."
Maw-Maw points a finger at her. "You're a bad one."
"Hey, it's your mother messing with your stuff, Maw-Maw."
Maw-Maw snickers. "Bad young'uns you two be teasing a dying old woman. You should be ashamed."
Traci sighs. "You'd think so, Maw-Maw. Shame is damaging to the skin. Causes wrinkles. You know what I mean about wrinkles."
We laugh and she snickers. "I love you two," she says.
"We love you," we tell her.
In a few minutes she's asleep again.
This would be our last conversation with our grandmother.
My sister Traci and I walk into the house. We are whispering to each other which is silly...no one is here. We are easily spooked which is also silly. Maw-Maw isn't dead, we say.
We do not say that she could be soon.
It is hard for me to believe this, despite what the doctors and nurses have told us. Maw-Maw was talking this morning and a few of us leaned over her bed for pictures. She could snap out of it and be well. She could live another decade or even two decades.
It is Thursday afternoon and my sister and I have left the hospital. We have decided to visit Maw-Maw's house. We've told no one where we are going.
We head to Maw-Maw's bedroom and open up the last drawer in her dresser. The picture drawer. And just like we had done when we were kids, we took out each picture. We spend the next couple of hours looking at our Mom and her sisters as children and teenagers. We pour over thousands...including pictures of us when we were little. I find cards from me and even a card from Matthew. He had given Maw-Maw a card before he left for Washington.
"I forgot all about him giving her a card," I tell my sister.
She rolls her eyes. "You and your boyfriends," she teases. I ignore her. I pick up a picture of our parents when they were dating. Our mother was nineteen, our father twenty-one.
"It's hard to believe our parents were ever that young," I say.
"Yeah, hate and beer will age you."
My sister. She has a way with words.
"You know," she says holding up a picture of our mother as a senior in high school, "You should really take something of Maw-Maw's while you have the chance. Otherwise, it's all going to be gone."
I shake my head no. "No. She's alive. I can't."
"Suit yourself."
We put all the pictures back and did a search through the house to make sure everything was in its place. We are standing in the living room when a gust of cold wind blows right through us.
We both stare at each other. "Did you feel that?" Traci stutters.
I nod. "I think we should leave now," I whisper.
We are walking towards the door when we hear the kitchen floor squeak as if someone is walking on it.
"I'm NOT going in there to look!" I say and I push her out the door.
We run down the stairs of the porch and into Traci's car. Safely inside and half a mile down the road we look at each other. Traci, always artistic and colorful with her choice of words, belts out a few expletives.
"It would be just like her to die and haunt us for messing around with her pictures," Traci says.
We walk timidly into the hospital and enter her room. We are almost in tears because we think our grandmother has died. We are quite relieved to see her sitting up in bed.
"Hi Maw-Maw!" we say cheerfully. She eyes us up and down and says, "You two put all those pictures back in my dresser? I didn't see you lock my front door. I hope you locked it!"
Traci and I look at each other. Our eyes ask the question: "How did she know?"
Before we can recover, Maw-Maw changes the subject and asks us where her Momma went.
Traci tells Maw-Maw that her mother is at her house looking through her chester drawers. "You know, for pot, Maw-Maw. Making sure you aren't smoking the good stuff."
Maw-Maw points a finger at her. "You're a bad one."
"Hey, it's your mother messing with your stuff, Maw-Maw."
Maw-Maw snickers. "Bad young'uns you two be teasing a dying old woman. You should be ashamed."
Traci sighs. "You'd think so, Maw-Maw. Shame is damaging to the skin. Causes wrinkles. You know what I mean about wrinkles."
We laugh and she snickers. "I love you two," she says.
"We love you," we tell her.
In a few minutes she's asleep again.
This would be our last conversation with our grandmother.
Friday
Momma (32)
I sit in the corner of my grandmother's hospital room. I am an invisible creature, eavesdropping in a cotton of harsh and loud individuals. I'm quiet now. I'm not forthcoming to discuss my husband and my children. I am protective, shielding them from some unspoken judgment. My husband and children are damned for all eternity for being linked to me. This is what is believed. This is what they have accepted as fact.
An older gentleman walks into my grandmother's hospital room. He is visiting my grandmother and starts a conversation with my Aunt Patricia. My grandmother sleeps. The gentleman and my aunt have a nice conversation. They laugh. She thinks he is kind and thoughtful to visit her mother. She asks which church he belongs to.
I cringe. I already know the answer.
He swallows and coughs. He tells her he is one of Jehovah's Witnesses.
Her face turns into a hateful frown. Aunt Tabby who was listening to the conversation, sharing in the laughter moments before, abruptly leaves in a huff. My Aunt Patricia tells the man he is not welcomed and to not come back.
When he leaves, I sink into my chair as if I'm a child awaiting punishment. I did not ask the man to come to the hospital. I do not even know him. My father and stepmother who have been studying with the Jehovah's Witnesses for the last year asked him to pray for my grandmother. He knew my grandmother as he and his wife had been visiting her for the past year. My grandmother never told her daughters.
Aunt Patricia eyes me coldly. My grandmother stirs. I move my chair to be closer to her. I hold her hand and ignore my aunt.
Aunt Patricia leaves the room, most likely to find Tabby and discuss what they need to do to save their souls from being exposed to a Jehovah's Witness in such close proximity. I am alone with my grandmother. This will be the first and only time I'm alone with her during this week.
"I love you, Maw-Maw," I whisper.
She's weaker and nods. "Momma is here," she tells me. "Do you see Momma?"
I don't say anything. She squeezes my hand harder. "Do you see Momma, Jaime Kay? Say something to Momma!"
"Um, hi Momma?" It comes out in a confused question.
She drifts off to sleep, content. I look around the room. A stack of cards lying on a shelf falls to the floor. I pick them up and read the first card. The front of the card reads, "I Love You, Momma."
The curtains move and I feel a cold breeze rush through me. My arms are covered with goosebumps. I am only dimly aware of a few people entering the room and I shuffle back to my corner, still holding the card.
I Love You, Momma.
An older gentleman walks into my grandmother's hospital room. He is visiting my grandmother and starts a conversation with my Aunt Patricia. My grandmother sleeps. The gentleman and my aunt have a nice conversation. They laugh. She thinks he is kind and thoughtful to visit her mother. She asks which church he belongs to.
I cringe. I already know the answer.
He swallows and coughs. He tells her he is one of Jehovah's Witnesses.
Her face turns into a hateful frown. Aunt Tabby who was listening to the conversation, sharing in the laughter moments before, abruptly leaves in a huff. My Aunt Patricia tells the man he is not welcomed and to not come back.
When he leaves, I sink into my chair as if I'm a child awaiting punishment. I did not ask the man to come to the hospital. I do not even know him. My father and stepmother who have been studying with the Jehovah's Witnesses for the last year asked him to pray for my grandmother. He knew my grandmother as he and his wife had been visiting her for the past year. My grandmother never told her daughters.
Aunt Patricia eyes me coldly. My grandmother stirs. I move my chair to be closer to her. I hold her hand and ignore my aunt.
Aunt Patricia leaves the room, most likely to find Tabby and discuss what they need to do to save their souls from being exposed to a Jehovah's Witness in such close proximity. I am alone with my grandmother. This will be the first and only time I'm alone with her during this week.
"I love you, Maw-Maw," I whisper.
She's weaker and nods. "Momma is here," she tells me. "Do you see Momma?"
I don't say anything. She squeezes my hand harder. "Do you see Momma, Jaime Kay? Say something to Momma!"
"Um, hi Momma?" It comes out in a confused question.
She drifts off to sleep, content. I look around the room. A stack of cards lying on a shelf falls to the floor. I pick them up and read the first card. The front of the card reads, "I Love You, Momma."
The curtains move and I feel a cold breeze rush through me. My arms are covered with goosebumps. I am only dimly aware of a few people entering the room and I shuffle back to my corner, still holding the card.
I Love You, Momma.
Tuesday
Hell Was Paved With Good Intentions (31)
It doesn’t take me long to realize how out of sync I am with the family, but when you think about it, I never was really in sync with any of them. I am an outsider. There is resentment that stirs around the room until it smacks me in the face, catching me off guard.
I stay with my Aunt Sandra and her husband in their small single-wide trailer. My uncle smokes so it doesn’t take long for everything I own to smell like cigarettes.
Tuesday morning, Aunt Sandra and I wake up early and head to the hospital. We watch the news before we leave, getting updates about the potential invasion into Iraq if Hussein doesn’t surrender. “It’s like the end of the world,” my aunt tells me.
Her words brought me back to that early morning on September 11, 2001. My son, Jacob was only three months old. I was up early nursing him when my phone rang. It was a little after five in the morning, Alaska Time, and the phone startled me. It was my friend Chandra calling. She was living in Nebraska and called to tell me about a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers. “It’s Armageddon!” she cried. I turned on the news and we both watched together as the second plane hit. It all seemed surreal to me. The world... as many Americans knew it... was destroyed forever. While the outside world was falling in horrible chaos and destruction, I was in my home, nursing my innocent baby boy.
The statue of Mother Mary with her hands over her heart greets us as we enter the hospital. I take a second to look at the statue. She seems to represent everything in my life I’ve always wanted: goodness and peace.
Maw-Maw is alert today. Her room is already full of visitors. I recognize Martha, the wife of my mother’s cousin. I don’t like her. She’s haughty and arrogant. She’s very “Baptist”. My sister told me when the family found out I was one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, she was the most outspoken. Her words were along the lines of my being in a cult and because of me, my children would burn forever in Hell. Of course, she said it in a way that was very Christian and Jesus-like.
Martha doesn’t speak to me, just gives me a curt nod. I take this gesture as my cue to say something. So I begin with a joke by saying, "It isn't contagious, you know.”
My statement is regarding being a Jehovah’s Witness, but she takes it to mean my pregnancy. I’m aware that she’s infertile and unable to have children. I sense there may be some tears about to shed, or maybe I’ve imagined the entire scenario. Maybe the look of hurt is only her repulsion by a Jehovah’s Witness speaking to her and she fears for her salvation. At any rate, I start chattering away to her as if she's remotely interested. I'm relieved when she excuses herself, mentioning something about a prayer group for 'Lost Souls.'
"How do you go about losing and finding souls?" I ask. My sister and I both chuckle. Aunt Tabby and Aunt Patricia are not amused, but Maw-Maw who overheard the comment laughs along with us.
Martha leaves in a little bit of a huff.
I look at Traci and say, "Was it something I said?" We both snicker and under my breath I say, "She needs to take the cross out of her butt before she gets hemorrhoids." Again... we laugh. We laugh even harder when Maw-Maw says hemorrhoids are not a laughing matter. They can actually be quite dangerous and she wouldn't wish them on anyone.
I sit by Maw-Maw and ask her how she’s doing. “It’s bout time you got here, girlie,” she says to me. She is very tiny; her bones feel brittle when I hold her hand. I kiss her cheek. She still smells the same. Sands and Sable perfume and Oil of Olay.
Sitting on the far end of the wall, is Aunt Tabby. She’s overweight and her face is plastered with ten pounds of makeup. Picture, if you will, Tammy Faye Bakker, fifty pounds heavier with a face frozen in a scowl as if she just ate a lemon. Her hair is short and brown with frosted highlights enhanced with a puffy perm. She’s the typical southern stereo-type of a woman, lots of makeup and lots of poundage. The icy tension between us is hard to ignore, but we both manage. She hasn’t spoken to me since I joined the religion. In her mind, I own a timeshare in the glorious mountains of Hell.
Since being away from my family, I’ve changed. I’m a married woman and have slowly started to recognize pieces of my own identity. I have a quick sense of humor and I’m told by others I’m insightful. I realize the person I am today is not what these people in the hospital want to see. They refuse to see me as anything but the reckless and damaged seventeen year old.
The next day, I walk into Maw-Maw’s room to find my teenage cousin, two of her friends, and my aunts in the room. No one offers me a place to sit or even acknowledges my presence. I stand around for about fifteen minutes, but with Maw-Maw being asleep, I decide to leave the room and find a couch in the waiting area.
My back hurts and I’m tired. I lie down and fall asleep. My father wakes me up. He’s on his lunch break and came by the hospital to visit his former mother in law. He has found me sleeping and tells me I should go home to his house. “No need for you to be here sleeping on this couch in your condition.” I tell him I’m okay. He isn't convinced and tells me to call him and he will pick me up. His concern touches my heart and I promise I will call him if I get tired.
The nap seems to be what I needed. I feel positive and make my way back to my grandmother’s room. Aunt Patricia is turning the television. A Baby’s Story is on and both Aunt Tabby and I say at the same time to keep it on that channel. Aunt Patricia changes it anyway and turns it on Martha Stewart.
Jokingly, I tell her Martha is a domestic version of Satan and please do not expose my unborn baby to her over the top culinary skills.
She turns to me and snaps that if I want to watch television I could go and watch it out in the waiting room.
“No one even needs you here. We've been doing just fine without you and don't want or need you here now." She says it loudly and I look over at my grandmother who is awake and has heard what my aunt has said.
I’m crushed. For the past couple of days, I've allowed myself to pretend I was one of them, only if it was for the sake of my grandmother. I don't say anything. I fight back the tears and walk out of the room. My heart is heavy and as soon as I make it to the hall, the tears begin to fall.
I walk around the hospital until I find the chapel. I walk in and sit down. I look up at the Crucifix. I'm crying, my stomach tight, the baby feeling my emotions.
“Is it so wrong that I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, God? After everything I’ve done and been, aren’t I serving You in the way I’m supposed to? Is this what I need? Why did she have to be like that right now? Why can’t I just have these last remaining days with Maw-Maw in peace? Why can't they just pretend I'm a part of the family at least for right now?" The prayer comes out in one long sentence and I'm out of breath.
"I just want to go home," I whisper.
A gentle voice tells me to be strong, but the feeling of hopelessness still overwhelms me.
I stay with my Aunt Sandra and her husband in their small single-wide trailer. My uncle smokes so it doesn’t take long for everything I own to smell like cigarettes.
Tuesday morning, Aunt Sandra and I wake up early and head to the hospital. We watch the news before we leave, getting updates about the potential invasion into Iraq if Hussein doesn’t surrender. “It’s like the end of the world,” my aunt tells me.
Her words brought me back to that early morning on September 11, 2001. My son, Jacob was only three months old. I was up early nursing him when my phone rang. It was a little after five in the morning, Alaska Time, and the phone startled me. It was my friend Chandra calling. She was living in Nebraska and called to tell me about a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers. “It’s Armageddon!” she cried. I turned on the news and we both watched together as the second plane hit. It all seemed surreal to me. The world... as many Americans knew it... was destroyed forever. While the outside world was falling in horrible chaos and destruction, I was in my home, nursing my innocent baby boy.
The statue of Mother Mary with her hands over her heart greets us as we enter the hospital. I take a second to look at the statue. She seems to represent everything in my life I’ve always wanted: goodness and peace.
Maw-Maw is alert today. Her room is already full of visitors. I recognize Martha, the wife of my mother’s cousin. I don’t like her. She’s haughty and arrogant. She’s very “Baptist”. My sister told me when the family found out I was one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, she was the most outspoken. Her words were along the lines of my being in a cult and because of me, my children would burn forever in Hell. Of course, she said it in a way that was very Christian and Jesus-like.
Martha doesn’t speak to me, just gives me a curt nod. I take this gesture as my cue to say something. So I begin with a joke by saying, "It isn't contagious, you know.”
My statement is regarding being a Jehovah’s Witness, but she takes it to mean my pregnancy. I’m aware that she’s infertile and unable to have children. I sense there may be some tears about to shed, or maybe I’ve imagined the entire scenario. Maybe the look of hurt is only her repulsion by a Jehovah’s Witness speaking to her and she fears for her salvation. At any rate, I start chattering away to her as if she's remotely interested. I'm relieved when she excuses herself, mentioning something about a prayer group for 'Lost Souls.'
"How do you go about losing and finding souls?" I ask. My sister and I both chuckle. Aunt Tabby and Aunt Patricia are not amused, but Maw-Maw who overheard the comment laughs along with us.
Martha leaves in a little bit of a huff.
I look at Traci and say, "Was it something I said?" We both snicker and under my breath I say, "She needs to take the cross out of her butt before she gets hemorrhoids." Again... we laugh. We laugh even harder when Maw-Maw says hemorrhoids are not a laughing matter. They can actually be quite dangerous and she wouldn't wish them on anyone.
I sit by Maw-Maw and ask her how she’s doing. “It’s bout time you got here, girlie,” she says to me. She is very tiny; her bones feel brittle when I hold her hand. I kiss her cheek. She still smells the same. Sands and Sable perfume and Oil of Olay.
Sitting on the far end of the wall, is Aunt Tabby. She’s overweight and her face is plastered with ten pounds of makeup. Picture, if you will, Tammy Faye Bakker, fifty pounds heavier with a face frozen in a scowl as if she just ate a lemon. Her hair is short and brown with frosted highlights enhanced with a puffy perm. She’s the typical southern stereo-type of a woman, lots of makeup and lots of poundage. The icy tension between us is hard to ignore, but we both manage. She hasn’t spoken to me since I joined the religion. In her mind, I own a timeshare in the glorious mountains of Hell.
Since being away from my family, I’ve changed. I’m a married woman and have slowly started to recognize pieces of my own identity. I have a quick sense of humor and I’m told by others I’m insightful. I realize the person I am today is not what these people in the hospital want to see. They refuse to see me as anything but the reckless and damaged seventeen year old.
The next day, I walk into Maw-Maw’s room to find my teenage cousin, two of her friends, and my aunts in the room. No one offers me a place to sit or even acknowledges my presence. I stand around for about fifteen minutes, but with Maw-Maw being asleep, I decide to leave the room and find a couch in the waiting area.
My back hurts and I’m tired. I lie down and fall asleep. My father wakes me up. He’s on his lunch break and came by the hospital to visit his former mother in law. He has found me sleeping and tells me I should go home to his house. “No need for you to be here sleeping on this couch in your condition.” I tell him I’m okay. He isn't convinced and tells me to call him and he will pick me up. His concern touches my heart and I promise I will call him if I get tired.
The nap seems to be what I needed. I feel positive and make my way back to my grandmother’s room. Aunt Patricia is turning the television. A Baby’s Story is on and both Aunt Tabby and I say at the same time to keep it on that channel. Aunt Patricia changes it anyway and turns it on Martha Stewart.
Jokingly, I tell her Martha is a domestic version of Satan and please do not expose my unborn baby to her over the top culinary skills.
She turns to me and snaps that if I want to watch television I could go and watch it out in the waiting room.
“No one even needs you here. We've been doing just fine without you and don't want or need you here now." She says it loudly and I look over at my grandmother who is awake and has heard what my aunt has said.
I’m crushed. For the past couple of days, I've allowed myself to pretend I was one of them, only if it was for the sake of my grandmother. I don't say anything. I fight back the tears and walk out of the room. My heart is heavy and as soon as I make it to the hall, the tears begin to fall.
I walk around the hospital until I find the chapel. I walk in and sit down. I look up at the Crucifix. I'm crying, my stomach tight, the baby feeling my emotions.
“Is it so wrong that I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, God? After everything I’ve done and been, aren’t I serving You in the way I’m supposed to? Is this what I need? Why did she have to be like that right now? Why can’t I just have these last remaining days with Maw-Maw in peace? Why can't they just pretend I'm a part of the family at least for right now?" The prayer comes out in one long sentence and I'm out of breath.
"I just want to go home," I whisper.
A gentle voice tells me to be strong, but the feeling of hopelessness still overwhelms me.
Friday
Going Back (30)
March 2003
I’m in the Chicago airport on my way to Atlanta. I’m sitting in the waiting area watching CNN. President Bush is giving Saddam Hussein 48 hours to surrender. I’m nervous about flying and watching the news isn't helping ease my fears. It is apparent our country is about to head into war. This is the worst possible time for me to be flying. Paranoid and hormonal, I can't help but fear that the terrorists will find a way back into the airports and hijack planes. Most likely, they will hijack the plane I will be on. I look around the airport and sigh heavily. Paranoia and pregnancy are not a good mixture.
I lean back in the uncomfortable chair and rub my belly. My back is already aching and my feet are swollen. I turn to the seat next to me and see a middle-aged woman with yellow blonde hair. She's wearing a purple sweater and blue jeans. She’s reading what looks like to be the Bible. On second look, I see it is The Book of Mormon.
She looks back at me and smiles. “How far along?” She nods at my belly.
“Six months,” I say. I make a notion to her book and ask, “You’re Mormon?”
“Yes. Are you?”
I shake my head. “I called the 1-800 number once to get a free copy of the book but it never came. The lady told me she’d send missionaries over, but they never showed up. I ended up as a Jehovah’s Witness.” The way I spilled it out, she hesitates to see if I am joking. Then she smiles again and asks if I still want a copy of my own.
“Maybe.” I change the subject.
We talk until our flight is called. We discuss the way the world views the two religions. I comment how different things could’ve been if the missionaries had shown up. Not that I really believe that some kid named Joseph talked with God and Jesus. And what exactly is so wrong with coffee? Obviously, Mr. Smith never had a skinny peppermint vanilla latte, which I consider to be as close to Heaven as any drink could be.
She picks up my bag and hands it to me, “Maybe it just wasn’t your time yet. Keep praying.”
My stepmother picks me up from the airport along with my Aunt Viola, my father’s sister. I’m sore from the long flight. They take me straight to the hospital to see my grandmother.
It is Monday evening. Maw-Maw had been asking about me all weekend. She keeps asking when Jaime Kay will be coming home. She is sleeping when I walk in. I touch her arm and her eyes open. She smiles. “Jaime Kay!” she exclaims. I lean forward to hug her. She is smaller and more fragile than I remember. It’s been six years since I have seen her.
"I'm home, Maw-Maw," I whisper in her ear. "I'm home."
Tuesday
Unprepared (29)
March 2003
I am twenty-six years old with three kids under the age of seven and one on the way. My daughter is six, my sons are two and three years old. Ian is working two jobs so I am able to stay at home with our children. We have one car and live in a modest three bedroom townhouse with a huge dining room I've turned into a playroom. I run a home daycare to help with expenses. Usually, there are about seven to eight children playing in our home and if I'm not feeding/burping a baby, I'm usually cleaning puke, poop, or something unrecognizable off a baby and sometimes myself. (Babies have great aim.) A few minutes ago, my two year old has managed to stuff bread into the VCR and my three year old is eating dirt. It isn't the eating of the dirt that bothers me as much as it is the fact he's actually enjoying it.
In July of 2000, I was baptized as one of Jehovah's Witnesses in front of about three thousand people during an Assembly. For the children and I to attend the weekly meetings, I must take Ian to work for use of the car and then pick him back up at 2am when his shift ends. It isn't ideal, but somehow, I try to make it work. (Although, I am constantly asking...okay whining...about us getting another car. But it is okay that I whine. I'm pregnant and allowed.)
For the most part, I do not question the beliefs of the Witnesses, but I do have lingering doubts that I keep to myself. I cannot in good conscience, grasp certain doctrine, but because of friendships and a worry that I will be considered 'Apostate,' I keep my doubts and questions to myself.
My parents and aunts were not happy about my decision to be one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Some refuse to talk with me. This isn't as difficult as it could have been. The fact that I am living in Alaska, across the country from them, lessens the sting of being 'cut off.' Ian is tolerant, but not thrilled of my being in this religion. He doesn't like that we do not have a Christmas tree during Christmas, but he loves me. He understands how important the religion is to me. (This doesn't stop the wisecracks. Sometimes he jokes that his wife is in the 'Witless Program')
We do not have a lot of money. In fact, every month we scrounge up to pay the rent. Sometimes I cry in the bathroom so the kids do not hear. To make extra money, I sell books on E-Bay and join a direct sales company. I want to contribute to our finances. I don't want my husband working two jobs for the rest of our lives.
For the past two years, I work on a Yahoo website that I created called ChaseNKids.com. My website skills are limited and the site is amateur at best, but after the kids are in bed, I find working on this site a much needed creative outlet. My husband is encouraging, constantly telling me to write when I can. The problem these days is time. When the kids are sleeping...I'm usually sleeping with them. If I write three sentences in a 24 hour period, I consider this a success.
Maw-Maw and I talk regularly. When my father voiced his disapproval of my having a fourth baby and that I was ‘messing up my life’ by having so many kids, my grandmother told me not to listen to him. “You have as many babies as you want,” she told me, but then added, “As long as you’re paying for them yourself.”
As the years have continued to go by, I know Maw-Maw isn't going to be around forever, however, I do not believe it. We talk on the phone weekly. Maw-Maw likes to tell me the plot to her 'stories' which are soap operas. Sometimes I confuse them with actual people she knows and wind up opening the door to a lengthy conversation about those 'fellas' in the mob that live in Port Charles.
Maw-Maw comments about never seeing 'those babies'. She asks if we will visit. The truth is we want to visit, but money is an issue. I tell her we are working on it. "Soon, Maw-Maw," I tell her, "Soon."
"Well, hurry it up. I ain't going to be living forever."
It has been six years since I left Alabama. When I think back to my childhood, it is almost as if it happened to someone else. I am a mother now. I'm married to the love of my life. It is true we do not have a lot of money, but the life I live...this life...is a miracle. There is a love in our home I didn't experience growing up. There is a contentment my children have that I couldn't have imagined as a child.
We have parties and invite our friends. There are dinners, bookclubs, and playgroups. To talk with me is to talk with someone that has it together, despite the milk stains on her shirt and chasing a two year old who has stuffed a cheerio up his nose. In my world, the 'Mommy World' this is considered normal, and I'm just keeping it real.
I'm unprepared when I get the call. I don't imagine Maw-Maw ever being so sick that she will leave this Earth. I'm not ready to let her go.
But the call still comes, despite my not being ready. I am six months pregnant. It is Friday morning and I'm told she doesn't have long.
When I hang up the phone, I look at my husband who is standing beside me. We don't speak. He just holds me as I cry.
I am twenty-six years old with three kids under the age of seven and one on the way. My daughter is six, my sons are two and three years old. Ian is working two jobs so I am able to stay at home with our children. We have one car and live in a modest three bedroom townhouse with a huge dining room I've turned into a playroom. I run a home daycare to help with expenses. Usually, there are about seven to eight children playing in our home and if I'm not feeding/burping a baby, I'm usually cleaning puke, poop, or something unrecognizable off a baby and sometimes myself. (Babies have great aim.) A few minutes ago, my two year old has managed to stuff bread into the VCR and my three year old is eating dirt. It isn't the eating of the dirt that bothers me as much as it is the fact he's actually enjoying it.
In July of 2000, I was baptized as one of Jehovah's Witnesses in front of about three thousand people during an Assembly. For the children and I to attend the weekly meetings, I must take Ian to work for use of the car and then pick him back up at 2am when his shift ends. It isn't ideal, but somehow, I try to make it work. (Although, I am constantly asking...okay whining...about us getting another car. But it is okay that I whine. I'm pregnant and allowed.)
For the most part, I do not question the beliefs of the Witnesses, but I do have lingering doubts that I keep to myself. I cannot in good conscience, grasp certain doctrine, but because of friendships and a worry that I will be considered 'Apostate,' I keep my doubts and questions to myself.
My parents and aunts were not happy about my decision to be one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Some refuse to talk with me. This isn't as difficult as it could have been. The fact that I am living in Alaska, across the country from them, lessens the sting of being 'cut off.' Ian is tolerant, but not thrilled of my being in this religion. He doesn't like that we do not have a Christmas tree during Christmas, but he loves me. He understands how important the religion is to me. (This doesn't stop the wisecracks. Sometimes he jokes that his wife is in the 'Witless Program')
We do not have a lot of money. In fact, every month we scrounge up to pay the rent. Sometimes I cry in the bathroom so the kids do not hear. To make extra money, I sell books on E-Bay and join a direct sales company. I want to contribute to our finances. I don't want my husband working two jobs for the rest of our lives.
For the past two years, I work on a Yahoo website that I created called ChaseNKids.com. My website skills are limited and the site is amateur at best, but after the kids are in bed, I find working on this site a much needed creative outlet. My husband is encouraging, constantly telling me to write when I can. The problem these days is time. When the kids are sleeping...I'm usually sleeping with them. If I write three sentences in a 24 hour period, I consider this a success.
Maw-Maw and I talk regularly. When my father voiced his disapproval of my having a fourth baby and that I was ‘messing up my life’ by having so many kids, my grandmother told me not to listen to him. “You have as many babies as you want,” she told me, but then added, “As long as you’re paying for them yourself.”
As the years have continued to go by, I know Maw-Maw isn't going to be around forever, however, I do not believe it. We talk on the phone weekly. Maw-Maw likes to tell me the plot to her 'stories' which are soap operas. Sometimes I confuse them with actual people she knows and wind up opening the door to a lengthy conversation about those 'fellas' in the mob that live in Port Charles.
Maw-Maw comments about never seeing 'those babies'. She asks if we will visit. The truth is we want to visit, but money is an issue. I tell her we are working on it. "Soon, Maw-Maw," I tell her, "Soon."
"Well, hurry it up. I ain't going to be living forever."
It has been six years since I left Alabama. When I think back to my childhood, it is almost as if it happened to someone else. I am a mother now. I'm married to the love of my life. It is true we do not have a lot of money, but the life I live...this life...is a miracle. There is a love in our home I didn't experience growing up. There is a contentment my children have that I couldn't have imagined as a child.
We have parties and invite our friends. There are dinners, bookclubs, and playgroups. To talk with me is to talk with someone that has it together, despite the milk stains on her shirt and chasing a two year old who has stuffed a cheerio up his nose. In my world, the 'Mommy World' this is considered normal, and I'm just keeping it real.
I'm unprepared when I get the call. I don't imagine Maw-Maw ever being so sick that she will leave this Earth. I'm not ready to let her go.
But the call still comes, despite my not being ready. I am six months pregnant. It is Friday morning and I'm told she doesn't have long.
When I hang up the phone, I look at my husband who is standing beside me. We don't speak. He just holds me as I cry.
Saturday
Ready (28)
Ian is confident in himself and in our relationship. I am not. If he decides to go out with his friends instead of doing something with me, it is clearly because he doesn't love me. If he is unresponsive to a story I'm recounting it is not because he's trying to digest the information, nope. It is because he doesn't love me.
It is clear to me that soon he'll be leaving me. Everyone leaves me. If he leaves me, I want it to be on my terms, not his.
Ian and I are living together. I like our life. I like 'Living in Sin' as Maw-Maw has defined our relationship. I don't want to get married. I like what we have.
I do not know how to argue like a sane person. I'm combative. Any disagreement, no matter how small, is grounds for breaking up. It is a regular occurrence for Ian to find his belongings either outside or in front of our apartment door when he comes home from work. He shrugs it off, comes in the door anyway, announcing he found his stuff outside again. "Look, honey!" he says, "My stereo loves the hallway of this apartment building!"
He's annoying.
I can't let things go. Ian says I'm impossible to please. So we fight, or rather, I fight. He stands there, rolling his eyes, cracking jokes. "I'm sure Jaime would appreciate it if you'd let her have her body back. She isn't too fond of aliens taking over her soul, and neither am I."
He's impossible.
Ian scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder when I'm on a rampage about something. He holds my face in his hands and says, "EARTH TO JAIME...GET OVER IT." And I'm all, really now? I'm supposed to do what you say? You are not the boss of me!
"You're not my father!" I scream.
Ian sighs. Then he says, "Nope, but I am your daddy." And then laughs and despite myself...I laugh too.
Jerk.
We marry on July 17, 1999. I am five months pregnant with our son. This is not why we are getting married. We've been living together for over a year. We marry in a green house and a violinist plays music from Phantom of the Opera. The day is cloudy and raining, but by evening, by the time we say our vows to one another, the sun is shining brightly. The grass is green, the sky, a rich blue.
When I close my eyes and think back to our wedding day, I hear the sounds of laughter, joy, and happiness. Yes, happiness and joy have their own distinct sounds. It is pleasant. Serene. Complete. Everyone at our wedding is enjoying the magic of the day. It is magical...this day! My wedding day...a day in which I never thought would be a reality to me.
It is real. We are real.
Is it okay to exhale? May I breathe now? I'm still a tad bit apprehensive to wipe my brow and exclaim, "Whew! I made it!"
Not yet. Not yet.
But still...
When I see my husband at our reception from across the room, our eyes meet. I smile. He walks over to me. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me gently, first on the forehead and then on the lips.
"Hello Wife," he says. "Are you ready to leave?"
I am ready.
I know I am ready.
July 17, 1999 Our wedding day
Christmas 2009
It is clear to me that soon he'll be leaving me. Everyone leaves me. If he leaves me, I want it to be on my terms, not his.
Ian and I are living together. I like our life. I like 'Living in Sin' as Maw-Maw has defined our relationship. I don't want to get married. I like what we have.
I do not know how to argue like a sane person. I'm combative. Any disagreement, no matter how small, is grounds for breaking up. It is a regular occurrence for Ian to find his belongings either outside or in front of our apartment door when he comes home from work. He shrugs it off, comes in the door anyway, announcing he found his stuff outside again. "Look, honey!" he says, "My stereo loves the hallway of this apartment building!"
He's annoying.
I can't let things go. Ian says I'm impossible to please. So we fight, or rather, I fight. He stands there, rolling his eyes, cracking jokes. "I'm sure Jaime would appreciate it if you'd let her have her body back. She isn't too fond of aliens taking over her soul, and neither am I."
He's impossible.
Ian scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder when I'm on a rampage about something. He holds my face in his hands and says, "EARTH TO JAIME...GET OVER IT." And I'm all, really now? I'm supposed to do what you say? You are not the boss of me!
"You're not my father!" I scream.
Ian sighs. Then he says, "Nope, but I am your daddy." And then laughs and despite myself...I laugh too.
Jerk.
We marry on July 17, 1999. I am five months pregnant with our son. This is not why we are getting married. We've been living together for over a year. We marry in a green house and a violinist plays music from Phantom of the Opera. The day is cloudy and raining, but by evening, by the time we say our vows to one another, the sun is shining brightly. The grass is green, the sky, a rich blue.
When I close my eyes and think back to our wedding day, I hear the sounds of laughter, joy, and happiness. Yes, happiness and joy have their own distinct sounds. It is pleasant. Serene. Complete. Everyone at our wedding is enjoying the magic of the day. It is magical...this day! My wedding day...a day in which I never thought would be a reality to me.
It is real. We are real.
Is it okay to exhale? May I breathe now? I'm still a tad bit apprehensive to wipe my brow and exclaim, "Whew! I made it!"
Not yet. Not yet.
But still...
When I see my husband at our reception from across the room, our eyes meet. I smile. He walks over to me. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me gently, first on the forehead and then on the lips.
"Hello Wife," he says. "Are you ready to leave?"
I am ready.
I know I am ready.
July 17, 1999 Our wedding day
Christmas 2009
Friday
Finally...Love (27)
The beginning of my relationship with Ian is exhilarating. It has been a long time since I've felt this way. The silly butterflies in my stomach, the anticipation of the next time I will see him. I write religiously in my diary, chronicling my courtship with him and the beginning days of the two of us falling in love.
In the early weeks of my relationship with Ian, the single father calls wanting for us to meet at his place. The feelings of being wanted resurface. A few weeks ago, I would have made plans to meet with him, but my mind wanders to Ian. We are far from a serious relationship, but there is something about him...something I know I've never felt for anyone. I don’t want to mess this up. I tell the single father that I’m seeing someone and while I have no idea where the relationship is headed, I am hopeful. As we talk, he tells me how he is ready for a relationship and is tired of being alone. I find him to be an interesting man and had we met under different circumstances, we probably would have become friends.
Ian is unlike any man I've ever dated. He is not romantic and does not try to impress me. He's as irritating as he is appealing. He does not open doors for me. He doesn’t try to win me over with flowers or cards. Once after a date, I comment that where I'm from men open doors for ladies. He looks over at me and without missing a beat says, “I bet you’re glad you are in Alaska, huh? You get to try new things like salmon fishing, camping in the mountains… and learning how to use door handles.”
We have very little in common. Ian doesn’t try to compromise his own likes and dislikes for my benefit. It isn’t spoken, but his underline attitude is that this is who he is, take it or leave it. He expects the same out of me. He is expecting me to be myself. He has no idea the baggage I carry. I compromise my tastes to fit his. I am dependent on him for a social life.
His likes become mine.
When I am confident that we are in a serious relationship, I introduce Ian to my daughter. I did not want to introduce the two of them until I was sure Ian and I were going to last. I try to prepare Ian. My daughter is timid and cries whenever she sees a man. I don’t want him to take it personally. It will take time, I tell him.
He sits down on the floor and doesn’t reach out to her. She watches him with interest. She goes over to her toy box and picks up one of her toys and walks it over to him. She flops down on his lap and starts singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in her own personalized baby language. It is like she has known him her entire life.
Ian looks over at me and smirks, “Yeah, she seems terrified.”
She calls him, “EEEN.”
Ian finds one of my religious books, a little burgundy book on what the Jehovah's Witnesses teach as true knowledge of the Bible. He asks if the reason the books are little with sharp edges is to hit the Mormons in a fight to get to the doorbell first.
He calls one of my favorite shows, “Touched by an Aneurysm”.
He doesn’t understand my search for spiritual truth. He wasn’t raised with a religion. He says he practices ‘Iannism’ and says that he is open to tithes and offerings.
When he is at work, alone in the booth and after I get my daughter in the bed, Ian calls me. We spend hours on the phone talking about our pasts, getting to know one another. He tells me his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him and they broke up. For a brief period, they had reconciled, but it wasn't the same.
“It was puppy love, but I was torn up about it at the time.”
“If it was puppy love why did you get back together with her?”
He pauses and then says, “I don’t know, Jaime. Why do puppies still love you when you kick them?”
Everytime we are together, Ian has me laughing. He is great with my daughter and doesn't seem bothered by my past... although I fudge on some of the details.
Despite his being raised without a religion and not having faith God exists; he is by nature, a man of high moral codes. He doesn’t believe in sleeping around. If we start to discuss past relationships I gloss over mine or just lie. As time goes on and I begin to know him better, I will realize I have no reason to lie. This is a man who will become my best friend. This will be my first relationship that is built on true love.
Falling in love with Ian happens without warning. It feels natural and it seems as if we've always been in love. Our beginning is on fast forward. We are best friends, lovers, and soul mates. I can't imagine life without this man. I don't care about the fact he doesn't open doors for me, ("What's wrong with your arms?") and SO WHAT if he laughs when I pout that I didn't I get my way. We all have faults, and his biggest flaw is not realizing that I'm always right.(And my way is the ONLY way.)
Sometimes when he's sleeping, I watch him. I pinch myself. Is he real? Am I dreaming? I hold my breath. It seems too good to be true.
Ian loves me for not what I try to pretend to be, but who I actually am.
It isn't easy loving me...yet he does. He really does.
In the early weeks of my relationship with Ian, the single father calls wanting for us to meet at his place. The feelings of being wanted resurface. A few weeks ago, I would have made plans to meet with him, but my mind wanders to Ian. We are far from a serious relationship, but there is something about him...something I know I've never felt for anyone. I don’t want to mess this up. I tell the single father that I’m seeing someone and while I have no idea where the relationship is headed, I am hopeful. As we talk, he tells me how he is ready for a relationship and is tired of being alone. I find him to be an interesting man and had we met under different circumstances, we probably would have become friends.
Ian is unlike any man I've ever dated. He is not romantic and does not try to impress me. He's as irritating as he is appealing. He does not open doors for me. He doesn’t try to win me over with flowers or cards. Once after a date, I comment that where I'm from men open doors for ladies. He looks over at me and without missing a beat says, “I bet you’re glad you are in Alaska, huh? You get to try new things like salmon fishing, camping in the mountains… and learning how to use door handles.”
We have very little in common. Ian doesn’t try to compromise his own likes and dislikes for my benefit. It isn’t spoken, but his underline attitude is that this is who he is, take it or leave it. He expects the same out of me. He is expecting me to be myself. He has no idea the baggage I carry. I compromise my tastes to fit his. I am dependent on him for a social life.
His likes become mine.
When I am confident that we are in a serious relationship, I introduce Ian to my daughter. I did not want to introduce the two of them until I was sure Ian and I were going to last. I try to prepare Ian. My daughter is timid and cries whenever she sees a man. I don’t want him to take it personally. It will take time, I tell him.
He sits down on the floor and doesn’t reach out to her. She watches him with interest. She goes over to her toy box and picks up one of her toys and walks it over to him. She flops down on his lap and starts singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in her own personalized baby language. It is like she has known him her entire life.
Ian looks over at me and smirks, “Yeah, she seems terrified.”
She calls him, “EEEN.”
Ian finds one of my religious books, a little burgundy book on what the Jehovah's Witnesses teach as true knowledge of the Bible. He asks if the reason the books are little with sharp edges is to hit the Mormons in a fight to get to the doorbell first.
He calls one of my favorite shows, “Touched by an Aneurysm”.
He doesn’t understand my search for spiritual truth. He wasn’t raised with a religion. He says he practices ‘Iannism’ and says that he is open to tithes and offerings.
When he is at work, alone in the booth and after I get my daughter in the bed, Ian calls me. We spend hours on the phone talking about our pasts, getting to know one another. He tells me his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him and they broke up. For a brief period, they had reconciled, but it wasn't the same.
“It was puppy love, but I was torn up about it at the time.”
“If it was puppy love why did you get back together with her?”
He pauses and then says, “I don’t know, Jaime. Why do puppies still love you when you kick them?”
Everytime we are together, Ian has me laughing. He is great with my daughter and doesn't seem bothered by my past... although I fudge on some of the details.
Despite his being raised without a religion and not having faith God exists; he is by nature, a man of high moral codes. He doesn’t believe in sleeping around. If we start to discuss past relationships I gloss over mine or just lie. As time goes on and I begin to know him better, I will realize I have no reason to lie. This is a man who will become my best friend. This will be my first relationship that is built on true love.
Falling in love with Ian happens without warning. It feels natural and it seems as if we've always been in love. Our beginning is on fast forward. We are best friends, lovers, and soul mates. I can't imagine life without this man. I don't care about the fact he doesn't open doors for me, ("What's wrong with your arms?") and SO WHAT if he laughs when I pout that I didn't I get my way. We all have faults, and his biggest flaw is not realizing that I'm always right.(And my way is the ONLY way.)
Sometimes when he's sleeping, I watch him. I pinch myself. Is he real? Am I dreaming? I hold my breath. It seems too good to be true.
Ian loves me for not what I try to pretend to be, but who I actually am.
It isn't easy loving me...yet he does. He really does.
Jack Dawson (26)
1998 ALASKA
The morning of my interview, I am nervous. I need this job. The position is a file clerk and booth attendant. The salary is seven dollars an hour. My hair is now shoulder length and two weeks ago, Chandra and I dyed it a copper reddish color. I laugh and tell her about the time I dyed it this color six years ago. Except, unlike six years ago, I am conservative with my makeup. Less is more.
Mia drives me to the interview and pulls into the business parking lot. She tells me she will wait for me in the car and wishes me luck. I walk in and up a flight of stairs. A mousy looking woman is sitting in the front desk in a row of three. She tells me to have a seat in one of the line of chairs; the manager will meet with me soon.
I take a seat and try to look nonchalant. While I wait to be called to see the manager, I hear someone walk up the stairs. I turn to look and see a young man, tall with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s gorgeous with blue eyes and a nice tan. We make eye contact and he smirks, giving me a grin. He drops some papers on the mousy woman’s desk. She gleams up at him and says thank you. When he turns around he gives me another nod and walks back down the stairs.
I think to myself, “I bet a guy like that would be interesting to date.”
The interview ends with the manager offering me the job. I accept and told I can start the following Monday. My work schedule will be four days a week, ten hours a day. I try to hold back from running down the stairs. When I get inside the car, Mia tells me she saw a cute guy come out of the building.
“Did he have a ponytail?” I ask
“Yeah. He was hot. Did you meet him?”
I shake my head no. “I just saw him. He was pretty cute.” I tell her I got the job and she congratulates me. Then she says, “Hey, when you meet that cute guy, find out his story. And then,” she says letting out a long whistle, “Give him my number.”
My first day on the job, my daughter and I wake up early. She will be going to a home daycare, something I’ve been preparing her for. She is excited, but I can tell she is antsy. We’ve never been away from each other before. She wants doughnut holes for breakfast and orange juice. I normally wouldn’t let her eat something like this, but I give in out of guilt for leaving her. During the drive, she throws up all over her car seat.
Work is long and tedious. I file rental agreements for ten hours. I don’t see the cute guy with the ponytail. I try to ignore the feelings of disappointment and concentrate on the job of endless filing.
On my fourth day of work, I see the ponytail guy pull into the business parking lot in a white trooper. He is wearing a short sleeved black shirt, his tanned arms hanging out of the window. His eyes are hidden behind his sun glasses. When he walks pass me, he smirks and gives me a nod. He smells fantastic. He is even more gorgeous up close.
I tell Chandra about him. We call him “Jack Dawson” after the main character in Titanic, the movie we saw the weekend before my job interview. He looks a little like Leonardo Di Caprio or a young Kurt Russell, a mixture that makes him easy on the eyes. We talk about my crush on the telephone, but I don’t take any of it seriously.
The first time my crush and I speak is when he asks me where I am from. I still have a southern accent. I tell him, thinking this was an opening to a conversation, but he gives me the nod again, and then wanders off as if I’ve told him all he needed to know.
My crush's name is Ian. The two older ladies in the office tell me what a cutie he is. I smile as if I had never noticed.
It is late. I am in the booth, the part of the building that checks in customers who are leaving their vehicles in the back parking lot. They will then catch a shuttle to the airport. When they return, they shuttle back to pick up their vehicle. It is a laid back job, one in which a person spends ten hours a day in the booth...not all of it working. I read and smoke my Camel cigarettes in the back parking lot, chewing on double mint gum. Ian and the other booth workers, this is all they do, spending four ten hour days in the booth. I only work there for two days, with the other two days in the office. My days off are not consecutive: Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. It isn’t ideal, but it is a paycheck.
I take over Ian’s shift on Sundays. He never says goodbye, usually in a hurry to leave. However, on a few occasions, when I pull up, he has a friend with him. This afternoon Ian and his friend are here, both with their shirts off throwing a football to each other in the street. I know this is for show, though he will deny it later, but it is obvious.
Even with his not so subtle attempts to get my attention, we hardly talk. Ian barely says hello and when he does, he doesn’t wait for me to say it back.
On this day, he leaves his Trooper in the parking lot, riding off with a friend. It doesn’t escape my mind that he will be coming back…hopefully before my shift ends.
A few minutes before I am to clock out, Ian strolls up to the booth. My heart is beating rapidly and with a slight glance at him, my belly flips. I try to act nonchalant, but I fail miserably. When he says hello, he actually stands there, not in a hurry to leave. I try to act cool, but when I say hi back, it comes out high pitched, like a baby pig.
I am an idiot, I think to myself.
I want him to stay and not take off again, so I ask him to help me with something I could have easily done myself. He gives me that smile again and the curt nod explaining the process of posting paperwork. We make casual chit chat. I want more information from him. Is he single? Dating someone? If so, is it serious? I don’t ask any of this, smile and try to sound witty.
Later, he will tell me he thought I was sweet and very pretty. Years later, he’ll admit that I also had a very nice rack.
I am impressed with his sense of humor, he is quick witted and does a very convincing impression of one of the managers. While we are talking, he makes casual mention of his girlfriend and my heart sinks. Of course, he would have a girlfriend! I try to hide my disappointment. He asks if I want to go to a café and hang out for a bit. It is two in the morning. I have to pick my daughter up from the sitter's in six hours, but I say okay. I tell myself I will nap when she’s watching Barney and Sesame Street.
We drive to the cafe in our separate vehicles. Mine is an old clunker I bought for $500. It rattles and has rust spots. Even with it being cheap, I had to make two installment payments of $250 before I could drive away in it. When we get to the café, Ian scoots back in the booth with his body facing the aisle. He looks relaxed and doesn’t seem to care how he looks to others. He also doesn’t seem to worry about impressing me, something I’m not entirely used to. Usually, in the beginning of any relationship with a man, no matter how brief, they go out of their way to fawn over me. Ian is different. I tell myself it is because he has a girlfriend.
I want to hear more about this girlfriend, so I casually ask how long he and his girlfriend have been together. He looks up, confused. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I thought you said something about your girlfriend back at the office.”
“No, I said my ex-girlfriend. We’ve been broken up for over a year.”
I say oh, that’s too bad, but I actually think it is great. For me.
I tell him about my daughter and that I am divorced. He doesn’t respond to this bit of information. He asks, instead, what I think of living in Alaska. I tell him the truth. I think it is beautiful, but the long days of summer make it hard to sleep. And the winters are too long and too dark.
He laughs and says if I am planning on living here, I better get used to it. It is after five in the morning. We are not tired and he asks if I want to go to his place to watch a movie. Usually, I know what this means. A movie at some guy’s place means sex. For some reason, I don’t get this impression from him. I say yes.
We watch The Graduate. Neither of us has seen it before and we laugh at the infamous scene where Dustin Hoffman’s character tells Mrs. Jones she’s coming on to him. We are on the floor because his apartment doesn’t have a couch or chairs. We lean against the wall and make brief conversation during the movie. During the movie, our fingers touch. Soon we are holding hands and we cease talking. We stare ahead at the movie until it is over.
When the credits roll, I stand up to leave. He walks me to the door. We stand there for what seems like forever. Ian is tall, 6’2 to my 5’1. He brushes my hair off my shoulders and slowly leans in to kiss me. I stand on my tip toes and feel the twinge of electricity sweep through my body when his lips touch mine.
Later in the day, I will call Chandra.
“Chandra,” I say breathless. “I think I’ve found my Jack Dawson.”
“Well, don’t let go and let him drown,” she says. “It doesn’t make for a great happy ending.”
The morning of my interview, I am nervous. I need this job. The position is a file clerk and booth attendant. The salary is seven dollars an hour. My hair is now shoulder length and two weeks ago, Chandra and I dyed it a copper reddish color. I laugh and tell her about the time I dyed it this color six years ago. Except, unlike six years ago, I am conservative with my makeup. Less is more.
Mia drives me to the interview and pulls into the business parking lot. She tells me she will wait for me in the car and wishes me luck. I walk in and up a flight of stairs. A mousy looking woman is sitting in the front desk in a row of three. She tells me to have a seat in one of the line of chairs; the manager will meet with me soon.
I take a seat and try to look nonchalant. While I wait to be called to see the manager, I hear someone walk up the stairs. I turn to look and see a young man, tall with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s gorgeous with blue eyes and a nice tan. We make eye contact and he smirks, giving me a grin. He drops some papers on the mousy woman’s desk. She gleams up at him and says thank you. When he turns around he gives me another nod and walks back down the stairs.
I think to myself, “I bet a guy like that would be interesting to date.”
The interview ends with the manager offering me the job. I accept and told I can start the following Monday. My work schedule will be four days a week, ten hours a day. I try to hold back from running down the stairs. When I get inside the car, Mia tells me she saw a cute guy come out of the building.
“Did he have a ponytail?” I ask
“Yeah. He was hot. Did you meet him?”
I shake my head no. “I just saw him. He was pretty cute.” I tell her I got the job and she congratulates me. Then she says, “Hey, when you meet that cute guy, find out his story. And then,” she says letting out a long whistle, “Give him my number.”
My first day on the job, my daughter and I wake up early. She will be going to a home daycare, something I’ve been preparing her for. She is excited, but I can tell she is antsy. We’ve never been away from each other before. She wants doughnut holes for breakfast and orange juice. I normally wouldn’t let her eat something like this, but I give in out of guilt for leaving her. During the drive, she throws up all over her car seat.
Work is long and tedious. I file rental agreements for ten hours. I don’t see the cute guy with the ponytail. I try to ignore the feelings of disappointment and concentrate on the job of endless filing.
On my fourth day of work, I see the ponytail guy pull into the business parking lot in a white trooper. He is wearing a short sleeved black shirt, his tanned arms hanging out of the window. His eyes are hidden behind his sun glasses. When he walks pass me, he smirks and gives me a nod. He smells fantastic. He is even more gorgeous up close.
I tell Chandra about him. We call him “Jack Dawson” after the main character in Titanic, the movie we saw the weekend before my job interview. He looks a little like Leonardo Di Caprio or a young Kurt Russell, a mixture that makes him easy on the eyes. We talk about my crush on the telephone, but I don’t take any of it seriously.
The first time my crush and I speak is when he asks me where I am from. I still have a southern accent. I tell him, thinking this was an opening to a conversation, but he gives me the nod again, and then wanders off as if I’ve told him all he needed to know.
My crush's name is Ian. The two older ladies in the office tell me what a cutie he is. I smile as if I had never noticed.
It is late. I am in the booth, the part of the building that checks in customers who are leaving their vehicles in the back parking lot. They will then catch a shuttle to the airport. When they return, they shuttle back to pick up their vehicle. It is a laid back job, one in which a person spends ten hours a day in the booth...not all of it working. I read and smoke my Camel cigarettes in the back parking lot, chewing on double mint gum. Ian and the other booth workers, this is all they do, spending four ten hour days in the booth. I only work there for two days, with the other two days in the office. My days off are not consecutive: Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. It isn’t ideal, but it is a paycheck.
I take over Ian’s shift on Sundays. He never says goodbye, usually in a hurry to leave. However, on a few occasions, when I pull up, he has a friend with him. This afternoon Ian and his friend are here, both with their shirts off throwing a football to each other in the street. I know this is for show, though he will deny it later, but it is obvious.
Even with his not so subtle attempts to get my attention, we hardly talk. Ian barely says hello and when he does, he doesn’t wait for me to say it back.
On this day, he leaves his Trooper in the parking lot, riding off with a friend. It doesn’t escape my mind that he will be coming back…hopefully before my shift ends.
A few minutes before I am to clock out, Ian strolls up to the booth. My heart is beating rapidly and with a slight glance at him, my belly flips. I try to act nonchalant, but I fail miserably. When he says hello, he actually stands there, not in a hurry to leave. I try to act cool, but when I say hi back, it comes out high pitched, like a baby pig.
I am an idiot, I think to myself.
I want him to stay and not take off again, so I ask him to help me with something I could have easily done myself. He gives me that smile again and the curt nod explaining the process of posting paperwork. We make casual chit chat. I want more information from him. Is he single? Dating someone? If so, is it serious? I don’t ask any of this, smile and try to sound witty.
Later, he will tell me he thought I was sweet and very pretty. Years later, he’ll admit that I also had a very nice rack.
I am impressed with his sense of humor, he is quick witted and does a very convincing impression of one of the managers. While we are talking, he makes casual mention of his girlfriend and my heart sinks. Of course, he would have a girlfriend! I try to hide my disappointment. He asks if I want to go to a café and hang out for a bit. It is two in the morning. I have to pick my daughter up from the sitter's in six hours, but I say okay. I tell myself I will nap when she’s watching Barney and Sesame Street.
We drive to the cafe in our separate vehicles. Mine is an old clunker I bought for $500. It rattles and has rust spots. Even with it being cheap, I had to make two installment payments of $250 before I could drive away in it. When we get to the café, Ian scoots back in the booth with his body facing the aisle. He looks relaxed and doesn’t seem to care how he looks to others. He also doesn’t seem to worry about impressing me, something I’m not entirely used to. Usually, in the beginning of any relationship with a man, no matter how brief, they go out of their way to fawn over me. Ian is different. I tell myself it is because he has a girlfriend.
I want to hear more about this girlfriend, so I casually ask how long he and his girlfriend have been together. He looks up, confused. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I thought you said something about your girlfriend back at the office.”
“No, I said my ex-girlfriend. We’ve been broken up for over a year.”
I say oh, that’s too bad, but I actually think it is great. For me.
I tell him about my daughter and that I am divorced. He doesn’t respond to this bit of information. He asks, instead, what I think of living in Alaska. I tell him the truth. I think it is beautiful, but the long days of summer make it hard to sleep. And the winters are too long and too dark.
He laughs and says if I am planning on living here, I better get used to it. It is after five in the morning. We are not tired and he asks if I want to go to his place to watch a movie. Usually, I know what this means. A movie at some guy’s place means sex. For some reason, I don’t get this impression from him. I say yes.
We watch The Graduate. Neither of us has seen it before and we laugh at the infamous scene where Dustin Hoffman’s character tells Mrs. Jones she’s coming on to him. We are on the floor because his apartment doesn’t have a couch or chairs. We lean against the wall and make brief conversation during the movie. During the movie, our fingers touch. Soon we are holding hands and we cease talking. We stare ahead at the movie until it is over.
When the credits roll, I stand up to leave. He walks me to the door. We stand there for what seems like forever. Ian is tall, 6’2 to my 5’1. He brushes my hair off my shoulders and slowly leans in to kiss me. I stand on my tip toes and feel the twinge of electricity sweep through my body when his lips touch mine.
Later in the day, I will call Chandra.
“Chandra,” I say breathless. “I think I’ve found my Jack Dawson.”
“Well, don’t let go and let him drown,” she says. “It doesn’t make for a great happy ending.”
It's An Act (25)
I'm fifteen, a sophomore in high school. Life is pretty boring. I'm in the Drama Club, I attend writing workshops, and I am dating. Nothing too serious, because I am the Bride of Christ.
Amen.
I'm active in the Baptist church. I attend every Youth Group activity. I don't study the Bible or really delve deep into spiritual matters...but I do pray. A lot.
I like to think I'm wholesome.
I'm still different. Most girls at my school are wearing baby doll dresses and Sam and Libby flats. Their hair is always styled, sometimes with bows or hair bands. Not me. My style is that I do not have one particular look. One week I'm grunge, wearing my dad's flannel work shirts, unbutton to expose a tiny tank top underneath. Next week, it's loud colorful blouses with high heels. My hair is cut, but I wear it big. There are weeks in which I will wear only black and no makeup...except for dark red lipstick. Because everyone knows wearing all black with no makeup and only dark red lipstick means you are mysterious and deep.
One particular boy that I date this year is Heath. Maw Maw loves him. Of course, she would... he's a square. He's boring, but he's good in math and helps me with my homework. I break up with him a lot, date a couple of boys here and there, just living the teenage life. I'm not thinking of love and romance. I'm thinking of the future. Of turning sixteen and getting my driver's license and having a little freedom.
I'm in a play at church. I play a mom whose son is in a car accident because he had been drinking. I love acting. I audition for a few plays in town and land small parts. I'm good at acting. Which when you think about it...why wouldn't I be?
1992 ends and 1993 looks promising. I tell my grandmother that this summer I want to find a job. I put in applications all over town and finally get a job at a steakhouse. My hair has grown out past my shoulders and I dye it from dark brown to a copper red. I start tanning. I wear more makeup and for the first time in my life I feel beautiful.
It is the Summer of 1993 and I feel very grown up. I even think that life could actually be normal for a change...
Silly me.
SAVED (24)
The one long, terrible day continues, but it is still foggy. I can't recount it all in order. Too many pieces. Too many broken pieces. I pick up a piece and I try to put it together... and sometimes I'm successful.
This is one of those times in which the piece that I hold, the piece that is dull to the touch and doesn't cause too much bleeding, I can put it together. I can show you.
Hold still. When you at least expect it, those dull pieces can still cut.
This piece I hold in my hand is somewhat good. This is a good part of the day. At least at the time, I thought so.
I am still very much afraid of death. I know I'm bad and if I am to die on this day...this very long, terrible day, Pastor Hardy says I will go to Hell. I believe in God, His Son Jesus Christ, but I've never truly dedicated my life to Him. I've never asked Him to be my Lord and Savior.
One big reason I have never asked is because WHY? Why do I have to ask Him? Doesn't He already know? Isn't it enough that I believe? I BELIEVE. Really.
It isn't enough. YOU must PRAY, Repent, and ask Jesus into your heart.
Got it. Pray. Repent. Ask. Live in heart forever.
It is Uncle Gilbert that sits with me and goes over Bible Scriptures. His job is to make sure I understand.
Do you know what you're asking?
Yes. I'm asking for Jesus to be my Lord and Savior so I don't burn in Hell for all eternity. It seems like a no brainer to me!
Jaime Kay, you are not taking this seriously.
Yes. Yes, I am.
Then pay attention.
For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
—Romans 6:23
Repeat.
...because, if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth one confesses and is saved. For the Scripture says, “Everyone who believes in him will not be put to shame.” For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; for the same Lord is Lord of all, bestowing his riches on all who call on him. For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.”
—Romans 10:9-13
Repeat.
Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.
—1 Peter 1:8-9
Repeat.
Are you ready Jaime Kay to accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?
Sure.
Then repeat after me: God in Heaven, please know I come to you in the name of your Son Jesus Christ who I believe is your only begotten Son who shed His precious blood for my evil sins and I confess to you these evil sins and ask that Jesus come to live in my heart forever and transform my life so that I can live forever with you in Heaven in Jesus Christ's name Amen.
I say all this and don't take a breath? No breathing?
Jaime Kay.
Okay.
Repeat Prayer, no breathing, SAVED! Glory Be to Jesus!
This is not what I have imagined. I thought I'd feel something. Something like the Holy Ghost swooping in and taking over. I feel nothing. I feel light headed, sure, but that is because I had been holding my breath while praying.
I am baptized. I wear a pink dress with white lace. The dress flows up like a parachute. Not good. Pastor Hardy holds my nose and dunks me. I am under water for a good ten seconds before he brings me back to surface.
Saved! Hallelujah!
I really try to be good after my baptism. I really do. But being thirteen and then fourteen years old...it's really hard. It's hard.
Especially when you are me.
Finally, it will seem like the really long terrible day ends. It ends with a thud. It's over. I'm done.
I'm fifteen years old and I move in with Maw-Maw. It is decided that not only do I need discipline, I also need a good helping of Jesus. And Maw-Maw...well, she is the person to make this happen.
Holding breath...
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