I’ve never been sad about Fiona’s hearing loss until now. I see how she thrives with her hearing aids. How conscious she is about them and the difference between the two worlds she lives in, hearing and non-hearing. We take an afternoon walk down by Target, along the bay with Billy. It’s windy, so I don’t put on Fiona’s hearing aids. We finish our walk and head to Target. I have to pee so we go into the bathroom, it’s nice and big, the double stroller fits. It even has a diaper changing station. I take out Fiona’s hearing aids from my backpack. She looks at the little silver box and her blue striped hat. She lets me put on her hearing aids, and doesn’t try to pull them off. I say, “OOO, Ahhh, MMMM, Shhhh, SSSSS, Hi Fiona! Can you hear me?” She smiles and says, “Ahhh.” And a few other cute noises. I go pee, “I’m flushing the toilet now.” I tell them. They have it all here, food, baby stuff, cute workout clothes, it’s dangerous! I give Fiona a box of crayons to hold, I hand them each sippy cups with bunny ears. I feed them their dinner, a Happy Baby food pouch, “The Gobbler” and let them taste chocolate milk for the first time. At the cashier I put everything on the belt except the crayons, Fiona does not want to let them go. “Just for a minute baby.” I tell her. The cashier scans them super-fast and I hand them back to Fiona. She smiles, “Are you happy Baby?” I ask. She laughs. When I get back to my car there is a caravan parked next to me. An old pickup truck with a Texas license plate with old motorcycles and bikes in the back. Attached to the Truck is an old ratty tatty trailer filled with crap. There is a tall man with a long sweatshirt and beard, smoking a cig and talking loud enough so I can hear him. His voice is raspy, “I think that toys broken.” He says to his sons, who both have super blond hair and look between four and six years old. They roll around a yellow plastic truck. I want to take a picture of them but I know that’s rude and invasive. I know they’re tweakers. I imagine what kind of life events have brought them to this place. I wonder if the kids will grow up and be tweakers too. I’m also scared, I know it sounds crazy, but I know the tweaker mentality. There are so many scams they could try and pull. I even wonder if those boys are really theirs. I only saw the back of the moms head in the cab, I imagine she’s doing a line while he’s watching the kids play in the parking lot. I go between wanting to just be a peaceful human and think the best in everybody to wanting to get trained to shoot and buying a hand gun for protection. I want to take some road trips with the babies, but I think I want to have protection. I’m at least signing up for a self-defense class. We get home and I keep Fiona’s hearing aids on through the rest of the night, even bath time. When I go to take them off, I make sure to get eye contact. “I’m taking off your hearing aids now, I love you very much. You’re such a good baby.” I say and give her a big hug. lying deep, in warm rose petal bathwater I’m thinking about my Grand Aunt Betty who recently died. I found out tonight through Facebook. I haven’t seen her for many years. I recently got her phone number and was going to call her. I start to think about my grandma Jean, Betty’s sister, and my Great Grandma Ruth, their mom. They were so close. It felt like Betty came over to visit every day. The thing I remember most about Betty was her voice and the way she talked with her strong New England accent, her eyes and facial expressions. She also seemed the least damaged to me, the happiest and the most sophisticated. Sitting at the kitchen table my forearms stuck to the vinyl table cloth, it made me sweat. “Jen, have some tea and soup, sit down with us.” My grandma says. There was always a pot of tea, a pot of soup, a bowl of salad, and a loaf of bread at lunch time. The pot of soup was added to indefinitely, it sat on the stove and could be heated up anytime someone passed through. I can’t remember what kind of soup it was. The salad bowl was the same. After every lunch or dinner my grandma would add more vegetables to the bowl and cover it with Saran Wrap, then put it back in the fridge. I loved being with them and was bored at the same time, I had to learn patience, I was young. They would tell stories, talk about eye appointments and cataracts, and just spend time together. It was the only time I was with women from multiple generations in my family. My great Grandma was blind, she would pat the table, sometimes humming a tune. I would reach over and touch her hand, her skin was so soft and thin. I wish someone was still alive. If only I could have one more conversation with any of my deceased female ancestors. Now that I’m a mom. If only I could examine their traditions one more time, hear the stories, smell my grandmas kitchen. I need an elder and everyone’s gone now.
Category: introspection
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I’m not depressed, just melancholy. About all the time that has passed, all my life that I’ve already lived. How little time is left, how little time is always left at the end of every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year. The disappearance of time. In my studio today thinking about disappearance, things, people, life, fading away. Two hours, that’s about the amount of time I have to paint. I’m rushing around, I almost knock over a glass of water. “You’re getting crazy now, you need to calm down.” I say to myself. Green gold is a nice color, it was one of my mom’s favorites. I start painting, first a stain with watercolor, green gold. Some stained with grey. I think I like them, but I don’t know, I never can tell. Especially when I’m in these moods. My mind is cloudy, I keep hitting my toes and head on things. I hate when I have one of those ambiguous days in the studio. I get obsessed, I can’t think of anything else but the problems I’ve created, the search for the answers. But today is another day. A non-studio day. Time for a second cup of coffee. Today is my birthday, my 44th. Stumped. When my mom turned 44 she never would have thought she only had 15 years left to live. I’m being greedy. I want more time. I don’t want to die. Babies really show you how fast time moves. How quickly they grow. How can it be a year since my last birthday? Fiona and Jack were so small and sweet, only one month old. Last night Fiona stood in front of Jack and I. We were on the floor, I was putting on Jacks diaper. Fiona pulled the tab and opened one side of her diaper. Jack started cracking up and so did Fiona. I hope they don’t start taking off their diapers already and pooping and peeing everywhere. But that’s how fast they grow. We’ll have fun today, we have a great adventure planned and Fiona gets her new hearing aids today. She’s been without them for a week. That will be exciting. Happy Birthday to me.
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Something has shifted; it’s all coming back to me now. Memories of the past flash in my mind, as I sit in the two week waiting period to find out if my surrogate Malissa is pregnant with one or both of the embryos that were transferred into her uterus last Friday. I am anxious, nervous, fearful, and hopeful of the results. It’s been a long journey to this place, five years of my body being poked and prodded, and three surrogates just to create a family of our own. That was written last July. I’m sitting at my kitchen table drinking my coffee while Jack and Fiona play with toys in the living room. Now I am raising children. I am a mother. I look back through the writing I did about my struggles with infertility. I was going to post one today. But I wasn’t ready, the works not ready. I need to revisit the experience. The years of trying, the fear, “Is my husband going to leave me because I can’t have a baby.” After every failed cycle, after the miscarriage, having to make the decision to try again or give up. Excruciating, mind bending, insomnia producing contemplations. Joining a meditation class at Kaiser and starting to see a therapist, then finding myself sitting on my meditation cushion wondering who I was. Actually scared, my mind unsure of anything. A facial twitch that turned me into a cyberchondriac, finding out all the diseases I could possibly have. Writing to my doctors every day to tell them my symptoms. I saw a neurologist and had an MRI. I just took a break from writing to change Fiona’s poopy diaper and play “I’m gonna get you” with Jack. I tiptoe over the cheerios, toast, and banana on the floor to get back to my computer. How life has changed. Those years of trying were very isolating. Some of the women in my life didn’t understand because they got pregnant easily, they already had children. Some of my friends said I shouldn’t keep trying, I shouldn’t have kids at all. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed and rarely told anyone what I was going through. I wanted to reach out to other women going through the same thing but couldn’t find them. I want to reach out to them now and offer some kind of comfort. But that’s not helpful, it’s not helpful to tell someone “Everything’s going to be O.K.” or “It will all work out for the best.” Or the worst, “It’s in God’s hands.” I can only tell my story. It wasn’t easy and I barely made it through the whole experience. It did turn out fine, I have two beautiful babies now, but that’s another thing someone going through infertility doesn’t want to hear about.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 