Our little boy was due May 11th. Due dates are much less magical and much more anticlimactic than you would think. Though I walked endless circles around the loop at mine and Scott's favorite park and attempted to shoot granny shots with a basketball across the court, Asher decided May 11th was not the time to come.
Because he decided to hold off, I had to go to a doctor's appointment on May 17th to see how things were holding up. Apparently I was showing signs of preeclampsia, a "disease" that only exists during pregnancy and can only be cured by giving birth. I guess the main worry is that you can develop seizures if it gets to a certain stage and all your organs can start to malfunction. So, my OBGYN told me I should get to the hospital ASAP so that I could be induced. I really didn't want to be induced, but it was really nice to have some thought of closure.
The Kaiser birthing center in Clackamas apparently was full, so, though my OBGYN told me to get there quickly (and this was in the morning), I wasn't able to be seen until that evening. I think around 9:00pm or so? It was really frustrating being pushed back and pushed back, but Scott and I at least got to have some fun at the Clackamas shopping mall and got 75% off our purchase at Billabong, which is apparently closing in the Pacific Northwest.
Even though we were finally seen at the Kaiser birthing center that evening, they were technically still pretty full, so they ended up waiting to induce me the next morning. They were supposed to induce me at 2:00am, then at 5:00am, but didn't induce until about 9:00am once we got a new nurse (who ended up being my delivery nurse) named Janet who I absolutely adore! It was nice to finally feel like someone was advocating for us to get things going.
Apparently my body was somewhat sensitive to the pitocin they gave me. With pitocin, they start you off at two units (whatever that means!) and increase the units by two every half an hour. Once the pitocin was increased to 8 units, my contractions were occurring too frequently; although they weren't painful for me at this point, apparently Asher could still feel them and it wouldn't be good for them to occur so frequently without anything progressing. So, Janet had to increase and then decrease the pitocin multiple times so that things would go the way we wanted. Once 8:00pm hit, I finally was experiencing painful labor contractions--though I felt like I was already in the textbook definition of transition because I was not getting any breaks!
Initially I was trying to go natural. I was actually all about going natural. I told people that I couldn't explain why but that going natural without pain medication just "sounded right". Plus, retrospectively, I think I may have been slightly scared of getting a shot in my back! Poor Scott would try to go through the breathing techniques that we learned in our two sessions of birthing classes, but I just would have none of it. I had been up since 5:00am in hopes of being induced and I was in constant pain and I couldn't see how I could survive if I had to continue like that through the night. I ended up getting an epidural around 2:00am and it was the best thing in the world! Really, GET THE EPIDURAL! I can no longer fathom why anyone would ever want to go natural! Getting the epidural even hurt less than getting my IV. High five to any woman who is able to go without pain medication; however, I couldn't help but be grateful for being able to get some sleep and feel comfortable. Whoever was in the room next to me moaning and screaming a bunch the next morning only increased my feelings of relief.
Finally, on Sunday, May 19th, I was more than enough dilated and ready to push. I'm not sure when I started to push exactly, but I was told the entire pushing process lasted less than an hour. It was really motivating having my nurse Janet telling me I was doing such a good job and having Scott hold up one of my legs looking so excited (and slightly grossed out during certain moments, which made it hard to push a few times because I burst out laughing, which I definitely wouldn't have been doing without that blessed epidural!). Scott later told me that I looked like an intense, beastly gymnast while I was pushing! I didn't think that I would want to see, but at one point I asked for them to set up a mirror so that I could see the progression as I was pushing. It was amazing! And yes, I'm going to say it again: the epidural was great because I was able to feel enough to be able to push--but it wasn't painful. The pressure was "intense" at times in the sense that it was hard not to push towards the end when the doctor told me not to in order to avoid tearing, but the intensity of the pressure certainly isn't something to be feared or worried about. Honestly, the most difficult thing about the epidural was not knowing when I was experiencing a contraction, so Scott and Janet had to let me know when I was so that I knew when to push.
The feelings and scene of when Asher came still makes me smile. Scott helped my doctor, Alice Weaver (who I also adore!), catch Asher and they immediately plopped him in my arms. I have never felt such a warmth in my life; it was a warmth that completely captured me, inside and out, and was one of the most incredible feelings I've ever had. I was almost completely unaware of what was going on around me as I held such newness, such purity. Before Asher was born, we were warned that he may look a little blue and that was completely normal; when he was born, it was funny to see Doctor Weaver and Janet exclaim, "wow! He's so pink already!"
After Asher came, some complications arose. It started when the umbilical cord detached from the placenta before the placenta was delivered. Apparently the umbilical cord had been attached to the placenta improperly all along and it was a miracle that it didn't become unattached from the placenta before Asher was officially out in the world; I was told it could have been devastating to him had that essential life preserve been plucked from under him. I feel so blessed even now to know that he arrived minutes before this detachment occurred. Doctor Weaver then had to press really hard on my stomach to try to get the placenta out herself (this part actually hurt despite the epidural). After scraping out what we hoped was all of the placenta, the doctor left and my delivery nurse, Janet, was cleaning some things up. I ended up gushing out a lot of blood again and Janet had to call Doctor Weaver back in. The doctor tried to scrape out more of my placenta again, but I just continued to bleed, so she ended up telling Scott and me that they needed to take me to the operating room. I guess in the back of my head I knew something had gone wrong, but I was just happy to have my baby in my arms and safe. Nothing else seemed to matter at the time.
The memory I have of right before I was taken out of the room seems blurry and rusty.
When I was in the operating room, I remember one of the anesthesiologists checking to make sure that I had enough pain medication coming from the epidural. I could feel her poking me, so she ended up giving me something that knocked me out completely. When I woke up, I thought that I hadn't even been put out yet and remember asking, "Am I supposed to be awake right now?" I had to get a Bakri balloon put inside me to stop the bleeding. If that didn't work, they were going to have to go in through some of the veins in my legs in order to fuse together some of the arteries going to my uterus. If that didn't work, I would have to get a hysterectomy, which means my uterus would have been taken out completely and I would no longer be able to have any kids. Quite an escalations, I thought.
Because of how much blood I lost when I hemorrhaged, I couldn't stop shaking--even though multiple warmed blankets had been put on top of me--and I was unbelievably pale. Scott said that I looked like I could have been dead in a casket I was so white. I guess the bond between mother and baby is extremely powerful, though, because the second Asher was placed beside me in my bed my shaking all of a sudden stopped. Scott told the nurses that it looked like I needed some blood. I guess the nurses decided that they needed to do some tests first before they could "officially" determine that. After drawing my blood multiple times, I ended up with four blood transfusions and some platelets. I was so glad that I had no inhibitions about receiving blood transfusions and that I live now when medical technology is so much better than what it used to be!
I also received a lot of prayers on my behalf and a priesthood blessing from Scott. I am so grateful that I had so many people looking out for me and truly believe that it is part of the reason why I was able to recover so quickly. During this experience, which was probably much more traumatic for Scott than it was for me, I know that God was looking over my little family; I feel so blessed that he is aware of me and feels that I am good enough to receive his tender mercies.
On May 21st, I was discharged from the hospital, which was actually delayed until the evening because there was another emergency taking place. However, in this particular emergency, both the mother and the baby were experiencing complications, as the baby had not yet been delivered. Our discharge nurse told us, "you guys must be the most patient couple!" I could have waited much longer and my heart ached for that mom and baby; as we were exiting the hospital, there was an ambulance out there waiting for that poor little baby and I couldn't help but cry. I'm pretty sure I cried most of the way home, actually. I'm really glad that little Asher was so healthy and experienced no complications.
Well, that's the longer, more detailed version of Asher's birth story for those who have been wanting to know. I can't believe he is already three weeks old! He is such a sweet boy and I love watching him progress. I love his little noises, his smiles while he's sleeping and his little scowly face. Being a mom is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I definitely find myself struggling with learning how to give-up so many of the things and aspects of life that once were so normal and routine. Everything seems completely different; nothing feels the same. I'm beginning to learn the true meaning of selflessness and patience, two virtues that I don't think I've ever been much good at emulating. I have so much more respect for all the parents out there. I don't know how a single parent raises a child on their own or even how two parents can raise more than one! In spite of all the hardships and down days, my little boy warms my heart and he makes me smile every time I see him and I look forward to growing and experiencing life with him!
Monday, June 10, 2013
Friday, May 18, 2012
Climax from Somewhere
Upon closing my eyes, what initially appears as an empty, black stage has so often transformed into climaxes. Climaxes that have risen from some where or thing, of which are unbeknownst to me. I've conveniently never been told.
More than any other theme I've seen when asleep is that of running away. One night I'm running away from a man and I've reached my childhood home, but I'm stuck on the driveway and can't move to safety and he almost gets me until suddenly my ability to run has been revived and I make it through the door. Other nights I'm not even me, but an animal, a dog, running away from captors and even helicopters have been called to the chase.
But I haven't been running as such in my dreams anymore. The last time it happened was sometime before I got married.
The last few days I've been thinking about how I always wondered what I was running from, what sort of rising action these climaxes had been birthed from and how those dreams may have mirrored what was happening in my own personal reality--and, most significantly, why they have stopped.
I've concluded that I must have found the person I was always running to, the person who has the strength to withstand and chase away all that seeks to thwart, capture and make afraid. I've found the only one who can somehow take the runner in me and make me happier in my place.
More than any other theme I've seen when asleep is that of running away. One night I'm running away from a man and I've reached my childhood home, but I'm stuck on the driveway and can't move to safety and he almost gets me until suddenly my ability to run has been revived and I make it through the door. Other nights I'm not even me, but an animal, a dog, running away from captors and even helicopters have been called to the chase.
But I haven't been running as such in my dreams anymore. The last time it happened was sometime before I got married.
The last few days I've been thinking about how I always wondered what I was running from, what sort of rising action these climaxes had been birthed from and how those dreams may have mirrored what was happening in my own personal reality--and, most significantly, why they have stopped.
I've concluded that I must have found the person I was always running to, the person who has the strength to withstand and chase away all that seeks to thwart, capture and make afraid. I've found the only one who can somehow take the runner in me and make me happier in my place.
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Last Waterfall
I'm always shocked how difficult it can be to start writing again after not writing for three months; my hands feel almost awkward and hesitant across the keyboard. I guess I always expect picking it up right where I left off as an easy task, where "it's just like riding a bike"--which, of course, one never forgets once they have learned.
But okay, so I haven't completely forgotten how to write (saying so would be a slight hyperbole), but can't you feel something missing, can't you feel what is lost, when you don't cultivate and nourish those things you love most? I suspect that it's those things that we love most, that we are best at, that we can lose--not to mention miss--the most of if we don't keep our eyes on it, for there is so much more to lose.
This may have been a few weeks ago, but nonetheless it is worth talking about: I took a hike on July 23, 2011 that changed my life. From the very start, the the scenery was lush and green and breathtaking; it seemed magical walking along the trail with light streaming through breaks in the trees. I was with my boyfriend at the time, Scott Baird, who briskly walked in front of me and guided us along the trail--I know I didn't mind, for he was the best thing to look at on that entire mountain. During the journey of the hike, I started wondering what the trip was like for other people: Who looked at the ground the entire way so they didn't trip? Who constantly had eyes that wandered to everything but the path in front of them? And who did a mix of both? For it seems that those that look at the ground the entire way may methodically never fall or trip, yet miss the enjoyment to be had by looking at all the trees and vegetation; on the other hand, those that are constantly darting their eyes from their left to their right at all the sights to be seen may have a lot of fun, yet fall in danger of veering off the path and eventually making an indefinite fall--never to step again. I figure that this is an instance where one must not be too extreme: we can't be too uptight or cautious all the time and miss the beauty all around us; yet neither is a journey that is full of fun and entertainment that causes us to lose focus on our destination a wise path to travel.
And this is not even the best part of this two mile hike! Just as I explained, the scenery from the very beginning was absolutely beautiful. The small waterfalls, tall trees and unique rock formations acted as poppies--lulling me away into the elation of nature, to never press forward. Eventually I would be pulled away from these small beauties and the camera, for Scott continued onward and I was aware of his absence and wouldn't allow myself to fall too far behind. But it seemed as if the more that time pressed on, the more beautiful things I would see! I wanted to stop every ten steps, to get lost in what I thought would be the most exquisite thing that could be seen, as if there could be no more beauty to be had. Yet I still found myself being pulled forward.
And then finally the most divine canvas filled my view! Gallons and gallons of water poured over a green hill that was reminiscent of Ireland. Moss made safe havens on the slick, slippery rock and was fed by the angelic mist that sought to nourish any organism in its reach. And I stood in the midst of it, bewitched. Scott was no longer in front of me, and all I could see was this sensational creation that could come from nothing less than a Godly Being. So this is what it felt like to live among the clouds!
When I finally regained some of my senses and turned around to feel for Scott, there he was on his knee, asking me to marry him. Even nature and all its grandeur felt as nothing as dust compared to this man and the symbol of forever he held in his hand. How foolish I then felt, to consider the reality of how quick a base human as myself is to stop and linger at lesser beauties, when the best is yet to come if we are only patient, if we are only steadfast, if we are only focused. But I said yes and consider myself the luckiest woman alive.
And things never end up the way you imagined them to be as a small girl. I've come to know that when I was young I imagined engagement and marriage to be perfect, an easy ride where all my problems dissipate. Some may be dismayed by the disillusionment; however, though I'm still young and still figuring things out, I'm coming to appreciate that things are so much better than I ever imagined them to be as a small girl. That's not because things are necessarily easy or perfect or happy 100% of the time per say; it's because it's real, not some pie-in-the-sky dream, but reality.
And I guess some people can grow tired of their reality. I know I have before. But I am grateful for my own beautiful reality and the person I get to experience it with. I have seen many great sights, met many great people along the way; but I know that I have finally reached that last waterfall, met that one man that is greater for me than all else.
But okay, so I haven't completely forgotten how to write (saying so would be a slight hyperbole), but can't you feel something missing, can't you feel what is lost, when you don't cultivate and nourish those things you love most? I suspect that it's those things that we love most, that we are best at, that we can lose--not to mention miss--the most of if we don't keep our eyes on it, for there is so much more to lose.
This may have been a few weeks ago, but nonetheless it is worth talking about: I took a hike on July 23, 2011 that changed my life. From the very start, the the scenery was lush and green and breathtaking; it seemed magical walking along the trail with light streaming through breaks in the trees. I was with my boyfriend at the time, Scott Baird, who briskly walked in front of me and guided us along the trail--I know I didn't mind, for he was the best thing to look at on that entire mountain. During the journey of the hike, I started wondering what the trip was like for other people: Who looked at the ground the entire way so they didn't trip? Who constantly had eyes that wandered to everything but the path in front of them? And who did a mix of both? For it seems that those that look at the ground the entire way may methodically never fall or trip, yet miss the enjoyment to be had by looking at all the trees and vegetation; on the other hand, those that are constantly darting their eyes from their left to their right at all the sights to be seen may have a lot of fun, yet fall in danger of veering off the path and eventually making an indefinite fall--never to step again. I figure that this is an instance where one must not be too extreme: we can't be too uptight or cautious all the time and miss the beauty all around us; yet neither is a journey that is full of fun and entertainment that causes us to lose focus on our destination a wise path to travel.
And this is not even the best part of this two mile hike! Just as I explained, the scenery from the very beginning was absolutely beautiful. The small waterfalls, tall trees and unique rock formations acted as poppies--lulling me away into the elation of nature, to never press forward. Eventually I would be pulled away from these small beauties and the camera, for Scott continued onward and I was aware of his absence and wouldn't allow myself to fall too far behind. But it seemed as if the more that time pressed on, the more beautiful things I would see! I wanted to stop every ten steps, to get lost in what I thought would be the most exquisite thing that could be seen, as if there could be no more beauty to be had. Yet I still found myself being pulled forward.
And then finally the most divine canvas filled my view! Gallons and gallons of water poured over a green hill that was reminiscent of Ireland. Moss made safe havens on the slick, slippery rock and was fed by the angelic mist that sought to nourish any organism in its reach. And I stood in the midst of it, bewitched. Scott was no longer in front of me, and all I could see was this sensational creation that could come from nothing less than a Godly Being. So this is what it felt like to live among the clouds!
When I finally regained some of my senses and turned around to feel for Scott, there he was on his knee, asking me to marry him. Even nature and all its grandeur felt as nothing as dust compared to this man and the symbol of forever he held in his hand. How foolish I then felt, to consider the reality of how quick a base human as myself is to stop and linger at lesser beauties, when the best is yet to come if we are only patient, if we are only steadfast, if we are only focused. But I said yes and consider myself the luckiest woman alive.
And things never end up the way you imagined them to be as a small girl. I've come to know that when I was young I imagined engagement and marriage to be perfect, an easy ride where all my problems dissipate. Some may be dismayed by the disillusionment; however, though I'm still young and still figuring things out, I'm coming to appreciate that things are so much better than I ever imagined them to be as a small girl. That's not because things are necessarily easy or perfect or happy 100% of the time per say; it's because it's real, not some pie-in-the-sky dream, but reality.
And I guess some people can grow tired of their reality. I know I have before. But I am grateful for my own beautiful reality and the person I get to experience it with. I have seen many great sights, met many great people along the way; but I know that I have finally reached that last waterfall, met that one man that is greater for me than all else.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Dirty Shirt
With a tenderly hand, and heart of fear,
Such feebleness known in young year--
Scraped the skin to callous;
Smoothed the concrete into brick,
Placing each carefully 'til it hid--
Not a one was to see.
But then prancing those kittenish eyes came--
Masking a ravenous wolf--
Chiseling brick by brick, tearing concrete,
'Til, with all charming subtleties,
Rough skin was quenched to smooth;
And there it was for one to see.
Quivering with love, desire and vulnerability;
The hooks lodged on fleshy tablets--
Gripped on a tenderly hand, a heart of fear,
The feebleness of young year--
To be torn inside out like a dirty shirt,
As the lines were reeled away.
And there it was for everyone to see.
Such feebleness known in young year--
Scraped the skin to callous;
Smoothed the concrete into brick,
Placing each carefully 'til it hid--
Not a one was to see.
But then prancing those kittenish eyes came--
Masking a ravenous wolf--
Chiseling brick by brick, tearing concrete,
'Til, with all charming subtleties,
Rough skin was quenched to smooth;
And there it was for one to see.
Quivering with love, desire and vulnerability;
The hooks lodged on fleshy tablets--
Gripped on a tenderly hand, a heart of fear,
The feebleness of young year--
To be torn inside out like a dirty shirt,
As the lines were reeled away.
And there it was for everyone to see.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Eleven
I didn't write this, but I wish I did. I guess I say that about a lot of things, but at least Sandra Cisneros did a great job with it. Ever since I read it in high school, it usually frequents my mind around my birthday.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe
me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
And that's it. Of the story, anyway.
So this doesn't have a lot to do with the whole birthday thing (although the birthday email I got from a certain someone made me so happy that I practically cried), but do you know what it's like to yearn for the same thing/person/occurrence day in and day out for months, even years? Do you know what it's like to drive in your car, imagining them to be there; or to sit at work, looking outside the window while it's slow, staring at two morning doves find food together, and feeling the anticipation build--even though you have months to go? Well, if you have, you know it sure makes the time go by slowly. And yet, even if it were to go by faster, I think it may still be too slow for me.
I start my spring term at Portland State this upcoming Tuesday! I'm not looking forward to my accounting class, except for the part about it being over. It's going to be an interesting term, considering the fact that on both Tuesdays and Thursdays my first class starts at 8:00am, which means I need to be ready to leave my house around 6:30am. I hope it isn't too hard for me to get used to waking up early! I'm such a night owl most of the time.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe
me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
And that's it. Of the story, anyway.
So this doesn't have a lot to do with the whole birthday thing (although the birthday email I got from a certain someone made me so happy that I practically cried), but do you know what it's like to yearn for the same thing/person/occurrence day in and day out for months, even years? Do you know what it's like to drive in your car, imagining them to be there; or to sit at work, looking outside the window while it's slow, staring at two morning doves find food together, and feeling the anticipation build--even though you have months to go? Well, if you have, you know it sure makes the time go by slowly. And yet, even if it were to go by faster, I think it may still be too slow for me.
I start my spring term at Portland State this upcoming Tuesday! I'm not looking forward to my accounting class, except for the part about it being over. It's going to be an interesting term, considering the fact that on both Tuesdays and Thursdays my first class starts at 8:00am, which means I need to be ready to leave my house around 6:30am. I hope it isn't too hard for me to get used to waking up early! I'm such a night owl most of the time.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Way You Detract
It is where the tall things are
That I have been--
Studying the stone,
the windows, the lights--
Should I not feel small?
Should I not feel meager--
For there are more hands
Than I could count?
But I do not feel small;
I do not feel meager,
As I stand in awe of
The contrast,
The walls,
The bridges--
Until I see the places,
The places we have been,
The places we could go.
And then I feel small
And then I feel meager,
Because you are not here--
For all the beautiful places
I breathe in when you are away,
Are ugly to me
Without your face.
That I have been--
Studying the stone,
the windows, the lights--
Should I not feel small?
Should I not feel meager--
For there are more hands
Than I could count?
But I do not feel small;
I do not feel meager,
As I stand in awe of
The contrast,
The walls,
The bridges--
Until I see the places,
The places we have been,
The places we could go.
And then I feel small
And then I feel meager,
Because you are not here--
For all the beautiful places
I breathe in when you are away,
Are ugly to me
Without your face.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Donuts Taught Me How to Stop Studying
When I was a senior in high school, my AP Economics teacher brought a dozen donuts to school one day in order to demonstrate the concept of marginal utility and how it generally decreases as more units are consumed/obtained; the tiny girl eating the donuts really enjoyed the first few donuts, but the benefits she felt she was receiving started decreasing dramatically as more donuts were consumed--which was evident by the look on her face!
Little did my econ teacher know that in college I would apply such a principle to studying in college! I spent three and a half hours studying for my financial accounting final that's tomorrow morning and, as time went on, my enjoyment--which was already low to begin with--continued to decrease and the last two chapters I was to go over I reviewed quite sloppily. My logic in stopping was that my marginal benefit in continuing to study must have been decreasing and, therefore, if I continued to spend time studying, it would make a smaller difference on my test score than the difference that was made during the first chunks of time I spent studying.
We'll just pretend that makes sense and that economic principles are applicable to real life situations and that I have feasibly adequate justifications in not studying any longer.
Now if that didn't dissuade you from reading the rest of this blog than I'm quite sure nothing will!
Unless you're a guy and you're offended when I say that I'm sick of people like you :)
But okay, I'll be honest: so it really isn't the male species fault for much of my tiresome evocations. I could try to go into some detailed explanation about my complaint, but I'll just leave fact as fact.
So I came up with and wrote down eight things that truly encompass the type of person I should always aspire and desire to be:
I am honest.
I am clean.
I am chaste.
I am strong.
I choose principles over passions.
I am ambitious.
I have honor and integrity.
I don't live my life in fear.
I am humble.
I'm definitely still working on some of those, but I figured that, if I have something written out that I tell myself every day that helps me stay focused, then I'll be able to better become what I can, should and want to become. Of course, those words are vain without action; but action is so much more likely to come about when thoughts become more tangible with words and documentation--it's almost like a promise.
I could write more, but I'm in a cynically sarcastic mood and writing usually doesn't make me feel better during those moments--unless it's symbolic or poetry or a mixture of the two, which I don't have time for, unfortunately. I'll write more another time.
Little did my econ teacher know that in college I would apply such a principle to studying in college! I spent three and a half hours studying for my financial accounting final that's tomorrow morning and, as time went on, my enjoyment--which was already low to begin with--continued to decrease and the last two chapters I was to go over I reviewed quite sloppily. My logic in stopping was that my marginal benefit in continuing to study must have been decreasing and, therefore, if I continued to spend time studying, it would make a smaller difference on my test score than the difference that was made during the first chunks of time I spent studying.
We'll just pretend that makes sense and that economic principles are applicable to real life situations and that I have feasibly adequate justifications in not studying any longer.
Now if that didn't dissuade you from reading the rest of this blog than I'm quite sure nothing will!
Unless you're a guy and you're offended when I say that I'm sick of people like you :)
But okay, I'll be honest: so it really isn't the male species fault for much of my tiresome evocations. I could try to go into some detailed explanation about my complaint, but I'll just leave fact as fact.
So I came up with and wrote down eight things that truly encompass the type of person I should always aspire and desire to be:
I am honest.
I am clean.
I am chaste.
I am strong.
I choose principles over passions.
I am ambitious.
I have honor and integrity.
I don't live my life in fear.
I am humble.
I'm definitely still working on some of those, but I figured that, if I have something written out that I tell myself every day that helps me stay focused, then I'll be able to better become what I can, should and want to become. Of course, those words are vain without action; but action is so much more likely to come about when thoughts become more tangible with words and documentation--it's almost like a promise.
I could write more, but I'm in a cynically sarcastic mood and writing usually doesn't make me feel better during those moments--unless it's symbolic or poetry or a mixture of the two, which I don't have time for, unfortunately. I'll write more another time.
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