Peace with Americana

             It’s the 4^th of July.  Well, almost.  This time of year always brings me back to my father.  Back story for those of you who don’t know me.  My Dad died when I was three and half.  He was working with the volunteer fire company to set of our town’s annual fireworks display.  I believe the annual display was postponed at the last minute due to rain.  Then when the day came for the display, a homemade cannon was set off to let everyone know that it was about to start.  He was across the lake.  I was at Edgemere.  I remember that.  The cannon exploded and sent shrapnel through my father’s body that would eventually kill him within the week. 

                I remember spending my early days making sure that things like the Fourth of July and fireworks didn’t bother me.  These were things that kids were supposed to enjoy and I think I wanted badly to have time where I felt like a normal kid.  It was a relief to go to friends’ houses with sparklers and little ground explosions and just try to enjoy them, not thinking about the emotional toll it may have on my family.  I remember being at Walt Disney World, heading home after the parade on the monorail to a big fireworks display and seeing my mother cry.  I felt sad both for her and for me, that we could just enjoy this American joy.

                Now, my Mom has worked very hard on making us not feel this way; really this is not her shit.  She is cut and dry.  Reality based.  I used to tell her she was a pessimist and she would look and me and say, “No, I’m a realist.”  I see this as a good way to be.  Not for me, I could never do it.  I’m way to emotional, dramatic, living loud and hard on a daily basis to let realism cloud my world.  She never said anything to remind us we shouldn’t be enjoying a holiday or a season or a date because we had a loss.  She wanted us to enjoy life.   I wish I could be her.  I can’t.  We are of a different make up, even though she is where I come from.    But, I know that some of this has rubbed off on me.  I get annoyed with the woman who gets depressed and goes to be the psych unit every year because her 90 year old father died on this date 13 years ago.  This is life. 

                This year I had an odd experience that shook me.  And this I get from my rock of a mother, things don’t shake me easily.  I had a patient on Monday, Fourth of July week, come in to complain about a burn on his foot.  It was his inner toe.  It was minor without infection.  He denied pain.  He was just worried because he wore boots all day and didn’t want an infection.  So, then he begins to tell me how he sustained his injury.  He is a welder by trade, but this didn’t occur at work.  He told me how excited he was because he was building cannon.  He told me about this pond, and everyone works to make the best cannon with the loudest boom.  

                This was not something I was expecting.  I never thought much about homemade cannons, and never thought I would have to treat a patient with an injury sustained in the making, especially not so close to the anniversary of my father’s death.  I didn’t do much.  Basic burn first aid education while being mildly distracted by being sideswiped with unexpected emotions.  And then later that day I started to wonder why he was there.  And here I get a little mythical and magical.  Shit.  Was I supposed to warn this guy to be careful?   Why did he transfer care from his providers up the road?   This just feels a little weird.  And I don’t have answers on this one.  I just know it has brought my father’s death to the forefront.  And my father’s role in my life now, which is where I’m really going here.

                I experienced a group psychic reading with a bunch of great friend s in the summer of 2009.  She was amazing.  She named by name without prompting, the name of the person that killed a good friend’s father.  She told me that she saw two people, one older than the other, and both had the same name.  Both my father and my deceased brother were named David.  And then she told me that my Dad was sick of gripping the dashboard and I needed to slow down.  She was so right on.

                And now I’ve been working in a job that can be stressful at times.  There are nights when I have to dash into the hospital, and I’m usually, at least on some level, scared.   Those nights, in my little car without any fancy back support seats, I can feel what I can only describe as kicking from the backseat, much like when David, my son, sits behind me and becomes inpatient.  The more stressed about the situation, the more I feel it.  And I feel it is my Dad with me.  And this is a great thing. 

                This is not to be confused with a story of sadness.  This is about having more and more realization that my Dad is with me when I need him.  And I’m ok with that now.  I don’t need to pretend that the Fourth isn’t sad.  I don’t need to pretend it didn’t happen and that fireworks don’t make me flinch.  This is who I am.  This made me who I am.  I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all.   

Content?  Exploring the unknown??

I’ve had an odd an unknown feeling following me around the last several weeks.  I think it’s something along the lines of contentedness.   I’m not longing or searching for too much more right, and that is unfamiliar territory.  Where is the unsettled need that often erupts on the topic of children?  What has happened?  It feels significant enough to write again. 

                For the two of you who follow my blog and the other five of your who read and it and know me, this part won’t be anything new.  In my late teens and early twenties I was ambivalent about wanting kids.  Then, I got engaged, got pregnant and had a miscarriage.  We got married  and started striving for what I didn’t have.  Eventually, after two miscarriages, I carried a beautiful red headed baby named David to term.  And he has been a blessing.  And then we wanted another.  And I had another miscarriage.  And then got pregnant with the beautiful Cecelia.  She is now two and a half.

                Over the past year we have the fever again.    And we’ve been successful in trying.  I got pregnant in early February, only to learn early about its lack of viability.  The next month I had a slight different period, and found out I was pregnant again, and had another early loss.  Then we tried a few more months with disappointment. 

                And all of the sudden I feel content and lost the fever.   This is a whole new feeling for me.  I think it’s a good feeling.  I count my stats and see I’m not successful.  I’ve now had seven pregnancies with two children to show.  I’m not craving for once but enjoying what I have.  So, why the pang of guilt?  There is a part of me that has been trying to overcome the sadness and anger associated with so many failed pregnancies.  There is also me knowing that I’ve always wanted a four child family.  And this shift is taking me by surprise.  I would like more children, but I don’t about wanting them right now.  But, I’m not young.   Having a child for us takes years.  So the struggle emerges:  do I be content with now or not?  What if I decide not to push the issue and in 10 years I hate the choice I made.  And always a fear for me:  what if something happens to my kids?  I lived this and I want my kids to have siblings to help them steer through the world.  Adulthood isn’t easy.  Decisions are big.

                And I’m also aware of the nagging part of me that asks about m selfishness.  I’ve learned the joy of vacations lately.  I see the ease of two kids in a good routine right on that horizon.  I wonder if I can do it again, with my more demanding job, make enough milk every day to avoid formula, and make the great homemade food on the weekend again.   This is mainly bathed in fear, which I don’t like to tolerate.  I know at any given time I will be given the grace that I need.   Anticipation generally creates much more anxiety than the moment. 

                This is an odd writing for me because it’s not a looking back, oh see how much I learned, and see what works out, kind of reflection.  This is a shit in the middle of it, fuck, big decisions, where do I go next kind of reflection.  And it is blathering and lacking direction, which may be all together appropriate.  I have often stated that my reproductive issues have taught me that I’m not in charge.  Perhaps I need that refresher course.