And this is a cleft lip.
And this? Yup, cleft lip.
My daughter will be born with one. Possibly a cleft palate as well (see below) but the sonogram can’t confirm that although it is still a possibility for which I should brace and prepare myself.
Not exactly the words you want to hear when you’re already having an unplanned pregnancy as a soon-to-be single mom.
My best friend had excitedly accompanied me to the 20 week sonogram. Life was looking good. I was finally over the first trimester of constant headaches and nausea. I had a little bit more energy. And I was slowly beginning to accept the decision to have a child at this point in my life.
Seriously y’all. (Hobby Lobby take note.)
Because for the the years I was child-free, I had some modicum of control over my body. The moment I chose to be pregnant (notice that I chose the word ‘chose’), I have never been so sucker-punched and betrayed by my own body on a regular basis. For the first four months of pregnancy, I fought constant blinding headaches, a persistent disinterest in eating, and an all-consuming need to sleep. And contrary to outside perception, I WAS NOT BEING LAZY. I was fighting my body every step of the way.
The more bizarre (and yet I somewhat do take into consideration years down the line) advice I’ve received from them include:
Well, apparently it wasn’t a miscarriage.
I was sick a couple of weeks ago and since work wouldn’t allow me to come into the office (although I had a tower of stuff to do that was time-sensitive and no one else to do it), I decided to go to the doctor and get swabbed for strep throat which was making the rounds in Oakland. Hey, while I’m at the doctor’s, I should just go toddle off to the OB/GYN and make sure all that miscarriage stuff is cleared out of me just in case.
So imagine my surprise after being gagged with a strep swab and then poked by an ultra sound wand and a chuckle of “Well, you’re still pregnant.”
-”No I’m not.”
-”Yes you are.”
-”No I’m not.”
-”Look at the monitor.”
“His organs are shutting down.”
I stare at the text. It’s 830am and I’m packing to get on the road for a 6pm go-time of a long-anticipated wedding way up in the California foothills.
Leonardo is dying. It’s been just a little over a year since his Stage IV cancer was diagnosed. Honestly, I thought he was going to beat it. He increased his positivity and prayer and looked on no side that boded ill. If you doubted him, you were against him and he was going to prove you wrong.
That’s how I remember him when I uttered “I’m pregnant,” to him as fast as I could before my courage waned and before he had to get back on stage.
We agreed to talk about it later when he had time to think about it.
“I don’t know what to do with all this.” He motions to my furry coat, complete with sheep fur collar and cuffs. (I thought I was a vision in fluffiness; apparently I was a ball of cock-block.)
“But I’m cold,” I retorted as I looked around his room. (Hmm, he has a large collection of horror films.)
“I’ll keep you warm,” he protests.
“How?!?” I asked incredulously, pulling my warm coat closer around me. (Stupid rent-controlled SF apartments- they’re always drafty!)
“Just take it off.” I reluctantly remove my coat. He comes forward and gives me a full-body hug. It’s soft and warm. “Feel warm?”
“Heaven has a new angel.”
“It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”
“At least they died doing what they love.”
These are sayings that suck. They SUCK. They especially suck when you lose your partner and people say this to cheer you up.
My best guy friend just lost his wife. Poof! One minute she’s riding her bike in front of him, next minute he’s giving her CPR. Two days later he’s delaying pulling the plug on life support because he still wants to hold her hand even if her pupils are fixed and her brain has no activity. Heart attack. She had just turned 40.
I’m at a party with an old friend who is telling a funny story.
He goes, “So we’re picking up a friend who’s staying at the Hilton in the Tenderloin….” (The Tenderloin is a historically harder neighborhood in San Francisco that has a high number of homeless and drug users, mixed in with the touristy stuff of downtown.) “And there’s this homeless guy, and he doesn’t have his back to us or anything, he’s doing it while face the street..” My friend inhales as his eyes get wet with excitement, “He’s MASTURBATING! Like full frontal! Not even trying to hide it?!?!”
Guffaws of laughter and disbelief from the crowd.
I love listening to NPR’s Radiolab and this week they had an interesting 20 minute short called For The Love Of Numbers. In it, they discuss how people have favorite numbers and we justify it very strongly. Even numbers are ‘solid’ and ‘dependable’: odd numbers are ‘edgy’ and ‘mystical’. And people have favorite numbers throughout the world despite cultural differences, and yet cite the same characteristics for numbers “it’s a feminine number” or “it feels strong”. But apparently everyone has an affinity for a number.
My favorite number flips between 3 and 9, simply because they are round and I like that. And 3 is the power number for me: the holy trinity for example. And more personal for me, I was raised an only child so it makes me think of me and my mom and dad… Like a little island of three unto ourselves.
Do you have a favorite number and why?
Wow. Here I am. Art Murmur. The transformation is now complete. I am a (gasp!) gentrifier.
I went from living in my parents’ basement (due to special circumstances) to owning my own little wee (and I mean SMALL!) condo in Oakland, which apparently is the West Coast version of ‘New Brooklyn’. I’m sure it got that moniker because San Francisco proper is repulsively expensive (average rent for a one-bedroom is somewhere in the upper $2000s/low $3000s unless you know of someone willing to rent a room out of their rent-controlled apartment).