The best laid plans...

I want to write about Jude's birth. It's important to me to set it to words in this space. It will be a reminder for me of what I went through and how much hard work it took to get that little bean into the world. Everyone worked hard - Jude, me, Matthew, my sister in law, my parents, our doula, our friends. To say that it didn't go as planned would be the mildest way of putting it.

I labored at home for 24 hours. Matthew and I counted contractions for a day and then called our doula. We headed to the hospital 12 hours later and had to wait for a couple of hours to be checked in because all the rooms were taken. Nothing like leaking amniotic fluid and having very painful contractions in a waiting room. Nothing like it.

Several hours later we got a labor and delivery room. My contractions got progressively more intense and I was still only dilated a couple of centimeters. It stayed that way for a few hours. My midwife talked to us about using some meds to get my cervix in better shape to get the baby out because nature was not cooperating - I was having transitional contractions but I still wasn't dilated more than a couple of centimeters. She knew we wanted a natural birth and she gave my body lots of time to see if we could overcome what obstacles stood in the way, but it wasn't working. Cervadil, then pitocin, then an epidural... all things that I was staunchly against going into the birth. My contractions were so hard and fast I was exhausted and they were afraid I would have nothing left when it finally came time to push the baby out.

After 48 hours of labor it turns out that I had a dysfunctional labor because of cervical swelling (I finally got up to 7 centimeters, but then became very swollen and got back down to 4 centimeters). At that point I was getting into a high risk category and a c-section became the only option. It was my worst nightmare before labor started. I did everything to avoid it. My midwife gave me a lot of time to see if my body could overcome, but there was no chance. She explained everything and we both cried about it. I was so upset. She was upset for me. Everyone knew it wasn't what I wanted, but we all knew that the only real goal was to get the baby out safely. If we waited much longer both of us would be in danger.

Matthew got ready to come with me to the operating room. Our midwife helped him put on the scrubs and mask. His cool checkered Vans slipped into the shoe covers and he was ready - more or less. He prepared himself to see his wife and the mother of his child get cut open on the table. He always said he thought he would have made a good doctor... but he said later that he could never detach enough from the patient to cut into them.

So I had a c-section. At 2:48 on 3/12 Jude came into the world and my surgeon passed him through a hole he cut in the drape so I could be the first one to kiss him. The surgeon said he wanted me to be able to kiss the baby first, that just because I didn't push the baby out didn't mean I wasn't the mommy. That meant so much to me. He told me we had a boy and I got to give little, slimy Jude his first smooch.

The surgery was frightening and I had a bad reaction to the anesthesia - I got the shakes very badly and couldn't control the upper half of my body. I was twitching and jerking and it was very scary. I knew I was in good hands and that Jude was in good hands, but that was the hardest experience of my life.

In the end, we got our son. That's all that counts. I came to grips with all the medical intervention and was actually grateful for it afterward when my midwife told me how close I was to something disastrous. She explained that when you hear about women in remote areas developing fistulas they most often result from the exact scenario that played out for me. Except, those women don't have medical care, so the option of a c-section doesn't exist. If I were one of them I would have likely died. Matthew just kept saying, "I know you don't want to hear this, but we can make another baby but I can't make another you. I can't go through this life without you, so this surgery is what needs to happen. Please." That was all I needed to hear.

And when Jude cried for the first time and I heard that tiny voice coming from across the OR I knew we did the right thing. I tried and Jude tried and we did our best. All that counts is that we made it through and our family is at home, happy and healthy. The poopy diapers and the sleepless nights, the spit up and the endless burpings, the coos and cries, the sore nipples and the achy belly - it's all worth it. It's all worth it and I'd do it again tomorrow if it meant my little family would be as happy as we are right now.

Life awaits. The future is here. The three of us will face it together. Hey, ho! Let's go! As Matthew says, Ramones fans are born, not made.

Complacency

It’s a word that drives me nuts. Complacency. I despise it. To me, it’s the worst trait we have developed as Americans. As citizens of the world, actually. Complacency makes us decide that the path of least resistance is the best course. Complacency makes it easy for us to do nothing. We don’t speak up. We don’t react well. Proactivity? What’s that?

I am tired of complacency. I want people to speak up. I want people to stop thinking they can’t change anything, so it’s not worth it to even try. As a kid, if I was doing something wrong I expected adults to reprimand me. For the record, as a kid, the worst thing I did was chase a neighbor boy down the street and occasionally cut through someone’s yard when I shouldn’t have. Those minor infractions got me a scolding by adult neighbors. I deserved it. That was everyone’s neighborhood and everyone had a stake in it. You can’t have kids running through peoples’ yards and trampling flower beds. They were right to speak up.

So why is it so rare for people to speak up nowadays? Is it our general fear of a lawsuit? We are an insanely litigious society that sues for the most ridiculous things. I can understand someone not wanting to get involved in a situation because they don’t want to deal with the ramifications of engagement. But I still think that’s bogus logic. Is it our media-fueled fear of violence that makes us hang back? Whatever it is, it’s absurd.

People don’t speak up when they see something wrong happening. This past weekend Matthew was waiting outside the grocery with Duke while I picked up a few things. A kid of about 7 or 8 walked over and shoved Duke. He just walked up to the dog, grabbed his hips, and shoved him. Matthew saw this kid’s father standing about 20’ away talking on his cell phone. He grabbed the kid by the arm and marched him over to his dad. The guy wouldn’t acknowledge that Matthew was standing there. He had to tell the guy to get off the phone and pay attention. If a stranger had my kid by the arm you better believe I’d be paying attention! He told the guy he needed to explain to his son that it is dangerous to antagonize a dog, especially one you don’t know, and that if his kid had done that to another dog he very well could have been bitten. They guy acted like he didn’t speak English (he was speaking English a little later when I saw him) and turned his back on Matthew to continue his phone call. Matthew told the kid’s sister, who was also there being ignored by their father, that her brother could get seriously hurt and that she should keep an eye on him until their dad got off the phone.

Later that same day we were in the city and a handicapped access bus was parked on 8th Ave. The doors opened and trash started flying out onto the street. The doors closed. Not being one to see something wrong happen and say nothing about it, I marched up to the bus doors and knocked with a big smile on my face. “Why did you do that?” Bus driver responded, “What are you talking about?” I explained that I saw him toss trash onto the street and I was wondering when he was going to pick it up. He said he didn’t do it, even though he was holding the empty plastic bag he had just dumped out. An exchange followed, in which I told him that no one is so entitled that they can litter… I said I live here, too, and I don’t want to have trashy streets… he said if I was so concerned that I should pick it up... he called me a bitch and told me to fuck off… I said my husband had written down his plate # and that we were going to call and complain, just as soon as I picked up his mess because even though it was his responsibility it would be wrong for me to just leave his garbage on the street. He drove away screaming obscenities at me and flipping me off. I’m calling today to make a formal complaint. I picked up all his trash because even though I didn’t put it there, this city and this planet are everyone’s responsibility. There happened to be an empty vodka bottle in the same pile. I don’t know if it was his or not, but you can be damn sure I’ll mention that I picked it up when I talk to the company. If I don’t get an acceptably concerned response from the company, I’ll call the police. Littering is illegal. I have the license plate #.

People cannot keep watching others do things that are wrong and say nothing about it. Get involved. Nothing will change if we all stand idly by. What’s that saying? Democracy fails when good men do nothing. Well, society in general suffers when we all get complacent. The problems are big, but that doesn’t mean that individual actions have no effect. Take the chance. Even if it makes no difference at least you’ll know you tried.

How much is too much?

I am often among the first to stick up for liberal civil policy, artistic freedoms, personal choice, expression of any sort as long as no one gets hurt. That said, I've discovered a new found hesitance within myself when it comes to film/television that depicts graphic violence and extreme acts of depravity.

Case in point: my reaction to M. Knight Shamaylan's new movie The Happening. Have you seen the trailers? 3 particular bits spring to mind - 1) a man who lays himself down in front of a thresher, 2) a woman who stabs her own neck with a letter opener while sitting in Central Park, and 3) people throwing themselves off buildings in Manhattan.

The premise of this film is that there is an unseen, unidentified force that is sweeping in and affecting people in very bad ways. Namely, they kill themselves. They kill themselves quite calmly, as a matter of fact. Which, I must say, is a very creepy way to kill yourself. Anyway, this shit makes me nuts.

As if the death by thresher wasn't enough, the people tossing themselves off the building is enough to put me over the edge. I don't want to be one of those people who thinks everything is disrespectful to the memory of those who died on 9/11, one of those people who is hypersensitive about firefighters, skyscrapers, and terrorism... but there are some things that are a little too close to actual events for comfort. People throwing themselves off buildings is one of those things.

9/11 sensitivity aside, I still think this movie is pretty screwed up. At least, the visual representation of this "unseen force" is pretty screwed up. It's like they thought of 10 more things to freak Americans out with. 10 more things that housewives all over the country will suddenly be paranoid about. 10 more things that will end up on a Dateline NBC investigation next time sweeps roll around. 10 more things that will spur the manufacture of a drug made to counteract the anxiety they cause. I find it offensive because its just a pandering tactic to the lowest common denominator and somehow that bothers me. Do we need to have every last graphic detail shown to us? Have we lost all powers of imagination?

Don't know what to say

There are few times when I have insufficient words to express myself. I am a wordy and effusive person by nature. Sometimes a subject stops me cold and I find that language escapes me.

Right now I am listening to NPR as I work. Truth be told, I've stopped working momentarily because I need some time to compose myself. There is an interview going on right now on our local NYC NPR affiliate with Benjamin Skinner, a journalist who has spent years researching and going undercover to explore the perils of modern slavery. His book, A Crime So Monstrous details the shocking fact that there are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in history. Surprised? I was.

I could hop a flight right now to Port au Prince, Haiti and in a mere 5 hours from the time I left my apartment I could be negotiating the price of a child in the open air, broad daylight. Mr. Skinner did this. He told the slave trader he was a journalist and he wanted to talk to him about his work. To his shock, the man was open with him about the buying and selling of children. To see how far the trader would go Mr. Skinner asked him how long it would take to get a child. 3 days. What skills should the child have? Cooking, cleaning, she would sleep on the floor, she would not be sent to school. The trader asked if the child would be used also as "a partner". Mr. Skinner tried to keep his composure as he answered, "Yes, if that's possible". The trader said the price would be $100. Eventually it was negotiated down to $50.

$50 for the life of a child. I have no words.

In Bucharest, Mr. Skinner was undercover at a slave trader's place of business and told the man he wanted a young woman. The trader quickly brought out 2 girls. One showed visible signs of Downs Syndrome and makeup had been hastily applied to her face in an effort to make her saleable. She was crying and the makeup was running down her face. Mr. Skinner was told he could have her for the trade of a used car.

This happens every day. Just because we don't see it doesn't mean it isn't going on. We can't sit by and do nothing. Action is needed.

WHY?

This is upsetting. Infuriating. Frustrating. Sad. Depressing.

This is our neighorhood, our borough, our problem. This is not OK.

Answers

Here's the question of the day - how do you stop regretting something? I can't seem to push certain things out of my mind and they keep torturing me. I suppose a more apt way to say that is that I keep torturing myself. Always been a bit of a masochist. So, how do I stop it? I've not been successful thus far and I'm getting nervous that this torture is becoming a permanent thing.

The whole strategy of "fake it 'til you make it" has come in handy many a time for me, but for the last few months a pattern has been developing - I'll have a couple days where it seems to work for me. I'll honestly think that I can beat whatever it is that's getting the better of me and I see the bright side. But then, just a few days later I sink back down into defeat and I can't even muster the energy to fake it. It's wearing me down and taking its toll on every aspect of my life.

My relationship with MT is suffering because I can't get my head right. He's a bit afraid that the woman he fell in love with was either a well-crafted facade or she's run off somewhere to hide from the world. Honestly, sometimes I'm not sure which is the real answer - that's both terrifying and disappointing. My friends (caring and wonderful as they are) can only take so much of the grumpy-puss Melissa before they start to get frustrated and annoyed (I can't blame them - who wants to be constantly walking on eggshells around the same person day after day). I'm alienating myself from everyone I love, that's usually a bad sign.

I've got to either get out of my own head long enough to take a deep breath and look at what's outside or I've got to figure out how to make the jumble of my brain make sense. For now I think I'll figure out how to use my new sewing machine. I figure it'll distract me for a minute or so and it might even bring back my creative spark.

Shock

There is no easy way to say this, so here it is - the man called this morning to tell me Duke had died at the vet overnight. Said that the vet tech came in this morning and he looked like he was sleeping. Said it looked like he didn't suffer, that he had just stopped breathing in his sleep. I was a wreck. I stood outside my office building and was overcome with despair. I've been basically mourning for a week, I've been so distraught that I've made myself physically ill, I've been so upset at work (bad enough that the new proof reader gave me a card for Duke - so sweet), I've cried me eyes out every day and the people in my life who love me have been taking care of me. I've not been in good shape.

Now, here's the part that's really not easy to say - all is not as it seems. I started putting 2 and 2 together after that phone call this morning and I had some questions. Why did the man avoid my question last week about whether Duke could come live with me? Why did he then tell me Duke was very sick and he didn't tell me earlier because he didn't know how? Why didn't he have an answer when I asked what kind of cancer it was? Why did he make a point of telling me that he took Duke's crate to the vet? Why did he tell me that he cleaned the house this morning and got rid of Duke's things so I wouldn't be upset everytime I turned around? It all started to sound like he was covering his bases. Like he was answering in advance the question I'd have about why nothing remained of my dog at his apartment.

I asked him for the vet's phone # so I could call and talk about what would happen to Duke's body. I didn't want my beloved dog to be disposed of in some bio-medical bin. He wouldn't give me the phone #. I called him and said that I didn't know how to say it, but my bullshit detector was going off loud and clear and I needed to know where my dog is. What I got in response was hurt and anger and denial that anything was amiss. I was the bad guy. I insisted that if he were in my shoes that he'd be asking the same questions. He said he never would doubt me like that. He would never accuse me of something this awful. Everything got shoved back at me and I was the asshole. He said he'd email me the vet's #. I apologized and let him know that I had to run the risk of being wrong and making him angry because if I didn't confront him about my doubts it would eat me up inside. I asked if it was still OK that I come down this weekend (I was to leave for the airport in an hour) and he said he needed a couple minutes to process things and he'd let me know.

I then got an email half an hour later saying that he still wanted me to come, but that he didn't think it was a good idea, that he'd send me my things and he'd pay me back for the money I spent on the flight. I asked again for the vet's #. I got nothing. I left work and just started walking. I didn't know where I was going, I just needed to walk and clear my head. I was walking around lower Manhattan crying and talking into my cell phone like a crazy person. I must have looked like a total mess. I was a total mess. I didn't know what to do. I called Kristie. I called MT. I called my mom. I called the man again and left a msg saying that I wanted to make sure I wasn't coming to Miami because that was my last chance to make my flight. He didn't call back.

I called MT again. He was so calm and so smart. He looked up the # of the vet who supposedly did Duke's 1st biopsy a couple weeks ago and said he'd call them and find out what was going on. I walked around in utter confusion waiting for him to call back. I called Kristie and she kept me from freaking out. MT called back and said that the vet hadn't seen Duke since February. The receptionist didn't want to give out any information, but he pleaded with her and said if she knew how upset I was because I thought my dog was dead she'd give him something. She said, "DEAD?? Hold on a moment..." and when she came back she told him they hadn't seen him since February.

I called the man again, no answer. My msg said that I needed him to call me back and explain to me why Dr. Fernandez hasn't seen Duke since Feb. if he's the one who did a biopsy 3 weeks ago. I said that I needed him to make it all make sense for me, that I wanted more than anything to be wrong - to be the asshole for real and be accusing him of something falsely. What I got was a text msg telling me that I was right, that he had given Duke away and that he didn't know why he lied to me, that he couldn't control it, that it had gotten out of hand, that he was so sorry and he was sick about doing this to me.

It was all a lie. It was all an elaborate series of complicated deceptions. I've spoken to him almost every day since last week. I cried to him, he comforted me. I thanked him for doing everything he could for Duke, he said he did it gladly. He heard the devastation in my voice for a week and he kept adding to it every time we spoke. Each phone call was another layer of lies. First it was cancer and a second opinion was needed. Then it was one night in the animal hospital. That became 3 nights. Then it was trouble breathing. Then the respiratory condition might be treatable and separate from the cancer - he actually fed me information to give me hope about a totally fake illness! Then the respiratory condition wasn't separate, it was probably cancer in his lungs. And then the biggest lie of all - Duke died in his sleep. He tortured me. He broke my heart and he knew he was doing it.

I'm lost right now. I'm destroyed. I've never been so betrayed, so lied to, so taken advantage of, so devastated, so underestimated. He even said he'd send me Duke's ashes. What was he going to do - put some dirt in a jar from the dollar store and tell me that it was my dog's body? I told him he should get help because there's obviously something in him that's broken and needs repair. Something in there is rotten. Something in there made him do this to me. I don't understand it. He says he doesn't understand it.

The only solace that remains for me is that my Dukester is safe with a family in Ft. Lauderdale. My mom asked me how I know that's the truth and not just another deception. I told her that I have to believe something, and this needs to be it.

Thank you for the support and the caring, everyone. Even if the whole situation was a tangle of lies, the support was real and I can't tell you how much that means to me.

I've been cheated. I've been cheated out of my dog and I've been cheated out of my trust. I'm a skeptic now.

I love you, pupster.

The man sent me this video over the weekend. I'm so thankful he did. He recorded it about a year ago.

I'm going to see him & Duke this weekend. The news so far is not good about my pupster's health and I have a feeling this weekend will be a memorial. I feel like my heart is breaking into tiny pieces and there's nothing to fix it. I have to put on a brave face this Friday, look into Duke's big, droopy face and tell him I love him. Thank him for being such a good dog. Thank him for being my boy. Tell him he's been nothing but joy for me. Let him know he's made a difference in my life. All I can manage to do right now is keep the tears from shorting out my laptop. I'm not even doing a good job at that.

this hurts

My boy is sick. He's really sick. My crazy mutt's got cancer. I wanted him to come live with me and the man told me today that my Duke has cancer. My 3 year old unconditional love machine could leave us at any time. I asked the man if Duke could come live with me in New York sometime soon and he avoided my question for about a week. Today I asked him if he was avoiding the Duke question on purpose. Turns out he couldn't figure out a good way to tell me that our dog is sick. He feels awful and I feel heartbroken and a little lost right now. Miami was pretty much a dark blotch on the record of my life and Duke was the only thing that was shining and pure and bright the whole time. Not one ounce of malice, not one minute of doubt or negativity in him. It's very widespread, the cancer. I can't help him. I can't fix him. All I want to do is make him healthy and I can't do it. My pet, my friend, my furry baby is really sick, you guys. I can't stop the tears.