March 4, 2009

I went home with Linda & Richard. After we’d picked up flowers and cards. I sat at her dining room table that night and wrote out every single thank you card. I just needed to get it done.

Then came the worry about my baby. I clearly remembered saying at the hospital, that I couldn’t have this baby, didn‘t want this baby. I couldn’t do this. And now came the worry. Had I cursed the baby? Would it be ok? Would God punish me for saying that? Maybe I deserved punishment, but please God, not this baby. I didn’t mean it. So, now my goal was to HAVE this baby. And days went by. I went for long walks. I never sat down for more than a couple of minutes. I had Richard take me to the Ford Plant where he worked and drive me over and over railroad tracks hoping to start labor. Nothing. Nada. This went on for days.

Finally, nine days after Harm died, I went to the Doctor and begged him to induce labor. NOTE* Not my family doctor. Dr. J had stopped delivering babies by then. I was going to a new guy, didn’t like him a lot. An old German with old fashioned beliefs. And, I’d pay for that!

So. He agreed to meet me at the hospital that afternoon and induce me. I got there, he came in and broke my water. (things were way different in 1972. No fetal monitors and such)
And then he left. He said I’d probably go into labor in about six hours or so.

WRONG.

By the time he got back to his office about 6 miles away, the hospital was calling for him to return as I was ready to deliver. This was when epidurals were just becoming available. Linda had one with Leigh Ann and said it was painless. Thus, the new doctor. Yeah. By the time he turned around and came back, I was so far advanced that there was no anesthesia. Period. Totally unprepared for natural labor. What a horrible experience. This was before birth was a family affair. No one got in the delivery room in those days. They brought my mother in, wrapped in surgical gear from head to toe, to try to calm me. Yeah, right. They gave me gas & I was certain they were trying to kill me. I ripped off the mask, ripped out the IV and I was ready to get the hell outta Dodge.
Then she was born. Jennifer Ann Ratliff. March 13. 1972.

And she was healthy and well and I hadn’t cursed her. What a blessing.

Background: I’d explained to the Dr that I didn’t want to be around anyone else. Please inform the staff of my circumstances. I wanted a private room, at my expense, if necessary. It just didn’t seem fair to me that someone else’s joy should be diminished because they were rooming with a recent widow. Made sense to me and mine. I didn’t want to be around a happy little family. Special circumstances, right? Right.

First off, after he broke my water, I was roaming the halls. Trying to get this whole thing going. A nurse said to me, “Why don’t you just go down the hall to where your husband is waiting for you.” OK.

Then she was born. Jennifer Ann Ratliff. March 13. 1972.

And she was healthy and well and I hadn’t cursed her. What a blessing.

Background: I’d explained to the Dr that I didn’t want to be around anyone else. Please inform the staff of my circumstances. I wanted a private room, at my expense, if necessary. It just didn’t seem fair to me that someone else’s joy should be diminished because they were rooming with a recent widow. Made sense to me and mine. I didn’t want to be around a happy little family. Special circumstances, right? Right.

First off, after he broke my water, I was roaming the halls. Trying to get this whole thing going. A nurse said to me, “Why don’t you just go down the hall to where your husband is waiting for you.” OK.

After delivery, you guessed it. Double room with a happy mother of a first newborn. OK. Then the gal with the photos showed up. Left the pictures with me so “my husband and I could look them over.” And the worst blow?
Literally. Turned out my doctor believed in breast feeding. I didn’t. And I didn’t know this. Linda has small breasts and never a problem. I’d gone through hell after Traci with full breasts and refilling breasts. Like a freakin’ faucet. What did he offer me? No pills to dry me up. Nurse Rachett came into my room and LITERALLY dropped two ice bags onto my swollen breasts. I cried harder then than I had since the funeral. Exquisite Pain. Never felt before or since that time. Unbelievable pain.

I called Dr J from the hospital and requested he call me in a prescription to dry me up. He came through. But, it was a bit too late. I came home and mother ripped up sheets. She and Linda bound me. I don’t know which of the three of us was crying hardest. It was ultimate pain. For me physically, for them emotionally, to have to hurt me so bad when I was so broken. A weird sort of bonding ritual.

I don’t remember a lot after that. I believe I went through life in a sort of fog for several months. Not a lot of details. I don’t remember much about anything at that time. How Traci was coping. She seemed alright to all of us. I hope she was.

I can’t remember much about Jennifer as a little baby. I do remember that she was exactly the baby I needed. It was like Harm picked her out for me. She slept through the night from the day she came home. Hardly ever cried. Nearly always content and happy. Actually, much like she is now. My family must have just pushed me through the days. I don’t remember much at all for several months. Except for shopping monthly with my father when our social security checks came in. Weird, huh?

So, that’s pretty much the end of the story. Except it’s never really ended. I remember it clear as day every year around this time . I wish I didn’t. But then again, someone has to remember, don’t they? Otherwise it’s all gone. And if not me? Who is there to remember that a wonderful man lived and died? Way too soon. Way way too soon. His children don’t remember him. His parents are gone. Who else to keep his memory alive? I can’t just walk away and pretend he never existed. He did. And he was. And I loved him.

I would so hate to be forgotten. Maybe, that’s what this is all about. My own ego. Immortality. If no one remembers you, you’re gone. Period. Perhaps it’s my job to remember. I hope someone takes on that job for me when I’m gone. And I hope it’s all of my children, and their children and on and on. Because he truly was a good soul. It should be remembered that he lived. And was loved. And was loving. He was here and poof……gone. But, he did indeed leave his footprints. On my heart.

I had his headstone engraved “Those who knew him could not help loving him.” I hope 100 years from now, when anyone sees that stone, they’ll give him a thought and acknowledge that he must have been quite a guy, to earn that saying on his grave. That would make me happy.