An Up-the-backer.

Poor Auntie Hilary got pooped on. Yes, chemo does some grody things to the system and I'm sure our man Kaleb is enjoying all the funny sounds and faces people make when he pulls a gross little (or big) oopsie. It's either that, or he's far more clever than he should be.

I'm amazed at my continued reflex to all the baby advertising that surrounds us. Every single smiling, chubby child is a slap in the face with a knobby stick. I know... GET OVER IT, ALREADY. Believe me, I'm yelling at myself those very words every time. It's not so much that I fear we won't beat this. I feel in my core that we will. I suppose it's a lingering grip on my selfish greed for the "norm". No one says it. A few good friends do celebrate it. But more step on each other with their instinctual drive to have a child that one-ups everyone else's.

My logical ambition was to continue the momentum of my pregnancy. It was honestly the most wonderful event to occur to my body. I mentally documented and "freeze-framed" so much of how it felt at every stage and it all felt fantastic. I scoffed at video tapes depicting mournful women who had to suffer through C-sections. I could not imagine that they refused to appreciate the gorgeous, healthy children before them.

Then my own body's failure came to pass. I recall being ushered into the "high risk" wing, watching as those beautiful doors that lead to a fanciful wing of natural mothers disappeared around the corner. I was going the wrong way!! I was supposed to be lounging in the warm tub, surrounded by cheery decor and soothing music, with my own private room. I was supposed to labour, deliver and recover with my husband and child, all in the same room! During all those ridiculous pre-natal classes, I swallowed the one class on "oh, by the way" scenarios but I honestly never for one second believed that any of them might apply to me. After all, I was a natural at being a life-nurturing blimp.

There is no rest for the warrior birther, either. Before you even come down off the good stuff that gets you through the ordeal, they're pitching you your new squalling football. I was so intent on not fumbling the darned thing, with all these 20-something, never-done-anything-worthwhile nurses coaching you through one corner of their pert little mouths, while condemning your lack-luster efforts through the other, that I did not process anything other than "We made it!". Home we went, scrambling to try to establish a new routine and rhythm. While all this was humming along my surface, I did not even realise my inner struggle to accept such a gruesome detour. I almost understood the pathetic sobbing woman on the video with the healthy baby girl. Almost. I still wouldn't let myself examine too closely my own feelings of utter failure on the most important physical front of my life. I refused to invite the dark visitor of post-partum and I certainly have the capacity to embrace him, whole-hog. I instead focused on learning who this new spectacular little person was and oh how he has captured my attention!

With the birth dust mostly settled and my warrior's wound far-too-slowly healing, my heart and mind are obviously pulled in more important directions. It was, after all, One Day. One day that brought to us the most incredible, precious package of our lives.

We are so ecstatic, even now, to be sharing in his life. And that's what it's already become. *snap* just like that... he's too large not to have his own life, his own journeys... which I have to say, have certainly started off with a big bang.


I've received a very good suggestion, I think... Next post, all about who he is. If anyone wants to email contributions to this thought, I'd love to include them. Everyone's perspectives are so interestingly different.