Sometimes, a light flashes on the fact that time is marching on and that you better pay attention, or life will pass you right by and those milestones will be behind you. I suppose some might say that each breath is a milestone and so we better pay attention and make the most of each breath before it’s behind us.
Yesterday, I was hit with just such a realization – well, not hit exactly because I was in the middle of a much-needed massage, but the realization was so strong that I started crying, right in the middle of a massage (another milestone).
This coming Tuesday, my youngest will turn thirty. True, a milestone, but not the realization that struck me. What struck me was the importance of April 15, not because of tax day, but because on Monday, thirty years ago, I was twenty-nine, the same age as my youngest is now and will be on the 15th.
I’ve shared other interesting milestones with my other children, like my daughter and I will always celebrate milestone birthdays because I had her when I was twenty-five. I had my second child when I was twenty-seven, and he and I share reciprocal birthdays every eleven years, which is pretty cool.
Thirty-plus years ago, something was funny. My husband commented that I seemed distracted. “I think I may be pregnant,” I said. I had been on the pill and had taken it religiously, but I picked up a two-pack pregnancy test anyway, just in case. The package said, for best results, to take the test first thing in the morning.
After fishing with friends, we went out to dinner and I ordered a scotch. Those who know me, know that I really dislike scotch. I had never ordered scotch before, nor since. I had two sips and was finished with scotch for a good long time.
The next morning, I took the test – positive. I took the other one – positive. I called the doctor. The receptionist said to come in around noon and they would fit me in.
My first two were born in Denver, delivered by an amazing 65-year-old, never-married, pony-tailed doctor, who called everyone “sweetie”. He knew just what to say, how to say it, and he reassured you that you were doing just fine.
We moved to the mountains shortly after our second turned one. Up in the mountains, there was only one doctor, and it was his first day after taking over the business from the doctor listed in the phonebook. After four hours of waiting, the nurse took me in and asked the usual questions.
“Okay, let’s take you into the exam room,” she said, with fake cheeriness that was probably exhaustion.
“Wait, what about a pregnancy test,” I asked, still not comprehending that I could be pregnant. Our whole family was scheduled to go to Russia the next May, and my mother had been very clear about no one getting pregnant in the meantime.
“Did you take a pregnancy test,” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I took two,” I said, incredulous that I had just wasted four hours waiting for the answer I already knew.
“That’s all we would have done. Let’s go see the doctor,” she said urging me along.
The doctor was young, probably in his thirties. He did not have all the right words to say. He was harried. His timing was off. Where my previous doctor seemed to dance through life, this new doctor was trying to find the rhythm. I was due May 15.
At that time, we were in the midst of building a house on seventy-plus acres in the mountains. My cousin designed the house and asked if we would have any more children, and we both said, “Nope, we have one of each. We are done.”
I guess God had other plans. This child was meant to be in this world – in our world.
After four or five months into the pregnancy, we moved into the house. I probably lifted and moved things more than I should have and shortly after moving in, I noticed some bleeding. I called the doctor and spoke to the receptionist. She said, “You’ll probably continue bleeding and lose the baby. Sorry. I’ll have the doctor give you a call later.”
The bleeding stopped. The doctor called. I told him what the receptionist said. He said not to pay any attention to her and that he would have a word with her.
When pregnant with the other two, especially the second, I could do anything. I painted two bathrooms, hung two light fixtures, and played the best tennis of my life. With the third, every time I played tennis, my hips felt as if they would fall apart, and that the baby would come out right then. I stopped playing tennis.
One day, when I was five or six months pregnant we (my husband and I) went skiing with the general contractor of our house. It was a beautiful day, and we were having a blast, until my husband decided to do a bump run so he could get his heart rate up and make the day a worthwhile workout. I’m not great in the bumps, and these were the size of VW Bugs. The day and I dissolved into tears, and I found another route down, as the contractor yelled at the husband for being such an ass.
At the beginning of April of that year, I was eight months pregnant and I stopped to help another mother hang a swing on a swing set. I stretched up and held the swing while the other mother tightened the gizmo that held it in place. That night, I began having contractions about every twenty minutes.
I didn’t think too much about the contractions. At this point, I felt like a pro. I had an appointment scheduled with the doctor on Friday, April 15, and I had a new babysitter already set up. I kept a mental record of the contractions and the time between them steadily decreased. By the time of the appointment, they were five minutes apart. I asked the babysitter to stay for the day. I went into the doctor’s office, told him about the swing and the contractions, and I went off to the hospital.
“We’re going to do an amino, take fluid out of the sack to see if the baby’s lungs are developed. We’ve got to do it now in order to get the fluid on the next flight down to Denver. So, just sit tight and relax. Right now, this baby is breech, but hopefully, by the time we get the results back, it’ll turn itself around,” the doctor explained, and over the eight months, his timing had improved.
Luckily, I brought a book with me and the baby and I took the day and read.
Around five that evening, the doctor came in and said the baby’s lungs weren’t developed enough to come out, “We’re going to run another, more conclusive test. We should know in the next few hours about the results of that one. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
My baby and I finished the book. The sky darkened, and the doctor showed up around 9 pm. He looked wrecked. He ran his hand through his hair, touched my foot with his other hand, and said, “The results are back, and the baby’s lungs are developed enough to come out. It’s up to you. Do you want to have this baby tonight or tomorrow,” he asked, finally catching up with the rhythm.
I called my husband, and he also sounded wrecked. He said, “Let’s wait until tomorrow. I’ve just put the kids to bed. It’s late. Let’s just do it tomorrow.”
The decision was made, the baby would be born on the 16th. I had the room to myself. There weren’t any other pregnant mothers in the area. The nurse’s station was the closest thing to a nursery because there was no nursery. The nurse came in and told me just to ring if I needed anything because it was pretty quiet out there.
The room had a gentle blue glow. I adjusted the bed and tried to shut my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. My baby and I were suspended in time. My world was right then, in that moment, suspended before the birth and after the birth. There was no husband, no other children, just this miracle and me, waiting. I knew this little miracle had a purpose in this life, and I was its guardian to guide, teach, and mold this child for whatever life was yet to come. As with the other children, I knew my job was only temporary, only until they sprouted wings and soared on their own, to live their own lives, live their own dreams, and be who God created them to be.
I spent hours communicating and connecting with that perfect being within me, as I’ve never connected with anyone else. It was just my baby and me, concentrated time, consecrated time, sacred time.
What struck me during the massage, was that I wanted, needed, to spend April 15th with my son. Just him and me. Him – the same age I was when I had him. He’s not alone, but not married. Me – no husband, no other children around. I recalled how special that time was, how sacred, and how this moment will never come around again. Never again will he be the same age I was when I had him. Never again will he be unattached on a milestone birthday, with me in the same town.
We don’t know what the future holds. The 16th will come, and there will be a celebration of his actual coming into the world, a shared birthday with cousins on both sides of the family. But the 15th – that’s him and me time. That’s sacred time. That’s our time.
Thank you God for all my blessings, the expected and the unexpected. I, too, was an unexpected blessing.
Sasha's Camino 