Only Cormac MacCarthy

In today's WSJ interview...

How does that ticking clock affect your work? Does it make you want to write more shorter pieces, or to cap things with a large, all-encompassing work?

 

CM: I'm not interested in writing short stories. Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.`

I'm blogging about the bambino over at Brownstone Baby. Swing by and say hi!

When Guilt Becomes Your Dirty Little Secret

Last Tuesday I went to a yoga class for the first time since MAS was born.

In some ways it felt really good--to be stretching and moving unencumbered by that sweet babyweight. In other ways it felt terrible: I've pretty much lost all upper body strength and my legs are stiffer than stiff.

And? Something weird happened.

As I was rousing from savasana and gathering my stuff together for the trek home this voice--clearly my own; I wasn't "hearing" voices--piped up inside my mind and said, "Oh, so are you finally ready to forgive yourself?"

The voice wasn't angry or heavy handed. Mostly just curious.

And me? I too was curious. I stood for a few seconds frozen in place, waiting to hear what my response was going to be. (Again, an inside response. I sure as shit wasn't going to be caught talking out loud to myself. I save that sort of craziness for home.)

I'm still waiting actually. So: what's it gonna be Minerva Jane? Curious minds wanna know.

The Shooter Who Cried Wolf

Big shocker: there's been another shooting. A guy shot and killed eight people and wounded three others in a North Carolina nursing home this past weekend.

Am I going to be the one to say it? Come on. Haven't all you psychos out there realized that after Columbine and Virginia Tech a plain old shooting really just doesn't cut it any more. You've got to be a little more dramatic than this to get our attention.

Plus: has it occurred to anyone else that Bush and his ilk had it all wrong. We don't need to worry about terrorists: we're perfectly capable of offing ourselves, thank you very much.

He's So Easy

When MAS was in the NICU Rodor tried hard to be extra nice to me.

Case in point:

Rod: Hey you smell so nice.
Me: Really? (Perplexed because I hadn't put perfume on in months...)
Rod: What is that? Soap?
Me: Yeah, sweetie. It's soap. Dove I think. (Despite the inanity, still feeling pretty special that he noticed my scent at all...)

A lot has happened since my last post.

I had the baby at 28 weeks. He stayed in the NICU for 9.5 weeks.

I brought him home end of January and he's thriving.

How someone could be born at 7 months and have no real health consequences is beyond me, but there you go: life is weird.

I've of course taken a humongous blogging break but am poised to return.

Stay tuned!

Postcard From The Antepartum Wing @ St Luke's Roosevelt

Well, I finally have a reason to start posting again but I wish I could say it was because of more joyful circumstances.

I was admitted to the hospital on Sunday for preterm labor at 27 and 4/7 weeks gestation. I'd had two contractions Sunday morning at about 5 and 8 am, some blood-tinged discharge and of course freaked out. (Who wouldn't after my first pregnancy miscarried in March at only 11 weeks?) A quick call to me OB--who, it turns out is on vacation this week so I spoke with another doctor covering for her--sent us scurrying over the Brooklyn Bridge, across and up town to the Upper West Side.

We got to the hospital at about 10. They took a urine sample, examined me and then put me on a fetal heart monitor and a toco to measure contractions. I was contracting about 6 to 12 minutes apart. They discovered a urinary tract infection, a yeast infection and that i was dehydrated.

In goes the IV with some sort of water glucose mix and we wait.

Two hours later they discover I'd gone from 1-3.5 cm dilation and within five minutes all the talk of me going home ceased and I was immediately admitted to labor & delivery. A course of antibiotics, some steroids shots to speed lung development, and an NSAID to halt contractions and we settled in for the night: Rod sleeping on a pretty crappy excuse of a pull out chair and me in the most uncomfortable bed I've ever slept in.

The next afternoon, after the contractions had stopped I was moved upstairs to this wing, the antepartum wing and told to sit tight because they were keeping me here until 34 weeks--a little over 6 weeks from today.

I panicked.

And then slept. Woke to more contractions--perhaps linked to more dehydration. Back downstairs for more monitoring and discovered that after two bags of fluids contractions stopped and my cervix hadn't dilated any more.

So now here I am back at antepartum. I'm not allowed to sit up in bed--they're literally hoping gravity will help my little boy stay in my body for at least one more day. Every day counts they say. Every day he's inside me is another day of development, another day of maturation, a little better chance that if he does come out he'll survive with less of a risk of cognitive, developmental or physical problems.

I wish I could say that i wasn't feeling sorry for myself and for my son and for my husband. I wish I could say that there wasn't some part of me that's sitting here wondering why this whole thing has been so difficult--the time it took us to get pregnant, the first miscarriage, then this. But there's a bigger part of me that's hopeful: he could make it. He could survive. And my next pregnancy? Nothing's to say it won't be uneventful.

So tonight I'm celebrating that I made it through Tuesday November 25. One more day, my friends, one more day.

Please pray for us to whichever god or gods or forces you may believe in.