It’s been a long time since I’ve written.  It’s funny how much I’ve needed to write but just haven’t had the time–scratch that, I just haven’t had the opportunity. Life gets in the way.

It was my mother’s birthday.  She would have been 93.  She would have made it too but cancer took her away at the ripe old age of 45.  And after all these years, she’s on my mind so much.

My daughter recently gave birth. I suppose that could explain why I’m remembering my own birthing experiences. Moms and daughters.

When I was in labor, my mother stayed right by my side.  Back then there were no birth classes, nobody knew about breathing or stretching or how to do anything to help the process go easier.  It hurt.  I was shocked by how much it hurt.  My mom had nine pregnancies with seven surviving.  Having babies didn’t faze her.  It seemed like she just grunted and out came the kid, sometimes before there was anyone to help her.  “You have a body perfect for babies” she was told by our family doctor.

That same doctor didn’t say that to me when I was pregnant.

I guess I wasn’t built like her.  I spent my labor walking around the hospital, most of the time bent over in pain and moaning. I’m no martyr, I was pretty noisy.  It wasn’t some primal urge that kept moving.  Nothing like that. It was because as soon as I had to go back to my room, I knew they were going to give me an IV.  I was more terrified of that than squeezing out a 9 pounder.  So I walked.  My mom walked with me.  At one point as I was staring at the fountain from the upper floor I must have whined too much because she looked at me and said how much she wished she could take away my pain.  Then she abruptly disappeared.  She was gone for over an hour. I selfishly would have given her my pain.

I was alone.  Abandoned. So alone and so frightened.

It turned out that my mother had literally run from the hospital all the way down the hill and across town to St. Anthony’s.  There she lit a candle for me, tossed a dime into the donation box (candles alone won’t reach Jesus apparently), said a quick prayer and ran back up the hill to the hospital.  It was almost four miles each way.

I don’t remember what happened after that.  Back then nobody was allowed in the delivery room.  But she was there, patiently awaitng the arrival of her grandchild.

Hours later along came my son.  He was a whopping 9 pounds and I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to smack him for causing so much pain.

Mom never left the hospital during this time.  And I realize now, she had to walk home that night, after midnight and in the cold rain. She never said a word.

She died less than two years later.  She loved that baby so much.  He was her life and her joy.  When she was lived with me before she died, he was the one who made her smile, who gave her hope.  That night she died, her last words to me were, “Baptize the baby.”  

Fuck I miss her.  I’m 70 and a bit so why now?  Why do I miss her so much more now?  She’s been gone from my life far longer than she was in it.

Baptize your baby if you want.  I didn’t. I hope he doesn’t go to hell.