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| For Annabelle | |||
| by Claudine M. Jalajas | |||
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One of my most memorable Christmases was the year of the Barbie
Townhouse. It was about three feet tall, had a pull-string elevator, pool
deck complete with waterslide, and the bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub that
made bubbles (if your mother was agreeable enough to allow water and
liquid soap in your bedroom). I assured my mom and Santa that no other
toys or gifts were necessary — all I needed was a townhouse for Barbie and
her friends. Even when my older brother was being his most obnoxious
self, I could be happy if I had the Barbie townhouse.
As she did every year, my mother woke us at midnight on Christmas Eve. I was always surprised that I had actually fallen asleep when, minutes earlier, I had been whining to my mother that I could not possibly fall asleep. Racing into the dimly-lit living room, I saw our twinkling tree with piles of presents underneath. My brother and I kneeled at the tree surveying the boxes. As I opened my gifts I couldn’t help noticing that the pile was getting smaller and smaller and there were no large boxes left to open. | |||
| More from Claudine M. Jalajas | |||
| Eventually my brother and I were surrounded by new books, pajamas, socks, toys, games, ripped Christmas paper, bows, and ribbon. My Mother asked, “Are you happy with everything you got?” I forced a smile and said, “Yes.” She said, “Oh wait, there’s something behind the chair over there… why don’t you go check?” As adults, we all know the trick she pulled. As a child, that Christmas remained frozen in time as the best one I ever had. | |||
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When I told a friend about a year ago that I wanted another child, her eyebrows went up and she asked, “After all those sleepless nights you want to do it again?” It was true — I was exhausted. In fact, my son Max didn’t sleep through the night until he was 21 months old. But, I still wanted another child. Like I said to my equally confused husband, “I’m just not done yet.” When I was in my early twenties, I had envisioned having three or four children of my own. Then nature slapped me around and I thought the dream was out of reach. After having a relatively easy time getting pregnant (thanks to the drug Metformin) with my second son Max, I wanted to see if it could work its magic again. Within a week or so of discovering I was pregnant, I spent several days huddled over a bucket or bathroom toilet in complete misery until my doctor prescribed Zofran. What an amazing drug — I considered naming my child Zofran. At about 25 weeks pregnant, I was in a car accident. While sitting at a red light, a man busy on his cell phone didn’t notice that the traffic had stopped. He hit me from behind. Thankfully my two sons were unharmed but after a few minutes, I started having contractions. Because of his carelessness, I had to subject my unborn child to early contractions, radiation from the CT scan, and now I had a broken tailbone and tons of back spasms. The contractions were stopped and my unborn baby was still well-attached to the placenta. But it was a bad day of which I was reminded with excruciating back pain for the following 12 weeks. On November 11th 2005, I gave birth to my daughter: a beautiful, perfect little girl we’ve named Annabelle Christina. In order to address my severe back pain, the doctor had suggested I deliver early, provided we did a amniocentesis test for fetal lung maturity. At 37 weeks gestation, her lungs were still not mature. My doctor told me she would have spent time in the NICU if they'd have delivered her. A week later, they attempted the test again. While they plunged the needle into my uterus I began to contract and it forced the needle back out (while I clutched the stretcher and cursed everyone in the room.) Minutes later, I went into labor. After an hour I was brought into the delivery room for a Cesarean section. Though her entry into the world was blocked from my view with a drape, I heard the baby screaming her head off, angry as hell — reassuring me that her lungs were just fine (and she might have a temper like her Mama.) I’ll be honest, this pregnancy and delivery was tough. I lost a lot of blood during the c-section and needed a blood transfusion, extra days at the hospital to fight off dehydration, a blood patch to repair the dural puncture (spinal headache), and two days after I finally got home, I wound up with mastitis. One friend said, “I hope you know that you’re forbidden to have any more children.” Friends and relatives who don’t understand infertility don’t understand me. Unless you’ve been there, you cannot understand the ache. I cannot forget the day I was told I had miscarried. Two years later my speciliast told me that the pregnancy I'd finally acheived probably wouldn’t make it to the weekend. I remember sitting in his office, clutching a wet tissue and asking him if he thought I would ever have a baby. I understand my friend’s concern for me and my health — but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. I was going through the list of what we had for the kids’ gifts with my husband the other morning. He asked, “What do you want this year?” I honestly hadn’t thought about it. The year my mother gave me the townhouse, I gave her a set of brown checked potholders. On Christmas morning I saw her take the ugly potholders and hang them above the stove, discarding the old red ones. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I picked them out — they didn’t even match the kitchen. I felt guilt — I get a townhouse and she got potholders. Now that I am a mother I see that that Christmas was about a townhouse for her, too, not brown potholders. I hope the New Year finds everyone getting what they've been wishing for... | |||
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