April 4, 2010
Sullivan's Island at Station 18
Conor falls in love with the ocean and waves
My neighbor and friend Gillian brought up an interesting dichotomy of life/death in several heart-felt and passionate stories of her family. This idea that "with life comes death, and with death come life" resonates very strongly in my heart and will. In honor of my mom I have a phoenix holding an ovarian cancer ribbon tattooed on my right calf (done beautifully by Jason Eisenberg). She is the most vibrant, beautiful, and toughest person I know.
The day after my son was born, my mom went under the knife again for ovarian cancer tumor debulking and partial pancreatectomy. As we waited on the 6th floor of the hospital for discharge, my mom had surgery on the 4th floor and was recovering on the 10th floor and MICU. I worried myself sick over my newborn son and my fragile mom. I have stated before, my mom is the queen of complications.
I watched her stop breathing as bilateral pulmonary emboli raced through her heart and into her lungs. I watched her stop breathing after a tension pneumothorax (and subsequent improper placement of a chest tube).
Sitting patiently as she slept, waiting to see what the doctors didn't. I had my beautiful son, postpartum depression, and an extremely sore body to take care of. As minutes turned to hours turned to days, she healed well and was discharged 2 weeks after surgery on oxygen and antibiotics for nosocomial pneumonia.
Conor is in large part a gift to her (and to his Gabba whom treasures every breath, every curl, and every hug as much as I do). He was a gift of the right and wrong time...
The day after my son was born, my mom went under the knife again for ovarian cancer tumor debulking and partial pancreatectomy. As we waited on the 6th floor of the hospital for discharge, my mom had surgery on the 4th floor and was recovering on the 10th floor and MICU. I worried myself sick over my newborn son and my fragile mom. I have stated before, my mom is the queen of complications.
I watched her stop breathing as bilateral pulmonary emboli raced through her heart and into her lungs. I watched her stop breathing after a tension pneumothorax (and subsequent improper placement of a chest tube).
Yet, this time I couldn't watch over her.
Sitting patiently as she slept, waiting to see what the doctors didn't. I had my beautiful son, postpartum depression, and an extremely sore body to take care of. As minutes turned to hours turned to days, she healed well and was discharged 2 weeks after surgery on oxygen and antibiotics for nosocomial pneumonia.
Something miraculous happened as Conor was born and as my mom battled for her life. I saw this miracle yesterday.
He is his Beany at the beach. She takes the water on with such passion and true joy. She may be almost 60, but she turns into a wide-eyed and excited child in the water. Yesterday, Conor ran to the water and didn't look back or regret a second. The water was cold, the waves knocked him down, and the saltwater got in his eyes but he
NEVER STOPPED SMILING.
He has the smile of an innocent, a sparkle in his eyes that creates an infectious joy and guiltless abandonment. His Beany does this, so Conor does this. I kept my composure, but it brought me to tears. Somehow, somewhere, and for some reason he and Beany share a love, a love unknown. It makes no sense to me. This blog probably is incoherent babble, but yesterday was perfectly right. It is how my mom will live in Conor.
NEVER STOPPED SMILING.
He has the smile of an innocent, a sparkle in his eyes that creates an infectious joy and guiltless abandonment. His Beany does this, so Conor does this. I kept my composure, but it brought me to tears. Somehow, somewhere, and for some reason he and Beany share a love, a love unknown. It makes no sense to me. This blog probably is incoherent babble, but yesterday was perfectly right. It is how my mom will live in Conor.
I cannot wait to see that connection with Gabba.
I love my son more and more each day. He is developing character, spunk, and a joy for life that makes me want to do and be better. Even if he is shushing his dad for talking during Olivia, or if he has two skinned elbows, or even if he is throwing a temper tantrum the size of Manitoba, he will
always be the greatest gift I give and receive.
Conor at 12-14 months
2 comments:
Where's the next post? Huh? Huh?
Also, my CAPTCHA for posting this is "mifers"
I'm glad I could inspire you... The beanie thing touches me! My grandfather died nearly two years ago, and we buried him with his beach "beanie," and a little Jersey Shore sand.
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