Celebrating Sept. 4th

September 4, 2007 will always be a memorable date for me.  In some ways, it seems like enough time has past that the details shouldn’t be important anymore, but I’m a writer.  The details are, as they say, what make the story.  The details bring the reader into the center of the action.  The details are what matter. So I recount the details, as I have done in my head one hundred plus times, reliving yet another step I have taken in this journey to grow into myself.

Riley was born by C-section, late on my birthday, as the day counted down to only moments.  The three days we spent in the hospital were torturous, terrible…made worse by the fact that I had made the decision to end my marriage while trying to adapt to the fact that I now had an eight pound baby girl to bring home with me.  I didn’t sleep for more than two hours the entire time I was in the hospital.  I walked the floors with my child who wouldn’t nurse, who wouldn’t sleep if she weren’t in my arms, who couldn’t hold her temperature unless she was next to me.  Skin to skin, heart to heart.   I loved her with my entire soul, even though she stubbornly refused to eat, even though she wailed through the night, breaking my heart and making me wonder what I was doing wrong. I paced the floor in my hospital room, sobbing quietly so the nurses wouldn’t come in and offer more advice and platitudes.  As well meaning as they were, they didn’t know the whole story and therefore the lines about ‘hormones’ and ‘baby blues’ just served to annoy, not to comfort. 

I brought Riley home when she was three days old, against the advice of the nurses and doctors who suggested I stay at least another day.  The late afternoon of Sept. 4 was windy and a storm was threatening but hadn’t started when my then-husband showed up at the hospital to drive us home.  He had not spent much time there, leaving only a few hours after her birth and then showing up intermittently over the next few days.  While it was clear that our daughter had captured his heart as only a little girl can capture her daddy's, it was also clear that he had other priorities to attend to.  I was not one of them.  The ride home was awkward at best, but luckily not a long distance. We arrived home around 5 pm, and almost immediately the power went out.   Almost immediately after that, he went out as well, attending to that other priority. 

They say that it’s always darkest before the light breaks, and the next twelve hours were the darkest in my life, both literally and figuratively.  The power never did reappear, making for a night lit by candles and flashlights.  I tried to get Riley to nurse by candlelight, hoping and praying we could figure it out together and feeling my new mother’s heart crack open a little more when, once again, she stopped trying to latch and started screaming instead.  I felt so weak and so unprepared, and I couldn’t call anyone for help.  My cell phone battery was almost dead and there was no power to recharge it.  My baby was hungry and I had no formula for backup.  I stumbled through my condo all night, trying to find the diapers and her clothes by flashlight, trying to care for and comfort my daughter into sleep, trying to keep myself together.  My dogs were scared by the thunder and lightening, racing around and barking, several times startling my daughter out of her much-needed sleep.   I spent the entire night shaking from pain, unable to take my painkillers because they made me groggy and I needed to be alert to care for my newborn.  I was only four days post major surgery, with a new baby and a whole wad of screwy hormones and some major life decisions to act on.  I was scared and exhausted and I felt completely and utterly alone.  This was the lowest I had ever felt; physically, emotionally and psychologically.   I had hit my rock bottom.     

Time has a way of healing all things, and the memories of this night are no exception.  Now, with an objective eye, I can look at that girl, with her new baby and her bad marriage, and recognize that she was in a terrible situation with limited options. She was reeling from the physical stress of major surgery, the emotional shock of new motherhood and the grief that settled in as she let her dreams of a stable marriage and a ‘traditional family’ go.  I can feel bad for all that she had to deal with at a time that is already life changing in the best of circumstances.  I can recognize that she never deserved the hand she was dealt, that many of the problems were of someone else’s making and that she was reacting to them while in survival mode.  I can forgive her for making some stupid mistakes.  I can forgive others in the story that also made mistakes.  I can be proud of her for picking herself up, dusting herself off, and getting back on her feet.  I can applaud her for creating a life for herself and her daughter that is full of happiness and laughter and family and friends.  

After two years, I can even be grateful for this experience, because it allows me to see how amazingly good things are now by contrasting how horribly bad they were then.  It pushes me to live authentically and love wholeheartedly.  It makes me realize how far I’ve come in two years.  It reminds me of how strong I am.  September 4 will always serve as a reminder of these things.

Because it’s a date that will always live in my mind, I have decided to turn it into a personal celebration of sorts.   Last year, I spent the day at the spa, treating myself to a whole host of massages and body wraps and herbal baths.  Last year was about reminding myself that I deserved to be treated well. 

This year, I celebrated in a whole different way entirely, completing a kick-ass run/swim workout that pushed me to the bleeding edge, again and again and again.  There is no way I could have made it through this workout a year ago, or even a couple of months ago.  It was tough, but while I pushed through, I let my mind run over the past two years….the pain, the laughter, the heartache, the joy.  Tears threatened, laughter escaped, and the memories fueled me on and made me push a little harder, knowing that I had more in me.  I felt amazing and it was concrete evidence that I AM whole and healthy and strong; physically, emotionally and mentally.  So much has changed over the past two years, but from that day on, it's only gotten better and better. 

It’s funny how things turn out.