The sound of his boots came echoing down the street, the thud of their impact on the wet sidewalk becoming ever louder as he headed pell mell towards me and home and the imminent arrival of his son. At the time we didn't know the babe was to be a boy, unlike our daughter I had been given no inkling as to who this new little arrival was going to be. But here was the father, weaving in the open door, the night wet behind him, one hand raking back through his wild blond hair while the other held on to the door frame to steady himself. And I knew that we weren't going anywhere yet. I had been up for hours, woken by the boulder my abdomen had become, and it had taken some time to track him down. He had found a pool game at the neighbours of a friend around the corner of the next street over. Typical birth story, a woman taking care of her man instead of herself as she prepares to bring a new life into the world. And yes, I know I sound just a little bitter. A few hours sleep, a cold shower and some cups of coffee later (him not me) I packed up our beautiful baby girl who had just turned three, called my sister in law, and we were on our way. First dropping Rhiannon off and then heading up the freeway towards the hospital with the well wishes of family still ringing in our ears. I don't remember much of the next part of the drive, just the never ending pain and hating being stuck in the seat of the car, but it's fleeting. The next real memory is laying in the hospital bed, so mad at myself that I was back in this..this..this most uncontrollable of all situations; wracked with unending waves of pain that I couldn't stop, stuck in the middle of the birthing process that would run it's course no matter how crazy I became. The staff was short handed with so many babies on the way they were running circuits between us all; then the need for the episiotomy the head was so big and no one to help ease the opening and the nurse explaining I wouldn't feel it at all, which was correct until the next day. And finally the beautiful little baby boy to hold and the joy and the love and the pride was a tide of emotion lifting me above all that had gone before. He was Joey from the beginning, Joseph David after two important people; Joseph for the man who gave me my first sailboat, and David after my husband's best friend. It was suppose to be the other way around, but I knew he was Joey as soon as I saw him and switched the order of the names.
It's so sad that I can't remember Jim being there once we reached the hospital. Maybe because I had been so mad at him, another night drunk when I could have used the support and company. I don't remember going in to have my tubes tied either, just the nurse asking me if I wanted something for the pain the next night and then luxuriating in the warmth and relief of a couple of percondan as they escorted me away from the pain and rolled me into the oblivion of sleep. Earlier that day I had discovered a little web between two fingers on Joey's left hand. No one else had noticed it, and the nurses were so surprised when I asked about it. Joey would be four and wanting to wear a baseball mitt before we scheduled the surgery to open up those fingers. And I thought labour was bad - waiting for him to be out of surgery that day was a nightmare of worry. But that's another story.
My next memories are of us at the house; the pain and discomfort of the episiotomy, wanting everyone to just please leave so I could find some normalcy, and finally this tiny little baby sleeping on the couch while I sat on the floor next to him, Rhiannon in my lap, both of us adoring him. He slept so much more as a baby than she ever did. While Rhiannon fought sleep tooth and nail Joey succumbed with what I think of now as a pervasive need to disappear. I wonder now looking back if he was longing for the magical place from whence he came, if he had an inkling of how hard it was going to get before he was allowed back. Once he was out of his crib and his first twin bed was still on the floor he would disappear before bedtime, tucking himself in and out for the count before I could even read him a story.
I have a strong memory of nursing him, sitting back against the soft black leather of the hideabed that was in his nursery, a blanket covering the both of us, and the delicious sensation of nursing that made me feel connected to the web of energy I think of now as god. Then it just felt like we were an important part of the universe, that all was right with the world. To bring the moment back into focus there was a salesman in the living room running a kirby vacuum over the carpet, shampooing it for free. I ended up selling my mom the gold nugget watch I had left over from another part of my life for $600 so I could pay for that damn kirby. Years later, I would let it go for $10 at a garage sale while still under the influence of grief.
And more memories...
Joey sitting on a winter's day in his little blue down vest digging in the dirt of the back yard and playing with his yellow dump truck. Blond hair shining, big sister at his side.
Joey riding his little red bike at four, training wheels just off, racing down the sidewalk.
Joey laying along the patio wall, playing at being dead so the vulture in the pine tree would try to come and get him.
Joey balancing on a surf board at the lake, water dripping off of him, the little droplets of light a halo around his strong slender body.
Joey's arm around my neck, holding on tight. If only I could have held on to him, protected him, from all that was to come. If only I could fogive myself for the memories I won't list and can't forget. It's 28 years later, and he's been gone for awhile now. Five and half years of gone. No birthday cake, no balloons, no candles. Just tears and chamomile tea. I sucked at giving birthday parties anyway, hell, I still do.
Where ever you are Joey, happy birthday. As much as I miss you now, I wouldn't for the world have missed all that came before. I Love You, Mom
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