Motherhood is Not for Wimps

Cute Husband and I have been reading your comments all day and enjoying them. We’ll put them in the baby book and be sure Little One sees them some day.

We are both tickled to be the parents of three magical little women.

For those not following the Twitter — yes, the pink or blue test was accurate. They were very confident in the result and they were right. It was a worthwhile experience, fun to know so very early, and it gave us lots of time for a focused discussion of names.

Not that we’re going to tell you what we’ve talked about.

Everyone tells me how extraordinary it is to be the mother of a son.

“You’ll love all your children equally,” they tell me. “But there is nothing like a mother’s love for her little boy. I can’t wait for you to experience it.”

I’ll never forget the sight of Margaret, walking the city of Boston, tall and elegant, her toddler son Ben in her arms. How beautiful she was, and how funny sweet this little man-child was, cradled against her.

What an exquisite mother of a boy she is, playing Spiderman and Transformers, and helping him keep his dignity at his cousins’ fairy tea party.

And who could forget Charlie, our own FB, stomping along, singing a song, with eyes only for his Mama? Idol worship, single-minded devotion. The only one of Karin’s children for whom I have held absolutely no charm.

“You love them the same,” Ellie says. “But your heart breaks for a boy in a way it doesn’t for a girl.”

Cute Husband — was there ever a better father of daughters? Mare, with her penchant for veils, refusal to wear pants, and her knowledge of close-combat skills. I wonder what her first grade teacher thought of her book report, with her carefully lettered reply to the question “What was your favorite part of the book you chose?” — “When Grendal’s mother bit the guy’s head off.”

Would he always be sorry if we never had a son?

“No,” he said. “It’s win-win for us. It would be fun to have a boy, and it would be awesome if we had three girls.”

A boy … a little prince doted on by older sisters.

A gaggle of giggly girls, a trio, my little women.

Either way, it’s magic.

We were late to school this morning, (of course) and those two were bursting, hugging each other with excitement over their news. I trailed behind them loaded up with lunch boxes and coats.

“Hey girls,” a passing teacher said. “You sure are happy this morning!”

“We are!” Mare said. “Momma’s having a baby!”

“And we know what kind it is!” the Doodle added.

“And?”

“We’re gonna be …” and here, the move they’ve been practicing all morning. Arms outstretched, grins, jazz hands. “The Schwarzer sisters!”

This year, voters in California passed a state constitutional amendment that says: “Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California.”

That vote effectively invalidated thousands of marriages that had been sanctified and legally recognized in that state in the last five years.

What’s it like to get the kids dressed for school, go out the door, and know that the bus driver, the teacher, the gymnastics instructor … all may have cast a ballot declaring the family you have built morally wrong and illegal?

I believe strongly in every American’s right to believe that homosexuality is morally wrong, and their freedom to pass that idea on to their children. Part of what makes America great is that very few of us agree on much. If my friends and neighbors were asked to cast votes against me, many would call my views on alcohol, caffeine, gender equality, sex, and South Park morally wrong.

But we aren’t supposed to cast those kinds of votes in America. We’re supposed to mind our own business and let our neighbors mind theirs.

One anti-gay marriage argument that is often used is that “Homosexuals have the same rights as the rest of us … to marry someone of the opposite sex.”

By that count, we are all denied the same right as well, even though heterosexuals don’t notice. We are ruled by a government we have given the power to override our choices in love. We’re charging the government as final arbiter of what loves are legitimate and moral.

I don’t expect an America that universally accepts homosexuality — any more than I predict an America where no one preaches that men are the natural rulers of women. But do we believe in free religion or don’t we?

My church sanctifies homosexual marriage, but state governments consistently deny the legitimacy of those marriages. Government officials say they’ll support some form of civil agreement granting rights, but never the legitimacy of the word “marriage.”

In other words, the government will grant legal equality equal to the idea of marriage, but they won’t allow churches to call it a marriage. — A bizarre violation of the separation of church and state.

Generally, I try to avoid controversial topics on this blog because I think most people have their own opinions and don’t need mine.

But the people of California had a say I don’t think they ever should have been given. And I have a say here, and not to use it is complicity in something I believe is horribly wrong.

I support a federal law protecting marriage as an entirely personal decision between consenting adults.

… and none of the government’s – or our neighbors’ – business.

Ren has been crying for half an hour.

She was in my bed but then she smeared Trader Joe’s grapefruit lotion all over the body pillow and then I told her she lost body pillow privleges. She cried and went back to her room, where she mercilessly pestered Sister: talking to her, squirming, spraying detangler on her head.

I warned her that if I had to come back in there, Mare would go to our bed and Ren would be alone in their room. So of course it happened, and now Mare’s all happily tucked into the grapefruity body pillow, and Doodle is inconsolable.

I let her howl for a while before I go upstairs where I find her weeping, naked in the bathroom.

“Aren’t you cold, sweetheart?” I ask.

“I don’t want to wear jammies,” she sniffles defiantly. “I want to wear my dress.”

Most days, I think what they wear to bed — or anywhere else — is basically their business. But I can’t let her wear that because it’s beautiful, but starting to tear and if she sleeps in it it will shred.

“You can’t wear the dress,” I say, unbuttoning my soft cottony materity cardigan. “But how about Momma’s sweater?” She lights up and nods and I button it over her naked little belly. I wipe tears from her face with my thumbs and then pull her into my lap.

“You’re a good girl,” I say. “You’re never a bad girl.”

She nods and sniffles.

“Are you a bad girl?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Are you a good girl?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Always. Do you sometimes make bad decisions?” She nods and sniffles.

“I don’t like it when you and Daddy or Miss Sunbeam yell at me,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “You have a wonderful way of doing what you want to do, and we like that about you. But sometimes it’s the wrong thing to do. And we have to say so when it is, and if you don’t hear us, we have to say it very loudly so you will.”

I kiss her head. People always tell me how much work I am in for with her. But I often think about how much work she is in for.

“You’re my girl,” I say. “And I am proud of you. Always. And I will help you make good decisions, that’s my job.”

“And you’re my muver,” she says, putting her hands on my cheeks and kissing me.

I think I will never love a word so much as I love “muver.”

Actual text from 917-555-6262:

Can’t talk, got your voicemail — am feeling better and would love to get together. How are the girls? XOXOX Emily

My reply:

HEY! Love you, miss you, want to know how the new place is. Girls are fab except for little beastly one who LIES non stop. Can we talk tonight? XOXO ME

Actual text from 917-555-9898

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Brother FUCKFACE!!

I am so confused. First. Because it’s not my birthday. Second, because in the 33 years I have known my Aunt Emily she has never once called me “Fuckface.”

Not even when I worked for a Republican.

So, either, A. Aunt Emily’s been hitting the crack pipe again; or B. This is a misdirected text.

Putting some long hard thought into matters, I conclude that this message was meant for Cute Husband. For, although he is a man of rare manner and gentility, he also is a Marine. And not only is the unsavory language a tad reminiscent of some things I may have overheard back in the day, but today also happens to be the Marine Corps birthday.

Also, on closer look, the phone number isn’t Emily’s so WHEW on the crack pipe thing, huh?

This happens. A couple of times a year. I get it all into my head that it would be lovely to make art with the girls all day, decorate the house for some such freaking holiday.

It always starts with a trip to the craft store.

This is a very dumb thing to do. And yet, like clockwork, once a year, I get the dumbass idea to do it.

So this fine Veteran’s Day morning we roll out toward the craft store, my girls and me, just strolling down the aisle with our cart wrecking havoc and destruction everywhere.

Here’s sorta what it sounded like:

“A dancing Santa Momma adancingSantaMommadancingSANTA!!!”

“No.”

“Can we –?”

“No.”

“Momma look at da dancing –”

“No.”

“Beads, Renny!”

“NO.”

“Sissy look at da –”

“No.”

My “No’s” were occasionally broken by a monotone repeating of our mission. I find this helps, sometimes. Not them, but me. So I don’t forget.

“We’re here to buy things to make Thanksgiving decorations. We are buying Thanksgiving decorations. Just THANKSGIVING DECORATIONS.”

The problem, of course, is that I missed it. There is a holiday in late October called Halloweenthanskgiving and once that’s over everything gets moved to make room for Christmas.

“Yeah, I think we might have some foam turkeys in the clearance aisle,” Dippy Teen says to me. Clearly, Dippy Teen does not understand my soul. I cannot haul myself to the clearance aisle. I don’t know where it is, and I’m suffering from a crisis of faith that clearance foam turkeys would be worth the effort.

“Okay girls, c’mon, clearance aisle … don’t touch the ceramic mugs, they’re not yours … don’t poke the silk flowers … we don’t need a feather-and-eucalyptus chicken … no … no …”

Finally. Foam turkeys.

Not really.

Lots of foam haunted houses, foam skulls. Foam apple-for-the-teacher kits. No freaking turkeys. Finally, I find a cornucopia kit. With tons of fun looking intricate parts to glue.

“Won’t this be great, kids?” I beam. Partially because I’m still selling it to myself. Partially because I think enthusiasm is the only thing saving their precious-perfect lives.

“Momma look letters and picture frames –”

“N –”

“Can we make one for the baby?”

“Oh. Okay. Fine.”

They start digging through bins of flimsy wooden letters to find the ones that spell their names and “Baby.” It’s perfect. They’re completely absorbed. I start digging through craft paper for stuff to make leaves with. After a few minutes, they have assembled:

“mARy”

and

“Xkkjtoqd”

“Mare — that’s great! Doodle. Do you want yours to say ‘Ren’ ‘Renny’ or ‘Doodle?’”

“Renny.”

“Fine.” I start digging.

So does she. I pull out an “R” — she pulls out a “q.” I manage to scrounge up two “n’s” she tosses them back and replaces with a “w.” Mare is going through a bin of doll clothes. A woman with a cartful of knitting materials is glaring at her because she is blocking the aisle. I stare blankly at knitting lady like I’m so uncivilized I can’t even interpret a proper dirty look.

“Do you think we could make a dress for Felicity?” Mare asks.

I toss back the “q” a couple of random “r’s” and get two “b’s” and a couple of “n’s”

There are no “y’s.”

There are no freaking “y’s.”

I am beginning to feel very hot. My head hurts. I am starting to hate the children.

Ren is tucking letters into her pockets.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I GOT IT!”

I stand up, brandishing a “y” — which for whatever reason chooses that moment to flip out of my hand in a little alphabetical suicide. It lands back in the pile. I whimper.

Do you have any idea how much freaking hot-glue it takes to assemble a foam cornucopia? Filled with little pom-poms that have to be glued together to make grapes?

P.S. Children can’t use hot glue guns.

Finally, the picture Cute Husband ordered from the Marine Corps Marathon has arrived.

Doesn’t he look awesome?

I think so, too. Such an accomplishment. Whoever this guy is, I hope he’s proud.

But he is no relation of mine, much less a person to whom I might have been married for 10 1/2 years.

And we now have a $12 picture of him on the refrigerator. Isn’t that great?

Oh and if you’re trolling the Internet and find a picture of my actual husband running the actual marathon, drop me an FYI, I’d surely appreciate it.

This is an old recipe of Gran’s. She always made the frijoles negroes from scratch — which is way better. I find a good quality canned variety works, though. The kids love this because it is flavorful but not spicy. It’s relatively light and quick to put together and healthier than the ground-beef-and-cheese variety. This recipe makes 5-7 tacos and cost about $30 to make, with all organic ingredients.

2 whole skinless chicken breasts

2 bell peppers, whatever color you like (I usually do a mix of red and orange.)
2 cloves garlic
3 tomatillos*
1 can black beans, drained
1 can white shoepeg corn, drained
1/2 cup chicken stock or water or beer
1 cup chopped fresh cilantro

Shredded Monterey jack cheese
1 package white corn taco shells

olive oil
cumin
Salt and pepper to taste

1) Prep: trim chicken, cut into bite-sized pieces, season with salt and pepper. Mince garlic and rough-chop cilantro. Cut peppers and tomatillos into bite-sized pieces. (Hull tomatillos and then chop just like tomatoes.)

2) Sear the chicken on high heat for a minute or two, or until the outside developes a nice brown glaze. Add vegetables and garlic. Toss to heat. Add beans and corn and then chicken stock. Cover and simmer until liquid is absorbed and everything is cooked through.

3) Add cilantro, salt and pepper and cumin to taste.

4) Serve in toasted taco sells, topped with cheese.

*These are little green-husked tomatoey-looking things. They’re actually part of the corn family. They’re tangy and add a nice zest to Southwestern style foods.

For the last couple of weeks media and academics have talked about the “Bradley Effect.” The fear is that white people who say they will support a black candidate cannot actually bring themselves to do it when alone with a ballot in a booth.

Like him or don’t, agree with him or don’t. Despise his politics and fight to get him out, but celebrate. Because a man born into a segregated America in which black people were systematically denied the vote in ten states today was elected president of them all.

“Momma, are you voting today?”

“You bet I am,” I say. I’m trying to ram her foot into her little brown boots. Renny’s helping out by thumping, repeatedly, on the toe.

“Because you want Obama to win?”

“I do want Obama to win,” I say. “But I think he’s going to win whether I go or not, and I know he will win Massachusetts either way.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re Pinko Commie Bastards, honey, that’s just how it goes. We elect Democrats nationally and Republicans at home. We’ve done it for hundreds of years.”

No, that’s not right.

“Because Massachusetts is a very liberal state. And Obama is liberal. States like Idaho, Texas and South Carolina are very conservative, and McCain will win those.”

“Are there states where they don’t know who is going to win?”

“Oh, yes. Florida, Ohio, Colorado, North Carolina … these states are very much in question and every vote will count there. But every vote counts everywhere, Mare. You don’t vote because you think your vote is the most important one. You vote because you have the right to vote, the obligation to.”

Her freaking foot is not going into this boot. I am nowhere near pregnant enough to justify how heavily I am breathing trying to jam it in there.

“Oh, duh, Mare, you need to unzip it all the way.” Doodle goes back to hammering helpfully on the toe and now we’ve got Mare’s feet in. I ram jackets at them and we run for the Looser Cruiser.

“Are there places where people can’t vote?”

“You know, it was only in 1965 — that’s ten years before I was born — that African Americans were guaranteed the right to vote in this country? Can you imagine being black — or a woman before 1920 — and knowing that the candidates don’t care about you because you can’t vote? Every four years we get to make the president nervous. That’s a very important job and it only works if you show up. So you have to vote, even if your state is already decided.”

After I drop them off, I make my way to the polling place. It is an astonishing sight, really. We’re so used to it, but there is nothing at all ordinary about it. Traffic is backed up for a couple of blocks, cops are standing in the intersection, and everyone is waiting very politely. Not at all Massachusettsian of us.

People are holding signs and waving and I honk and wave at them all because I think anyone who cares enough to hold a sign on an election day is a good American.

Within a hundred yards of the parking lot, a sign, “NO CAMPAIGN LITERATURE BEYOND THIS POINT.” You can campaign, but you can’t threaten. Voters have a right to make their way to the booth without talking to anyone.

I park, pick up my Philippa Gregory bodice-ripper and my driver’s license, and walk up to the school.

I brought my book because I expected the lines to be long, but things are moving unbelievably quickly and the wait is negligable. I pop into a booth with my ballot and mark my choices. Yes to Obama. No to dog racing. No to eliminating the state income tax. (Taxes? Bad. Schools, roads and healthcare, however? UM … kind of important.) Yes to decriminalizing under an ounce of pot. (Puhlease … make it a misdemeanor and force drug counseling. That’s a lot more effective than five years probation for a joint.)

I slip my ballot into the machine, and that’s it. I’ve voted.

Somehow, I feel weepy. I know it’s the hormones. But it’s also because for the first seven years of married life my husband was a Marine. I’ve now known several people who’ve given their lives in the name of the Constitution that allows me to vote. My own life has been radically impacted by our choice to serve. The result of that service is this room where everyone in my town comes to cast a ballot. Where cops stand quietly by the door and I don’t have to fear anyone’s intimidating me or even asking me what I’m voting for.

We take it for granted but there is nothing at all ordinary about it. It is the greatest privilege and freedom that we have.

“NO MAMA, I WILL NOT WEAR LEGGINGS UNDER MY DOROTHY COSTUME!!”

“Doodle, it’s not a choice. If you want to wear this to school and be in the parade you must wear these leggings. That’s it, no more discussion.”

I ram pink leggings up her calves. She sobs. I run to grab the hairbrush.

“Where’s Ren?” I ask, when I come back — just seconds before I notice the little pile of pink leggings on the floor.

“She’s hiding behind the couch,” Mare says. “She’s afraid you’ll be mad at her.”

Well she’d be goddamned right about –

“Okay, go grab your coat and shoes.”

I run upstairs and pick out a pair of pants and sweatshirt I know Renny will hate. I go behind the couch and pick her up. I pull the Dorothy dress off her, pull the sweatshirt down over her head. She doesn’t resist.

I’m disquieted.

I load her into the car, the Dorothy costume in a bag at her feat. She goes into her class without protest.

I eye her like she’s a suspiciously real-looking scarecrow on Halloween.

“Okay,” I tell her teacher. “Ren cannot wear this costume without the leggings. She must wear them. She can be in the parade in her regular clothes and carry Toto, but no leggings no dress.”

Ren is eerily silent, and I have the oddest feeling I’ve been outsmarted.

The Halloween Parade. One of my favorite annual events at Happy Progressive Smiles. The Doodle’s class is near the front. She trots toward me, Dorothied out, carrying her Toto basket, big bow on her head, shit-eating grin on her face.

Not a legging in sight.

“Dat was a great parade Momma.”

“It was Sweatheart.”

“Dere were lots of Dorothys!”

“There were. But you were my favorite.” She smiles contentedly.

“Baby. I noticed you weren’t wearing your leggings.” Her face falls.

“I’m very very sorry ’bout dat.”

“Yes, well –”

“Very. Sorry.”

“Ren, what did Momma want you to do with the leggings? — Remember never to lie to Momma.”

“You wanted me to wear them.”

“And you knew that and decided not to wear them because I wasn’t there.” And you knew for sure you could sweet-talk your teacher out of it.

“Yes. And I am so so sorry, Momma.”

“I am disappointed. You know that you’re supposed to do what Momma says, even when I am not there. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says, you do what you know I want you to do.”

“I so sorry. Really. I’m serious.”

Ellie, her husband and kids and Miss Sunbeam are joining us for dinner and trick or treating. I’ve roasted two chickens, made garlicky green beans, mashed potatoes, squash. A little mushroom gravy. We’re drinking sparkling apple cider and listening to the Halloween CD. The kids in their costumes are giddy.

We all fit around my table, and suddenly I am astonished that this is the life Cute Husband and I have made, this little house, this family that thrives.

Little one kicks me then, and I laugh.

“I hear you, I hear you.” We are each other’s little secret, the company in my skin, and I know enough to enjoy it while it lasts. Soon enough this little person will belong to the wider world, seated at my table eating green beans and slurping milk and asking “How many more bites until I can go trick-or-treating?”

“That kid wears leggings or she doesn’t go trick-or-treating,” I say. It is significantly warmer than it was this morning, and I don’t really think she needs them.

But she’s going to wear them.

“Um … noo …” the Doodle says. I excuse myself. Even when I win, I spare a kid’s dignity.

Especially when I win.

“You can wear them and go trick-or-treating,” Miss Sunbeam says, “Or you can stay home.” I am at the sink, doing dishes. I can feel Ren’s glare boring into me. I ignore it, and Doodle steps into the leggings.

I dry my hands and pass her Toto.

“Time to go trick-or-treating!” I grin.

“Not yet,” she says, stepping into her snow boots. Which do, I suppose, go better with leggings than ruby-reds do.

You gotta love her spirit. Most days.

“Trick or treaaaaat!!!”

Mrs. Veritas grins wildly at the sight of my girls.

“Help yourselves!!” she says, but they’re already digging through the basket, and the little plates of treats on the table … oh, and the jar of candy corn. And the little dish of gummy spiders.

“Have anything you want!” Mrs. Veritas says. She clearly is getting ready for a little party of her own, and my children have made a signficant dent into her treats. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Doodle steps forward in her little outfit and looks up adoringly at Mrs. Veritas.

“Yes,” she says.

“What, sweetheart?”

“Well,” Renny pauses, thinking. “I would really like to have something really special.”

“Do you have any jewelry?” I pipe up. “Stocks? Bonds?”

“I know!!” Mrs. Veritas says. She reaches into her cabinet and hands each of them some individually wrapped Hostess cake confection. The both squeal wildly and at that point, it’s time to go.

Miss Sunbeam takes them trick-or-treating in her neighborhood. Cute Husband and I step out for a short date. I’m not hungry — and I’m not drinking — so I sip water and watch Cute Husband polish off a martini. One of those frosty ones with ice on the top. And two little olives. We pick at a cannoli.

We get home and Sunbeam arrives with the children passed out in their carseats — she and Cute Husband carry them to bed.

Sunbeam departs for a party in a cape and hairy-nose-glasses.

We park on the couch with the girl’s candy between us and put in Silence of the Lambs.

Cute Husband has lighted the pumpkins in the fireplace — A Daddy pun’kin, a Momma pun’kin, a Mary pun’kin, a Doodle pun’kin … and a little baby pun’kin. The last they carved together. It has a little spooky baby face.

I’d post pictures for you, but I’m too busy enjoying it.

“Momma, what’s wrong with your eye?”

Mare is in my lap. We’ve been on the couch for hours, watching movies and eating soup.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What’s the red thing?”

“Can you bring me a mirror?” I ask. The bathroom is only steps away, but I am too tired to move. Finally, I go look at it.

A burst blood vessel in my right eye.

“I really don’t like it,” the OB on call says. “How long has your head been hurting?”

“It always hurts when I’m pregnant,” I say. This is what makes it so hard — I have no idea how bad I feel because I can’t remember the last time I felt good. “I take Zofran and two extra-strength Tylenol twice a day. But the last couple of days the Tylenol hasn’t touched the headache.”

“Have you ever had high blood pressure?”

“No,” I say, “but isn’t it too early for preeclampsia?” I ask. Don’t ask me how I know this — years of pregnancies, and friends’ pregnancies … and a single episode of “ER.”

“Well, it’s a little early,” she admits. “But a headache for three days and no relief … I just feel like I want a look at you.”

Call your GP, she finally decides. I want him in on this discussion, then call me back.

By then Cute Husband is home. He gets the kids to bed. I stagger up to my own bed and wait for the return call from the GP. I turn on the tube.

Dog, the Bounty Hunter is on. Look. Here’s me in my bedroom with a headache, watching TV waiting for it to get better. This never happens. The phone rings.

“You’re not going to like what he said,” the nurse practitioner from the GP’s office tells me. “He doesn’t like it. He’s worried about your blood pressure.”

“I’ve never had high blood pressure,” I say.

“I’m just telling you what he said. He wants you to go over to labor and delivery right now.”

It’s too early. The baby’s too little.

I called them so they would set my mind at ease, and now instead they are panicking me.

The kids are in bed, Cute Husband is hunched into his sweatshirt and the whole house is quiet.

I wonder if he is thinking it, too.

One of our regular dates in early courtship was to watch ER together. One of the first ones we watched was about a woman with preeclampsia– in the last five minutes of an otherwise perfectly diverting episode, the mother dies in a terrible, bloody birth. I was so upset by it, I didn’t watch the show for a couple of weeks. I still won’t watch that episode if I catch it in reruns.

In a funny way, it was the first birth we attended together, and we never forgot it.

“I’ve always had obscenely low blood pressure,” I say firmly to Cute Husband. “Remember? –Even in the c-section, it never went above 120.”

We really want you to go in and get checked, both of my doctors had said.

The cure for severe preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.

We were too lucky, we had too much.

Finally a compromise the OB and general practitioner agree on — my friend Ryan, a nurse practitioner, comes over with her blood pressure cuff. Ryan puts the cuff on, inflates it, and we both stare as the dial counts down.

“117/79,” Ryan smiles. “Doesn’t get much better than that.”

I pause a minute to admire how cool I am that even the stress of the night hasn’t raised my blood pressure. And then I am so grateful I want to explode.

“Okay, you definitely don’t have preeclampsia,” the OB says. “I am not happy about this headache, though.”

I’m not happy about it either. One way or the other, I have been sick since July.

“Can I take a Percocet?” I ask.

“Take two,” she recommends. I take just one — leftover from the Lyme headaches — and go to bed. And once again here I am, curled into the ancient afghan, feeling lousy in the flickering light of the television.

Little One kicks happily away in my belly, safe. I’m so freaking glad.

There was no episode of ER that covered this — not sudden, bloddy death, but the slow plodding struggle at life. I’m not in the hospital fighting in a blood bath. I am just back in my little room, hurting, waiting for it to get better.