Don't reach out for me she said, can't you see I'm drowning too..
Howdy again loyal readers(and even a fine voiced hullo to those of you perusing on occasion). Been a hot minute since I've written anything in this little corner of the cyber universe, but not for lack of events. Spent the weekend cleaning and dong things around the house, took some pictures of Hippymom on Sunday when the weather finally decided to cooperate, and then came Monday. What started out as a mellow day turned out to be anything but. The clock struck 2:15PM, when it seems as if the world had begun to spin out of control, gravity became somehow stronger and blood froze despite the thick humidity and heat laying over the Gulf Coast. The cellphone sitting next to the computer begins to play the opening riff to Beyond Here Lies Nothin, and up pops Mama's name. So Daddy answers figuring she's just had enough heat and is heading home early. The normally laid back voice so sweet you can hear it smiling was anything but, it was almost at a fever pitch. Never a good thing. Then as Mama asks if I have read her text message, it buzzes in my ear like a cicada returning from a long slumber, unwelcome and rattling. "I am having spotting." Four frenzied words froma pregnant woman, that will make any man's blood freeze solid even as they begin to boil. If you have lived through a previous miscarriage, these four words might as well be the hanging judge, reading forth his decree for you to swing at high noon the next day. Nothing can make you feel more like everything is coming to an end. So as calmly as a man who's entire world is swirling down the vortex of repressed memory and emotion shoved aside, I tell her to immediately that we are going to the ER. Never one to want to make an unneccassary trip to the wasteland of time known as the Hospital Emergency Room, Mama says let me call the doctor's office. HippyDad is having none of it. "Come get me and let's go", are the only words I can seem to squeak forth from my normally booming voice. Flash foraward ten minutes, an obviously anxious man is pacing the parking lot outside the apartment. Mama pulls up and gets out, moving to the passenger as I slide effortlessly into the drivers seat, sliding the seat back into my slot, back dropped to an angle that seems as if it is pulling me downward toward the depths of hell for yet one more visit in this life I've led. Somehow I manage not to get us pulled over, and we reach the ER in record time. I drop Mama off atthe doors, which slide open engulfing her, and even more quickly close to trap the cold blast of conditioned air before it can escape out into the sauna known as Southwest Florida. I tour the parking lot seemingly forever before finding a parking spot, which seems like it must be forever and a day away from the ER. I briskly walk toward the Er, wondering if perhaps I have seen the last of my girl's, praying that they are still two as one waiting to burst forth into seperate yet the same persons in December. This is where I'd like to give props to HippyBrother for his handiwork in getting us the cesspool known as the ER waiting room and into the actual being seen by nurses and doctors phase in what seems like record time. I won't say how or what magic he holds, but he is a man for the ages, someone who even in my darkest hours, has allowed his brotherly love and bond of blood to shine through. At this point HippyMama is a tear making machine, at levels I may have only seen once before, and I can find no words to stop them. The nurse draws blood, the doctor comes in and speaks to Mama, and the ultrasound tech wheels her off to the scan room, leaving me and the TV alone in the ER room. The next forty minutes seem to stretch out, folding in on themselves, time swirling like a multicolored pinwheel, and shooting back outwards at a pace even slower as if the entire world is now an overly intense acid trip. I sit there trying to focus on the screen, then my book all to no avail, I might as well be in a Dali, until finally Mama is wheeled back into the room, her smile, laugh and tears tearing through the fabric of my decaying emotional state like a hot butcher knife through an overly ripe watermelon. "Gracie's heart is beating strong and she is moving around like crazy", are the words that pour from Mama' lips, seemingly dripping in honey and coated in gold as they float gently through the room. HippyDad all but breaks. In come the doctor and nurse moments later, "After 20 weeks you can not come to the ER anymore, you need to go to the birth hospital." The doctor decides to leave in Mama's Iv line, and after much convincing by the nurse he allows me to drive her there per his and the OB's decree(see hanging judge before). "Once there, they will hook you to a fetal monitor to monitor baby and any possible contractions you may or may not be having" they tell us. At this point our cellphones are deader than the proverbial doornail, so I quickly speed us home, where I grab both car and wall chargers, a box of peanut butter crackers and books for us to read and off we go...... The story continues, but sleep calls and I must rest my weary eyes and head, but fear not I shall continue it to its ending spot for the time being tomorrow...until then I bid you goodnight!