On Leaving Too Soon

It's fitting that, as I write this post, the Opening Ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics are going on. I sat down to write about two men: the first had a real connection the Olympic Games; and the second introduced me to the Greeks, those original Olympians. I knew neither of them long or particularly well, but each left an indelible mark on my life, as well as many others. I can say for certain mine is richer for having known them.

Richard Overbey was one of the first parishoners we met when we moved here. A true lover of life in every sense, Richard lit up rooms. No memory I have of him does not include his bright smile or his distinctive voice. I'd be surprised if a bad mood ever found Richard Overbey. He greeted each day with happiness and thankfulness, and his generosity and sincere kindness overflowed like champagne. It is perhaps a testament to his humble nature that so many of his achievements and accolades were unknown to us until after his death. It came as no surprise to us to find out that Richard, having been selected to represent the state of Alabama from everyone there who'd carried the Olympic torch during its 1980 run before the Lake Placid games, was elected by his fellow state representatives to run the torch into the stadium for the Opening Ceremony. Frankly, I wonder if there was any real competition in the election. If life is a beauty pageant, Richard was Miss Congeniality.

It is also a testament to him that the church was filled to the brim for his funeral. I'm sure most people there were thinking the same thing I was---that it was almost impossible to believe we'd no longer see his bright smile or hear him say "that's wonderful," as he so often did. It was hard not to smile, though, when I thought about how delighted and surprised Richard would be to know he was so well-loved, so important to so many, that his service had the church building more crowded than Christmas.

Richard's death was a shock, because, even though he was 76, he was healthy and active and most of all, people who saw him regularly had just seen him, it seemed. He died from the effects of a cerebral hemmorhage, and there's comfort in knowing that he never knew what was going on. Richard loved life too much to suffer a long death, and he is certainly someone who lived everyday to the fullest measure. Everyone who knew him is just a little luckier because they had that privilege.

Unlike Richard, the second person is someone I'd only thought of in passing over the years; our last conversation was over ten years ago. Yet, the mark he left in my life, the change he wrought, is undeniable. Jim Fletcher was the AP English and Humanities teacher at Hardaway. Like thousands of other students, I was privileged enough to have him for both classes. I don't know if there are even words to describe how influential those classes were on me. In talking with a fellow HHS survivor today, I commented that Fletch not only taught us about Plato, he rather exemplified Plato's Allegory of the Cave. I can't imagine seniors are the easiest students to teach: they're sick of high school, concerned about graduation, preoccupied with college applications, ready to on their own and, most of the time, sure that their worldview is set and correct. I know there were students who had Mr. Fletcher who ended their time in his class as they came in, but for most of us, Fletcher gave us art, music, literature, culture. He introduced us to the world --he made it so that when Lennie Briscoe calls something "the first circle of hell," we not only got the reference, but we could (or at one point could--childbirth has robbed me of much of my brain!) tell you what the first circle was.

As I've seen others comment, Fletch was the best teacher I ever had. He loved learning for its own sake. He loved teaching us. He probably--and this includes college--was the only teacher I had who I truly felt intimidated around. He was smart, and he appreciated intelligence (although I think he valued passion and interest more), and I was always conscious of my proclivity to say the wrong thing and I didn't want to embarrass myself. If I had the opportunity to now, I'd tell him that nary a day goes by--and that includes the days where the closest I come to having a cultural experience is the fact that PBS has been on for awhile--where I do not recall something I learned first from him, even if it's only to appreciate that I wouldn't have a framed copy of a painting I love over our bed, or the incredibly awesome NYT Front Pages book Ben gave me for Christmas last year. I don't think I'd have recognized their value and worth without Fletch to open that up.

So, thank you, Richard and Mr. Fletcher. As both men were faithful Episcopalians, I hope the song is ringing true for them and that they're both up above, enjoying a cold one (or rather a room temp one--they were sophisticates and men of the world, after all).

Post in which I share way too much...

I realized recently that I'd never written down Henry's birth story, aside from on an online message board. And what is a blog, really, if not a place to record evidence of how great you are? :}

The story of Henry's birth actually starts with Amelia's, and all the emotional baggage that came from it. Throw in a viewing of The Business of Being Born at a LLL meeting in the Spring of 2008 and then my finishing Pushed literally a week before I got a positive pregnancy test and you get...yes, one of those Natural Childbirth Psychos.

I knew from the very beginning that I wanted things to be different the second time around. I started seeing a midwife from the start, though I did still get prenatal testing and ultrasounds done (after Peanut, it was hard for us not to be too careful). But I made my intentions clear to her from the very beginning: short of a medical emergency (which, being honest with myself, could have been a possibility), I wanted no interventions, no epidural, no catheters, nothing, basically, that would clue me into the fact that I was giving birth in a hospital rather than my own home. She's a total natural childbirth freak, too, so she was willing and ready to let me do my own thing. The one thing she recommended was that I get someone who could come to our house and check my dilation and blood pressure so a) I wouldn't get to the hospital like 2 cm dilated and have to labor there; or b) we'd know if we needed to get to the hospital in a hurry if I had blood pressure issues.

Fast forward to July 30, 2009. I started having contractions at about 5:30 am. And, of course, there's an App for that! So we downloaded Contraction Master on to Ben's iPod and started timing. Then they started going away. By the time it was time for Amelia to go to school (her last day of the summer), I was out of bed and decided to go with Ben to drop her off and run some errands. I also called my mom and told her that I thought she should start making her way down from home. I had some semi-regular contractions at Target, but they, too, tapered off. I spent the afternoon dozing on the couch and Ben went to get a haircut. By the time he got home and my mom arrived, the contractions were back and stronger and I had a pretty good idea that I was in actual labor.

One of the funniest things about knowing you don't want to get an epidural or go to the hospital too early is trying to come up with ways to deal with the pain BEFORE you know it's truly time. At one point walking was working for me, so we decided we were going to take the dog for a walk. Only I couldn't get my shoes tied because it hurt to bend over, so my mom put on my socks and shoes and we leashed Lily up and walked...up the driveway, at which point I decided that I wasn't walking and would really prefer the bathtub. I got in and had Ben call C, the woman we'd hired to help us through labor and delivery. C told me to get out, try to eat something and drink some milk and call her in an hour if the contractions were still coming. Fifteen minutes later, I told him that they weren't stopping and to call her and tell her this was IT.

C showed up about a half an hour later, at which point I was standing in the shower letting the water hit my back and belly because that was the only thing that felt good. She took my bp, listened to the baby's heart and checked to see how dilated I was. And apparently, being 8 cm at home in a state where homebirth is illegal and your labor assistant can go to jail for helping you is the time to go to the hospital.

This is where we reach what I think is the hardest part about labor. Contractions suck, right? They hurt like a hurt most people have never felt before. But the worst part about them is the fact that in normal labor you get a break between them. And that break is just enough to make you feel fine and then BAM! another comes along and suddenly the agonizing pain is back. The break feels cruel, because you know the pain is coming again.

During the ride to the hospital I remember asking C, veteran of hundreds of births, if this was as bad as it was going to get. She didn't think so, and she was right.

Hospitals are not nice places for women who are having natural childbirths. Too many questions are asked (if I pre-register, and my midwife is with me, why the hell do I need to go to admissions??), too many looks are given to the crazy woman who refuses a wheelchair, and why, exactly is she hugging the wall?

Since I loved the shower at home, the shower was where I went when we got to our room. Ben, the perfect model of Penny Simkin-esque support, became the official shower head holder as I labored in there for what was probably an hour before I decided I needed to push. His poor arm was probably aching by the end, but he was so great.

I don't know how many pushes it took to get Henry out. I don't think it was that long---probably 15 minutes or so. It was intense, and by that time I was ready for it all to be over (I won't lie---there were several times in the shower where I asked myself why it had been so damn important to me to have a natural childbirth), so I tried to push as hard as I could. As soon as he was out, even before being wiped off, he was placed on my chest, slippery, crying, squirming and perfect.

It was really after Henry's birth that made the whole natural childbirth worthwhile. I had this baby as proof something had just happened, but the room was quiet, no one was coming in or out, C and Cindy (my midwife) were talking and laughing about how Cindy had spent her week (it was her week off and C is her best friend, so they'd done some stuff together), Ben was dozing on the couch and talking to me and Henry was laying on my chest asleep. It was peaceful. And it was primal. I haven't been able to think of a better word to describe what it was like. I could move, there was no waiting for anything to wear off, I had no tubes coming from me at all. I felt the Super Woman feeling that I'd missed after Amelia was born. I never want to forget those moments, those quiet, dreamy, calm moments when we met our son.

And, yes, those were the moments that got me through his 13 weeks of colic, and every hard moment since then. It was an amazing experience.

Not this again!

So I thought that maybe I'd try to give this whole blogging thing a go again. We'll see how this attempt goes...