My Husband's Job

Eight days ago, I gave birth to Elise Marguerite. She was 6 lbs 3 oz and about 20 inches long. She's lovely and healthy and content, and we are enjoying her in the extreme.

To say that I gave birth to her feels a bit like short-changing my husband. He left only once early in the process, before it became unbearable, to get himself and our older daughter something to eat, but he was present and working hard with me for every moment of active labor. Several people offered him breaks, including myself. I think I was the only one in the room who realized, after having offered the break, that he really, truly didn't want one. He was tired, but so was I, and I didn't have the option of a break. He stayed right beside me as I labored in the pool, let me squeeze the hell out of his hand while reading Dandelion Wine to me between, and sometimes during, contractions. When I had to get out of the pool for them to monitor the baby again, he lifted me out of the tub as I cried that I was afraid to stand up. He applied counter-pressure to my back for what seemed like hours (probably was minutes) while I endured transition. He never allowed the doula even to take *that* job so that he could sit down and just hold my hand for a while.

When it came down to pushing, he sat beside me, held both my hands, [turned off his hearing aid, I'm sure], and let me moan and scream in his face. There's no more intense moment with him in my memory than staring into his face, aware only of the pain and the color of his eyes, between the last few contractions. How frightening that must have been for him. I think it's probably normal for a woman to have thoughts of death in those moments, wondering if she can live through that pain. I know I said to him once that I felt as if the contractions would kill me. Did he believe me? Did he fear the same? If he did, he only let it come through in his voice once or twice. The rest of the time he was calm, reassuring, adoring, gentle. I have no idea how he maintained such a demeanor in the midst of so much of my emotional chaos, but I think that, in light of the experience, he will always be my hero.

So now we have this amazing little girl at home with us, often lying between us on the bed because at 3 AM, I really don't have the energy to get up off the floor (we don't have a bed frame) and put her back in her bassinet. I feared during the pregnancy that her presence might cause tension or resentment for one or both of us. We both liked our life very much the way it was. Contrarily, I think we're both experiencing that she belongs here, and her existence is just a natural extension of our love for each other.

Everything is changing. Everything is already different. But it's not a change to mourn--not entirely. There's an aspect for each of us of having lost something--I, my independence (I simply cannot do for myself in the aftermath of the delivery), Richard, his freedom, and both of us our spontaneity. But there's something here to replace those things, and eventually to exist right alongside them, that is so very precious and beautiful and sweet that I'm really not sure what we were doing before. I loved my husband. He was already my best friend. But now the ideas of Protector and Provider mean so much more than they did before as I am forced to rely on him for fulfillment of some very basic needs. As difficult as it can be to need him to fill those roles, he does so graciously and without resentment, even lovingly and, dare I say, joyfully. This is his contribution to the process of her birth. Mine was nourishing her for 9 (well, ok, 8) months, and then going through the pain of labor and delivery, and now healing from that process as I continue to make small sacrifices to provide her nourishment.

It seems my husband never forgets those things. I wish very much that I could be as relationally, psychologically, and emotionally constant as he is. Unfortunately, I'm tossed about rather violently by the biological realities of pregnancy and of the post-partum period. Who am I kidding? My emotional stability is questionable on the best of days, pregnant or not. I suppose that's why there are two of us, and why we're wired so differently. I'm certain my mode of existence serves us in some way. Apparent to me, however, is the fact that it does not provide stability. I guess that's my husband's job.

Without Fear

17 October 2009

My eyes are open today. I see

how fruitless are the hours spent worrying

about a form and substance you adore.

These conversations never cease behind the eyes,

laughing or weeping. They never cease.

I hear the fretting accusations,

the whispers of starvation. I hear them,

but they grow quieter with time. Or perhaps

I build a wall inside my head, beyond which

their power diminishes--

I am, without fear, who I am.

New Moon

25 December 2008, 1:07 PM
Since I first begain writing, the moon has always held a very specific meaning for me, and for reasons I can't really explain in a public forum, I have used it less and less over the last two years as a symbol in my poetry. Today, I redefined the moon.

No one would disparage the mutual influence,
subtle yet inexorable. The Sea is the Sea,
The Moon is the Moon, the two indivisibly
intertwingled, undiminished by his sway.
She has never been subdued by this drawing
and releasing. He gently pulls upon the tides,
makes her more, not less, than what she is.
As he pulls away, the tides pull back
to follow, woo him back again.

BAHA

My husband lost his hearing 25 years ago, when he had a cholesteatoma removed from his ear canal. The tumor had grown around his ear drum, so after the surgery, he was suddenly and quite completely deaf on his left side. The doctor who did the surgery was a pioneer in his field, and during the procedure, my husband received what was, at the time, an experimental bone-conduction hearing implant. It took the form of a screw placed in his skull and under the skin of the scalp. There was an amplifier which was carried in his breast pocket and attached to the screw via a magnet at the end of a long wire running from the unit. The screw in his skull acted as a surrogate eardrum, conducting sound through the bone to his inner ear. It wasn't ideal, but at least he could hear.

Alas, that hearing aid stopped working about 5 years ago, before I'd even met him, and he's struggled with single sided deafness, and no options, ever since.

A few months ago, we began investigating the possibility of a new kind of implant--a BAHA (Bone Anchored Hearing Appliance), since the old implant is now completely obsolete. My husband went through all the preliminary steps, saw the doctor, got on the January schedule for the surgery, and cleared up his perpetual ear infection. The doctor's office contacted our insurance company (Anthen BCBS) and it seemed all systems were go. We were excited. The kids were excited (no more, "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but what happens when you whipser in my left ear?" "Nothing, daddy.") We were going to meet our entire deductible for the calendar year, but it was worth it.

Last week, the doctor's office called and said our insurance company had denied payment for the surgery. Hearing aids aren't covered, they said. Immediately, we traded hope for disappointment and anger.

Then we started our research again, because we were told by several people that the job of health insurance agents is to reject claims. We discovered that while there is an exclusion explicitly stated in our insurance coverage, there is also an exception listed within the exclusion: "Hearing aids are not covered, unless otherwise specified within this policy." It took only a little more work to discover that there are at least two places in the policy pamphlet where the BAHA and like appliances are covered.

We spoke with the bulldog at the doctor's office, a very kind but tenacious woman who is, fortunately, very much on our side in this. She is now embroiled in a lively discussion with our insurance company, armed with my husband's research and the appeal letter he wrote yesterday.

He has a pre-surgery appointment today, and we have no way of knowing yet whether or not the insurance company will cover it. It's just maddening, that the folks whom we pay hundreds and thousands of dollars every year, these folks that we'd like to believe are working for us and not against us, are actively working against my husband's needs. I'm aware it's not personal. For them. But for us, it's very personal. I don't know what it's like to go through a single day, let alone 25 years, with single-sided deafness. But I know it keeps my husband in chains, and I know Anthem has the power to remove those chains. Isn't this one of the reasons why we have health insurance?

Floating

inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

It’s a precarious thing,
floating un-buoyed on perceptions
of a man’s integrity, character
which might change course
at any moment. Yet the constant,
the one thing unchanging, is you.

While the tent-poles of manhood fall,
all around, all around,
you remain. You may yet fall,
and you can fall,

but not here, Beloved.

Here of all places I need you
to stand-- take up the Center-pole,
give me space to stand, not to fall.
Give me space to learn to trust
your mettle after all.

Good Gifts

My husband bought me the BEST t-shirt EVAR. It's brown, and across the chest in yellow letters is written:


Hehehe. Hahaha. Hohoho. MMMMWAAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Included with the shirt was a packing list containing the following message:

"2 mai favrit pometrist. kluvubai."

If you've never heard of lolspeak, you really must google it.

More Tabloid Poetry

Beloved, apparently, also posted his class assignment for today, a poem titled The Man in the Moon is a Peeping Tom. WARNING: this poem is not for the faint of heart, and for best comic effect, it should be read as breathlessly as possible.

Snowballs with Baba

17 December 2007, 11:26 AM

I watched my African put on
his warm against the bitterness
of a belated Kentucky cold snap. There are
few things he hates more than winter,
and there’s not enough snow on the porch
to justify the donning of his gloves,
his scarf, his hat, his lined winter coat,

yet he dons, and I smile,

because I know why he goes
to the purported tundra. For my little boy
is out there in his too-big snow gloves,
clumsily shoveling the paltry powder
into a plastic bag. He wants to be
the only kid with a snowball next summer,
and this man-not-his-father
won’t let our precious boy
gather his dreams alone.

Handwriting meme

I didn't get tagged, but I'm participating anyway. ;-) I love to write- really WRITE- with a good pen. I used a Lamy 1.1 caligraphy fountain pen for this one, a gift from my Beloved. The ink is my favorite color. They call it "Sonic Blue", but I think of it as slate blue.

Another Glimpse

7 December 2007, 2 PM

I slept beside sharper skies
than ever I imagined on my own;
his dreams bled into mine, revealed
sunset skies I’d never known,
fading into diamond-scattered midnight
cerulean, so deep and dark and bright.

I couldn’t catch my breath amidst
the beauty of a thing so brutally
gentle; in the wake of brushing up
against a sea of so much tenderness,
all within me bruised and raw-
aching for another glimpse of Paradise.

Puddleglum

28 November 2007, 7:50 PM

Sometimes I am so very like
Puddleglum, content with nay-saying,
casting the worst case as inevitably given.

Against evidence, Beloved.

So many good and perfect
gifts have come to us in so short a time,
and though the curses have multiplied,
so much more have the blessings,
and neither do we bear alone.

Beauty of Ashes

24 November 2007, 12:03 PM
RCB

What matters most,
Beloved, is no longer living in fear
of emotion,
of color,
of light and life and goodness-

of beauty

evincing all I have attained
as cold, dry, dead ash, inert
for want of one to walk the road
beside me toward redemption.

Latest painting

Progress on my most recent painting. I'm really, really liking this one. It's the oil pastel picture done in acrylics, and I'm liking this version much better.

Front Door

Now and again, creativity spikes, and given the proper context, the artist thrives. It seems my dip into oil pastels has inspired another bout of creative activity. Behold, the Front Door.

It's not yet complete (I say that about every painting, and then I hang it on the wall- or in the hole in the front of my house...), but I'm very happy with how it's coming along. The original design is straight from my Beloved's brain, using my imagery and throwing in some new symbols that are particularly meaningful to us both.

This Peace

22 September 2007, 11:12 AM

We slept
beneath a canopy of trees which,
according to a piece of paper,
belong to us. You and I both know
we cannot own a living thing. We only
hold it for a while and, if we
hold well, receive a gift in return
which cannot be quantified.

So we hold our Haven and each other;
lay beneath the double-vaulted ceiling
of leaf and sky; read stories and write
poetry as hours wander by and pause
to watch us linger in the space we know
we can never really own, but hope
we hold well, and receive in return,
this peace.

Where I Left My Coffee

21 September 2007, 7:06 AM

You’re there typing, and I
stand here watching, wondering
where you came from. I don’t know
if there’s anything I could have done
to deserve this solace,
if deserving even falls within
the calculation, or if life unfolds this way
for each of us, revealing
what we’ve longed for most only
when we cease to search so madly.
But I’ll take this quiet moment,
when the day has only just begun and you
are too absorbed in writing to notice
that I’m watching, admiring, loving you
from the kitchen counter, wondering
where on earth I’ve left my coffee.

Precarious

It’s different now, in the evening
when that place has finally seen fit
to give you up, let you come home to me.
The ribbon still sways in the manufactured wind,
but I am less concerned with either of them
or the flame still faithfully flickering in the fireplace
than I am with the pulse beating beside me.
I wonder if infirmity will serve someday
to drive you to the point of preferring a cubicle
to the Haven. I’m almost certain that sort of reality
is now in the past- we’ve each lived enough of hell
to know how precious is the soil we walk upon
in this precarious present.

Man-Made Wind

6 September 2007, 8:32 AM

Here is life.
The ceiling fan whirrs above
my head, quietly insisting sanity
reigns here. The ribbon on the mantle
reminds me this is true- it reminds me
of you. In so many ways, I am certain
you remember me, but the single,
constant flame in the fireplace keeps vigil
just in case you forget.

Man-made wind- the sound is somehow
soothing, though I know it isn’t natural.
It keeps the silence away, and I imagine
with the silence, it holds back my tears.

Turn of Life

26 August 2007, 4:44 PM

I sit with you embracing sounds of life-
wisps of secrets drying fast upon the page,
silent mysteries between a husband and his wife.
Ruminate on moments’ bliss
redeeming shards of innocence;
tender, fragile hints of light,
waving eves of yore goodbye.

Right Here

26 August 2007, 12:51 PM
The Pub

The breeze has turned suddenly
mild- I can sit at, or near,
our favorite table in the shade
and enjoy a cider, shepherd’s pie,
and your company in comfort
amidst noises close, yet somehow
more distant than if I were alone-
the rev and rush of people going
nowhere in particular, the endless
drone of conversations at other
tables I barely notice, because
I have everything I need right here.