December 4
You were conceived at The Clarke House, an apartment we rented between houses. By now you may know the history of how your father and I separated so we sold the house we were living in, then he became deathly ill, was hospitalized all summer, had heart surgery (on The Pretty Little Dutch Girl’s birthday). That was the day I remembered my vows, “In sickness and in health” and realized as I held his hand in CCU, with tubes coming out of every orifice, it was our mission to be in it for the long haul so when he left the hospital, he came back home.
I remember when he first got sick. He came to see me because he had no clue what was happening to him. His feet were so swollen, his breath so short he could not walk up the stairs to the bedroom, so he slept on the couch. I called the doctor who told me to get him to emergency the next day, wherein he was held captive until his ultimate release after they had figured out he had Pericarditus (an infection of the lining of his heart). All the draining of the fluid that was drowning his heart, day after day, was not going to solve the problem.
Finally, five weeks later (but hey, who is counting?) surgery was done and your father was left with a heart, trussed in chicken wire, the lining peeled off to ensure no more fluids could flood his internal organs. The Good Doctor had teased your father that that was all he needed, surgery and 12 weeks on his back to impregnate me.
However, now we were back “on”, so we bought a new home – great timing, on my part – your Dad was still recuperating so was essentially useless, The Pretty Little Dutch Girl was a teenager with things to do and places to go so it was you and me “to it and for it”, as my Granny would have said, packing and organizing. I sent your Dad out to the horse races, with a good friend of mine from work. Later that night you and I picked up The Pretty Little Dutch Girl on schedule. Somehow, as we rushed through life I felt the strength of your will to live at all costs, even if I wore you out, on occasion. Sorry, Baby, but who is going to get it done if you and I don’t do it? Teamwork, teamwork, rah, rah, rah!
December 7
Since we have moved, we are now in a different school area and much to The Pretty Little Dutch Girl’s chagrin, (kicking and screaming, truth be told), she gets to change her school to the district we live in – leaving behind her best friends that helped her escape her home life. The Pretty Little Dutch Girl makes friends easily so I suspect she will fit in without much trouble. It is a fresh start, although her school records trail her so everyone knows all of her past iniquities.
December 11
A rather disturbing week! Of course we got to remember your Dad just had open heart surgery a scant four months ago so maybe I expect too much, but he is back in pain, with problems in breathing and more than mildly cantankerous than usual. The Pretty Little Dutch Girl throws a party downstairs for her friend’s birthday. Fire water was a party guest, brought by their guests (probably why they invited them) and her friend (aka Ralph from this point forward) over indulged and reacted like all skinny teenage girls – so there we were, you and me on our knees (The Pretty Little Dutch Girl had developed crippling ache in her side) with a bucket, stifling the urge to puke, cleaning up the party “leftovers”. Hours later at the hospital Emergency Department, we are told The Pretty Little Dutch Girl has cysts on her ovaries that are causing the pain. Hang in there, Baby. We will get rest someday, honest, I promise!
December 14
The packing is completed with the help of my amazing sisters since we always instinctively know the load each other is carrying or sometimes dragging behind us. The Pretty Little Dutch Girl’s pain had diminished but was lagging around, and since our family has a lot of diabetes, I have the strips for testing sugar in urine (a regular pharmacy, you say). Your Dad, for some reason, says, “Do me.” The Pretty Little Dutch Girl and I look at his results and are practically in hysterics, laughing so hard you gave me a stitch in my side to remind me of my priorities. Your father is not amused. Here it is 10 o’clock at night; he wants to call my mother, my diabetic sister, Dr. D., anyone that will refute the results. Alas, it is true. Dr. D. confirmed it the next day and arranged for your father to be hospitalized in order to get stabilized because of his recent health history.
