by Su Meck
Philadelphia was an easy drive from Maryland, so it was decided that Jim and I would go to the wedding, but we would leave Benjamin and Patrick with friends for the weekend. I have a feeling that Jim thought (correctly) that attending Kathy’s wedding would be stressful enough for me without adding our active four- and five-year-old to the festivities. There would not only be lots of people and confusion, which, in and of itself, could be problematic for me, but also many other guests who most likely would know me from before my injury. They would know me, but I wouldn’t have a clue as to who they were, which was always a bit awkward for everyone.
The sanctuary of Wayne Presbyterian Church is an enormous and gorgeous old stone building, which that Saturday afternoon was made even more beautiful with abundant flower arrangements and other tasteful wedding decorations. Kathy was gorgeous as well, although I do think she told me she wore white Keds rather than heels. Randy was in his dress uniform from the U.S. Army, looking incredibly handsome. The ceremony itself was not long, but I remember coming to a significant realization as I listened to the pastor speak, and as I listened to Randy and Kathy exchange their vows. This is a wedding. After this wedding ceremony, Kathy and Randy will be married to each other, just like Jim and I are married to each other. I do not have any idea why I made this particular connection on this particular day, but I did, and it has stuck with me as one of my big aha moments. The rest of that day is a blur. I think the reception was right next door at a beautiful old Victorian mansion. I recall a ton of people there, with food, music, drinking, and dancing. But the only thing I really remember about that day was thinking constantly, I am married to Jim just like Kathy and Randy are married to each other now! This was a strange realization.
That night, back at our hotel room, is the first time I can actually remember enjoying (and having a better understanding of) sex with Jim. And that memory is all the sweeter because I am certain that my beautiful daughter, Kassidy, was conceived that very night.
12
Sweet Child O’ Mine
—Guns N’ Roses
The first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant in the late fall or early winter of 1991 was panic! Panic was followed immediately by a longtime state of denial. I would not have even realized I was pregnant if it wasn’t for my friend Jodi. Patrick took gymnastics classes with Jodi’s girls at Hills Gymnastics Center, and one morning, while we watched the kids tumble, viewing them through the glass between the parents’ waiting area and the gym, Jodi started complaining about how bad her cramps were. I said something like, “I would rather have cramps than be throwing up all the time.” She asked me what I meant by that, and I said, “Well, I haven’t had a period for a really long time, but I throw up all the time.” She gave me her classic incredulous Jodi look, and asked me, “Well? Are you pregnant?” Jodi has never been one to mince words or hold back anything she thinks. She is without filter! In a good way. When the gymnastics class ended, Jodi insisted we pile all the kids into her mother’s Range Rover so her mom could take them all to their house to have lunch and to play. Jodi then took me to Drug Emporium and bought me a pregnancy test kit. We went to my house and she waited while I peed on the stick. Before I even flushed, the “+” was showing. Holy shit! Now what? Initially I thought, Gross! There’s someone living and growing inside of me! What did I know about being pregnant? Nothing. What did I know about giving birth to babies? Nothing. What did I know about taking care of newborn babies? Nothing. Was this something that would just go away if ignored? Maybe. Possibly.
Jim continued to travel. For the most part he remained gone for three weeks out of every month, so it was no surprise that he was away the week I found out I was pregnant. Even when he came home for the weekend, I didn’t know how or what to tell him. I didn’t know what to do at all. I never went to the doctor. I didn’t even know who my doctor was or where he or she was even located. A couple of weeks passed before Jim asked if I was okay, because I came down one morning while he was making his coffee, and I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. I told him right then that I was pregnant (and also how much I hated the smell of his coffee). He was over-the-moon excited about the news! That day at work, he looked up Ob-gyns in Montgomery Village that would take our health insurance and, thankfully, he found Dr. Brockett Muir.
Dr. Muir was the perfect fit because he was the quintessential old-school obstetrician. By 1991, when I first met him, he seemingly had successfully delivered at least half the population of Montgomery County under the age of thirty-five. He didn’t get outwardly excited, flustered, nervous, or worried about much of anything, and he always took tons of time answering my endless questions in his office, as he sat fingering his packet of Camels. He was a no-nonsense, straight-talking guy, with compassion and heart. Dr. Muir was the first (and probably to this day the only) doctor, other than my kids’ pediatricians and their dentist, that I fully trusted, respected, and liked.
Even so, I was so afraid of what another baby would mean for our family. By the fall of 1991, Benjamin was five, and in kindergarten, and Patrick was four, and in preschool. They both knew how to walk, talk, dress themselves, go potty (in the potty), blow their own noses, eat with silverware, and drink from a glass. And most of the time, I could do all that stuff, too. But a baby wouldn’t know how to do anything, and it would depend on me to do everything for it. That was a terrifying thought! Would Benjamin be able to help me with this like he helped out with everything else? I was unclear as to whether he could. The three of us, the boys and I, worked well together as a trio. Sure, there were bad moments. If truth be told, a lot of bad moments. And I was exhausted most of the time. But Benjamin, Patrick, and I got through most days without too many life-altering catastrophes. How would a new baby change the system that we had in place? Granted, it was a loose and vague system, but it was a system that seemed to work for us.
Would I still be able to teach aerobics? I was working at a few different health clubs now, teaching at least twelve or thirteen classes a week. But I also was thinking about branching out into personal training. Several people had approached me about training them one-on-one, and I was seriously considering the idea. The notion of having to give up my classes, and the paychecks that went along with them, was not a happy one. Jim and I barely made ends meet as it was. Sometimes we didn’t, and when that happened there was a lot of putting up with Jim’s shouting and carrying on. Would a new baby leave us utterly destitute? And what about the time factor? How much time did a new baby take? I didn’t have any extra time in my day as it was, so how exactly would that work? Would Jim know what to do? Would he ever even be around at all to help out?
I started watching women with babies in the grocery store, in the neighborhood, at church, at the gyms where I worked, at Goshen Elementary when I picked up Benjamin after school, and at the Montgomery Village preschool where Patrick went. Babies could be cute, but they seemed like a lot of work. They couldn’t be left alone for a second, even if they were in a car seat or a stroller. Most babies also seemed really messy to me. They drooled, they coughed, spit up, and their noses always seemed to be running, which was really gross. Putting a coat, or a sweater, or shoes, or boots, or mittens on a baby looked incredibly difficult and complicated. Babies were fussy and squirmy, and their movements were so random. Even holding them seemed to be a struggle.
But then at one of my early appointments with Dr. Muir, I heard my baby’s heartbeat. Almost instantly I was in love. I suddenly had an entirely new outlook about this little being inside of me. Pregnancy didn’t seem quite so gross and disgusting to me anymore, and the whole “birth” part was so far away anyway that I didn’t even worry about that. I had absolutely no appreciation for, or understanding of, what was to come. Suddenly I started seeing moms out with their babies in a whole different way. Moms didn’t seem quite so frazzled, and babies didn’t seem quite so grubby. I began to really pay attention to everything I ate, and I drank gallons of milk. I contin
ued to teach my aerobics classes with Dr. Muir’s blessing: “Su, your body would go into shock if you stopped doing any of that exercising. By all means, keep up with the activities that you’re used to doing.”
Other than throwing up pretty much all the time until February or so, my pregnancy proceeded without too much difficulty. I can remember coming out of a monthly appointment with Dr. Muir close to Valentine’s Day and smelling doughnuts. Montgomery Donuts had a shop right across the street from the medical office complex, and I needed doughnuts. I told myself, I’ll surprise the boys and take doughnuts home for their after-school snack. I bought two heart-shaped doughnuts with pink- and red-colored sprinkles, and eleven jelly doughnuts, for an even baker’s dozen. Every single one of those jelly doughnuts was gone by the time I picked up Benjamin and Patrick from school that afternoon. They were both excited about getting a special after-school snack, and when Patrick asked me where my doughnut was, I just said, “Mommy already ate hers.” I always blamed Montgomery Donuts for the more than fifty pounds I gained during my pregnancy with Kassidy. When it came to jelly doughnuts, I had absolutely no willpower whatsoever.
In March of 1992, Jim decided to take Benjamin, Patrick, my brother Mark, and his then girlfriend, Tiffany, and me skiing in Snowshoe, West Virginia. Mark and Tiffany were both undergraduate students at James Madison University, and they had a weeklong spring break in mid-March. I checked with Dr. Muir to make sure that skiing would be a sanctioned activity for me, as I was now well into my second trimester. He did not seem the least bit worried about the baby, or me, and sent me on my way, telling me to relax and have a good time.
My brother Mark and me at Snowshoe, West Virginia, in March 1992. I am almost six months pregnant with Kassidy.
Snowshoe was a blast. We arrived the first night in an actual blizzard, which was a little scary as we drove on unfamiliar roads up the mountain to the resort. However, because so much snow fell that first night, the ski conditions were glorious the entire time we were there, and because it was late in the season, it was not the least bit crowded. The boys, who were only four and five, learned to ski, went sledding, built snow castles, and sipped hot chocolate. I had never been skiing before, and it had been a while since Mark, Tiffany, and Jim had been on skis. But they picked it back up quickly, and pretty soon all three were off looking for more hazardous mountains to conquer. I was happy going up and down the bunny hill by myself with my skis in a snowplow position for the entire first day. However, I got more adventurous by day three, and even attempted a few longer and steeper blue square trails. This trip was by far the best vacation, and I think the only vacation, that we ever took as a family that was purely just for the fun of it. In fact, I still have the Snowshoe sweatshirt that I purchased that week. I just cannot bring myself to part with it.
We had only been home from that perfect family vacation for a few weeks before my pregnancy took a turn for the worse.
Early in April, Benjamin’s kindergarten class began learning about all the ways that five- and six-year-olds can help save their planet. These discussions were most likely leading up to some kind of culminating Earth Day activity at the school. April wasn’t always especially warm, but by this point in the year the slightest bit of sunshine would drive us all outside for some “fresh air.” On this particular day, Patrick, Benjamin, and I had decided to take a walk around Lake Marion, near our home, before supper. At the last moment, they both decided they wanted to ride their bikes instead. I said fine, as long as they followed the walking-Mommy bike rules. Basically, they were not allowed to ride their bikes so far ahead of me that I couldn’t see them and they couldn’t see me. They had to stop and wait (patiently, without whining) for me to catch up. They both agreed, and we were off. When I arrived at the top of the path that led down to Lake Marion, they were waiting for me. Patrick asked if they could ride all around the lake without stopping. I said yes, and they were off like a shot. I started walking around the lake, watching the boys as they sped ahead. I can remember thinking how amazed I was at how quickly Patrick had picked up riding a two-wheeler. They rode up behind me and I remember pretending to be shocked and amazed at how fast they both rode. They asked if they could go around again, and we all laughed and recited together the words from Dr. Seuss’s Go, Dog, Go! “The dogs are all going around and around. Go around again!” And once again, they sped off.
A few moments later, I saw that the bikes had both been abandoned on the path. I then saw Patrick standing next to a tree near the lake. He waved at me. As I got closer, I heard a big splash. Patrick turned and ran toward me, screaming, “Benjamin just fell in the lake!” I rushed forward through all the weeds and brambles. I can remember spotting Benjamin’s jean jacket with the navy-blue sleeves and hood. Without thinking at all, I stepped into the icy water, grabbed for that hood, and pulled as hard as I could. I lost my balance with the first pull and fell deeper into the water, but I was closer now to where Benjamin was, so I got a better hold on him and pulled again, as hard as I could. That time I got him and literally threw him up on the bank of the lake. I knew that both Benjamin and Patrick were crying, but I couldn’t move toward them at first. I was in so much pain! And when I looked down, there was blood. Somehow, I got myself out of the lake and got the boys back on their bikes. Benjamin was babbling this whole time about “a plastic milk jug hurting the earth!” But I wasn’t really listening to him. He was soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. I was unsure whether or not he would be able to ride his bike. I was shivering and wet as well, but I was more concerned about the pain and all the blood. I just wanted to sit down, curl up in a ball, and go to sleep, but something gave me the strength to walk home, encouraging the boys the whole time, saying over and over, “Everything is fine. Everyone is fine.”
This is what Benjamin remembers about that fateful day: “I fell through the thin ice of the lake and I was in the frigid water. And you immediately jumped in. You might have thrown Patrick out of the way first, or in the other direction into the grass and then jumped in after me. I remember that you waded into the lake and just bodily grabbed me up and then you ran back so now we’re both soaking wet and freezing. So freezing cold. And then we just ran home. I was shivering my ass off! We went inside and you went and got towels and blankets and wrapped me up cinnamon-bun style in all those towels and blankets, and you laid down and had me call someone. I don’t know if the cold shock of the water immediately sent you into labor. I just remember you crying, making these horrible noises of anguish. And I remember you expressing pain in your face and verbally and me asking if you were all right, and you repeating, ‘It’s all right, it’s the baby, it’s the baby.’ I’m fuzzy as to who took us to the hospital or when Dad came. I think back to my childhood, there were more days that he wasn’t home than there were days that he was home. I’ve got to believe that it was me calling 911. Both Patrick and I, just given our situation, we did routine drills on, Where is all the stuff we need in the house? How do you dial 911? How do you talk to the operator? We had a phone list on the refrigerator. I was only six, and this was the second or third time I had called 911 on your behalf.”
The situation was clearly a serious one. Jim says, “I don’t remember how I got to the hospital, either. I recall sitting in a conference room in Waltham, Massachusetts, being interrupted for a phone call and someone telling me that you’d had an accident. The next memory I have is being by your side in the ER at Shady Grove Hospital in Rockville, Maryland. At the hospital the doctor told me that your uterus might ‘tear itself apart.’ You were only at twenty-three or twenty-four weeks of gestation; your uterus was weakened by two previous cesarean deliveries, the first of which had been an emergency, and therefore a vertical rather than horizontal incision. You were not supposed to go into labor with this pregnancy. You had lost a lot of blood, and your condition was deemed too delicate for a helicopter ride, so they hurriedly bundled you in an ambulance and rushed you to Georgetown Medical Center downtown. The d
octors couldn’t understand why you knew none of your own medical history. You bluffed and said I kept track of all that and I just automatically covered for you.”
A young resident at Georgetown examined me and delivered an unexpected ultimatum: “There’s two ways we can go here. We can do what we can to save the child, or you can decide to do whatever needs to be done to help the mother. If you opt to improve the mother’s condition, we can’t do that here.” Georgetown University Hospital was a Catholic hospital, sworn to protect our baby at any cost. The resident explained to Jim that I had suffered an abruption, in which the placenta was partially torn away from my uterine wall, and that I had lost, and continued to lose, quite a bit of blood. The doctor gave us five minutes. Jim recalls, “For me, it was like a flashback to that moment at the other hospital in Fort Worth: ‘Bring your sons and tell your wife good-bye.’ I didn’t need five minutes. I told the doctors to save the baby because that was going to be the only way anyone at that hospital would dispense any treatment to you.” They administered large doses of magnesium sulfate to me, meant to slow the contractions. It was initially too much. My vital signs flickered. Jim summoned the head nurse, who reduced the dosage. Fortunately, my body eventually stabilized somewhat, but the contractions never stopped.
I spent almost a week in the hospital, and when I was released it was with strict orders to stay in bed. Jim talked with my parents and it was decided that my mom would come up and stay with us and help with the boys as well as prepare meals and do the housework so I wouldn’t feel compelled to do anything. I was once again baffling the medical community by somehow holding on to Kassidy through three months of constant labor.