The Youngest Learns To Be The Loudest.

In the household I grew up in, I was the youngest of 4 (and sometimes all the way up to youngest of 6-7, depending on who was staying with us).

Every Sunday, we would line up by the hallway bathroom to shower before church, and since we were lined up by age, I was always last. No hot water for me!

Did I ever get the remote? No.
Did I tend to get smashed between couch cushions and be made into a "Jacee Sandwich" while my brothers sat on top? Yes.
Did I get sent to bed early with my sister, only to sneak out a little bit later to discover all the older people were eating ice cream? Yes.

I think it's inevitable that the youngest learns to be the loudest. And by "loudest", I don't necessarily mean by volume, but you WILL find a way to get your point across and make sure you're being heard.

I told you that in order to preface this next part.

It was a weekend long event when Papi went back to sea since that's how long I told the out-of-town visitor (let's call him "T") delivering Papi's remains was allowed to stay.

Night #1: It's a HUGE rule of mine to never speak ill of the dead, and on this night, T alleged the worst circumstance and I couldn't believe my ears. I shook it off, smiled, said that I was "Full of questions, but at least for tonight, let's have a nice, family dinner and we'll talk about it tomorrow".

Background Info: My friend "L" was living with Papi and died 2 days after him. She was dying of blood poisoning on the couch while T busied himself ransacking the trailer after learning of Papi's death. T found the cash box, the wallet, dug through everything, took the car, and left L to die, claiming he thought she was just drunk.

Day #2: (Before sending Papi to sea), I was bursting at the seams with anger and questions for T and was doing so well at keeping my mouth shut, but as I sat at a table with my mom and T, chomping on my lips, the conversation went quiet and my mom looked at me to say, "Jacee is thinking something."

Yup! Flood gates opened up and I lost my mouth filter. It's like when you catch a yellow traffic light; you either run with it, or stop. I always run with it.

It is a widely known fact that when I KNOW I'm right, you will quickly hear that you're wrong. I am very blunt and if there's ever a bush to beat around, I stomp through it. Although I've learned to be ladylike and polite when necessary, this Jackass didn't deserve one ounce of politeness.

I literally interrogated T, starting with asking about if he actually knew the medical cause of L's death, and that she had died of blood poisoning from an unattended rash, and if the squatters that quickly showed up at the trailer had enough sense to call an ambulance for her, than why didn't he? Why was he so busy raiding the trailer to notice her on the couch? Would she still be alive if he hadn't been so preoccupied with stealing things? And HOW DARE HE TELL ME on Night #1 that L killed Papi because she knew she was in the will, and then killed herself because she couldn't deal with the guilt?! T's the one that left her there to die while he ran off with cash and Papi's car.

It felt like I could hear jaws dropping all through the house. A few had the same questions, but I knew nobody was going to ask.

I still didn't get any answers to my questions, but I received a lot of dumb shrugs and sighs from a very dumb person. I found peace in being able to call him out on his crap, and now I will live a happier life knowing I never have to see or talk to him again.

Mom visited on Monday and said she was proud of me for calling T out. She even said T told her on Night #1 (regarding me gently saying "We'll talk about this tomorrow") that he wouldn't be attending the memorial the next day because he didn't want me to confront him.

I am proud for standing up for our two passed loved ones, and happy that my mom acknowledged it :). My head is held higher today.

Maybe being the youngest helped me become a more assertive adult, and if that's sometimes considered offensive, than maybe you just can't handle the truth.

Papi Went Back To Sea Yesterday.

*(Before you sound the alarm, rest assured that we followed all state laws about sending human remains out).*

His wish was fulfilled, and surprisingly, I didn't cry nearly as much as I thought I would.

 

It was still very emotional for me, even though I heard a few family members say things along the lines of, "He said goodbye to me a long time ago," and, "I don't have anything to say to him," and, "Oh I guess he was really selective about which grandchildren he liked." (Then how about you don't attend?!)

 

Yet with most of my family together, as I held my 5-month old son tight (looking stunning in his tuxedo, if I do say so myself!) we watched as Papi's ashes swirled around in the water until they dissipated. Mom tossed a personal letter off into the water to be sent out with him. Even though I'd prepared a mini speech, I just couldn't do it with so many negative vibes around us. Nobody else had any words to say, and at least two made it clear that they thought this memorial was a waste of time.

 

I tried to keep myself together but the only thing I could think of to say aloud through my sobbing was, "Papi, I hope you are still a sarcastic butthead in Heaven." (I wanted to say "jackass" ((as I lovingly called him to his face in life)) but there were children around).

 

Now, after I've had time to process everything, I feel extremely honored. Maybe he was selective about which family members to show love to, and he chose me.

 

And now my son has one more angel to smile at.

 

R.I.P. Papi

Holes In The Floor of Heaven.

Today I woke up, got out of bed to maintain my typical morning ritual of fetching a glass of ice water, then headed back to bed with plans of laying there and watching the news until my cup was empty.

By chance, I actually looked at the bed before climbing back in. There was a penny on my pillow. If you know me, you know I see meaning in this. Someone is thinking of us today :).

It Happened Again

My husband and I have had an odd tradition ever since we started dating. When we wake up, our pillow talk consists of me telling him what went through my head while I was off in Dream Land. My dreams have always been so vivid and loud that I remember everything down to the smallest details, and my unconscious brain comes up with some pretty good stuff! He is always amazed and enjoys the daily story telling.

Two days ago, when he asked about what has essentially become his early morning entertainment. I was still thinking over the details and said, "I'm not sure... but I just really feel like I have to ask Nurse L if she wears leggings. Is that weird?"

(In the dream, I was simply watching TV with Nurse L when a news story came up about someone that died. I realized it was someone I'd gone to elementary school with and the news channel played a quick slideshow of photos. It quickly flashed a 5th grade picture of me and I said, "L! L! Look it's me!! I'm on the news! Look at my awesome leggings!!" She slapped her hands on her knees and said, "I LOVE leggings!").

I wasn't planning on asking her because it was just such a silly and pointless question. She only wears scrubs to work and it wasn't going to make my life any different to know what she wears on her own time. But then she showed up for her shift and I couldn't help myself.

Me: "L... I have an odd question for you."
L: "Oh, let me sit down. Is this gonna be another good one?"
Me: "Eh, not really. I was just wondering if you wear leggings?"
L: "Leggings... like spanx?"
Me: "No, leggings like what people wear with a dress."
L: "Yea, I wore leggings and a dress yesterday."

Dan was in the room and snapped his neck towards me so quickly with a "WHOA" expression.

Sure. It's nothing significant, but I am starting to intrigue myself.

Then she said, "Oh, and..."

I cut her off at that and said, "Yea, we've also noticed that [insert name of a specific medicine for Son that is only given on as 'as needed' basis] does seem to make a difference, too. Feel free to use your discretion about using it."

She paused for what seemed like an extremely awkward amount of time, tilted her head, and said, "How did you know that's exactly what I was going to ask you?" Her and Dan were both staring at me at that point, but Nurse L had her eyebrows furled up in a questionable manner as if she's wondering about what exactly just happened.

As Dan was staring at me, still looking mystified, I asked him, "Do I have to add you to the list of people that think I'm crazy?"

And he replied, "I wouldn't have married you if I thought you were normal."

I love that man :) .

Dear Son,

I didn't get to see you when you were born and it was weeks before I could hold you. I didn't feel like a mom. One moment, I had your lovely, little body inside me, then, by the swift hand of a surgeon, my body was empty.

You were gone. My phone didn't have reception, nor is it one of those nifty phones that have internet. And why can't anyone update me about my baby? I was sedated for three days during recovery, and all I knew was that I was empty. It was such a daze that even the statement that I'd just had a baby didn't even feel correct. When you have a baby, shouldn't you literally be in possession of said baby?!?!

I spent three days essentially alone in my hospital while your daddy spent his days with you at your hospital. I can't say it enough; I didn't feel like a mom. It just felt like a magic trick.... *Now you're pregnant and NOW YOU'RE NOT!" And now let's all make the baby disappear!! * Strangest feeling ever, and I'm surprised I could even find words to remotely describe it.

It took awhile for motherhood mode to kick in, I admit that, but ever since you finally became mine, I don't ever want to let you go.

Son, you are my best friend. I love you more than bears love honey (and we all know that's an awful lot). I love that you've picked a favorite blankey and a favorite toy, and that even though you can't make a sound, I hear what you're saying. I know when you're cooing at the ladies or laughing at the silly faces of bearded men (because you're really just not used to seeing men besides Daddy.) I love how we fall asleep together and you'll occasionally lift your head out of the blanket you're suckling to look at me, almost as if you need to reassure yourself about who's cuddling you. I love saying, "Yes baby, it's still Momma", then you'll give a bashful smile and bury yourself back to your blankey and into slumber. I love it when the nurses consult me about how to handle a specific situation, and I can confidently tell them that you have 3-5 meltdowns per day, and when you start having your dramatic fits of wheezing, they should expect about 5-8 coughs. I know you. And you came from me. And that is just miraculous. You are truly the love of my life.

And now tomorrow I have to face a mother's worst fear. You are having a procedure done that requires you to go under anesthesia. I know you will survive, life will go on, and I trust your doctors. But I can't imagine how I'm going to hold back from crying my eyes out so I can keep it together long enough to get through the formalities of paperwork. It used to be so much easier because I didn't know you. You were just a baby that someone said had been cut out of my tummy, and then drugged me for days. Now I'm amazed (and mildly embarassed) about how easy it used to be to just walk away when you had a procedure. This time, I've asked every hospital friend I have about who can meet me where and when because I need a distraction. Can someone just sedate me too?!

Now I have to kiss you goodbye and tell you that I love you without crying. Tomorrow will be very hard, but this procedure has to be done. You are much stronger than me, Kiddo, and we are both very lucky to have your daddy be strong enough for all of us.

I love you Son.

My Mom Said Son Is Smiling At Angels

My blog is named "Becoming Jacee" because even though I've been writing since 2007, I am still only 24-years old, and I still discover new things about myself daily.

You can call me odd, but then it's also your choice to stop reading my blog.

My Grandpa (my "Papi") died just days before Son was born. We are so close and I would easily refer to him as one of my best friends (did you notice I don't refer to him in the past tense?). I found out about his passing through a very rude voicemail and then sobbed so hard it felt like my eyes would bleed.

My cell phone became evil that day. It just kept ringing and ringing and ringing from unknown numbers and everybody wanted something from me. The attorney wanted to know who is paying Papi's unpaid balance. The squatter's that have already taken over the trailer wanted to know if they can have the trailer. The landlord of the trailer park wanted to know who is responsible for paying the monthly space rent (Fuck the trailer, I'm broke, go ask the squatters!). The person in possession of his dog that was left to me wants to know when I can plan on driving to Oregon and get her. Two people called wanting to know what was left to them in the will.

How can you focus on what's in it for you to gain when we've just had a loss? I explained to everyone that I am days away from birthing a baby that we know will be disabled, and everyone just needs to chill out when I can focus on this in about a week.

Finally, FINALLY, the phone shut up, and I was MAD at everyone who called and MAD at Papi. I was 9 months pregnant and this had just drained every resource my body had left, so I screamed AT HIM. I loudly screamed at him as if he was in the same room for 20 minutes. (HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME! YOU MADE ME IN CHARGE OF EVERYTHING AND I'M OVER 300 MILES AWAY, ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY, AND I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!!!! HOW DARE YOU DIE NOW!!!). In an emotionally charged fit of rage and despair of loss, I screamed at him so loud that I'm mildly surprised the neighbors didn't come busting through the door.

Something in me changed that day. Before you read further, feel assured that I am not crazy or hearing voices and seeing apparitions around my house. Now I "joke" that Papi lives at my house. Every time I mention it to someone new, it's like dipping your toe in the pool water, just to test how crazy they think I am. But in all seriousness, he won't leave us alone! Something about him passing over has heightened my senses with my desire to still be with him.

A few days ago, a nurse arrived for her night shift. She was physically alone, but as I glanced at her walking through the door, I just felt a man was with her. It's like that feeling when you wake up because you just sense that someone is staring at you. It was patriarchal and a friendly feeling, and as if I'd almost received the warm greeting of, "Hey, Jacee."

I stayed on the couch and before she'd even kicked her shoes off, I asked her if the name "William", or maybe more commonly referred to as "Billy" meant anything to her. (I'm grateful she didn't look at me like I'm crazy). She sat down on the chair close to me and said her grandpa "Billy" had just died, and that was her reasoning for being just a bit late. She cried when I said he's definitely still with her. (The nurses and I are not allowed to share phone numbers, be facebook friends, exchange email addresses, I don't even know her last name).

I sent her off to Son's room and that was that.

Just by looking at her, it's like I magically absorbed a wealth of knowledge about her.

On a different note, Son is usually hooked up to what's called an "oximeter". It monitors his pulse and amount of oxygen he's receiving. It alarms every time his stats drop below a certain level. The probe is attached to his foot, but any time he sweats or jiggles his little feet around, the sensor gets moved and sounds the alarm. Yesterday, he was sleeping in his room but kept wiggling and the loud alarm kept chiming. In a fit of frustration that this was going to eventually wake my sleeping baby, I turned off the machine, removed the probe from his foot, and headed back to the other side of the house with baby monitor in hand. Not too long later, (I should have been paying closer attention to the monitor),  I distinctly heard the alarm screaming again. I ran across the house into Son's room and he was clearly in distress, needing assistance. The machine was still off and not attached to him, but I know I heard it... Someone is helping me, but also enjoys pulling pranks on me. The light bulbs keep going out. Every straw I grab breaks. Most pens runs out of ink. (I usually grab 4-6 of each before settling back on the couch).

I used to call it just being intuitive, but I've changed a lot ever since Papi left his body. Now there are at least three extra people lingering around my house. When I gently ask the the spirits to leave my room before an intimate moment, whichever of our cats/dog are in the room seem to almost chase/follow them out. Maybe I do seek to find meaning in everything, or maybe there really is more than meets the eye.

(I wish I could charge them rent).

Love

This is such a beautiful life.

There is no greater feeling in the world than seeing my two guys smile at me. One chose to fall in love with me, and the other is a product of that love.

Happy Mother's Day!

I Doubt Myself A Lot.

On the first day of 6th grade at Eisenhower Middle School, (first day ever that I had to travel around a school campus to find different classrooms), the teacher of my computer class introduced himself, and then scribbled out on the white board the word "a lot". This is two words, and I didn't previously know this. (Any assignment turned in with this specific, monumental, glorious word misspelled will be handed back with an "F", and the already nervous, 11-year old, little Jacee will remember to never misspell this word again). Gone are the days of spelling "alot", and by the way, Welcome to Middle School!

There are a lot of other things I still know that I don't know. I'm hoping someday, someone comes into my life with a guide book or road map of where I started and where I'm supposed to end up. (Are "guide book" and "road map" supposed to be one word or two?. Who knows. Whatever).

Anyways, during our stay at the hospital, I had essentially rehearsed answers to questions regarding Son and how I'm doing postpartum because I didn't want anyone to question our ability to get discharged from the hospital and go home as a family. Whatever I was dealing with, that was my issue, not his, and every baby is happier at home. A smile makes every answer better.

Now I'm dumbfounded when people tell me things along the lines of, "You're such an inspiration!," and "You're so strong!". Um, no. I'm not... not at all, actually. I am just one person making from one day to the next, making it as best as I can; just like you. Didn't we do what any parents would have done? We were met with an insanely hard circumstance and both smiled through it while living in the hospital and attending classes to teach us how to care for our disabled baby. It felt as though we had to act a specific way through showing people in charge of discharging us that, yes, we are able to survive at home.

We are home now and even though it's still a struggle every day, it's worth it. I am so in love with my son and more in love than ever with my husband. But my question is this: does basically just surviving through misfortune install a sense of admiration in others? Because I still feel like all I did was exist while all the other details happened around me. And I feel I could have done a lot better, and that is where I doubt myself.

A nurse asked me, "Do you feel guilty?". Of course I feel guilty. I think any mother, anywhere, ever, in the entire universe would feel guilty their whole life if their baby was born with complications. (Of course the analytical part of me instantly disects the question 6 different ways. Does she think I caused this? Does she know it's a chromosomal defect? Does she think I drank cocktails while letting Mixed Martial Artists freely punch me in the stomach while pregnant?) Maybe she was questioning me, maybe she wasn't, but as I analyze it further, I remind myself that the fact that I immediately felt defensive is reassuring that I am a good mom. I am ready to cage fight Mike Tyson, run through a burning building, or punch a tiger in the face if it meant defending my little guy. Maybe defending him means I also have to get better at defending myself. I will always feel like there are whispers around us, asking, "What DID SHE do wrong?".

But in a different context, I still look at Dan almost daily and positively say, "We did it, Babe," because I want him to be assured that he's doing a good job. But... if we're both doing/did the same thing... maybe I'm doing a good job, too? Maybe I just need to reevaluate how I view myself.

My Son Sucks.

Yup, that's right Kiddo. This is the probably the only situation I can imagine that phrase being used in a positive light. You suck! In fact, you're really good at sucking!

This means that maybe sometime in the not too distant future, we'll be able to get that NG feed tube out of your nose because you're progressing really well on eating orally. Keep sucking :)