I am an exemplary disasterist. Yes, I know that's not a real word but it should be. I can, and regularly do, imagine in vivid detail both realistic and preposterous disastrous ends to any scenario. I am not a pessimist. I don't actually believe that these calamities will happen but my mind creates such vivid scenarios that I viscerally feel the sorrow or terror in my body. From plane crashes to cars running out of gas on desolate highways, being trapped in the desert without water to a bus jumping the curb and plowing into me, to the group of rowdy kids at the end of subway platform responding to my imaginary scolding with violence, there is no end to the ends. Since, I have had Owen these disaster daydreams have horrifically shifted to all the ways that harm could befall him.
For example, I am walking him in his stroller and I have not buckled him in (okay that part is often real) when a car plows into the stroller sending the car seat skyward and Owen flying out of it, landing on the pavement and. . well enough said. I hate myself for being so stupid to not to strap him in where the car seat might have saved him. Or. . I am with a bunch of friends driving down to the shore (this part is grounded in reality) when we stop at a rest stop to get some food and use the bathroom. Owen needs to nurse so I stay in the car by myself. (Have I mentioned it is night and the rest stop is rather desolate?) A man comes up to the open window and puts a gun against my head and tells me he wants the car. My mind races as to how I can make sure he takes the car and lets us go . . or at least Owen. Yeah, I know.
I prefer to ascribe this to being a writer and not to the fact that I might be mildly insane. They all start off rationally. Yet, somehow how will I drive several hours with a group of people and deal with nursing Owen ends up with a carjacking gunman outside of a rest stop McDonald's. But for all of these situations I can see everything so clearly - the blood on the pavement spilling from an open skull or Owen looking up at me innocently as he nurses as the metal of the gun hovers inches from my forehead, that they physically bring to me a halt.
But up until Saturday, the worst thing that has happened to Owen was my husband dropping Thai food on top of his head once while we were out eating which caused a fit of hysteria on Owen's part either because he realized what a crap deal he has been getting on breast milk or because it woke him from a nap and on mine for a myriad of reasons from wondering if he would ingest chilies and burn his throat to, well. . . write your own disaster ending.
At some point, I told Mitch that if he was ever responsible for Owen's death that I did not know if I could forgive him. He told me that made sense and that he probably would not be able to forgive me if the situations were reverses. I guess that's pretty normal, at least the reaction, if not the fact that we were discussing this ahead of time.
Which brings us to Saturday. Don't worry, there is no death in this story. If there was, I would not be blogging, I would be in a loony bin.
We were out at my mom's house on Long Island and I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. My mom and step-father had just gotten home from church and my husband had Owen in the backyard. Later he told me he had been showing Owen how beautiful the world was after a rain. I can imagine this as well. Mitch is so excited about showing his son the world. I picture him almost whispering into Owen's ear as if he was letting him in on a secret, describing the vibrant green of trees and grass, the smell of moist earth, and the sounds of birds announcing where the best worms were wiggling up from the ground. But at the time, I don't know any of this. I am focused on putting the finishing touches on some eggs, enjoying the contrast of the yellow mixed with the red and green of the vegetables when I hear Owen screaming. This is really no cause for alarm as this is something that Owen often does. In fact aside from peeing, it is the thing he is currently best at. My mom calls out my name a few times in a manner that seems more urgent than normal so I turn towards the sound. And it is then I see her come around the corner carrying a wailing Owen in her arms. Owen's head is covered in what looks like soot but even through that I spot what looks like a huge cut on his head. I honestly can not remember what happened next. I know adrenaline surged through my body as if the house was on fire and I started crying as I took Owen into my arms. I somehow piece together from my mom that Mitch fell while holding Owen and that Owen fell to the ground. She tells me that he fell on Mitch first before he hit the pavement. All I can hear is that he hit the ground. All I can see is the cut on his head and his face twisted in pain. And yes, the twisted in pain looks pretty much like the "I can't poop face" or the "I'm super exhausted face," but right now it's clearly a face filled with pain and the look of, 'but you are supposed to take care of me, how could you not take care of me?' I think my mom must have cleaned his head off while I am holding him because by the time I'm cuddling him to my chest and nursing him to a calm him the dirt is gone, Bacitracin is on his cut, and it should be clear that he will live.
He wails for a while while nursing, his choking cry escaping from the sides of his mouth but quiets down quickly and starts to succumb to drowsiness. Usually I am thrilled at any indication of sleep but I panic and pull him off because we aren't sure if he has a concussion yet and don't want him to sleep. We examine his pupils, we gently palpitate his scalp, check the reflexes in this toes, try to coax a smile. Everything indicates he is fine. Bruised but fine. Wanting to be cuddled but fine.
But I can not believe he is fine. I ask my mother again and again how hard he fell and she tells me but it doesn't matter. I don't even realize until later that I did not even ask if Mitch was okay. I'd like to think I assumed that someone would have done something if he wasn't and also he was standing there, glaringly alive. I'm angry at him even while I am telling him not to worry, that accidents happen. Of course, at the time, I think that it wouldn't have happened to me. How could he have been so careless as to fall? I walked up and down those steps the day before so slowly and carefully that there could have been an earthquake and I would not have fallen. But of course, even if this was true, I could have as easily been responsible for something else. It was just an accident and objectively I know Mitch would lay down his life for Owen or I.
It's not the actual accident that upsets me though both Mitch and I are terrified all day to let Owen nap without watching him. Mitch spends a good ninety minutes watching Owen's chest rise and fall through his afternoon nap. It's not the actual accident that keeps stopping me still in the middle of the rest of the day's activities, it's the accident that could have been. Mitch falling forward instead of backwards or not being able to hold onto Owen. It is Owen's head split wide open, it is a million things that do not heal in a day, if ever. It is the things I write in my head, it is the hypothetical conversation that is suddenly not as hypothetical, it is the clear, strong rush of love in my body that wants to hold my baby flush against my skin, tucking him inside my rib-cage to protect him.
By night it is clear that Owen will be fine. It's also clear that Mitch and I will both take a little longer. "I feel like I won't forget this for a long time," I tell my mom. "You won't forget it ever," she says. "I still remember vividly every accident that I had with you."
I would not mind remembering this accident vividly. That would be easy. But it's not the picture of this accident that continues to stop me cold - it is the one that did not happen. But I know that that will fade a bit, in fact four days later it already has as I watch Owen laugh as he rolls over from left to right and back again, delighted in his new found power. I call Mitch on the phone to tell him how amazing it is and I know that we are all fine . . . for now. Knock wood.
