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Jamie’s Uncle, My Baby Brother

I was three, well almost three anyway, and I was waiting for my baby brother to arrive.  According to Grandma, mom and dad would be bringing him home to live with us. “Your Mommy is in labor,” Grandma said.  I wasn’t really sure what “labor” was, but I realized it must be hard work because she was going to be laboring for so long I had to spend the night with Grandma.  Grandma gave me so much attention.  I loved attention.  I suppose she believed that I may not get as much as I was used to in the upcoming days so she would make up for that future lack in one night.  She gave me everything I liked.  Chicken with honey, chocolate, cookies, ice cream, and Dr Pepper all night long. My almost three-year-old self was wired.  At 10:00 my grandma felt that my night o’fun should come to an end and she packed us both off to bed.  I laid there, listening to her breath and really longing to play with the toys I had been made to abandon in the living room.  The television was also calling to me.  I rolled around, back to side, to side, to stomach, to side, to back.  Nothing.  Too much sugar, too much energy.  I had to escape, I had to get out of that bed and make a break for the living room I could deny the toys no longer.  I slid my legs off the side of the bed, toes reaching for the floor.  I was off the bed in a second and creeping for the door.  She had left it open, my escape wouldn’t be that difficult.  “Liz?” Shucks, foiled again!  What to tell her… she had been the one who wanted to go to bed, not me, and she could be the one to stay there.  I peered back at her through the darkness.  “One can go, and one can stay,” I stated emphatically
 and then marched myself out of the room and into the living room.  It was time to play.

When I was three, my parents gave me the gift of a baby brother, I should’ve asked for something simpler…like an elephant.

We really loved each other when we were little.  He worshipped me, and I adored him.  He let me take care of him.  When I was around he never had to ask for anything.  Instead of going to an adult when he wanted juice or a cookie he would come to me, and I’d ask for him.  He rarely spoke, but he didn’t
have to.  We could communicate with just a look, so to him words were not important. He looked to me for protection too.  Once he broke a lamp at the babysitters, he was so scared and he came running to me with tears streaming down his three-year-old face.  He made up my mind for me right there; I’d take the fall.

We played in our basement when we were little.  That was where all the toys were kept.  As we would descend the stairs in the dark, I would reach out and grab his tiny little hand, knowing he was scared to death but too ashamed to say anything to me. So, I’d reach for his hand and let him think I needed his support as much as he needed mine…and maybe I did.

Things changed as we grew. I don’t know why, maybe he changed, maybe I did, maybe it was both of us, but I missed him.  I missed the way he’d grab my face in his chubby little hands and plant a slobbery “kiss” on my cheek. (A memory my mom forever immortalized on film.)  I missed the way he would talk to me, the way we would talk to each other.  I missed Halloween, when he was a Glow Worm and I was Wedding Princess Barbie.  I missed the getting along.  All we had then was fighting.

He was growing up, and he didn’t want my help anymore.  Sometimes I would think that he didn’t want me there at all.  He was so bleak. He was sixteen at the time and so full of rage and depression and hate. He broke my heart once, twice, three times, and more. The first time time he yelled, “I hate you,” the time he screamed “You are not my sister anymore,” as he shoved me so he could walk away.  Sometimes… I felt like I had lost him.

He was there, though.  I went home over spring break my sophomore year of college.  I anticipated fighting, but I went home anyway.  I went to his room, to try to tell him about the trip I had taken and we talked….we talked about his last trip to New York, we talked about school, and we talked about life.  Then my not-so-little-anymore brother looked at me with watery eyes, “I am scared, Liz.”  So I did the only thing I knew to do.  I held his hand.

He didn’t tell me then.  He didn’t have to.  I think I’ve always known my little brother was gay, but it didn’t seem to matter to me.  It didn’t change who it was, it was a part of who he was.  It took him a while to trust me with the actual words, and I don’t blame him for that. Everything he experienced taught him that this was one secret he couldn’t tell anyone.

I still remember the day he finally broke down.  I was getting ready to take a shower and I had just laid out my towels and was getting ready to shut the bathroom door.  He popped into the hallway and asked me if he could brush his teeth. I turned to walk out of the bathroom to give him some room when something stopped me.  “You okay?” “No.” I tentatively reached out my hand to touch his shoulder and he started to cry.  I moved closer so I could wrap my arms around him.  He told me he wanted to die.  He said he was tired of being different.  He was tired of hiding, tired of being scared, tired of being unwanted.

He later told me that gym was the worst.  The boys in there were cruel.  They taunted him, called him names, threw things directly at this face.  After one particularly rough incident, he refused to go back. Instead, he hid in his car for a week and a half.  It took him that long to get up the courage to go back.  I can still hear his words in my head.  It makes me remember how he was there for me when I was afraid of going down the stairs.  And it makes me remember, that when he was afraid of walking into school, no one was holding his hand.

I am so proud of my brother.  He had a strength I could never have.  He fought a fight I can never really understand.  He struggled.  I know he struggled.  He wasn’t perfect, but he was my brother.  We grew closer once we were both out of college.  He even came to live with me for while.  He pretended to be so mad when I got engaged, because he knew he’d have to move out.  Deep down, I think we were both really sad our time living together would end again.

It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him, I think, my “kicking him out.”  He met the love of his life.  He introduced his love to my parents, and he met his love’s family.  Everyone accepted them.  About two months after Jamie was born they got married.  Deep in my heart, I felt like my brother was finally home.  He was going to be okay.  He was going to be better than okay.

He was so proud of Jamie.  He would hold him, and stare at him with the greatest sense of wonder.  He would send me articles about breastfeeding, and tips about raising a baby boy.  Closer and closer we grew.

And then he was gone.  In an instant, I lost my baby brother forever.  He went to sleep, and never woke up.  My sons look just like him.  Sometimes, when they come running into the room, I think for a second that Alan is back, running into the room to play one more time.  I wish that there had been one more time… There are so many people who need a voice.  So many people who deserve to have others speak for them.  He told me once that people need to be taught about differences of all kinds.  He was sad that we raise people to hate others so much, others whom they have no understanding of…

I know that my brother had a lot to say… I know that at one point he counted on me to speak for me…. I know that for a while I let him down… I know that I am going to try to never stop listening to Jamie the way I stopped listening to him.  I know that I miss being able to reach out for his hand as I go down the stairs

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Baby Jamie

I know how it sounds, but there were so many things I loved about staying at home with Jamie those first nine weeks.  I loved how he would wake up and stare into my eyes.  I loved how he would turn at the sound of my voice.  I loved how he would make the softest sounds I ever heard.  I loved how he had a tendency to give the camera the middle finger.

He was such a good baby.  I was spoiled.  In fact, I started thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t have more kids, none could possibly be as well behaved as Jamie.  Don’t get me wrong, we had our moments, and sometimes they were rough, but there was something about Jamie.  No one is perfect. I’ve always believed that…. but looking at Jamie I knew that he was perfect for me.  That he was perfectly Jamie.

Jamie and I did everything together.  When I went back to work, I couldn’t wait to pick him up from daycare.  We’d go home, snuggle up, and take naps together.  It was so….. right.  On the weekends, he’d wake up early, by 6am.  I knew when he was ready to get up, because his head would pop up, and he’d make this “ooo ooo” sound.  We called it The Prairie Dog. Once I saw TPD, I knew it was useless to try to sleep more.

Those mornings, I’d get up, and Jamie and I would bundle up while David slept and we’d head out and get breakfast and do the grocery shopping.  I loved shopping with Jamie.  We talked about everything!  The best type of brand to buy, the cool toys on the end caps, how long the check out lines were.  Jamie cooed and stared right at me.  He would always stare right at me.

For the first time in my life I never worried about what other people thought about me. I would sing, dance, make silly faces, and make bizarre sounds just to see Jamie’s eyes light up and a smile spread across his face. I loved not caring.  I was so thankful that Jamie gave me that gift.  Remember the girl who couldn’t sharpen her broken pencil because she’d have to walk in front of the class? Boy, she would be shocked to see us now.

I loved how he never met a camera or a mirror he didn’t like (he gets that from his dad).  I loved how when he saw the camera flash he would immediately start cheesing it up.  If he was fussy or in a bad mood, all you had to do was turn on the camera.  I loved that.

I loved hearing his first words.  When he was very young he’d say “mamamamamama” when he was sad, “dadadada” when he was happy, and “gegegegege” when he was angry.  He said “uh oh” one day when I dropped an earring I was trying to put in.  He said “Oscar,” the name of my mother-in-law’s dog, anytime he saw a dog.  He spoke. One time while shopping at Wegmans I got him to say “‘cuse us” every time we passed another shopper.

Then it stopped.  No more words.  That is probably one of the hardest things.  I miss his words.  I miss the words he would have spoken. I know Jamie loves me as much as I love him, but it would so nice to hear the words.  You don’t realize how much it matters…. not hearing them.  I know he loves me.  I feel it when he grabs my face, and looks deep in my eyes before giving me a kiss.  When he comes running at me full speed when I pick him up from school.  When he reaches out to hold my hand while we eat dinner.  When he cuddles in close to watch tv, just for a minute.  I can feel that he loves me.  I can see that he loves me.  So,  I say “I love you” for the both of us.  For now.

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Baby Song

I have always loved theatre.  I was in my first high school play in the 7th grade. Before that, I was the world’s shyest person.  I wouldn’t even get up to sharpen my pencil if the lead broke.  But, theatre changed my life.  Cheesy stuff, huh?

Bill Patterson, November 13, 1987

Much like Calvin, I often find myself searching for songs that should be playing in the background of my life. When I found out I was pregnant with Jamie, I unconsciously began searching for the song.  The one that would put into words how I felt.  The one that I could play over, and over, and over, and over. 

Okay, that might be a lie.  I might not have been looking for the song.  But I did find it.

Jamie’s Baby Song:
“Glad You Came.” The Wanted
The sun goes down
The stars come out
And all that counts
Is here and now
My universe will never be the same
I’m glad you came

The rest of the song has nothing to do with Jamie, and, frankly, gets weird when trying to apply it to the upcoming birth of your child.  Still, every time the song came on, I cranked up the radio and sang LOUD, ignoring the odd bits and focusing on those few minutes of absolute perfection.  I may have been terrified, I may have been insecure, but I was so, so glad.

Not too long ago, I redecorated the basement, turning part of the main room into a classroom for Jamie.  I created a poster with the lyrics to his baby song to hang in the room.  I love seeing those words, especially since the song has long since fallen out of favor on the radio.

It is difficult to admit, but life with Jamie can be so hard.  I say it is hard to admit because, somehow, I feel that is my fault.  Somehow, I feel that I should have been able to make it easy.  That somewhere I did something wrong, and now we all have to try to make up for it.  It is also hard, because I never want people to think that Jamie is a burden, that he was a mistake.

The last few weeks have been very rough weeks. I was sharing my struggles with a friend, and the guilt came back.  I immediately felt like I needed to apologize for being upset, for admitting it was hard.

“It’s usually okay,” I told her. “Better than okay!  I love these boys, and would never trade them.”
“Loving people and it being hard are never mutually exclusive,” she replied.  “I actually think loving them is what makes it so hard. Because if you didn’t love them, then it wouldn’t matter, huh? You wouldn’t care. So, although your loyalty and love are immeasurable, you can once in a while tap into a measurement of how hard it is..” (Do I have smart friends or what?)

Having a special needs child can be hard.  Taking care of them can be hard. Understanding everything can be hard.  But loving them can be easy.  No matter what, I stand by Jamie’s Baby Song.  The way I see it, I got the better end of the deal.  I have him.  He gets it.  I am the one who is always confused.  I always thought my job as a mom was to teach my children.  Jamie reminds me everyday that I still have so much to learn.  My biggest hope is that I won’t let him down.

Thanks for loving me, Jamie.  Thanks for teaching me.  I am so glad you came.

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Jamie’s Birth Story, Part Two

As he was leaving to take the dogs to the field, David noticed my phone was ringing.  The doctor called back and I missed it!  Who ends up playing phone tag with their doctor while they are in labor?!?  In the end, the on call doctor told me to head to the hospital. (I found out later, that the on call doctor told the doctor at the hospital that she would probably end up sending me home, but since I thought my water had broken, she didn’t want to take the chance…)  David headed out with the dogs, and I resumed my shower after a contraction.

While shampooing my hair, I realized that something wasn’t quite right.  My contractions were supposed to be eight minutes apart, and yet suddenly I was having an awful pain.  I should have been able to finish my shower without a contraction.  It took a while for my brain to make the connection that my contracting belly was communicating.  My blood felt like ice.  I HAD BEEN SO WRONG!  Not eight minutes–FOUR!!!

Let’s pause here and let me clarify something….  I watched that stupid video.  Every. Single. Minute. Of. It.  I knew all about timing contractions.  And I think I am a relatively smart person–most of the time. But, see, I thought that contractions all stayed the same intensity.  And that they only got worse!  So while I was dutifully timing the contractions and recording the information in the notes section of my phone.  I would have a definite contraction… and several minutes later I would have what I considered “aftershocks.”  Unfortunately, they were real, tiny, baby contractions that I DIDN’T COUNT!

Standing there in the shower, reality hit me, and I realized that I might be in a bit of trouble.  I rushed out of the shower, threw on some clothes and called David.  “Get home.  I was wrong.  Really wrong.”  Only, instead of rushing home to my aide, he tells me that one of the dogs peed on him and he needs a new shirt.  He asked me to iron it.  Iron a new shirt.  While I was in labor.  Because it was all about him!  So I said, “Okay, just get home.”  I threw a shirt on the ironing board.  Placed the iron on the shirt (did I mention I never turned the iron on?) put the iron back on the board, picked up the shirt, and headed downstairs.  David was smart enough not to say a word when he got the shirt, and we drove the five minutes to the hospital.

I walked into the hospital and to the maternity ward on my own two feet.  My contractions were approximately 2 minutes apart at this point.  They registered me fairly quickly and did the preliminary check.  I was 9 centimeters dilated!  When the nurse asked if I had planned on having an epidural and I told her I had, she gave me a half smile, and said “It may not be possible, but we can try,” and left the room.

“We’re going home.” I told my husband.  “Do over. I need a do over.  We can come back tomorrow, and I can have the epidural, and we can have the baby.” David just blinked at me.  Wise man.  Then he said, “Why don’t you call your mom.”  Very wise man.

“Mom, they said I might not be able to have the epidural.  I can’t do this.  I need the epidural.  I’m going home.”

“You can do this.  Besides, I didn’t have an epidural when I had you.”

“You are a stronger woman than I am!”

Luckily, I did get the epidural.  It helped.  If nothing else, it helped my sanity.  And then the contractions slowed down.  Not a lot thought.  And boy were they intense.  Not painful, but heavy.  I told David that there was so much pressure.  After that, each time I felt one, I had to sing the lyrics to “Under Pressure.”  It was a fine moment in my history.

At about 11:45, they did another check and my water broke.  I was 10 centimeters and they said I could push.  The doctor came in, I really liked her.  She had a very calming manner about her, and she puts you at ease quickly.  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.  A nurse opened it and asked if I was expecting a visitor.  I wasn’t, but it turned out to be one of my best friends, Ann.  I had always wanted my mom to be there.  I kept thinking that she would be able to get there in time and she would be there to keep me calm. I had texted Ann on my way to the hospital, and even though I had told her I was okay, she knew I would be sad that my mom wasn’t here and she just wanted to help out. (She was fantastic, too.  My doctor had delivered both of her children, one just six weeks before.)

So, Dave, Ann, and the rest of them helped me deliver Jamie.  And much like the rest of my pregnancy, Jamie didn’t plan on anything being easy.  He had a big head (no joking here, it was huge, 99th percentile at birth…  You can’t be 100th
percentile, people, so it was as big as it gets…)  And that is all I will say about that.

Jamie was born at 12:29 on July 15, 2012.  He was eight and a half pounds, and 17 days early.  And he was mine.

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Jamie’s Birth Story, Part 1

I found out I was pregnant with Jamie about four months after my husband and I were married.  I was happy– and terrified.  Don’t get me wrong, I wanted him more than anything, but looking at that “Pregnant,” made everything real, and I knew how much my life would change.  And Jamie didn’t pull any punches.  It felt like I was sick from the day he was conceived.  I lost twenty pounds in the first trimester.  Food was my enemy.  We’d go out to eat, I’d order my favorite thing on the menu, and sit eagerly awaiting the meal.  The minute I took a bite, though, it was over.  My husband kept trying, and each time we went somewhere, I thought it would be different.  But it wasn’t, and I didn’t mind, especially once I felt him moving.  Being sick was a small price to pay for a healthy, beautiful boy.

The day before he was born, I felt amazing.  I went to the store, went to a birthday party (and sat around outside in the heat!), cleaned the bedroom, and went all the way across the county to a dinner party with my husband.  I should have known….

Before going further, I should probably tell you that I always joked that I wouldn’t know when I was in labor. I didn’t take a birthing class, but I did watch a video the hospital sends out.  I heard all about the warning signs, timing the contractions–the typical stuff… All of that only gets you so far…

I woke up at 5:30 in the morning on July 15.  I had to go to the bathroom.  It was at that point that thought my water broke.  Did I freak out?  Did I rush to wake up my husband?  Nope.  I got my dog and I went downstairs to watch TV.  Everyone says the first pregnancy can take hours, and even the doctor told me that you don’t want to get to the hospital too early, so I figured I’d sit on the comfortable couch with Lexy, my sweet pup, to time the contractions. The started about ten minutes apart.

I thought it was going pretty well.  I was timing the contractions at about 8 minutes apart when Lexy started to get antsy.  (She has always been a smart pup..)  I was having moderate pain about every 8 minutes, and this little minor twinges about halfway through.  Lexy left the couch and ran over to the stairs.  She waited and when I didn’t follow her she came back into the living room and stared at me pointedly.  She went back to the stairs, but waited only briefly before coming back into the living room and barking at me.  Realizing it would only get worse, I headed upstairs to wake up David, my husband.  I called the doctor and left a message on the line, explaining I thought my water broke but that the contractions were far apart, and then hoped in the shower while David took the dogs out to the field for a potty break.

Then things got interesting.