Thursday, February 28, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Journal Therapy for Mary Catherine's 3rd Birthday
On February 9th, three years ago, my third
daughter Mary Catherine Socorro was born in a hospital surrounded by a couple
feet of snow in Western Pennsylvania. This hospital is where my mother gave
birth to me in 1970 and fell into a comma for ten days following. When I was
twenty-three years old, I gave birth to my first born daughter Rachel in this
hospital, then at twenty-six my son Thomas. Julian was born two and a half
years later, and then Leah Rose a year after that. Eliott was born in San Diego
seven years later and in two and a half years more came Mary Catherine. The
women in the maternity ward recognized me, as we had shared these moments when
souls connect in a dimly-lit room while a new person is welcomed into the world. The
time span between my first and last daughters is seventeen years and the women
in the maternity ward and I shared the wrinkles of life in our faces.
Mary Catherine was conceived in
Mexico in our home in the interior of the country in an urban area south of the
capital. At that time we were living a life of trying to achieve residency in
the country for myself and the kids, but to no avail. We had too many Americans
in our family to be an economic dependent of my Mexican husband. However, we
had several burners on in our planning and were opting to find a way to make
everything work out. Hope has a way of blinding a person to the reality and
that hope kept our drive and comfort that our pregnancy was justified, even
with the negative comments. A two week visit to Pennsylvania while 9 weeks
pregnant gave a second lawyer, an expensive, big named lawyer in the heart of
Philadelphia 5 hours’ drive, an opportunity to ask someone directly knowledgeable
in immigration law if the fact that I was sitting there pregnant made a
difference in the outcome of obtaining a visa into America for my husband. The
answer was no. The answer was the same as the previous high-profile lawyer that
I visited in a downtown Pittsburgh high-rise a couple years prior.
Some people say that I do not plan
well. They do not consider all of the plans that I do juggle. Having to live in
two countries without a way to make either life legal and the awareness of the
children’s futures creeping up to an ugly head of reality can take a lot of
planning regardless of the socially-correct aspect of it. I loved him so
deeply, and carried within me the will of the youth of a sassy American, I just
told myself inevitably I will be determined and I will find a way to make It
all work. That is the hope that, like I mentioned, drove me to continue my
wretched torture with a smile.
The entire prenatal care and
pregnancy was carried in Mexico – very modified in comparison to the extensive
medical take-over of a woman’s body that American maternity doctors put into
effect. The prenatal care that I did seek was from a doctor perceived as one of
the better doctors in the city. It consisted of a series of monthly ultrasounds…
no other tests. This was my sixth pregnancy at 40-years old, post cesarean. The
reality of these conditions are something that may label me as negligent in
American terms. I am aware of the attitude that I got when I walked into a
hospital in labor and told them that I received my prenatal care in Mexico when
I gave birth to my son in San Deigo on the border. They called child-protection
on me for it. I was well aware of the perceived indications that I was somehow
not okay to want to spend my sensitive emotional pregnancy with my husband in
Mexico, as we were not given an option to be in America. I am not attempting to
diffuse the responsibility in that statement, but that is something that I
mention as to show the weight on my mind at that time in my life.
There was a Sunday morning that came
along that when I was in my seventh month of pregnancy that we went to Catholic
Mass at one of the several churches that we visited ritually and faithfully
every Sunday. This particular church was built centuries prior and was crumbled
in much of the rock’s exterior with faded paint and birds living within the
deterioration. The garden surrounding gave the sense of a magical mystical
enchanted purity in this historical building that many considered only to be
their weekly revival. I felt at peace there. We were accompanied by my
sister-in-law, her influential husband, and their three sons. Their family was
well-known in all class statuses of people in our area, so we made somewhat of
an entrance everywhere we would go between their notoriety and our Americanism…
so people were generally respectful to us with an air of eagerness to please.
An old woman all wrapped in shawls with a wrinkly face, tough hands, and less
than four foot ten came up to me out of the crowd and held her hands on my
stomach and chanted some words with sincerity in her stare into my eyes… and
walked away. Her blessing, her message, was that my baby was okay. The worry of
my societal obligations was gently handed to God at that moment.
The plan at this point was for me to
fly to Pennsylvania at Thanksgiving. Mary Catherine was due on January 21st
and no one wanted me to wait longer than that like I did with her brother a
couple years prior – as I flew up to the border at the pregnancy’s due date to renew my tourist visa that was to expire the day after the due
date and I could not get an extension. Actually I say my visa was due to
expire, but that also included Julian and Leah who were with me as small
children. Thanksgiving time, and the scheduled departure, came closer and my
belly grew real big with Catherine’s pregnancy. I looked full-term at only
6-months gestation. I had trouble accepting that I had to leave. Our tourist
visas were due to expire in December which left us no other legal option so
that we had to leave the country. We contemplated riding a bus to the border,
or driving our van, to renew my visa and then return to give birth in Mexico.
Again it was not just my own visa that needed renewal but Julian and Leah, as
well as little Eliott who was at that time a couple years old. My father made
it clear with his insisting that we fly to Pennsylvania to give birth and my
husband sided with him for the safety of me and the baby. It was settled.
The day came for me to be at the
airport and I became physically, mentally, and emotionally unable to function.
I could not pack the clothes that would be necessary for Julian, Leah, and
Eliott, and myself in the suitcases. I could not think straight. I was dragging
my feet so much that we were so late to get to the bus-station that took us on
the two hour drive to the city’s international airport. We were involved in a
minor traffic-accident on the way due to the hurried, frantic mode of travel
that we were in. I sat in the passenger seat crying and began to hyperventilate
at the thought of having to leave my husband, my home at heart, my comfort. We
missed the last bus that would have arrived in the city before the scheduled
airline flight. The flight was cancelled.
My father was angry and my older two
kids that were living in Pennsylvania with their father, my first husband, were
planning on meeting us that day at the airport, were terribly sad. It was the
day before Thanksgiving, but we rescheduled for Christmas Eve. I needed more
time to process the tear that I experienced in having to break away from my
husband and my home that we built together. Guilt surrounded my every thought
in not being able to please and provide contentment and consistency to all
those who I loved so dearly and it tore me in half.
Christmas Eve came and by the time I
was focused on staying calm. I had an entire month to stabilize my emotions. I
was now in my ninth month of pregnancy and absolutely huge. I accepted what had
to be accomplished and separated that plan from my emotions, as one would do
when the responsibility overrides the desire. We placed emotional blocks on the
building Christmas spirit that was in every aspect of our lives at that time,
with friends’ invitations to holiday parties that we turned down and decorating
that was not a part of the season for us as a family. We told ourselves that it
was just another day that year… there would be next year.
The next year never came
incidentally as we spent the following two years in immigration law limbo
purgatory while getting that visa secured, and yes my sassy American attitude
did make it work after being subjected to the torture of being a family that
was considered to not be important enough by my country to give relief to, or
protective outreach at best. Yes, I made it happen, without their help, at the
price of my emotional stability and possible future mental trauma for my entire
family. Does it sound exaggerated or dramatic... Maybe… I am accustomed to
expecting less it seems in order to deal. If my words carry an exaggeration
that is nothing more than a typical situation of a woman who cannot accept
proper societal role, than my deepest apologies for writing it out for it to
reach another’s eyes.
I sought medical preparations for my
daughter’s birth. I assumed that the birth may have to take place in my father’s
home due to there not being insurance established. My son was born on the border
and because I was not a resident of California, I was personally billed for the
entire amount, ruining my already ruined credit. His birth also included the
cost for his newborn first days for a week in intensive care. This fact caused
me to aim for a home birth to alleviate any more debt than I already had. The local
association of mid-wives could not handle my pregnancy through because I was
already at 38-weeks and that was an unacceptable part of their procedures,
especially that I was considered high-risk at 40-years, with prior cesarean
birth.
I went to the hospital to ask if
they could be so kind as to help me receive the necessary preparation of
prescribing to me the prescription that eliminates the possible bacterial meningitis
contracted in a natural birth, because my intentions were to just do it alone
at the house. The hospital then connected me with a program to aide in pregnant
mothers living in poverty. At that time I was put into their system and the
multiple testing and ultra-sounds were conducted. I was continually informed
that there were complications, that the baby was very large and I had too much
amniotic fluid, along with the previous cesarean and my age and the abated
prenatal care… they pleaded with me to get an immediate cesarean. I was sent to
a prestigious woman’s hospital in the nearby city of Pittsburgh and was told by
everyone that I needed to deliver right away.
I wished to be out of that society
and back in Mexico with my husband so much. I lived with sadness in my heart.
Back at my father’s house were my children that were pulled out of school to make
this trip. They missed three months of school. We kept up with their studies
with their cuadernos and libros that they brought. We had contacts on the phone
with friends in the school to coordinate what lecciones were covered. The
cyber-school here in Pennsylvania was arranged the first of our arrival, but by
the time that they got it together, it was time for us to go back to Mexico.
I remembered the old woman in the
church with her message that my baby was okay. It was enough for me. I told the
doctors that I was in control of my body and I would not be prey to their
influences. I assured them that I knew my baby was okay and would be delivering
her when she was ready to come.
She finally decided to come at two
weeks post-partum at 42-weeks gestation on February 9th.
She was ten pounds of God’s
blessing.
I was able to be with my family, all
of my children were with me. My oldest two children lived beside the hospital
and walked through the two-feet of snow to come visit us while we lay in the
hospital after her birth. My first born daughter Rachel is the Godmother of my
youngest daughter Mary Catherine. We conducted the ceremony at St. Paul’s Catholic
Church a week before we went back to Mexico when Catherine was six-weeks old to
meet her father.
When we arrived in Mexico, my
appendix ruptured a couple days later… but that is another story.
Mary Catherine is three today. She
was born in the 95-percentile for her sie and is now in the lower half of
percentile for her age, varying between five and thirty percentile. She is a
tiny little girl, but chubby. She has above average intelligence and I know
this in comparison with her gifted sister’s same attributes at her age. She has
big blue eyes and strawberry, wispy hair… and she has been on ten international
flights during her lifetime… plus three international flights while in my belly…
She is a blessing to the world.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Home
Where is your home?
Proof in existence is asking yourself where you home is...
A home is important and establishes a safe place.
It can be the focus of a woman in labor as she stares
at that concentration point on the wall...
at that concentration point on the wall...
pushing her child into the world..
while her mind is focused on her home
for clarity of her existence....
for clarity of her existence....
It can be a man that is ready to endeavor
on major surgery to save his health
as he is wheeled on the stretcher,
he focuses on his home
for confidence that he has a
reason to live.
for confidence that he has a
reason to live.
Marriages blossom within a home, forming families...
and routines...
and routines...
... even broken marriages hang on to each other
for the love of their home that they share...
Children find their base in life in their home...
visiting their parents when they become adults,
at their childhood home at Christmas-time.
A home can be pretty important, no matter what is considered
to be a home...
even if their only home be within the arms of their beloved.
A home is where you desire to be,
where you find comfort.
Presently, there are thousands of families that have been
displaced...
from their homes...
from their loved ones...
from their lives...
And it is all on the USA Government's shoulders
in their meetings
dressed in suits
talking statistics
They say,
get in this imaginary line
with this imaginary solution...
to get your home back,
if you will.
You my dear government officials with all of your
disassociation from the real guilt in the matter,
are going to have to do better than that.
We are organizing
We are going to convince the American public
eventually
and we will...
There is no "you" in America,
but there is an "U.S" in America.
We the People, matter.
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