Split Self

Life in two worlds

           Daily moods can interpret the dual life into two extremes. You may find me telling myself how lucky I am, how exotic and different and cultural, and what an opportunity of adventure that has escaped the boredom of monotony. The other hand holds the darkness of the insecurities, the failures that lie within the instability, the loss of control in decision of my own… Regardless, I am Sybil, the multi-personality deemed multi-cultured woman that happened this way from abuse of my freedoms, in spite of my freedoms, to split my entire life into two separate facets, in order to preserve thy self.

            Explaining my life is the difficulty, unless the specific questions are asked. For example, when I am in American I eat American food and when I am in Mexico, almost everything is accompanied with a warm tortilla and salsa. In it this subject can be detailed to the exacts of how the food is gathered, cooked and served or enjoyed – how much time it takes to prepare and what time of the day do meals take place. There are remarkably many differences in all aspects of food and how it is consumed between the two countries, but they both provide the same basic results of sustaining life. You eat and then digest.

             How I feel when I am in the States presently cannot be compared with my life when I was the cultural virgin, for that cherry is gone, along with the entire orchard. Life in the States has now been somewhat reduced, vacuum packed and freezer dried to be given longevity for future use. On the future visa-awarded holiday planned, that life will be thawed, heated, and prepared appropriately, releasing its aroma just as fresh as the day that it was stored… in theory. For now I sit on the internet with internet nets, pretending that I am living in this suspended state of self preservation.

              A bird in a cage at the window, watching life happen without me, afraid to go outside because I am in the town of los gatos and they are ready. Would Picasso find the ability to capture this hell? Who lives like this? Surely I know no one but us, and yet we are expected to carry on our normative societal standards of the community without interruption or alarm, because it hurts their ears to hear it… our fears. Few can understand what it is like to be stalked like prey, to have to run and hide and occasionally stand and fight... while raising children. As imagination can muster, the bravest warrior too becomes tired eventually from the constant flow of adrenalin and one day will expect an end to the battle. That end for me is resolution with immigration and is what webs the entirety of all the time warps into one drink of mixed poisons. When Ricardo is able to live in the USA, we can move away from my stalker ex husband, how much more clearly can that be stated.

               When I am in the States I dream fondly of Mexico… wanting to smell the sweet smells and the cry of sales and blows and whistles outside. I wish to hear the music and the people talking that I barely understand and find it easy to not try to. I find my mind living in Mexico in certain memories often, while in waiting deployment from the States. Maybe it was a drive up the mountain on our way to the park and I can replay it over and over in my head watching my husband’s confident smile from the passenger seat as he drives the children and I on our way to one of the greatest family adventures for the day, the kids laughing in the back of the van, the music on the radio, the windows down and the culture blowing in from the streets… I relive scenes of our life, of our time together, over and over and sometimes I feel as though I am actually there and not here. My mind can dwell for days in my home in Mexico, organizing my home décor, washing my clothes and folding Ricardo’s shirts and pants. I remember the broom, the mop, and the sink, and the smell of the soap and chloro in the buckets as I remove the polvo from our home, while preparing the meal that we will share that evening. Ricardo goes to work early and I kiss him with an I love you as I lock the door behind him and open that door when he knocks in the early afternoon. He bursts in like sunshine with a huge smile and arms out for the kids to jump in, every day. He hands me something, if it be roses or sunflowers, or a bag of sugar-cane, or warm tortillas… I am there with him in my mind, living in those memories. Every day that I am in the USA, I am in Mexico with my husband in my surroundings of my decorated home, living as it should be as a couple in love, equipped with the Snow-White song, and blue birds flying and squirrels jumping to partake in the fantasy.

          The door to the bird cage is left open next to the window, and instead of being devoured by the cats; I book a flight to Mexico. Naturally my whole self is engulfed with hormones of excitement to be soon reunited with him, my love, my prince of charmings, my husband and mate for the remaining days of our lives… the right arm returned, the parent to share in the accomplished growth in the shared perception of pride of the children. Off to Mexico we go as we pack our suitcases full of hopes of the best memory investments yet to come and all of the sudden I feel right again. The flow of blood returns to the corpse and would be the best time to ask me if I will organize your garage, basement and attic in just a couple days time as if I could harness the energy I could give electricity to a city. I am living again! I will soon be retuned to beautiful and undress from the costume that I wear while in the USA posing as the tired beat down woman in the robe with sunken eyes and greying hair in a bun – and metamorphism replaces her with the real me, the energetic, sexy, life loving me, the me that is supposed to be.

           AND then I have to say good-bye to my kids when I straddle the border and guilt finds itself another wrinkle to reside in. Although the anticipation does not fade, the responsibility and pressures grow, not overshadowing my need to be with my husband, but flexing my maternal instincts to repair the split life, condition and trim the ends – strive for a visa and hope for a home and a new beginning with a strong direction into contentment… in other words, to be normal.

           Mexico life is something that I have mastered, assimilated, culturally adjusted to... I cross the border and I exhale. Expectations have become normative standards; it becomes life and not a concept or postcard… with appreciation for more than the image. Never assuming that I am a Mexican, but holding my own self and where I come from with pride, I am the American in a strange land, with rosy colored shades. That comfort did not come without scars, without bumps and bruises, without a question to my ability to accept diversity in human existence. Left in the past like the innocence of youth are the emotional closures of loosing my own perfected customs of lifestyle. I am no longer a star status American in our town, but just another face that people recognize and are able to greet with questions about my personal life updates, and not to bother charging me more than they should at the stores and street vendors.

            Every minute is magnified in its appreciation when you know that there is not much time, and that is how we live now when we are in Mexico as opposed to before when it was assimilation. We are timed like mice in a maze, an experiment by the mad, to how well our hearts can uphold our sanity and our endurance for our marriage and parenthood. It is a sick experiment that surely the results go unrecognized. Conditioner is applied and the split becomes bearable… Ricardo grabs up my hand while we are walking down the sidewalk and in comparison, my own strong hand is dominated by yet a stronger hand, that of my husband…

            I love my days, my minutes, and my moments when I am with him in his country. I am beautiful in the mirror and in my being. Smiles and laughter and excitement rein the children and the television is suddenly not a staple in the day. We pile into the minivan and go – wherever, it never matters, because we are together, laughing and feeling life in our bodies. There is happiness in our marital bliss and our romantic passionate quarrels, we talk without talking, and we feel without touching, we know that we are a combined pair at those moments… not the solo sock that looks great but is useless without the other.

          Of course though, without a doubt, my children who are waiting in America for our return are in my mind all day, bumping off of my other thoughts that are circling around in my head, causing contradiction with the happiness because we are so far apart. Never has there been an ease in that, never a day that goes by without it, always the broken chain that could be really awesome if repaired.

          And then we have to say good-bye to Mexico and go back to the USA. Our residential timeline is a rollercoaster… we are living the life of split cultures, two residences, two homes, two places that are completely different in nature and attributes that are within the same life – Sybil, the dual-multi-split and then only to repress what is normal.
http://youtu.be/-Ko9nGrGtAY

Thank you government bodies for the opportunity to be a phenomenon, it’s hot.

t i m e

           Today’s mail consisted of two letters.

    The kitchen was cleaned and dishes washed from this evening’s dinner of split-pea and ham soup that I made from the ham bone from our Easter ham two days ago, and I swiped up the letters off the table while my hands were still damp.

    My eyes focused on the addressee of the first letter from the Church:

                          “Mr. & Mrs. Ricardo Magana”

…and I let out a little whimper, a bitter-sweet emotional release…

     This was a new one for me, to see our marriage in official title name form like that.

It was a hope of a future as a family in the United States.

I smiled with a tear…

Stupid and silly, but nonetheless, it was precious at least, in this worn out life.

     Second letter was addressed from the hospital; I figured an unpaid bill from my recent visit…

Out fell a single ultra-sound photo of our late pregnancy, nothing more…

With no explanation or paper of description as to why it was mailed to me.

Appreciation of the little things  

Getting ready to call my husband as I do every night about this time – maybe I will tell him about it.

Painted photographs

     I noticed 13-year old Julian, my son, was with facial expressions that were new to his demeanor… not emotional differences or attitude, no… it was simple expressions, like the way that he held his chin with his thumb and forefinger or a certain way that he smiled – it was his father’s traits.

    Last night we were talking and I noticed it again, something hit me and I asked “Is there something secret that I should know about? Have you spent time with him?”

Mind you it has been like eight years…

     He stared right dead on at me and stuck his arm out with his cell phone in his hand. I said, “What is this about?” He told me to read it… so we sat together on the couch from 11pm to 1am and read through all of the text messages and discussed them…

     What was there to discuss really, I mean it is a text… things like “I spent all afternoon fixing up your room” caught my eye of course. Like is that room for when you go live with him after he kills me or what exactly is the plan here?

     I have had to relive and repeat this story so many times today on the phone to the cops and abuse hotlines and God how many times in the past… to make it simple lets go over highlighted areas only:

    First thing comes to mind, I really could kick myself now for not taking up the offer when the shelter wanted to move the three of us and change our identity. They gave me a week to decide. I chose to stay and fight… noble but really not the best plan in the long run, obviously, because here I am again, 8 years later.

    Vengeance does not die until someone is dead, and yep I am still alive, the winner, the hated, the faulted, the walking investment of threats and thoughts of evil projections of strangling my neck or holding me against a moving tire or whatever form of torture suits him… perhaps that reoccurring dream that I have had for years would please him most… the one that I am in a parking lot and he comes walking over and shoots me. I have felt the bullets while sleeping through that dream many, many times… so I guess it is just a matter of time until it happens, till it becomes reality.

    Drama you say? Wish. It could not be that simple of course. He has stalked me for years. I guess I should have had a red flag when we were kids of 10 years and he pushed me down and jumped on me kissing me with me screaming underneath and a crowd of his friends and my friends standing around us. What was thought to be the boy next door crush turned out to be a sleeping with the enemy lifetime saga.

Owned.

Property.

    Living in Mexico was a blessing in that I was for the first time, not looking in my rear-view mirror to see if he was following me. I knew I was safe there, ironically… He would never go there or never find us, the ‘stupid bitch’ that he is.

    That is exactly what Ricardo called him once over the phone which promoted a chain reaction of death threats, car stealing, apartment stake out, police reports, overnight moving, and pulling the kids out of the school without saying goodbye – a suggestion from the abuse shelter to protect the other children and teachers – and being thrown into a new school under such precarious conditions as the “new children” with the secret issues… drama, sick of it.

    Our “case” was nothing short of a spotlight from a helicopter on a brawl in a crowd. There were at least half a dozen organizations with their hands rubbing all over the kids’ and my emotional break down, our fear, our panic.

     I can still remember every second of every luxurious moment. While living in the shelter I actually pushed a dresser in front of the door because I felt he would surely come busting in the door and kill us eventually. Our lives were on cameras at the ends of every hall, every parking lot, and meeting room… there were always 24 hour guards and gates, and questions and concerns and counseling a few times a week – all for over a year.

    I will never forget the little room I sat in across from the toughest personality of the 5 or so ladies that worked at the shelter. She was not tender and loving and comforting like the others. She was not trying to make friendly connections like a few of them did. She did not give out ego boosts or encouragement as I had received from all of the other ladies but her… then it was her and I who were to fill out the restraint order petition. I was a mess as I had to relive and describe at least a few abusive incidences that we could use to put on this paper for proof. So I used the time he threw me across the room in the chair that I was sitting in with Julian watching. I was calmly telling him that it was probably best that the kids and I leave to Pennsylvania because of his drug issues were causing us to be in an unsafe environment. He had recently locked the kids outside while I was visiting my grandfather in the hospital which incidentally died that day, because he was smoking crack with one of his hoochy mamas in the bathroom.

   This woman, this tough lady counselor, looked at me with all of my teary faced slobber going on, all broken and deranged, and she said “Do you have any idea what is normal anymore? Do you realize that you have no identity of your own? Do you know that the different things that you tell us are not how life is supposed to be?” I understood, but I was also feeling as though she did not know that I survived. Then she said, “You know what? The other girls and I were talking about you today and we see girls come in here all beat up with broken bones and all kinds of situations every day. You are the worst case we have seen in three years, we all agreed. You are a true blue abuse case.” I cried. I cried hard. Her words ring in my ears often.

   Three years prior to my stay at the shelter there was a story that was told of a woman who had children that the father killed on Christmas even because of court ordered visitation rights. He wrote her a letter from jail afterwards that told her that every time she would look in the mirror that she was to know that it was her fault that the babies were dead. It happened in the same city. I processed this as the case we were compared to.

    We didn’t take the change in identities because I was reluctant to give up WHO I WAS…Raquel, ‘the me’ side of me…

   There is a bit of irony in that in hindsight as I sit among my suitcase-dressers while my kids sleep on the floor next to me and my husband is in another country. What did I trade for our freedom and that possible new start? This?

    Yes, that is what I did because I wanted to be near my kids one day. And here we are tangled up in an immigration comedy skit with the brunt of the joke aimed directly at the kids and I – hardy har-har, how fucking hilarious!

     It was very important for the half a dozen government organizations to jump in and rescue us from dog breath and secure our safety at all costs, even offering to relocate us, wow. But now that I am married to my loving non abusive good parent Mexican, well fuck us right? Basically that is what it amounts to.

    All of the sudden the kids’ safety is not so important. So their education, health and whatever else the imagination can tack on there have been sacrificed – who the fuck cares.

    The government apparently only protects from psychotic American assholes when it comes to the American children… once the line has been crossed and their step father is not allowed to come to the beloved USA to protect them from the American asshole, lets just say it is “better for everyone if we just go live in Mexico” Right? Is this not the basic intention for our lives and for our safety?

    I am getting off track glory be, back to the present day and focus. I find out then that while I was on one of my “husband visits” with the babies for a month in Mexico, Julian established an ongoing “secret love affair” with this long lost turd of a man. Now I have to put my immigration issues aside and save my son, and the rest of us, from futher ruin.
   I told Ricardo last night on the phone about this new extra problem that we now face. Instantly he asked to speak to Julian. They talked for thrity minutes with Julian's tear streaming down his cheeks and many one word answers as Ricardo was speaking very fast on the other end. When the phone was handed back to me, Ricardo said a few things to me about how he felt. He is Julian's father. Ricardo has been Julian's father for most of his life and has done so with the best of parenting skills as a father. Now he is there and we are here and Julian is confused and we have a stalker and there is nothing, absolutely nothing that I can do about it all but "WAIT" some more, pretty LAME of my government with it's many "jump in to fix things up" organizations. WHERE are you all now?
   He has actually been picking him up and taking him places while he is out on his paper route... messaging him, and disregarding the restrait order or loss of parental rights. I do believe this constitutes a mini-kidnapping. Would I want a stranger taking my child places without me knowing about it? Certainly not. But what about a man who has threatened our lives and who has blood given influence over curiousity of my children who are stuck in this shitty immigration world of loss with the silver tongue of false promises.
All in the name of winning his loss back - the man he used to be... the God.

   I tell him, do you realize how much I would welcome some help in parenting? I mean do a reality check here. I would benefit greatly if I had more help. Buy the kids some things, take them on vacations and get them out of the house, great! As a matter of fact, this summer I would like to go see my husband in Mexico, but the kids don’t want to go and quite frankly I don’t have all that money for 5 tickets. If they had another parent to stay with would not that be the perfect set up for me?

   I do not take that “option” because it is not an option.

I will not sacrifice my children. He is a psychotic on paper, a soul owner and an identity thief. They will cease to exist as themselves once he gets to weasel in because they will become his puppets and they will be lost. No way

   The room he is building for my son apparently is for after he kills me, which has been promised on several occasions.

   This threat coming from a man who has been involved in 3 murders that he has told me about in drug or alcohol induced moments… a man who had to have his tendons sewn back together up his forearm which is scared like a cat-post. This is a man who has between three to ten arrest records in 6 or 7 different states each on the eastern coast…

   He is going to figure it out soon. I am either going to die, or be in for a huge ride, or another overnight move or something… I am so numb that I cannot even find the energy to imagine it, I don’t want to tonight.

    I just want my life back and my husband here and enough is enough already. I may consider moving back to Florida while we wait out the next however many YEARS till the waiver shit is finished. So fed up with all of this STUPIDITY you cannot even imagine!

Well if he kills me, it’s been real. Please make sure Ricardo gets his kids back.

Saturday, Three/Seventeen

Good-bye for now...

I waited to see your lifeless body…

for four days following the visit to the hospital.

Your life began on a Sunday night

out of passion two became one.

You were confused and you were on your own

and mommy could not show you the way,

A part of you went the wrong direction

And I’m really sorry that I could not change that.

We loved you - your father and I and all of your brothers and sisters,

and one day we will be together again

souls reunited,

and you can find comfort with your mommy again.

Saturday morning…

Pain woke me up... now holding my breath and rocking, hurts... I am picturing the scene from the ‘Blue Lagoon’ when she is alone in the woods giving birth, screaming “RICHARD”, only it’d be in Spanish of course and switched to Ricardo. The pain is very intense, alone, not knowing...

Not sure what to expect right now. Is this labor, and it all just happens at once? Should I get a bucket or something? Or is this just the beginning of a drawn out painful period? Oh God it hurts like hell. If he were here he would be making me hot tea. His look would be comforting and strong. I would hide inside his arms up against his chest and cry, nice and safe and warm.

Is this that private of a moment that I should be alone? I am confused. I guess logically, it is nothing more than a really bad day on my part. That is if it is only a day. I am hoping a few hours tops because in a few hours everyone will be awake, then what? The kids will want breakfast.

Its slightly worse than cramps, close to a contraction. It is in my stomach and stretching around like a belt into my lower back. Yes same but different. It is coming and going…

I chose to do this instead of the DNC, they did offer. I am not one who likes intervention. I rarely take aspirin for pain, etc. My past 5 out of 6 births were without any intervention. I like to do it myself and no one messing with me. If it were up to me, which I guess it always has been I would have had all of them at home… there is some kind of illusion that we are not to do that though.

Even still I wish Ricardo was with me right now. I don’t know what we would get out of this memory or anything like that, but as far as how I feel right now, I need him.

I figured the DNC sounded damaging, scarring, all of that… the word scraping and “we’ll go in” turned me off right away. I told them I would just wait to have things take care of themselves.

I was not told what to expect and I did not think to ask. I will say that surprisingly it is turning into a round of contractions with breaks in between, and they are getting worse. The first one woke me out of a deep sleep. Yup - having one right now it is building up and intense and the same, a contraction – helps to rock. Okay over… lasted about a minute, two in between….

Okay had enough, I’m waking up my 12 year old daughter. I cannot do this alone. It is way too overboard on the physical pain level…

Sunday morning…

That was around 8am… it first started at 6am.

I continued this labor of contractions lasting a minute with roughly 2 or 3 minutes break in between. Each contraction would start small and tighten and build up strength to a peak in intensity, then hold there for a bit, then die back down… I did this for 7 hours drifting off to sleep between these contractions, with my 13 yr old son Julian checking on me. I remained in the bed staring at a photo of Ricardo and I with our arms around each other standing in front of a volcano in Puebla Mexico, and fell asleep for a few hours bringing my day into the afternoon and I got out of bed for the first time about 3pm. Awaking somewhat refreshed and decided to take a bath, as I had passed a lot of blood… also thinking it would make me feel better.

It is no surprise. When it is bath-time for mommy, Catherine usually jumps in… then Eliott will come in to the bathroom to check out what is going on, get a smirk, and strip down and jump in too - throwing the pile of toys in before his own body. Accustomed to the crowd during my own bath, I have learned to let go of the ideal of that relaxing bath moment. This bath was no surprise for that reason. Bath-time with mommy did not escape the “birth” of my labor’s efforts throughout the morning. I had my privacy this time, and in that private moment I met the handful of what my growing baby once was… a little mango-sized pod that held a sleeping baby inside.

I put her in one of my pair less socks, and buried him under the chestnut tree with flowers planted on top.

That was the end of our romantic conception on January eighth followed by my flight at Christmas to Mexico. That was the end of the name choices and the small effort to gather up maternity shirts as I sold what I had previous in my front yard and out of my van in Mexico for extra money two years ago. That was the end of the October Halloween baby that we welcomed with a smile.

She will always be loved by her mom and papa. We will never forget him…

My husband was told over the phone about my experience after the fact. He said sorry, I love you.

I need him for closure. I physically need him to emotionally move on.

But for now, until then, a temporary wall will be there.

I am getting to be quite the wall builder.

Primary Diagnosis: Fetal demise

“Primary Diagnosis: Fetal demise”… I chose this title for this blog

The previous title consideration: “God Bless my Lil Mexico Souvenir”

The decision  for the ending result title is pretty logical as it seems scientifically cold and calm and comparable to how I feel today regarding the state of my health that has been determined by the ER at the local hospital.

The definition of demise is of course: the death of somebody, the end of something that used to exist, to die… especially when it is slowly and predictably.

Slowly and predictably… that is the hook that reels in the rest of my life with this loss, presumably compounding my scientifically assumed emotional and hormonal pain of loss. It contributes to that ideal image that today I would be hating baby commercials, burning the list of names I had picked out, and rearranging the maternity section of the closet… saying good-bye to someone that “should” have been in our lives soon.

The delivery of 5 of my 6 children took place in this same hospital, average time from coming in the door to baby in arms being three hours, however with a range from 45 minutes to 5 ½ hours. I was there for seven hours, only to receive the verdict in the last thirty minutes of my stay of a diagnosis that of being fetal demise, from a man who made his first introduction to me at that same moment in the ER… there was no emotional attachment in my visit. Walking out of the electric doors at 12:30 am was quite different than being wheeled from a room with a baby in my arms and a balloon tied to the armrest. First words that came out of my mouth when I hit that night air on the walk to the car was “well that sucked” – yes I was talking to myself.  

Three full episodes of Law and Order, two front to back magazines, and a psychological evaluation of the family that was parading around the waiting room (that I seriously feel escaped from a mental institution or a local commune) – entertaining to say the least – led to my annoyance of the visit. I was hungry, tired, concerned how my mother was handling the kids at bed time, and a little worried that my usual night-time call to Ricardo in my absence was going to cause him to worry. The IV needle in the nook of my arm was hurting, and the air conditioning above was blowing as if it were a southern state of 100 degrees outdoors, which is so far from reality as this is freezing Pennsylvania. So I pulled my fists into my sweater sleeves, and adjusted myself in my seat a dozen times… there was nothing “baby” about this visit so far.

The rest of the visit was spent as a patient. I was taken to a room off of the ER where the nurse laid out the gown… and she was fumbling a bit, so I said “you need me to strip down right?” She smiled, “Exactly.” So that was cold. I left my knee high socks on and pulled my sweater back on. I was like a little granny all hunched up watching the votes come in on the Republican debate. After thirty minutes I was transported to the Ultra-sound via stretcher.

She pulled up the sides of my wheelie-bed with my purse beside me and my smock dress wrapped tightly around my legs and even tucked in a bit. There is something about riding through the halls of a hospital that is unnerving anyway, but when you’re wearing a flimsy smock with no undergarments, it intensifies that modesty like a bad dream. Plus it was cold.

All of the sudden I had this amazing flashback… the last time I was in a stretcher moving through the hallways. The guy was slamming into every corner, reaping havoc on my pain level, and Ricardo my husband who was beside me walking, was calling him a “pinche balboso” as he wheeled me to the surgery room from the ER in Mexico. I smiled at that memory of my husband’s determination of protection of his princess. It was comforting. I broke the silence with the woman pushing me and shared this memory with her. She changed her position from the back over to the side of the stretcher while she steered me through, ending the conversation close to our destination with how she was worried about her daughter’s planned endeavor to travel to Mexico with a MS medical condition. I told her, not all aspects of the medical care in Mexico are as horrible as the experience I had in the hospital. I expressed how on a scale of attention as far as daily life with the involvement of the local doctor and the kids’ frequent illnesses and injuries, it was rather advanced in that the care was quick and cheap, and it was in my opinion black and white.

I recognized the ultra-sound man as he introduced himself, and he said, "Yea, I’ve been here too long,” and he recognized me too, to which I responded, “Yea I have a lot of kids.” Kind of funny… I am not a professional, but by this point I can see the sonar screen and pretty much know what is going on. He started to place little crosshair cursors on lateral sides with an adjoining measurement line on a black circle. Aware that a normal part of a sonogram is first the measurement of the head, I thought okay that is the baby’s head… but he was moving the “mouse” around on my jelled up stomach to such degrees that I knew, that wasn’t the baby’s head, but it was my womb, an empty black circle. He measured a little attached piece sticking out of the side that was not black but was the only material object, somewhat grey-colored on the screen, like a little “nub”. He was quiet, taking multiple views and photos; I watched for a while, then rested my head back and stopped watching because I knew. There weren’t any feet or hands or arms or a face, nothing like a baby. I said, “There isn’t a baby in there is there?” He said “yes, but it is early in the pregnancy, I am detecting a baby’s pole.” I got a little a flutter of hope, and said “What is a pole?” And he said, “You know, the one end to the other of the embryo.” So I tried to show my experience with this sort of thing… “I am 11.2 weeks. I had a sonogram with my son at 13 weeks in which I could see him as a baby moving around with his arms and legs and face and even that he was a boy… this is not an early pregnancy.” He was only allowed to say so much because he was not the doctor. I told him though, “I read about this when the baby stops growing but the body continues to produce pregnancy hormones and women do not know.” I Google my self-prognosis for everything that happens to me or the kids prior to doctor’s appointments so that I have an idea of what is going on. The body will continue the pregnancy and the baby will have stopped growing due to chromosomal abnormalities. It all started to make sense to me at that moment. That is why I have felt less morning sickness, I am not showing as much as I should be, and most of all, despite that there is no scientific reasoning for the last and most important sign… I felt empty and unconnected with the “baby” that was in me. From a woman-with-many-children’s perspective, I knew there was something missing. Quite possibly that edge that pregnancy puts a woman at… that door between life and death, where a soul is exchanged to be placed inside your own body that brings your senses to a point of sometimes heightened discernment of life’s fragility… is exactly what I am referring to. We continued with the ultra-sound…

I sat for an hour on my stretcher following the ultra-sound, only wheeled back down to the ER. My room was taken because it was a busy night for them, so I was parked up against the wall. I was right in the middle of all the action, so I just watched and listened… “so this is what a normal life is like” – the conversations were normal – normal life things that happen to people that I have not experienced in years now… Two people were talking about a car that the other was selling and upon ending his shift with his coat on gave a wave and said “Facebook-message me and we’ll talk more about it.” Wow – reality smack in the face.

I have Facebook messages that are regarding loss… loss of rights, loss of husband’s presence or ability to be with me and our children, just loss…

This hospital staff, bustling around my stretcher as if I were an invisible part of the scenery, caused me to feel like I was watching a candid camera film that was to show a person such as myself “this is what real life looks life.” I am sure that this is being overly sensitive. But I am incarcerated within my own mind because of the immigration jailers. I have been given an indefinite sentence of guilt for loving a man from Mexico and forming a family with him. I am never going to be able to break free to join the rest of society, or so it seems, until my husband is “awarded” a begged for visa… as if that constitutes begging.

I try to think of the good things, like the fact that I have cried every day of my pregnancy here in PA without my husband in Mexico. I have been so emotional and nuts over everything. At least that would subside without my pregnancy continuing… I mean just as soon as my HCG hormone levels reduce to normal levels. At least now I can be stronger as a person in the many efforts that it will take in the near future to resume the paperwork where we left off on the sponsorship. At least our next family time/visit with Ricardo in Mexico will not have to be revolved around the pregnancy or regard any type of prenatal care issues, or due dates. We are now without timeline pressures that a pregnancy can put on our already powerfully complicated situation.

Ricardo is very logical. He is my counter-balance because I am dramatic, and he reminds me of this quite often and says that our daughter is the same. He is my rock and my best friend, and I am extremely lucky to have him and I love him so much.

His first reaction to my call was “why do you call me now and not before” because I call him every night and it was very late. His voice was groggy like I just woke him up… I said “I was at the hospital Ricardo the baby is gone” Immediately he was at full attention. I think he thought Catherine because I call her the baby – I said “I am not pregnant anymore. The baby did not grow.” I was being lighthearted towards our conversation because he deals with enough depression of our absence as it is, and I know he has this huge protective need for being here with us. I did not want to make it sound like I was losing it or anything, so I was somewhat as upbeat as possible. I finished with “you okay?” He said it was natural and he was fine… just like I expected.

So that is what happened last night. I was secretly hoping that the ultra sound would reveal this little kicking baby in there with a strong heartbeat proving that my spotting was just a fluke… I even prayed in the little room to please protect me and the baby. I felt completely engulfed in Him for a few seconds as he laid his protection on me. I know that is why I am okay right now, emotionally. I just have to proceed with the miscarriage as of right now not showing any signs, yes, no cramps nor blood… I look for it to begin in the next week or something… I am a little afraid about what to expect.

It was not God’s decision for my baby to not develop. The baby stopped growing around 6 weeks and its sac had a measurement of 8 weeks, but my HCG levels are high like a normal pregnancy. It was nature taking its course. Sometimes biology is real and that is a part of life. God does however protect the soul from pain when you ask for it. That is how I have been surviving.

The Wager

     For those who do not understand the truth behind my desire to succeed in our marriage being complete in the USA and instead of being rather adventurous and tearing into life in the heart of Mexico, side by side riding off into the sunset as the happy couple, let me explain just a small minute aspect of why and maybe the reality of why this part of my story is not talked much about by me.

      This above all is certainly not about the fact that Julian and Leah are not Hispanic however I took them into Mexico to learn close to nothing throughout their elementary education years… oh, except that of their comparison to America and what they knew to be missing was huge. That in fact is not meant to knock the Mexican school system, but as a foreigner with no ability to speak to the educational staff in their own language… there is no hope of the PTA assimilation on my part as a mother of two small children who too did not know the language. Their big advantage that was noted by the school system, was that the school gave my kids somewhat of a gifted status, because eventually over time they were both completely bilingual, mother tongue of two languages, dreaming in each - self taught. Forget math and history… who has need for that when the basic opportunity to get a great job knowing English somewhat causes the educational staff to overlook what your child is lacking – especially when they, as opposed to the forty-five other students in the humid overcrowded and under equipped classroom, were not native. No, despite Julian and Leah’s education with a certain possibility of never receiving proper status to live in this Mexican country, and possibly not finishing the 12 years of regular free education in the USA due to lack of money and lack of the comparable social security number (CURP) that is given to residents; yes, the futures of my kids, although dramatic in the dynamics of, are not enough to necessitate the need for the waiver. We could still go back to live in Mexico despite these odds and hope for the best.

        Upon examination of my first marriage, that came of it my children Rachel and Thomas, it seems as though it is a basic divorce situation. Two people looking to be married just to be married and a total lack of respect and love within the attitudes of both of us towards the other. Not uncommon at all in society. Personality wise, I was brought up to make an adventure out of life where he was brought up to control the dreams and funnel them into a small container that he kept in his back pocket. Trusting his wishes for my signature due to supposed technicalities of insurance purposes, I signed my life away a month after separation to him, my house, everything in it, and our children… of course figuring that it was not as serious as the paper read, but that surely he would never just cut me out… papers were only for insurance purposes… Nope! That was the end of my motherhood. Why? - Because I was abusive, on drugs, or drunk? No. Was I a whore or deemed crazy? No. I was not any of these things. I was a mother with a very good job who took her daughter to the library once a week and cuddled at naptime on the couch while the 99^th time of Fox and the Hound was playing on the TV. I was a mother that got up to nurse her baby son that she delivered at 9.3 pounds after forty-five minutes labor, every hour during the night in a rocking chair and then went to work at five in the morning. I was that mother who stock piled food and bathroom supplies so much that he did not even have to buy soap a full year and a half after I was gone. I was also a mom who took the kids with me initially and he ended up with them by means of a simple signature. A man who drank his way through the first two years of our relationship enough to require cold buckets of water to be thrown on him to no avail. The man that I drove to work every day for the first 4 years of our relationship because his license was revoked was suddenly the boss and I was without any claims all because of a signature. Still, in my pursuit for an annulment from the Church, I will be claiming full responsibilty because of my personal misunderstanding of the meaning of marriage before I made the commitment in a Catholic sense. In other words, I took the vow without being seriously commited for life. I did it only for my year old daughter. I hold the blame for my own decision to start something that I could not finish, but not the blame for the entirety of our relationship... I gave it all and it was just too much take, in my mind.

    Now this is still not the issue of why I feel the need to explain my waiver desires, as if that needed some type of explanation, but I will proceed regardless to finish the point.

     This has nothing to do with who was right or wrong or big or strong, it is simply an explanation of my emotional state following my loss of my children due to ignorance both on my part for taking a signature so lightly and his part for not acknowledging my importance as a mother in their lives. Ignorance very simply put can destroy people. My visitations were limited to exactly twenty-four hours every two weeks. It was his desire to drop them off at six on Friday evening, and for me to have them back by six on Saturday evening. For years I worked as a substitute mail-carrier, even though I worked six days a week, I was without benefits of the full time. For the first few years of this arrangement I had to basically find a babysitter. I usually had a lot of trouble lining someone up to take their Saturday and donate it to this project. After some time passed, I became a full time mail-carrier and had Saturdays off. He lined up the total Saturday afternoon to be filled with a 3-4 hour day at the soccer fields. Now I was glad that they were in soccer, but that was supposed to be our time… control issues… and he never ever gave me any time extra – even when begged for.

    When they were still pretty small, I would pull up to the house to drop them off, and the kids and I would just hold each other out front of the house in the car. My son was a toddler and my daughter was a bit older…She was five, then six, then seven…. I missed it all! Once when she was around five, we sat there crying talking about how we would think about each other till next time in two weeks, and he came out to the car really mad, and grabbed her out, taunting me “waa waa waa you big baby” “aaawwhhhh I feel so bad for you booo hooo loser” My daughter was there. That is the kind of relationship I had to endure with him if I was to have my small slice of their lives, all verbal abuse. I have never been able to see a report card or school project, nothing. My gifts that I bought for them were quickly removed from their sight. I was not allowed to be a mom. Not to mention the undeserved public humiliation with that wonderful two and a half newspaper article, describing his fatherhood being perfect with no mention that they had a mother… he gloated, “ya like that?” As if it was a game. He stole my children from me. I was suicidal for years following.

     My second husband was abusive and we moved far away when they were nine and six years old, yet another blow to my children. Our relationship remained strong over the phone, which they were old enough to do this now. Before when we lived in the same town, I would call very often but he would never let me talk, "They're busy."- Click.... and they never knew the difference… but as they aged, they became wise to the little things like phone calls. We visited once or twice a year. Then I was put into the abuse shelter and the system and was not supposed to leave until the court case was completed. I found great opportunity in my new job… then I met Ricardo.

      I consistently bugged Ricardo, my new found love, to move to Pennsylvania with me. I needed to go back. The kids were getting older and it was my opportunity to try to get more visits. Now that I was away from the abuse with two years of counseling to strengthen me, I wanted my relationship with my kids back. Ricardo made me strong and content with life. I dreamed of the fairy tale. He didn’t appreciate that pressure when he missed his own family so much. He left for Mexico assuming that I was dead set on going to Pennsylvania with or without him, because that is what I told him. Pressure tactics are not always the best option.

    I can remember as if it were yesterday, the call I made to the kids from Florida. They thought I was coming back to Pennsylvania, finally… I said, “I am going to Mexico, I need to know what it is like there at least to tell the baby where his father came from,” as I was newly found pregnant. “I promise I will not stay. I promise. I will be back. I just want to know what to tell the baby about his father.” I was figuring Ricardo would come back with me. I was figuring he would satisfy his need for his family as he missed them so much that he broke down crying upon reuniting with them (our mutual friend who took him told me later). It was how things would work out in my imagination. We would come back together. I had no idea that there was even such a thing as papers to apply for. So naïve I was. I figured it was a simple basic formality that could be worked out somewhat like any application for anything that we do here in America. Nope. I left everything I owned behind, drove off in my loaded mini-van for a three day drive to the center of Mexico, pregnant with two kids in the back - knowing under ten words of Spanish.

     Over the years with the traveling back and forth on tourist visas because our attempt to get our permanent residency status there became impossible, we of course spent time during many of those transitions in Pennsylvania with my kids. Every time I would see them they were taller, or had braces, or boobs, or casts or stories… growing up between visits and changing naturally like the way the landscape does when left unmanaged. One day they are little babies and the next they are pulling up in a car. Sadly, I was only physically part of that change in small amounts, all visits. The entirety of my relationship with my two first born revolved around this visit and next visit.

      This is where it starts to sound familiar to my marriage to Ricardo and all that we have been able to offer our growing babies: this visit and next visit.
      So you see, my need is not to appease the crowd, or to conform to what the bandwagon is doing, or to avoid simply giving in to supposed natural causes of marriage to a Mexican and label myself tough girl for surviving the adventure. Nope. I am in need of a waiver for my husband to live in Pennsylvania with me, simply because I am very tired. I am very tired of visits. I am very tired of having to say goodbye and having my heart ripped out.

       I only wish that I could somehow describe listening to my daughter sob so much that she lost her breath in my father’s car on the way to the airport at four in the morning a few years ago. We got in line with all of our bags and we had to snap out of it so that we could go our separate ways….

...Just like we did when we she was five… my son the brave smiling soul teared up as he handed Eliott over to me after carrying him to the gate, and away we go....

      A part of life to watch your babies fly from the nest is naturally painful for a mother. Soon they are out of their father’s control and can make their own decisions in life.
     This is only where my turn begins.

     That is, provided I pursue the waiver to be here…

      You see, this is more than an unwillingness to let go of aged children, it is exhaling after a long time coming.

       It is more than a not so simple process of a waiver so that 'Ricardo the Mexican,' my beloved husband, can come to live in Pennsylvania with his waiting family. Maybe to Ricardo and maybe to the kids it is; but for me it is untying the concrete block from my leg and swimming to the top of the water and getting my life back after all of these years.

If you cannot understand that, be glad. Do not try to connect with this.

Could this be it?

        Father Murphy was really not as threatening as the nervous tensions told me to be... those voices in my mind that caused me to picture being struck down as a disappointment to society with my past divorce. No he was kind and real to us, as a true friend would be.

     Leah came along as they had a half day of school, anything to get out of the house for her… but I was glad she came. Leah and Father Murphy click really well and he introduced her to a bunch of different ideas for her to be involved with in the Church, such as the youth group. I could see in her eyes that her wheels were turning …”fun” was what she was thinking coming from the “I’m bored” eleven year old attitude… “friends” that are in the neighborhood that are in her youth group’s age – girls that she knows from school and are already friends with.

Finally – a smidgen of normalcy!

When it starts to happen, the normalcy, after years of raising children out of suitcases… I don’t know I am slightly overwhelmed right now. Wow.

I introduced the two of us and expressed that I was not really sure where to start… that there was probably no other family around town with our situation… and that my family needs so much help right now.

There was absolutely no formal approach, I had no proof, copies, papers, photos, nothing that would be required in all of the other aspects of our marriage up till this point

 – including his I-130 & the prep for the hardship waiver – “PROVE” to us you are REAL…

The traveling to be with each other with our children between countries, they say, “now SHOW us your passports and why were you in Mexico”… to which we always respond, “just being a family.”

Walking through life without as much as an ounce of trust coming from anyone that we are just a real life family so simply, I guess that I have become accustomed to the proof part of who we really are. I went to the Church without any form of proof. I refused to make yet one more aspect of my life an instant business deal. This was about the responsibility that I have to make sure that my family is not living under this huge horrible weight that has been placed on us, regardless of the fault or circumstance...

– we are beyond that “figuring it out how we got here stage” and we are in the “we need to save ourselves right now” stage. We were simply asking to be rescued.

Right away he started jotting down information like my kids’ names, which led to past marriages, which lead to our marriage, which led to a few explanations that are not bragging material to a priest. His expression did not change; he did not snarl or let out any breath of disapproval… he just kept talking and asking questions… trying to make sense of my complicated situation with multiple factors… without judgment – as it should be.

Obvious that I love my husband, and without asking for proof of that, Father Murphy said to me, “Bring all of the papers in that I will need to take over to the lawyer and I will sponsor you. If the diocese has some type of reservation, because they have rules about different things, I know people that will do it.”     

     He wondered about hospitalization - which gave me the opportunity to explain the sponsorship step of the immigration process. Due to the lack of immigration reform, the immigration process presently does not reflect on the US Welfare System’s reform of its benefits policy being unable to be accessed by a non-citizen of the USA, potentially cancelling itself out. I gave him the hypothetical situation where if Ricardo were to be here and find himself hurt enough to require medical attention and say we were not insured, the hospital would not call upon government assistant in the case of a non US citizen however would bill the total cost of the visit directly to Ricardo and I at our address. The sponsorship has no exchange of money. It was basically set up to cover any money that the government lost in paying for the immigrant.

He asked what work I have right now or have had and I let him know that I was a full time student in my second year at an online university to be a preschool teacher with a 4.0 grade average, and  of my past work experience as a mail-carrier for 7 years and my job in the work comp claims business.

Then he asked me “What does he do for a living?” I clumsily described Ricardo’s job as a delivery driver for the many ice cream stores in our Mexican state of Morelos of the big buckets of ice cream products used to make the ice cream… followed by “he’ s a really great driver” because he really is exceptional. He said without hesitation that he can get a job easily with someone that he knows as a driver for an asphalt company, just the technicalities of getting his license.

He asked where we were planning on living, and asked if I realize that homes are really expensive. I said I am not looking for a luxury home, we would be happy simply having stability in an apartment. I then said, “I realize there are many technicalities to life, like him getting the correct license and us finding a home, but when our life gets to the point where we are facing these questions, that is when we know that we are experiencing some type of normal life, and that is all we want is to be a normal family.”

He asked me, “Why did it take you so long to come here?”  I told him that we do not have a car and we do not make it to Church in the city to St Paul’s so we heard that St Fidelis is Roman Catholic and my sister in San Diego had a baby so my parents left us my mom’s car to use and because we were so happy to have transportation we went to church on Sunday and then on Wednesday too because it was Ash Wednesday and there was a song that they played and it was about Jesus but for me it was about my husband and it was page 216 and it made me realize that I just needed to be brave and ask the Church to help us… He got the picture.

I want to believe that he is going to take us under his wing I guess…. HUGE project for anyone…

Of course when you are this bruised, even the best news is too scary to believe.

Maybe we will finally get our opportunity though. Maybe I can focus on one sure plan instead of juggling 4 or 5 possible plans each with detrimental outcomes.

Thank God!