Monday, March 29, 2010

View from the River Styx

Essay by Kristine Perry

This room is dark and motionless. I lie in the stillness, breathing in the reality of what I was going to face on this day. I was going to hold my baby. I have waited nine long whole months for this day. I struggle to lift my swollen body from this lumpy, comfortless mattress. Every movement is a new ache that empowers my body. Standing in this room I can see minute traces of shadows stirring from the light outside my bedroom window. The smell of dirty socks and strawberry shampoo congests my senses as I step towards my unlit bathroom.

The brown stained linoleum floor in this room is cold and wet. I rub my belly, “soon little one,” I say as I start the water in my shower. The warm feeling from the drops of water on my body is refreshing and motivating. Yet thinking of my baby makes me tremble both with fear and joy. This is my fifth birth yet it feels like my first. The moisture from the steam of the shower fogs the mirror on my medicine cabinet. I wipe away the residue and peer at my glowing, tired features. Time has sure had its toll on me and I am afraid. Can I handle another child, both emotionally and financially? What kind of support will I get from my husband? He failed me so many times before. I can hear him getting the kids up. Soon it will be time to go to the birthing center. With a deep sigh, I press on towards getting dressed and out the door to my delivering destiny. My next stop is a quaint little room on the third floor of San Joaquin hospital.

My family drops me off in front of the automatic doors to the hospital entrance. I stand in the twilight of the morning and wave good bye to my kids as they drive away with my husband. I enter the waiting room where many expecting parents wait—funny how I am all alone. Baby pictures from various ethnic races hang from the textured tan walls and fake, multi-colored wildflowers adorn the lone coffee table. The waiting takes so long that I begin having second thoughts. Maybe I can come back tomorrow; I’m only two weeks overdue. Too late, they’ve called my name.

They lead me to a crisp white room that smells of ammonia and baby oil. New life will begin in this room. Blue checkered curtains suspend from my second story window view and brown, padded chairs sit empty. The sound of a tiny heartbeat echoes through the room from a monitor next to my adjustable hospital bed. Suddenly shadows fall from the ceiling as the room begins to fade into darkness. People rushing around look like flickers of light from a burning candle. Faint voices stir in the background of my diminishing existence. This room full of joy and happiness has turned into a chamber of sorrow and tears. My unborn son suffocating and my blood spilling everywhere—this wasn’t supposed to happen! This is a room where one life was lost and one life was saved. A new life has ended in this room.

Three days after my son is put on life support, I am taken into a big conference room. Everywhere I look there are people in white jackets with name tags holding clipboards. Doctors and nurses hush their conversation about my son when I enter the room. The gloomy look on all their faces tells me what I knew all along. My baby is gone and the damage to his brain is irreversible. Pain shoots through my gut but I know I still have one option left for him. “I want my son to be a donor,” I say with a heavy heart. The silence of the room is broken by the condolences of strangers for my unselfish gift to others. As I leave the room and enter the cool hallway of the hospital, I fall to my knees sobbing uncontrollably; time to say goodbye to my son.

How do I tell my kids? How do I break the news to my family? I cannot contain the anger, fear and sadness long enough to speak. They look at me with solace and know that my news is grim….. I don’t need to speak. My mother escorts me into the neo-natal unit at the hospital were my son lies among the tiny premature babies. He is not like the others. He looks like a giant among the crowd. The nurse gently places him into my arms, wrapped in a soft woolen blanket; his eyes are closed. I rock him for the last time: “I need to let you go now. I am so sorry” I choke as tears roll down my face, “I will see you again, when it is my time, I want you to be the one to meet me there.” I want to remember this moment, I want to stay here forever but I can’t. It’s time for him to go so the nurse takes him from my arms—he is gone.

I sit alone in my pale green hospital room awaiting the news that my son’s organs have been harvested. I feel numb all over my body. My nurse comes to check on the three IV’s attached to my arms and leg. I stare off into oblivion, as the housekeeper spreads water and what smells like pine-sol on the floor. At three in the morning a coordinator from the organ donor association arrives with the news that two little girls will be saved because of my son, two families will hold their children. I am given a consent form to give permission for the hospital to take my son’s organs, mainly his liver and heart; he had a strong heart. I stay up until the early morning hours crying and feeling like I was in a bad dream. The television has been on all night and I turn up the sound when the Channel 29 news comes on. They are covering my story and the death of my son. I watch as a long white limo, carrying my son’s organs, arrives at the airport, where a plane is waiting for his precious commodity. As the tiny plane flies into the distance I cover my head with my thin hospital sheet and go to sleep.

Funerals always seem to bring people together. It’s sad to think that it takes the death of a loved one to make you forget about all the quarrels you’ve had the past year. As I ponder this thought, I walk across the dew covered grass towards the green colored canopy above my son’s grave site. The breeze blows a sweet aroma of pine needles and fresh cut flowers. I can see my son’s tiny white casket that has been filled with many letters and toys alongside his lifeless body. Friends and relatives approach me to offer their sympathy. Today is the day I bury my son, today I breathe in the reality of life and death.

Contributor’s Note: I am involved in a few community programs as well as withCerro Coso College. I am the secretary for the ASCC in Lake Isabella, a tutor, and a peer mentor. I volunteer at the local library and I am a volunteer for the Salvation Army. I am also a full time student and mother. I am also an Ambassador for One Legacy. I write with deep expressions of my emotions and
experiences that have occurred in my life.

Monday, March 22, 2010

When I Die

Poem by Laural Zimmerman

Don’t paint me and lay me out
Like some grotesque waxen doll.
Don’t put me in a box and lower me
In the ground only be dug up
A thousand years from now.

No – wrap me in a blanket
And give my clothing to strangers
Then leave me high in a tree
To feed the ravens and the vultures
Like the Indians used to do.

Or better yet, burn me in a funeral pyre
Pile it higher and higher
Until the flames touch the sky.
Invite my friends to come around
And roast marshmallows.

Then put my ashes in a cardboard box
And carry me to a high mountain lake
Then scatter me in the wind to soar
Among the hawks and jays before drifting down
To fertilize the trees.

Contributor’s Note: I am a perpetual student, although not constantly. I havethree years of Environmental Science, an AA in Child Development, and am presently the Secretary/Treasurer of a family-owned business. I am married and the mother of two grown sons. I presently live in Trona, CA.

Monday, March 15, 2010

The Perfect Family Picture

Poem by Julia Powell

This print hangs on my wall,
A father
A mother
Three girls
Two boys
The perfect family.

The father is wearing a shirt and tie,
—Smiling in this one
The mother is holding the youngest boy
—Focusing on her smile
The two boys are beaming
—Sharing their own special bond
The two oldest girls are sinfully beautiful
—can do no wrong in Daddies eyes
The youngest girl in the corner
—Rarely noticed, is me.

What no sees behind the perfect smiles are.
The oldest daughter will expose her deepest secret
—She’s pregnant
—At 17
—And marrying the father.
The two brothers will go out, get drunk.
—And drive,
—hit a tree.
One will be paralyzed from the waist down
—The other won’t survive.
—Ending their bond forever.

The father will reel from the experience by
—working all the time
—and rarely staying at home.
The mother will seek divine guidance
—from the bottom of a bottle.

The other sister, will not marry,
—Go to college
—Get some degree
—Trust no one.
Not sure what happened to her after that.

The parents will divorce
—after a final blow-up that caused
The father to walk out
—to his mistress
—And not return.

But me, the shy girl in the corner
—try to be perfect
—Be noticed
—Go to therapy
—In hopes of putting my family back together.

So I will gaze at the perfect family picture on the wall
—And never take it down.

Contributor’s Note: My name is Julia Powell and I have been writing ever since I can remember. My friends would always make fun of me because I would rather sit on the sidelines and write.

Monday, March 08, 2010

The Truck Stop

Essay by Kelly Pankey

I was very young when I started to think about leaving home. In fact, I was barely in grade school. I remember waking up late at night while everyone else was asleep, tiptoeing through the dark hallway, and positioning myself backwards on what seemed to me at the time to be an enormous muddy colored couch so that I could look out of our front window. I would pull back the thick gray curtains to expose the empty street outside, and the cold light of the street lamps that gave me no sense of safety. But I wanted that danger. I wanted to be out there in the world; free of the structured, boring, and everyday life I now lived.

I wanted to experience everything for myself. I didn’t want to be told how the world worked. I wanted to experience all that the world had to offer and I wanted to do it by myself.

As life went on and my family moved from one place to another my nightly views changed also. This time my view was from a kitchen window and it was much more interesting. I would still get up for my nightly excursions but instead of an empty, dark street I had a view of half of the lower east side of the city.

There were lights everywhere. I could see the headlights from the cars moving along the freeway. I could see lights from houses, street lamps, and parking lots. But the most distant of all those lights was what caught my eye. It was off by itself. It was a bright orange glow kind of like the glow of a large street lamp in the parking lot of a market. I would stand at that kitchen window and wonder what was out there. Could it be an empty parking lot or maybe a farmer’s market? Was there someone, some shady character standing underneath that light? What was going on out there on the outskirts of town? I wanted to find out.

When I was finally old enough to drive I knew I would find the source of that orange glow. Late one night I left my parents house and headed for that side of town. I drove out of the “good” side of town and across the railroad tracks to the “scary” side of town. It really was scary. There were strange men standing next to the road glaring at me as I passed them by. As I drove with the window open I noticed even the air smelled strange there. It smelled like a busted sewer line.

I made it to the southernmost part of town and found the orange lights at last. But I was disappointed to say the least. It was just an old dilapidated truck stop. The outside was painted white, but the paint had long since faded and peeled away in some places. There was a gas station, but it too looked like it had been there since the early fifties. I left disappointed, but I learned an important lesson that night about life. It just took me another ten years to understand what that was.

When high school was over I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer, so I joined the Navy. I wanted to be free of my parents, free of my friends, and free of that town. I can still remember the day I left. I remember the tears on my mother’s cheeks as she drove me to the recruiter’s office. I remember the soldier who drove me to the bus station. His crisp, clean navy blue uniform with the colored bars decorating his left chest showed a sense of pride and honor in his chosen profession. I wanted that same sense of pride.

After I’d been in a little while I learned what military service was really like. It was hiding in muddy ditches for days at a time waiting for an attack. It was climbing through barbed wire in the pitch black dark. It was wearing thick, sweaty gear and a suffocating mask to keep out the tear gas that the higher ups thought was necessary for training. It was working for three days straight without sleep to repair a busted water main. I remember how tired and muddy I was after that. My job was to take a wheelbarrow full of concrete down into a ditch to cover up the repaired pipe. What I had to do to accomplish this was to kind of take the wheelbarrow with both hands and sort of slide down the side of the ditch with it. When I reached the pipe I would use my feet as breaks and then let go of the wheelbarrow. Needless to say I was quite a mess when I finally finished my job.

Then there was my time in Spain. I learned a lot from that experience about how things really weren’t what they seemed. Spain is a beautiful country if you don’t look too close. When you get down into the alleyways and streets right outside of the American base it isn’t too pretty. That’s where it all happens. That’s where the soldiers get drunk and wander into questionable tattoo parlors. That’s where soldiers cheat on their wives back home with seedy prostitutes. That’s where they pass out in the streets and have to be carried back home. The streets there are filled with dreck and waste.

That’s what I really thought of Spain once I had been there. It was just like that truck stop back home. In fact, my whole experience with the military was just like that truck stop. I’m not saying that I’m not proud of my service, but behind that crisp navy blue uniform with all the shiny medals and ribbons is a filthy camouflage blouse.

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a full time student at Cerro Coso Community College. I mostly like to paint, but I also like to write quite a bit now and then.

Monday, March 01, 2010

Our Barbies

Poem by Laural Zimmerman

Her Barbie
Had hair that was sleek and smooth
Or braided to keep from tangling

My Barbie
Had hair that was knotted and snarled
Or braided to hide the tangles

Her Barbie
Had custom designed clothes
Outfits matching, down to the shoes

My Barbie
Had clothes ripped and torn
Outfits grimy, never any shoes

Her Barbie
Had a house with tables and matching chairs
A hand-knit carpet on the floor

My Barbie
Had a tin can table and wood block chairs
A scribble-paper carpet on the floor

Her Barbie
Drove off with Ken in her convertible
Into a world of European vacations and New Year’s Balls
And raising dogs

My Barbie
Hitched a ride in GI Joe’s Jeep
Into a world of hard hats and steel-toed boots
And raising boys

Her dogs died

My boys left

Her Ken
Drove off in her convertible
With Scooter by his side

My Joe
Kept his old jeep
With me by his side

Contributor’s Note: I am a perpetual student, although not constantly. I have three years of Environmental Science, an AA in Child Development, and am presently the Secretary/Treasurer of a family-owned business. I am married and the mother of two grown sons. I presently live in Trona, CA.