12:41 p.m. - Feb. 25, 2002
The Invisible Girl
If there is one prevailing thought or feeling that has carried over from my youth, it is that of being invisible. Sometimes, in moments of cool enlightenment, I accept this as a great gift, and celebrate it. How wonderful to pass, undetected, through the chatter of chaos - to cross the enemy lines, to uncover hidden secrets. Yes, sometimes, being invisible is a great blessing, indeed. Yet, in other times - times of vulnerability, times of insecurity and self-questioning, I suffer this as my own personal curse.
Memories flood my brain, like currents in a tumultuous sea. Returning to my youth, the forgotten child returns, quiet in her aloneness. Does she scream up at the heavens, demanding an answer? Does she rage against the injustice of knowing? No - she pulls her legs close to her chest, and buries her face into her knees, in repose of retreat and surrender. She knows already, at such an early age, that none of it really matters. She knows of her sensitive gift. Instinctively, already, she knows that those that need to know will hear.
Still, in these moments of ego, she falters into the realm of misunderstanding and questions, even if only briefly, the reason for this cursed gift.
These are the feelings that return to me now, brought back to this vulnerable, childlike time of wanting, of wanting simply to be seen. Why now? Why now, at this golden and magical age of 33 - at this time of great awakening? Why do these insecure feelings swell, once again, in my (momentarily) broken heart? Because, simply, I suffered my mother�s unknowing, unseeing torture once again. For a moment in time, the child returned and allowed herself the torture.
It was the birth of my sister�s fourth child, her fourth boy. Saturday night. I was on my way out the door, going to join my friends on a downtown adventure of barhopping and exploring the new, improved downtown Houston. As I was walking out the door, the phone rang. I was compelled to run back inside and answer it. It was my mother. She and Tami were at Methodist hospital and Tami was in labor. Tami didn�t want everyone there, but she did want me to be there. I made a quick phone call to Philly and rushed to my sister�s side. After many hours of non-event, Tami finally progressed to READY around 1AM. Then, her labor became strained and she was noticeably in pain. Mom stood by Tami�s side, offering her a hand for comfort. Tami pushed Mom away, once again, similar to the birth of her previous child, Nicholas. That time, like this time, I waited, just outside Tami�s bubble of pain, until my instincts took over and I jumped into the unsolicited role of coach. She didn�t push me away. I breathed and pushed and strained, right along with her. I held her legs, to support her pushing. I placed my hand on her shoulder, to settle her and comfort her as much as I could. I took some of her pain, and I replaced it with some of my strength.
After 3 or 4 pushes, the baby crowned. I could see her beautiful baby�s head, making its entrance into this world. Excitedly, I cheered her on. She was almost done. When the doctor held Noah up, he was beautiful and healthy. They placed him in the warmer next to Tami�s bed and everyone rushed to see this new addition to our family. I stayed at my sister�s side. Her work wasn�t done yet. There�s always that thankless job of delivering the afterbirth. More contractions. More pain. Then, she rested. She lay there shaking, uncontrollably. I didn�t remember (until my Poppy reminded me) that I shook like this after Nico was born. The doctor assured her that it was perfectly normal and that he would get her some medication to help with the pain. Karl (Tami�s husband) kept telling her to stop shaking (as if she had control over this). I placed my hand on her, once again, and noticed the shaking subsided somewhat. Tami wanted pictures of this moment. She told Mom to grab the camera. When Mom grabbed the camera and directed the lens in our direction, she asked me to �move back� (in other words, out of the picture). So, this one tiny moment, this one tiny act, brought it all back for me.
Flash of seeing my mother�s handcrafted family album, of all the pages she had decorated with family events over the years, of events that I had been a part of � yet, no pictures of me. Where was I? Forgotten? Misplaced? Was she embarrassed of me? Did I somehow cease to exist? And now, here, in this beautiful moment, I was again being pushed out of the picture. I quietly stepped out of the way. I went to Noah�s side, to look over the little angel that has just come to us.
And�the pendulum swings. This is where my next entry begins � with the beautiful secret that I will forever hold in my heart.
