Frozen Alaska

I may not be with my wife or daughter, and I may not be earning enough to support us right now, but hey! I can still blog, so let's get to it.

I didn't bring my camera this time around, because I thought it would be too snowy and dark to be useful, and besides, I took like 1500 photos this summer. How many photos of the Chugach and Talkeetna can a guy take?

Well, I forgot about the snow, and the increasing presence of the moon as night itself lengthens, and about the long orange dawns and purple evenings in this slightly moist air. Suffice it to say, I've seen enough full-moon-rising-over-the-snowy-mountains-made-pink-by-sunset scenes to recognize my failure. Alas...of course, the moon and the mountains aren't going anywhere soon, so it's just a matter of whether I'm on had at some later point with a camera to show an image or to the rest of you. But suffice it to say, even in the mid-to-low 30s, or cooler, Alaska's beauty is undiminished.

The survey season in Alaska is, for all intents and purposes, over. As I write this, I'm in an 85-foot boat, the Dream Catcher, steaming back southwest through the Inlet coming from an ADCP (acoustic doppler current profiler) survey near Nikiski, for another tidal energy project--this one potentially to power one of the oil platforms. We dashed out between spates of bad weather, surveyed as long as we could, and are now heading back to dock, as the winds rise and hopefully before they reach gale force. But little jobs like this are very much the exception, and will soon cease altogether in the inlet, as ice will become a much bigger problem than it is now (and the Nikiski area can be entirely iced over during an especially cold winter).

So far, the weather in Palmer and elsewhere has surprised me for its mildness. I'm hearing that, like the summer, this winter onset season has been very warm. Many days it was over 40 when we in the TerraSond house would go to work at 8 AM. Only on three or perhaps four days was there any frost. My insulated bomber jacket and sometimes a wool cap are all I've needed to stay comfortable.

And the shortness of the days is pretty amazing to me. I haven't found myself thirsting for sunlight--though, of course, daylight will keep shrinking until late December, down to about 3 hours--so much as enjoying the dark mornings, and the closeness and solitude they bring to starting the day. (It's also a nice feeling, getting up even at 7:30 and still having the impression that I'm up extremely early and being highly productive.) Darkness is like a soft snowfall or a steady rain outside, a kind of comforter wrapped around the building and covering the windows, cutting off me and the others inside from everything beyond our view. And I love that feeling.

A few weekend mornings, when I go to the gym at 8 instead of to work, when I head to the coffee shop at 9:30 or so, the sun's just starting to rise over the Chugach to the southeast, and the stillness is like pre-dawn of a Sunday morning in the country. I'm awed by the stillness. It brings stillness to me, and at times like now, that's a great thing.

But a few things have really surprised me. First, the dust. I'd heard that Palmer especially, in a flat river valley between the Chugach mountains to the southeast and the the Talkeetna to the north, is subject to very high winds through the pass, coming from the Alaskan interior to the northeast. One day last week, before motoring down to Homer, I was treated to my first glimpse of Palmer in winter's grip. It was below freezing, and the wind was strong enough to push me as I walked. I went to the post office and the sky looked slightly brown, and smelled dry, almost as if something were burning. I turned around to the south and saw this slight orange-brown haze, everywhere. Smoke, I wondered, or dust?

It's dust. I've studied glaciers, and I know that they generate, among other things, a fine powder called rock flour, by abrading bedrock as they travel. Alaska has many glaciers, and has had many more in colder times past, and when the wind grows intense, it picks the dust up and blows it around. When the dust hits the the ground again we call it loess, and in some parts of the state it's 60m thick (it's almost that thick in parts of New England too, though we don't have glaciers any more--the loess is several thousand years old). I'd never seen this aspect of a glacial, or periglacial (to be picky) environment before.

It's like I was in Egypt! The brown dust rises above the height of the mountains, fills the entire valley, and hangs in the air for days. It colors the sun ever so slightly, and you can practically feel it on your eyeballs and face. I've always wanted to go to Egypt, and I hope to work there someday, but for now, this is a decent pre-taste of what it's like with billions of tiny pieces of sediment in the air.

We're heading back to Homer now, a small fishing city on the southwestern tip of the Kenai Peninsula, which is southwest of Anchorage and one of Alaska's most popular hunting and fishing areas. As we drove down Route 1 toward the city, the area's similarity to rural populated Maine was overpowering. A narrow paved road curved through the hills and valleys. Spruce, often showing the effects of high wind, surrounded us, and we passed the occasional town center but more often, isolated homes, usually looking somewhat ramshackle. One or two newer vehicles might be in the driveway, three or four more dead ones might be scattered around the yard, and nearly every house sported a satellite dish.

Homer itself lies at the base of a gigantic bluff, built by hundreds of thousands of years of glacial activity, at the mouth of Kachemak Bay. Most of the city is on the bluff or at its base, but the marina and restaurants are at the end of a 4-mile-long spit of gravel, sand and mud, which sticks straight out from the coastline into the middle of the Bay. I haven't been able to find any specific writing about it, but that spit just has to be a glacial deposit, whether a lateral or and end moraine, or possibly something else.

But the bay location of Homer itself is stupendous. Pacific ocean to the west, into which the sun sinks at night. Kenai Mountains, now mostly covered with snow, to the south, glowing either white, or pale blue, or pink in the dawn and sunset. Massive bluff, mostly sand and gravel, to the north, dotted with houses and buildings all the way up to its top, many hundreds of feet above the water. The flat water and bordering lowlands, hemmed in by such steep verticals to north and south, is not the kind of place we'd find in New England, or many other places at all. The mountain ridge and bluff give the flat water and adjacent lowland a feeling of security and shelter that it wouldn't have if more exposed on a totally flat coast.

And the eagles! They're all over the place here. Bald eagle here, bald eagle there, bald eagles all over the freaking place. I joked on the drive down that eagles are Alaska's version of seagulls, but that's no joke. They kind of are. They're still beautiful and all, but when there are so many, and you see them picking along the shoreline for things to eat, well, it kind of diminishes their grandeur a bit. They're not as common as seagulls elsewhere, of course, as they're not gregarious birds, but they're also not at all the oh-honey-stop-the-car-there's-an-eagle kind of event, either. They're just around. I've heard the story about how Ben Franklin wanted the US official bird to be the turkey, because it's smart, tough and a survivor (why not the crow? They're all that, and even smarter), and disdained the bald eagle because it's a scavenger. Well, we wound up with the bald eagle, and on the temperate coast of Alaska, they might be considered borderline pests.

Alaska is a great place to be an earth scientist. Geology, biology, ocean and weather are inescapable. Their presence is powerful and immediate (anyone who's greeted a moose while walking outside at night--as I have--can attest to the biology part). I might still be heartsick, but Alaska itself can at least partly assuage the regret.

Pup & Ben, Part 5

Rewinding the clock over a year now, back to the immediate aftermath of our first date...from Wednesday, September 24, 2008, onward. (I need to tell myself the date just so I'm clear on what I'm writing about. It's been a pretty eventful 12+ months since then, and things don't show any sign of slowing down!)

So...let's see if I can recall. (Now don't get too upset, darling little bengal...I have a better memory for the peaks than for the valleys in between, so if I'm forgetting some details that meant much more to you, well...that's just the way it goes. You'll have to correct me some more...)

I have no idea what I did that Wednesday. I'm not sure if I was surveying, or went to campus, or even if I worked that night at Starbucks again. By that time I was satisfied with my Starbucks career: I'd made a little money, gotten plenty of free coffee, and most importantly, nabbed a good-looking woman who'd wandered through. Mission accomplished! Two weeks later I was gone.

But Kate was very much present.

Thursday we planned to meet for lunch. I felt the connection on our first date, and was as certain of it two days later as on the first night. But things were young, of course, so I was still really eager to impress her, and show her only the best things I could find. So my choice for lunch was this little cafe not too far away from Duggin's house, a place called Cafe Luna. Since I was first introduced to it several years ago, I thought of it as the perfect lunch cafe, and even though it was raining lightly and we wouldn't be able to eat outdoors, the food was sure to be just as good as usual.

Only...duty called Kate. Duggin was the reason she was in Rhode Island, after all. And this afternoon, Kate was a little worried about spending a long time away from her home. We met at the library (I think...I know I was at the library before we met...hmm. If our accounts won't have diverged already, they'll start now.) What I do remember is that I met Kate, and she explained why she didn't feel comfortable leaving East Greenwich, and I felt perhaps a touch of anger, but mostly disappointment and resignation. After all, I wanted to treat her to a special place...what to do in EG?

We meandered down to Main Street, and among the other tiny eateries was Ed's Roost, this small storefront with the dark sign, dark paint, and dark interior. Not particularly inviting, it would seem, but I'd been there once and hadn't been disappointed. Besides, the dark interior has the feel of a venerable old cabin, with bare wood stained dark with age. The ceiling is surprisingly high, and for the brown-to-black surroundings, the room feels surprisingly large.

So it was with a lightened heart that I sat down with her, and we kept on chatting as we got ready to order. Don't ask me to recall what we were talking about. Between bits of life story, present-day facts of life, and our peerless banter, we kept on jawing as we got our food. Every now & then I order a Reuben, and I can only recall having one bad one in my life. But usually I default to a burger. I think she got a BLT--Kate likes BLTs--but we were late, just at the end of their day, so we kind of slid in for a last-minute bit of work on the part of the chef before he closed the kitchen. So the place was quiet as we ate and kept on talking, and then on out back into the rain.

I didn't want to let her go, though, so I was casting about for excuses to spend more time with her. I asked where she was headed next, and she answered the supermarket, and invited me along. So we went, and she saw another expression of my coffee addiction: Dave's Market coffee. See, there's this small chain of supermarkets in the East Greenwich-North Kingstown area of Rhode Island, Dave's: reasonably upscale, with the usual supermarket stuff, a smattering of organics and gourmet things to go with (Katie's favorite) the hot food bar (a frequent dinner choice while I'm away, she tells me). And free coffee.

Free coffee! No better or worse than any drip you'd pay $1.99 for, and all you have to do is make a pretense of buying something. My version of the honor system for the free coffee is, of course, buy something, however trivial. As long as I've lived in North Kingstown, a little over four years now, I'd make a point of stopping every day there, just to get something to go with the free coffee. So what if I might wind up with three tubes of toothpaste at home, or two economy packs of toilet paper, or enough cat litter to last six months. The money would be put to some constructive use while I maintained my caffeine fix.

So Kate went to Dave's, and I hit the coffee, conveniently placed right in front of the entrance. (Never mind I'd just had some over lunch, too...it was free, after all!) Content and coming into my caffeine-and-sugar buzz, I strolled along behind Katie as she walked down the aisle, and my eyes slid slowly downward from her head...then I heard her voice.

"Enjoying the view?"

Um.

When a man's busted, there's really nothing for him to say. Some guys might stammer an excuse, a rare few perhaps might actually have a smooth reply, but I for one could only lamely admit guilt.

"Uh, yeah." She turned her amused eyes on mine, and probably made some remark to the effect of, "You're walking two paces behind me, and you don't think I'm perfectly aware of what you're focused on?"

Somewhat chastened (but not much), I came up alongside her and we walked on as she picked up the things she wanted and we left. I felt slightly disappointed, that even though we'd spent some good time together, it still felt cut short, and it'd just been a walk through the rain, a sandwich, and a visit to the supermarket. Big fat huge deal that.

Moderately desperate, I angled to see her Friday as well. We were planning to see each other Saturday, but I didn't want to skip another day too, especially since this afternoon had, at least compared to what I wanted, kind of tanked.

At this point, having seen her again, I was starting to feel a slightly different sort of desperation. I didn't want to let her go (sounds ridiculous since we'd just met, but be honest: the world's a little different when you're falling for someone), and I wanted her to feel the urgency I felt. So I basically begged to meet her after I got off work Friday night, and she not-so-reluctantly agreed.

Around 9 or so I got off work and she was there, so we walked across the parking lot to a little sushi place (as it turns out, a favorite cuisine of both of us), and though she'd already eaten, I prevailed on her to join me for dinner (since I was starving).

This wasn't my first exposure to hot saki--and trust me, it's much better hot--but I gave myself a royal little buzz, as she refused to drink much of anything beyond a polite toast. So I did one foolish thing, knocked the envelope into the little fish pool beside our table. Because, you might recall, I'd forgotten to give her the birthday card to go along with the rose, teddy bear and shells on our first date, her birthday. And I also had those lame little gifts I'd picked up Sunday, the cheap candleholder and whatever else it was I bought, later replaced by the bear. So I gave everything else to her Friday, like a second little birthday.

I don't think she had much sushi, but I was famished so that was fine. But after the meal, she made like she was ready to go back home, and I begged her to take at least a small walk. It was a dark, close night, mist hung in the air. She didn't need much encouragement so we strolled toward the baseball diamond nearby, and up the road that ran along the right-field side. We weren't saying much, and I decided the moment was right to tell her about my premonition on Tuesday night, when we'd both worn black.

I told her the omen, that our both choosing black meant that we'd be together as long as we lived. She didn't react with the alarm or revulsion I'd feared. Rather the opposite, she came closer and we kissed. That was when faith became knowledge, and I knew I'd found the real thing.

Life, motherhood, etc ...

Per nagging from my husband, and begging from other family members for more new posts, here I am! Believe it or not I finally have 2, count them, one, two free hands at the moment, so I'm seizing the rare opportunity to share a piece of my mind as well!

The last 5 weeks have been ... different. That's the best word that comes to mind. Bringing little Eva into the world was an intense, irreplaceable, miraculous process which I must say, Michael summarized beautifully! The only bit I might add, from my prospective, was the actual act of giving birth is humbling and empowering all at the same time! The fact that life can be created by two people coming together, and carried for months while it grows from a few simple cells into a complex human all on its own I find incredibly humbling. And when its you who physically brings that life from the inside out, an overwhelming sense of accomplishment permanently instills itself in you! Its a damn good thing that empowering effect takes place though, otherwise I think all mothers would be lost in the first few weeks of learning to deal with their infant!

Ahh, but truly, motherhood is a wonderful experience and I wouldn't trade a second of it (well ... besides the week Eva and I had thrush, that wasn't so peachy). Now that nursing is a non issue though, Eva has become my little buddy and I even look forward to when she wakes up at night and I get to see her pretty little eyes look up at me and cradle her soft head in my hand as she finds comfort and nourishment in me!

Eva has made it apparent too in the last few weeks, that she enjoys her sleep, much like her mother and we've fallen into a routine now after she nurses around 8am she gets some belly (sleep) time next to me in the big bed! After that we make our way down stairs and doodle around for a couple more hours and then get ourselves together for a stroll around the neighborhood. This past week we've also had a doctor's appointment to go to nearly everyday, but the most exciting outing to date, was meeting Rajon Rondo this afternoon! He even autographed her green baby blanket!!! It's pretty much no contest now, I have the coolest baby in all of Rhode Island! :-P

Most importantly though, Eva and I have made two new friends with mommy Lara and baby Eve who live across the courtyard! Eve is 3 months and cute as a button, having recently discovered her hands, and how to smile! Lara is a bit older than myself but we share a similar personality and seem to see eye to on on a lot of issues! The 4 of us went on our first walk together yesterday which turned into a 3 hour long visit! Now it's a bit more difficult to get out the door these days, but we're definitely making the effort to be out and about ... and succeeding most days ... even if it is just to the see the doctor and to the grocery store!

Although life without Mike is far from ideal, we're managing somehow. Life is only perfect though, when morning means coffee grinds fill my nose before I open my eyes, and guitar music ping-pangs its way up the stairs and tickles my ears ... when afternoons are filled with a comforting silence while contemplating over form of literature ... and when evenings are filled with laughter and senseless banter. His presence brings a brilliance to life that cannot be matched or substituted, and despite keeping busy, I miss him dearly every moment of the day!

And yeah sure, so I've got Greg, and Caine, and Pickles ... and soon enough, Rondo, Ray, and Pierce again ... but simply put, ain't no man compares to you Pup! ;-)

Choices

Back in Alaska now, nearing the end of my second week back. I developed a routine duing the summer, and with winter closing in, it's easy to hold to: work 8-5, roll on down to Wasilla, chat with Kate via webcam, hit the gym (getting back into swimming, and it feels goooooood), drive back to the house, have dinner, read for a few hours, and go to sleep. It's a simple routine, and with winter coming on quickly here, easy to keep. Daylight's down to slightly less than eight hours, and though dawn and dusk are lengthy and there's light enough to see by for a while on either side, the sun's not in the sky for long. Today it rose sometime around 10 AM, and set rather before 6. Despite the unseasonably hot weather--41 F this morning!--the shortening days and stiff winds, carrying clouds of dust from the mountains, give the land a stark cast. Lowering gray clouds swathed the mountaintops this morning and dusted them with snow.

Katie and Eva are still in Rhode Island, of course, and Eva is growing like we hoped she would, gaining weight and length and awareness of the people and things around her. Katie gets to see her dawning intelligence and expressiveness, though most often those still amount to burps and spit-ups. I saw one facial fit I might call a smile before I left, though it was unclear what she might be smiling at, and it was gone as quickly as it came. That's one of the many amazing things about newborns: all their muscles, including their mouth and face, are in nearly constant motion. Their legs and arms pump, they arch and twist their back, the face assumes one strange mask after another as the muscles move with apparent randomness. A look of concentrated misery might melt into a lax, open-mouthed doze. Eva might furrow her brows, and assume a look something like her mother's intense anxiety, but then her face relaxes and her tongue slips out. When the kid is yours, this kaleidoscope of motion is an endless fascination.

Newborns are really quite serious creatures. They don't joke around. They're tiny, get cold easily, they have small reserves of food, water and oxygen, and their needs are immediate. Their eyes are almost always closed for the first few weeks. An infant's means of communicating are crying and thrashing. It takes a little time to build up to it--she'll start out with a splutter and a murmur, followed by a brief cry or two, before working up to full volume. The whole process takes a minute or two, and unless she were warming some milk from the fridge, Katie would never let Eva get that far.

Katie's care of Eva has been both loving and hard work. The feeding alone is a tough learning process. Like pregnancy and birth itself, breastfeeding, for being natural, can be difficult, painful, and full of unexpected problems. A mammary gland duct might become plugged. The teat might begin to leak at surprising times (the things have Pavlovian ways). The mother and baby might pass an infection back and forth to each other, which makes the breastfeeding even more painful. The baby's latching on is often awkward and startling. And this is just what I've seen, or been told about!

But I've left that world behind for the time being, and I've come to the frozen coast (or near it, anyway). And a frightening reality has become obvious: with the reduced (i.e. no survey season overtime) hours, and my two-months-on, one-month-off pattern, Katie and I are making a little less than half of what we need to survive. We're out of backup resources and now, failing some kind of silver bullet, will need to make some very harrowing choices. Such as, do we default on a credit card and the car loan? We'll do without cable TV, but the phone is important for work, and the internet is our major means of communication...and despite all this, we're still running behind on the mortgage. Extended stretches of unemployment over the last two years have brought me, and now us, to this point.

She and I discussed it this afternoon, as I sat at the cafe. I didn't care who else might have been listening in--I'm not ashamed of our life. I'm proud of it. I don't pretend not to have difficulties when I really do. Kate and I thrashed through some of the immediate problems we face and, without making any immediate choices, prepared ourselves for a seige of sorts as we try to navigate financial trouble and at least keep our home. We discussed the possibility of bankruptcy, but the laws have been so rewritten to favor the creditors in recent years that I don't think it will help much--a few isolated defaults would be better than a permanent mark. And yes, I write this partly as a way of steeling myself for the coming decisions, and their aftermath.

It's a comfort just to be able to see her face even as we discuss things like that, which have no immediate solution. And of course there are good things in each of our days, and some banter. And toward the end of our talk, we'll exchange "I love you" once or twice, without other things to say. And though it's a comfort to say and hear it, the ice-cold, unsentimental part of me is impassive as those words whistle by like a chill breeze. They're a thin reminder of, a plea for, the rest of the relationship.

A friend of mine once told me a very interesting idea: love consists only of your actions toward another person. There is nothing else. I do think there's a lot of truth in that, but the desire, the will, the genuine pleasure in performing those actions, is no less a part. The emotion without action would be like the holy spirit without a vessel, or scripture without a reader. On the other hand, there's the thought of Paul: actions without love are themselves empty. A vessel with no liquid, an idle mind learning nothing. Both are indispensible. The vessel and the spirit need each other.

But so far apart, we have almost no means of doing anything. Katie's cleverness at throwing me a small birthday party, while she was in Rhode Island and I in Alaska, nearly made me cry. I went to my favorite cafe--Pandemonium, of course--and idly called her as I arrived. She then telephoned the cafe before I ordered my coffee, told them it was my birthday, and presto, I had a song and free dessert to go along with the gifts she'd mailed.

Something extraordinary like that doesn't happen every day, and usually, she and I have nothing but words to share. I won't say that damages, or drains our relationship. It's testing our endurance, right now, but how relationships grow and change, some parts withering and other parts taking fresh flower, is far deeper and more complex. I'm not worried about us, at all, with respect to being apart, or facing severe financial hardship. We'll live, and we'll have fun. But the words "I love you", repeated somberly or anxiously, are more like the cut than the bandage.

One of my favorite bands is Dire Straits, and one of my favorite lyrics comes from their song "Why Worry":

But baby
Just when this world seems mean and cold
Our love comes shining red and gold
And all the rest is by the way.

The plinkety-plink of the guitar--any Mark Knopfler fans out there know what I mean--is itself kind of plaintive. But like the intro to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, through the minor chords and dangling notes, strong, vibrant emotion animates the whole. More delicately in the Dire Straits tune, but very much like.

I think of when I saw Katie, desperate with pain and frustration, sobbing and sometimes snarling as she tried to feed Eva. Or I think of the nursery, with its colorful marine theme, mostly her work, and all the thought and hope she put into completing it. And after we finished, she spent every evening for nearly a week sitting in the rocking chair, participating in the atmosphere. As I think of how she'll put similar thought and and hope into the Christmas decorations before long. It's these unselfconscious moments, some loud, some quiet--some in pain, some peaceful--that make me feel the amazement and gratitude for her presence.

Next to recollections like that, hearing a saddened "I love you" almost like a toll paid for the conversation. Those three words aren't needed, and repeated too often, can obscure what we mean. Better even to joke, such as to imitate our favorite cartoon Metalocalypse (about a world-famous numbnut death metal band, Dethklok). Something along the lines of, "Ugh, I hope you fall off the balcony and break your neck, whatever." We've done that on a number of occasions, and when it came to a contest of each of us trying to gross the other out more, I can say that my wife has quite an, um, sanguine imagination. Yup, safe to say that.

Of course, there's a new show, and new games to play...our new favorite show, Kung Fu. Yes, a nearly 40-year-old show, that we've just discovered (thanks to Quentin Tarantino, Kill Bill and David Carradine). And though Kate might chafe at my posting this, I do believe that Dr. Gregory House has been replaced in her heart by one Kwang Chai Caine...though I'm not so sure about Pickles the drummer. So now we've got an array of grasshopper jokes.

And the jokes can be better at recalling the unselfconscious ease of a loving relationship, and the nourishing warmth it provides.

For, as the blind monk would say, the same ray of sunlight both strikes the eye of the fish, and is also scattered off the water in a thousand gleams...

Birth from the Father's Perspective

Been quite some time since either of us have managed an entry, and with good reason. Our family of two is now three...everybody, please welcome Eva Jean Laurie! Kate's been working hard for the past nine-plus months, carrying the little bean, taking obsessive care of herself.

At times her anxiety would rise to levels that made her cry, however softly: she wanted so desperately to have a healthy baby, and was more conscious day by day that she was part steward, part bystander in this process where a new life weaves itself a human form and emerges.

Now we have the beautiful baby...a quiet, occasionally squidgy little girl named Eva, one who loves to sleep right on a person's chest (though she seems to prefer Kate to me so far). Without getting ahead of myself--I'm going to tell this story beginning from back in Alaska, when the birth was still in the pleasant haze of the future. But I'll share a few of my strongest impressions of the baby right now, before I begin. First, is how immediate the parental connection is. Eva came out--I was right there in the delivery room, and did better than my own joking predictions that I'd be out cold--and was the pink, shriveled prune that most babies are, and she started crying right away. And so did Kate and I. There was nothing different about Eva from virtually any other child ever born, but Katie and I both know her for ours, and that made every trait, every sound, every motion of first importance to us.

Second, now that we're home, is how much I love the sound even of the little baby's occasionally labored breathing. Babies are developing quickly, so I'm learning, and their body systems are still adjusting to being in the air, on top of being tiny and barely functional. So she often coughs and wheezes, and squirms quite a bit, and every detail of her activity endears her to me. This isn't a doting thing. It's an immediate connection, one I don't even feel with Kate because she's an adult like me, already proven she can survive for a few decades and create her own life. But it's not all protective, either...think of a human kitten. They're frail and helpless, but adorable and beautiful too. That's a baby.

Third, kind of part of the second, but a bit more particular: how happy and relieved I am when I hear her start to scramble and squall and complain at night. Every cry is preceded by a few seconds' gasping warm-up, sort of like those old-fashioned sirens which had to wind up and down before and after an alarm. And that warm-up is my first signal, after any silence, that she's doing just fine. Phantoms exist. In the high-technology, populated world, there are phantoms whose presence and power we don't deny, because we hear about them constantly in the news, and hope desperately that we'll not be visited. Cancer. Abduction. Poverty. Their effects in our minds aren't unlike old-world superstitions of the devil, and the corresponding anxious vigils we mount. And in Kate's and my case right now, the spectre of SIDS sits in the back of our minds, barely stirring, but large and malevolent. So we follow the one rule we've been taught to rely on: position the baby on its back. (Now, of course, there's the answering syndrome: Infant Flat-Head Syndrome. So word has become, position the infant, somehow, on its side...to be followed, I'd guess, by something like Infant Dislocated Shoulder Syndrome.) Anyhow, I'm rambling. Of course we fear for the survival of this little ray of sunshine in our lives, and every sign she gives us that she's ornery and strong is water to minds parched by fear.

Last, something I've touched on already, is just how EJ ramps up for a good cry. It's a whole-body process. It begins either with the eyes clenching and mouth starting to open, or with the fists clenching and starting to shake. Then the arms and legs together begin to tremble, as little Eva's whole body convulses--slowly and mildly, but there's no other word for a full-body spasm--before the trouble re-expresses itself in the face, where here eyes clench more and she begins to splutter. After a few squeaks, half-coughs and spits, a brief cry bursts out of her. A few more splutters and she's ready for full-volume production. Needless to say, thus far Kate's responding well before Eva reaches the high alarm, but on those occasions when she makes it, it's still enchanting...not to mention a relief when she settles back down.

Anyway, I need to dial this post back two weeks and two days from now, to Monday, September 7, Labor Day and the last day of the rootin' tootinest, biggest, most flabulous fair in all of Alaska...the Alaska State Fair, ten days, right there in Palmer. I missed the demolition derby, and spent most of the holiday weekend in Anchorage, either at the library or the bookstore. Monday evening Kate and I were chatting via webcam again, when she mentioned that her sister Cori, who was pregnant and due only slightly earlier than Kate herself, had begun having contractions. Cori is notorious in the family for the efficiency and ease of her (now, four! And all at home) deliveries. Implication was heavy in the air.

Not having much of a coherent emotional response, I filed it under, "Another sign that we're getting close."

Next morning, I was at work, at 9:15 AM (1:15 EDT...the four-hour difference is manageable but awkward at times), when I got a text: "1 cm dilated".

I went into a bit of a dither. Was she talking about her sister Cori or herself?

I went quickly outside and called, for clarification. "No, silly, Cori delivered last night. She always goes quickly," Katie answered on the phone. "It's me."

I didn't know anything more than the next guy about delivery, so this "dilated" stuff, sure, I could gather the meaning, but what did "1 cm" imply? She's ready to go? She's still a month off? She's in pain already and cursing my name between breaths?

"The doctor says that I could go in a few days, or a few weeks."

Oh good. That cleared things up.

So we started talking about a new plan: maybe I come home sooner, so as to be more sure I wouldn't miss the birth, and we'd take the time afterward as it came. Seemed good to both of us so I arranged in the office for the time off and the flight: out of Anchorage, potentially after a full day of work, Saturday night shortly after midnight, through Seattle and Cleveland and into Providence at 5:30 PM Sunday. I love red-eyes. Very manly (i.e. somewhat self-destructive) way to travel. So that was that.

Until Wednesday, when I got another call, that Katie's urine test that morning had shown elevated protein levels. I couldn't tell anybody what this might mean, except that the fact that it was news, probably made it bad. (Sherlock has nothing on me. I read all his books and everything.)

So that morning I learned about eclampsia, the very dangerous state where kidneys and liver don't properly remove waste from the blood. It's potentially fatal to both mother and baby, so doctors keep a sharp lookout for it. The onset is called pre-eclampsia, and it manifests through protein-rich urine and high blood pressure.

Suddenly, Katie's pregnancy was in some trouble. Not tremendous trouble: her blood pressure was still normal to low (the nurses wondered if she were an athlete--that's my bengal!), and EJ was late in term, so even an immediate C-section wouldn't require emergency incubation. She was viable already. But Katie faced the possibility of (a) a pregnancy wrecked by a sudden condition (very small), or (b) being denied the satisfaction of delivering naturally, after carrying for nearly ten months (quite a bit more likely). And it bears mentioning that there is at least some crow to be served among three competitive sisters who like showing the others how tough and capable they are.

So on numerous levels, from the deadly serious to the slightly comic, Katie suddenly had a mental cliff in front of her. It was one of my most impotent moments as a husband, hearing the concentrated fear in her voice and being able to do nothing. Not only was I thousands of miles away, but I was ignorant. And then Kate showed me what she's made of. She handled the whole situation with real intelligence, learning from the midwives and doctors what was likely to happen, and the fact that her pregnancy was not at serious risk, and hearing the likeliest courses of action. But I know my little bengal, and to abuse the image a bit, most everybody else sees the stripes, green eyes and fangs, but I feel the midnight trembles. I knew she needed company.

That was not the first time her mother came to the rescue, and drove down Thursday night to keep Katie company through Friday and Saturday's appointments and tests, and the loud countdown to whatever might follow. I already had my tickets--and was upset at myself for picking Saturday, when it turned out Friday was a perfect field day and we were done 24 hours sooner than I'd expected--so I was just waiting too. As the plan stood, Kate would have her test results by Saturday night, Eastern time, and she'd know then if the doctors wanted to bring her in on Sunday to induce her. So I faced the prospect of being picked up at the airport by my bride and mother-in-law, and being whisked off without so much as a face washing or cup of coffee to the hospital, where Kate would get down to business. The scenario had an element of romance.

Late-night airport trips have a whiff, to my grandiose and occasionally mundane imagination, of the heroic. The night is impenetrable, full of mystery. He's up late, well after hours, sacrificing a night's rest to put two whole days together, sparing everyone else the tedium of the extra wait. A gallon of his blood for an ounce of their convenience.

Truth is, not so much. I talked to the cabbie for the whole nervous hour from Palmer to Anchorage, and once at the gate, sat there feeling stoned waiting for the plane to arrive. Once it did, I boarded in ill temper with the other haggard folks. There had been a generic announcement of overbooking and volunteers possibly being needed to step off and wait. A scene formed itself in my head: me being randomly selected to wait, and, what with extra books (disallowed by the airline's luggage weight limit) and heavyweight jacket (unable to be fit into the bag) making me sweat like I'd been running, me going off in outrage at the slightly taken-aback ticket agent, who would promptly call guards and have me hauled away to a holding room, with me shouting at the top of my lungs, "My wife is giving BIRTH tomorrow, and you're telling me to wait!?"

Fortunately reality was different. The plane was only half full, and I had a whole row to myself--a whole row in which to learn just how wretched a bed three airline seats make. Suffice it to say, there's neither length, width nor cushion enough to make any position comfortable. I passed the three hours from Anchorage to Seattle in various states of discomfort, with my eyes closed. At about 5 AM local, I found my way to the next gate and waited there. The question: coffee or no coffee? Rally or rest? I opted for rest.

On the next flight, five hours to Cleveland, I managed to sleep fitfully, in my middle seat, for probably a total of three hours on the day. Better than I'd expected leaving Anchorage, at least. The hop from Cleveland to Providence was comparatively quick, with a few catnaps, and some polite conversation with the man next to me, a young Texan heading up to Rhode Island for a conference on wind power. I don't think he'd been expecting to run into such an environmental egghead, though, so he turned the conversation more to the restaurants and casinos he was hoping to visit throughout the week.

That brought me to Providence, and my lovely little bengal, who can flub things endearingly from time to time. Like last February, when I'd driven up from Lafayette, Louisiana (straight shot, 25 hours. A boom-boom...whooooo doo you looo-ooo-ooovvve...boom, boom, boom, a-boom-boom. For you Thorogood fans out there). But her cell phone was dead,and she didn't get any of my text messages from New York, Connecticut or Rhode Island about how close I was getting. I arrived home to nobody but the cat, and had to call her grandmother's when I realized she wasn't here.

This time it was kind of my own doing...the flight from Cleveland had been delayed 20 minutes, so I texted her that fact. We must've made very good time in the air, though, so we landed at the scheduled time, 5:30...only Katie and her mother weren't there. They hadn't even left the condo, apparently. Since she was expecting me at 5:50, she thought that would mean more like six...so, I hung out in the terminal. At least I finally got my espresso, after collecting my luggage. I had only just finished before that familiar Toyota drove up with my dear anxious wife inside.

We didn't take long for a greeting, since we were in the loading zone, after all, and there was a general urgency to the whole situation. And besides...Katie and I never seem to stand on any ceremony. Hellos and goodbyes, except on the phone, which are always awkward and difficult, are very easy with us. I can't look at her without smiling, even if it's the last look I'll get in a while. And when it's the first look I've had in some time, it's just as easy, as if the time in between hadn't passed. That in itself isn't so strange, but the degree to which it's been true for us I've always found a bit amazing. Maybe next time, leaving Eva Jean as well, will be worse. I don't know yet.

So I tossed my stuff in the truck and we headed to Women & Infants'. We checked in, which took some amount of time but it was all a blur to me, pretty much. Up in the pre-natal/post-natal room, nurses were doing all kinds of things to Kate, most of which I forget now but included a lot of vital signs. She'd been given some pre-induction drugs to help ripen the cervix, so we were just waiting now either for contractions to pick up on their own, or to begin with the IV drug in the morning.

Since we were just sitting around, the ladies gave me permission to run home, shower, change into something less smelly and more comfortable, have a bite to eat, and not least at all, say hello to the cat. I did that, and wound up wearing something only a five-year-old boy could love: my comfortable fleece pants, bright red, white and blue plaid; my Porsche racing T-shirt; and sneakers. That's prime Saturday morning comfort wear there. Not the kind of thing you might put on to cut an elegant dash anywhere. Suffice it to say, I didn't really resemble an adult (aside from the slightly graying hair and facial stubble, that is).

Back at the hospital, it was a fairly tough night. That I could sleep at all in the fold-out chair alongside Kate's bed was testament to how exhausted I was, as I learned a week later. Kate herself was having mild contractions, and was upset enough about the entire procedure that her face was a constant mask of worry, annoyance, resignation and fear.

In the morning--and my recollection of these events is somewhat hazy--Katie walked into the delivery room, and hooked up to the IV drip for antibiotics, saline, and pitocin, the inducing drug. But then another doctor, whom we hadn't spoken to yet, showed up and laid out an extensive course of reasoning for why the hospital staff was now considering stopping the inducement. I'd basically fallen asleep in the chair beside Katie. I figured that I was still butt-tired, and when the time came for me to rally, I would. Until then, I snoozed, holding her hand, and she snoozed too. (I'd like to think I relaxed her, but I didn't ask.)

After the doctor, a midwife came in, defended their earlier decision to induce, and probed to see Katie's progress--causing Kate so much pain that tears were sliding down her face as she begged the midwife to stop. "You're far enough along, we should induce. And if that hurt so much, you'll definitely want an epidural."

At this point I could feel the defeat in Katie's demeanor: this had turned into everything she'd hoped it wouldn't, a coldhearted, industrial nightmare. No windows, a parade of unfamiliar faces spouting all kinds of information, and Katie herself merely the inert subject, being talked at and not to. The mother had been separated in the medical staff's minds from the welfare of her own baby. It's safe to say this isn't how the little bengal had spent nine months imagining the birth of her baby daughter would go.

Another nurse--a kindhearted and somewhat impulsive woman, who spoke her heart--came back in and expressed her outrage at this back-and-forth indecisiveness. The inducement was now off, the drugs had been disconnected and only the saline was running through the IV. The nurse removed all the now-unneeded tubes and left us three sitting there, angry and frustrated. Then Katie's mom made a fateful remark: "You should just pull the IV out of your arm and leave."

It wasn't long before words were action.

Perhaps twenty minutes of sitting alone in the delivery room, with no visits by any staff, had brought all of our anger to a much hotter degree. So Katie stood up and grimaced while I pulled the medical tape off her forearm, and then pulled the needle from her vein. Only we hadn't planned on how much the puncture would bleed afterward, and I stood cupping the red stuff in my two hands as Kate's mom ran for some paper towels. We contained the bleed, wiped up the floor, and got the mess cleaned up before Katie took the next step: popped her head out the door and called loudly for a nurse.

When they realized she'd pulled the IV from her arm they got a lot more attentive, and within moments we were surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses with forms and instructions and apologies. The gist: they overreacted on the pre-eclampsia, and should never have tried to induce two weeks before the due date, which is still too soon. I was still kind of bleary but Katie's and her mother's anger pretty much powered the whole "let's-get-the-release-forms-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here" animus, and we were on our way soon after that.

We got home, dropped our bags, and Katie went upstairs for a good quality cry. I can't claim to know what she was thinking or feeling, but I think the frustration, the stress, and the exhaustion got the better of her, as well as the apprehension that she still might need to go through something that demeaning again. But once the wave of energy had passed and she'd relaxed, I realized that (a) we hadn't had more than a few harried minutes to ourselves since I'd come home, and we hadn't been together at all since July; and (b) I hadn't eaten good food in several days at least. So I thought, damn the budget. We both need a night out.

Our favorite, a little local place that serves autentico 'taliano, Sergio's, was closed. Somewhat at a loss, we turned north, and without much premeditation or clue of any sort, decided on a somewhat upscale place in East Greenwich, Meritage. (And no, I don't mean to make this blog seem like a commercial. But I do believe in steering friends and family toward places I like.) Anyway, this restaurant had a similar ambiance to where we'd had our first date, and it was a pretty good antidote to the day just past. I managed to get some smiles and laughs out of her, and by the end of the dinner the day's cares had lifted off and floated away. We were back to our sometimes dreamy demeanor with each other by the time we left.

Whatever was to come in the days ahead, we'd greet together, composedly, with Katie having gained quite a bit of confidence in her own sensibility. She wouldn't be hounded a second time into decisions she didn't agree with.

The rest of the week passed quietly enough. The four-hour time difference, and horrible two nights' sleep, left me out of sorts for three days, and I got some schoolwork done--not much, but some. Kate had several clinic appointments, to monitor her blood and overall health. The elevated protein level, the cause for the original alarm, was still present and still cause for observation at least. Her primary midwife, Fiona, was very apologetic for the entire weekend's debacle, and her own role in it, of having called the first alarm. But her reasoning seemed sound: the protein count implied strongly that the onset of pre-eclampsia would eventually become actual pre-eclampsia, so it was wise to try to anticipate that and induce.

This was hard to deny, so once Kate had digested all the medical data and timelines and my own back-to-work schedules she made up her mind: if the doctors would let her walk around the delivery room, as opposed to lying helplessly on the bed, she'd agree to be induced on Monday, provided she hadn't delivered by then. If the doctors refused that, then to hell with them, and she'd continue carrying to term. Our next deadline was Sunday morning, an appointment with one of the midwife team at Women & Infants'.

We'd gone out on another date Friday. This one kind of evolved. Kate had suggested going to see Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs, a computer animation of a children's book that I'd said I wanted to watch (in one of my semi-conscious moments at the hospital, apparently). Plus, we both lusted for some food at Sergio's. So dinner and a movie...of course, we were the only adults in the theater who weren't chaperoning a group of kids, but so what. And it just so turned out, that we saw a very important preview...

I'm a big Roald Dahl fan. He's written all kinds of things. Sexual thrillers, horror, suspense, children's stories and children's novels...like Poe, and even more than Stephen King, he's a writer gifted with a terrifically strange imagination who shows much different forms of fantasy have in common, and how slight the differences can be. In Poe's case, science fiction, mystery, and horror. In Dahl's case, thrillers, horror and children's books. It would be no tremendous stretch to turn the premise of James and the Giant Peach into a genuinely blood-curdling tale...and one of my favorites, Danny the Champion of the World, features the hero Danny's father being shot, arrested and thrown in prison for poaching. Tinges of darkness...but my favorite is Fantastic Mr. Fox.

I mean, come on. Is there a cooler fictional animal than the fox? Debonair, cunning, courageous, always a step ahead...foxes just rule. (They come off as kind of snivelly and weak when lions are around, but to hell with the lions. They're mostly bombastic oafs anyway.) So...Fantastic Mr. Fox. I'd mentioned to Kate and her mom that this book, in light of all the comic and children's books being made into feature-length films these days, was just screaming to be made into a movie. (And of course I'm not going to spoil the plot!)

Of course I was thrilled to see the preview trailer. I like the animation style, too: stop-frame models, like in the old Christmas claymations. December this year. The Sutherland family will be going (well, maybe Eva will stay home with a babysitter, but we'll work that out later). So we watched the Meatballs movie, and then after a coffee and dessert, I was feeling the caffeine and the fox thing and so I suggested to Kate that we ramble on up to the bookstore and hunt for kids' books. She agreed (we also stopped to pick up some castor oil, in case she wanted to try Fiona's suggestion for a do-it-yourself version of inducement...the unopened bottle is still sitting on the kitchen counter). After browsing the kids' section we came away with Katie's favorite Chris Van Allsburg book, one or two others, and my Fantastic Mr. Fox. Good news...

...so I read half to her that night, until her eyes closed. Saturday was quiet, and I finished reading to her that night. Next morning we were both hoping would bring the start of Eva's journey to us.

We went to bed at two, I'd set the alarm for eight, and when it rang I turned it off and rolled back over. Appointment, schmappointment...the midwife would be there all day. No need to be early...when Kate got herself out of bed at 8:30 and headed into the bathroom, I knew something was up. I can count on one hand the number of days she's beaten me out of bed.

When she emerged from the shower she told me, "I'm having contractions...and I felt some motion last night that I hadn't felt before. I think this might be it."

I'd already hit the panic button once in Palmer, Alaska, so this time I was a bit more sane. No need to hurry or be a fool, but no time to dawdle either. We were both ready to go by about 9:30, and out we went. After picking up my obligatory morning coffee (she wanted nothing, another hopeful sign) we headed on up to the hospital.

Once in the examination room, the midwife on call, Amy, walked in, asked a few questions, and did an inspection. "Five centimeters dilated, 90% effaced. Today's the day."

Having been through one false alarm, I wasn't going to let myself fly off the handle, but I felt a surge of energy. I can't imagine what Katie felt (on top of the increasing strength of the contractions, that is). She walked into the delivery room--looking quite cute in her johnny and white Nikes--and we settled in.

At this point, I needed to know if it was time for me to get my hopes way up too, and when I asked one of the nurses, she answered, "Today is absolutely the day." So I called Kate's mom (it was about 11:30), told her to get here ASAP, and got ready to work.

Kate had her choice of lying on the bed, or standing up, or using the birthing ball (known as exercise balls at gyms--those big, heavy-duty beach balls that people contort themselves on). A few nurses came in with Amy, and told us what was going to happen: basically, Katie's own body would conduct everything, and the rest of us were there to keep an eye out and give her encouragement (my job in particular was the encouragement).

And then they abandoned us. Well, not abandoned us, totally. But they had other women getting ready to deliver too, obviously, and lots of work to do besides hover over us. Besides, the whole premise of midwives' work is to leave the birth in the control of the mother, so that's what they did. "Talk to me, babe, tell me I can do it," Kate asked, fairly early on. Amy concurred immediately, so I began a quiet, persistent stream of "Breathe deep, that's it, you can do it...just like your mother said, one contraction at at time...just get through this one...doing great, babe..."

I mean, what else could I say? Katie was now in hard labor and I had no idea what she was going through actually felt like, but I could see the stress in her face and in her whole posture, and the monitors hooked up to her told me that the muscle activity was getting steadily more powerful...I could rub her back, and try to egg her on like a runner staggering through the last of a marathon, but I really didn't have a very good clue as to how she was doing. So I just kept at it and hoped for the best.

Amy had mentioned perhaps twenty or thirty times that going into the jacuzzi would help initiate the final pushing stage. After moving between standing and sitting on the ball five or six times, and with me murmuring the same encouragements over and over into her ear for about three hours, Kate let us know that she was ready for the hot tub. So she shuffled slowly in, sat down in the water, and waited. It took only about three contractions, I guess (so she told me), before she announced that she was ready to push. (I might mention here that the nearly three hours between Katie's walking into the delivery room, and out again to the jacuzzi, felt more like five minutes. It passed by with serious speed.)

So out she came again, none too quickly of course, but moving gradually back to the big, brightly windowed delivery room. We had about eight attentive nurses surrounding us (childbirth is their mission in work, clearly), and Kate lay down on the bed, painfully and carefully, ready for the home stretch.

It was about quarter to three, and I was starting to think that her mother might not make it in time, but would arrive to see her granddaughter already bundled up, crying and lying on her daughter's chest. The midwife and nurse were right there now, telling Kate to push, while I stood at her left side, helping hold her knees wide and up adjacent to her ribs, to open the pelvis and help her push. And with each contraction, she began pushing.

Kate's mother walked in cheerfully now, chatting briefly with the nurses before she came over to Kate, asked how things were going, and assumed her position next to the midwife. Her mom now gave some advice of her own, as Kate began groaning with the next push: "Push down with that breath! Don't let it out with a noise, use it to push the baby out!" So Kate quieted down immediately and kept working.

This was my first real surprise of the whole process: subtract the pain that every guy hears about (repeatedly, for our whole entire life long), subtract the anticipation of a young child about to emerge and draw its first breaths, and in the mother, you're left with sheer determination. I was a little stunned--not because I didn't think she had it, but because I didn't realize how major a part in giving birth it plays. I was a little stunned at the hardness of the resolve in Kate's face. There was nothing there but will to finish the work. Her jaw was clenched and jutting out, her eyes were wide open, just a little narrowed, and there were no furrows of worry on her brow: her facial expression was clear and hard.

My little tiger at work.

She didn't make every push in silence, though. She'd give a cry now and then, spasmodically, which reminded me that, yes, she was also in very real pain. But she kept going, and soon the midwife announced, "I can see the head! Oh, it's got a lot of hair!"

Now, of course, the midwife is a pro at this, so she had a much more practiced eye than I did. I looked, and I can say honestly that I couldn't find the skull or the hair she was talking about. But, I figured I'd see it soon enough, so I turned my attention back to Katie. I also availed myself of a moment between contractions to snap a few photos of her face (risking being killed for it later, but so be it). I just needed to preserve that look of resolution. While it's in her character, and not always too far from the surface, it rarely shows itself in such pure, brilliant form. So I snapped the photos (but they're not going in the blog...I'd really deserve to be hurt for that).

A few pushes later, I really could see the top of the head. Katie was crying out more often now. The midwife was trying to help pull the baby out, but there wasn't enough for her to get a grip on. Kate barked out, "Get it out of me!" The midwife's immediate answer, "Push it out!"

No coach could challenge an athlete more directly than that. Not in football, not in hockey, not in a weightroom. Kate had no choice, so she kept on pushing. She made the same yell a few more times, and Amy had the same answer. "It's about to turn the corner," one nurse said, "one more push and she'll be on her way out."

I really had no clue what I was talking about, but I was saying things like "One more push, babe! Just one more and she'll be with us!...she's almost here...I can see her...you're almost done!" I was starting to get pretty emotional myself. I didn't want this pain to continue, especially since the baby was partway out...with the next push, the head finally emerged.

Man, that thing was huge. This was my second big surprise. The little bit of skull I'd seen earlier, when Amy began trying to assist, was only the top. The whole head looked like the Alien, long, narrow and bean-shaped, wet of course and covered with a mat of dark hair. The whole baby followed almost immediately, and seconds later she began to cry. I leaned down to Kate and whispered, "You did it, babe, she's finally here," and we both bawled.

Now Eva kind of resembled a bright-red prune when she came out, and her hands especially looked like she'd just taken a four-hour bath (they still kind of do, actually). Her eyes were swollen shut. So when one nurse said, not more than ten seconds after Eva had come out, "She looks just like her father," I said, "Yeah, sure, when I've just woken up," but the consensus of everyone so far is that she looks just like me. I guess.

I mean, what is it with women and identifying facial features in babies? I see two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two ears and hair. What's to tell? She's still so small. Her skull is still soft--it's not even a complete skull yet, for cripes' sake. And they can already tell that she looks just like me? I mean, I'll take it on faith that it's a compliment, and they are talking about my daughter, and I don't care what she looks like--but I just have no idea.

We both cried, not for long, but still a real squall of tears. I'd thought at times that Eva's birth would be for me an answer to Mom's and Dad's death, a catharsis from pain to joy, and I'd cry for ten or twenty minutes. Not so. Grief isn't anything close to being so simple. Emotional processes like that overlap and tangle themselves in our lives, for as long as we live. So the joy and relief of having a new child is simply that, joy and relief for the new child. It removes none of the grief of things before. Silly that I'd thought it might be otherwise...

Of course, birth doesn't end with the emergence of the child. There's the umbilical cord, the placenta and the blood. The nurses clipped off the umbilical cord, handed me a pair of scissors, and told me where to cut. It was kind of like cutting a wet shoelace--not difficult, but a little tougher than you'd expect at first--and that was that. Amy was tending to the placenta as the nurse put a freshly wiped-down Eva on her chest. And so we celebrated our new baby...

...but Amy was having trouble with the placenta. The cord had come detached, and Katie's pushing wasn't accomplishing much. So here Amy showed her colors as a pro. She reached in and began feeling for it, to pull it out. Kate barked again, begging her to stop, but Amy disregarded her and kept working. For about twenty seconds Amy kept at it, and when she'd finally drawn it out, inspected it and looked very dissatisfied. "It's not good that the cord came detached. I think some of the placenta is still in the uterus, and that will be a problem."

As I was told, any remaining placenta on the uterus wall is basically an open spigot for blood. It would be an almost surely fatal condition to leave it, so Amy called for the doctor, saying it was an emergency.

I'm no stranger to death or trauma (not as used to it as my sister Lisa the physician's assistant, but I've had my experiences). So the midwife calling "Emergency!" raised my eyebrows, but that was all. I could see Kate, her complexion still healthy, still bathed in the joy of giving birth to Eva, and the nurses around us, all tending to one task or another. I didn't see echoes of Amy's alarm in anyone else. The thought occurred to me--not for the first time--that I might lose my little bengal, and have to raise Eva on my own, with her being my best living reminder of the woman I loved.

But I never at any moment seriously feared that, because both Kate and the other nurses seemed too composed. Doctor Tetrault came in, said the situation was common enough and could be remedied by, essentially, vacuuming out the uterus. "It's a five-minute procedure," she said, "and once we're done, and Kate has sensation again in her feet, we'll bring her up to the recovery room."

So they wheeled Katie to OR, and put Eva into a rolling bassinet to bring her up to the nursery. Kate's mom and I followed, and once on the sixth floor, I tried walking right into the nursery too, but the nurse stopped me. "We don't allow family members in. We'll tag her, and you'll see that her number matches the number on your wristband. If you'd like to watch, you can walk around to the windows on the other side."

I didn't want to be any more than two feet away from my daughter, but the nurse seemed pretty believable so I walked around and watched as they unwrapped the blankets from around her, sprinkled water on her and rinsed off her head and chest, and wrapped her up again. I saw her face crinkle and her mouth open as she was getting her bath, but then grow calm again once she was wrapped up and placed in an incubator.

Kate's mom and I waited in the recovery room, and about an hour later, Kate herself was wheeled in, not drugged up like I'd feared, but weary and happy. Soon after that Eva was brought in to join us, a tiny little package with a pink ski cap and a red face. She was quiet, as she lay on Kate's chest...then Kate tried to breastfeed her, just to get started and give the baby some colostrom.

Right from the start, Eva latched on with no difficulty or hesitation. Now I can see Sutherland resemblance in that: a big mouth, and no problems with bodily functions. (That too is still the case...it's become one of Katie's favorite jibes, that Eva Jean is definitely my daughter.)

Only problem was, once Katie stopped, Eva missed it...I got my first practice calming a squalling baby. And maybe Eva's pretty easy, but she settled down very quickly once I picked her up, nestled her in my forearms and bounced her ever so slightly up and down. That was immensely reassuring, that I could do something to comfort my own baby.

Since most of our readers are veterans of the kid process themselves, they won't be surprised that I'm dwelling on the details like this--in fact, I could go much further in. But if you haven't been through the process yourself, even as one of the professionals helping, then you probably don't have the emotional recognition of it, the physical memory of how important, and amazing, each moment is.

My mother told me once that seeing a baby born would make anyone believe in God. I don't share that belief, but I do believe that birth is the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever witnessed. The months of anticipation, the building anxiety, the intensity and effort and pain of the birth itself, and the overwhelming sense of peace and calm afterward, make every other experience in life pale in comparison.

I'm not denigrating the rest of life: it's full of passion, triumph and defeat, and plenty of work and anticipation as well: but life begetting life is why we're here. All our thoughts, all our ideas, all our philosophies, sciences and histories, are trappings draped on existence itself. An Indian mystic might tell me that I have it backwards, that existence is the veil draped on thought. And the mystic might be right. But in either case, the thought is formless without the existence...and when you've participated in bringing a new, breathing life into the world, and you've helped prolong existence...it's a lifelong memory.

And if you're like me, you become a bit of a doting fool.

I guess I'll leave the follow-up either for a later post, or untold. This one's long enough, a record of what led up to the Sutherland family of two becoming three. From now on, it's Eva's story too...

My Feline Companion!

Hello folks ... I know, once again it's been awhile. But just when you think I've complete relinquished the entire blog to Mike, you can be sure I will pop back in with my two cents on life!

I do have one quick announcement before I delve into the actual point of my post ... You'll all be happy to know my feet are looking 100% normal today! Not many of you have an accurate reference as to what not-normal looked like ... but they had been pretty hideously swollen for the past few weeks. I woke this morning though to a wonderful site ... definition of bones and veins in both of my newly pedicured tootsies! Seriously, this made my day and even though I'm still 40 lbs heavier than last fall ... seeing my feet in this state put my self-esteem through the roof!

I guess I should count my blessings that Mike is missing this part of my pregnancy ... Now, he can certainly account for a couple of sudden mood swings during my second trimester, but those were more teary, quiet moments of estrogen overload. This last month however has been quite a bit more trying and I'll admit to actually having a quite few private *a'hem* tantrums! Working with teenagers (no further adjectives necessary ... but oh so wanting to write them) all day long, explaining how life works and all the lovely common sense things that should have been taught to them years ago was trying enough. The addition of standing on the two balloons posing as feet while doing this just added to the fun! By the end of the day I'd walk through the door at home loathing every stitch of clothing. Oh and heaven forbid I see anyone on my way up to the second floor of the condo who just had too tell me how great I looked. LIARS! I'd smile at them with my chipmunk cheeks, as a drip of sweat trickled down my back (pooling, only Lord knows where), feet throbbing in my STUPID clown Crocs, and count down the steps to the front door! 3 ... scrambling for my key ... 2 ... got it in, go, go, go ... 1 ... ahhh, solitude at last! I'd plop my arm full of bags onto the counter along with the mail, rush over to the fan, promptly setting it to HIGH (now close your eyes kids), peel off my "professional" maternity ensemble and collapse on the coach like one of those old school toys!

 

So, finally after about 10 or 15 minutes, once the steam had settled ... 

The one, the only, the infamous, little ibbily, Jasper would appear with a little *PppuurrrRR?!* As if he were asking if it was safe to come out. An uncontrollable smile would seep across my face and I'd answer back with the only three words in "Cat" that I know! He'd usually respond a little more quietly and start meandering over my way. Once by my side his gaze would fall from my face down to my bare, basket ball shaped, mid section, and back up again. As if it weren't insulting enough to have some new attention stealer thing growing in my belly, I just had to add the injury of baring some skin! He'd stare me down awhile longer, perhaps hoping he would accomplish some kind of change to the situation, and then realize it was hopeless ... at least for today.

My heart would melt for the poor little guy ... his best friend left him stranded with some dumb pregnant broad, with no cozy stomach to lay on, doesn't rough house with him, and who can't even accurately notify him when dinner is ready! Needless to say I've done my best over the past few weeks to step up my game! Before bed each night I'll toss him on the bed and beat around a bit (still far more gently then Mike does though), wear cozy sweat shirts (when cool mornings and evenings permit, as they have been lately), and make sure I scratch the sweet spot on his tummy whenever I catch him asleep on his back! Really all that is the least I can do, when the little guy is always so tuned into me and my needs.

Quite honestly, I have never met a feline so smart, or so sensitive! Much like a dog, he knows exactly when I'm feeling down and need some extra love ... or even when I'm feeling fine, but would just like some extra love. There are those moments when I'm sitting on the coach in the evenings a bit teary from missing Mike, and he'll come right over plop himself down on me and proceed to give me a hug (as I like to call it), nuzzling his head underneath my chin! Then there are nights when he curls up next to me in bed, only inches away from the edge, almost as if to tell me he'd risk his life just to bring me some comfort! I'm sure Mike would say it's just 'cause he's a cat and doesn't have the common sense to realize there is a whole other side of the bed to lay on. I'm convinced he is sending a much deeper meta-message though ... that's how we felines work PUP!

I stick to my theory here, not only because I know how felines think ... but because Jasper actually proved my theory  a couple weeks back when he allowed himself a sleepy morning of indulgence ... on our big new poofy comforter! When Mike was first away, it was slightly strange getting used to sleeping in a HUGE bed all by myself ... so I folded up our new comforter and placed it on the opposite side (where I usually sleep) as sort of a body double! (Lame, I know.) Now to my surprise, one morning I woke only to find Jasper curled up right in the middle of this cloud like blanket!

This, the cat who if you put a kitty bed and a plastic bag down on the floor in front of him will immediately lie down on the plastic bag! I was in somewhat a state of shock ... I rolled out of bed gently not wanting to disturb his highness, figuring once I'd done showering I'd find him appropriately on his place on the sill. Nope, wouldn't you know it, the darn cat didn't even look up at me once, through the hustle and bustle of my morning routine, toilet flushing, hair blow drying, flash photography (okay that's out of the norm) ... and was still curled up as I walked out the door! He was sooooo content he didn't even care about spending the day in his office (the meadow) ... for an instant I worried he might be sick, but that night I came home and found that plainly was not the case. The little guy just allowed himself a morning of luxury ... and I had a strange feeling of pride that he'd done so! After all the love and sacrifice (sleeping on the edge of the bed) he does for us, he deserves to spoil himself on occasion!

There are other times when he needs some direct and intentional love as well, and he's just about as apprehensive as I am when it comes to asking for it. That being the case, I can usually tell the signs, namely when he's on the counter (cringe now, mom, get it out) and starts pacing back and forth trying to get as close to me as possible without falling off the edge, his eyes wide! I'll walk up close and pat my shoulder and after a few test touches he'll stretch out onto me and I'll scoop him up! It's endearing how timid he can be with me at times ... not that he's scared, just shy and cautious more than anything else.

What I love MOST about Jasper though, is he's creative nesting spots ... 

Usually at night he will start out on the bath mat next to the shower (if not on the edge of the bed), but by morning he's most often found wedged on the sill between the bedroom window and the back of my dresser! 

Since Mike's been gone though I've been doing a bit of, what I like to call, lady-like-construction ... which Jasper has seemed to enjoy as well, finding himself a new spot on a vacant towel shelf for awhile, which much to Jasper's despair I have now filled. Sorry pal!

The best spot by far however, he stumbled upon in the midst of a mad laundry frenzy I did a couple weeks ago when I washed all the baby clothes, blankets etc ... Little rascal nearly gave me a heart attack when I found him waiting to be put through the FLUFF cycle!

Priceless! Though I can't help but wonder what the lint filter might have looked like if he HAD gone for 30 minute spin?! 

Needless to say, Jasper quickly gained a place in my heart last fall ... and has only been taking up more of it since then! What some might view as cute little subtleties I have come to perceive as overtly obvious statements of opinion and complex emotion! He's no ordinary cat ... not even a dog like cat, as I have so often said ... nope, he's a Jasper, plain and simple, in such an extraordinary way!

I'll let you be the judge of what he's expressing in this shot!

Blurb

Late night, when my housemates have gone to sleep, is becoming my time to do a little last bit of reading, and also collect my thoughts (such as they are these days) and do something with them, like now, type in another quick blog entry. (Katie envisioned this being more her blog than mine, I think, when we started it, but I'm a garrulous kind of guy and I've taken to it. Writing to me, I guess, is like blues guitar to House.)

Anyway, a little over a month ago, I posted my rationale about going away for a while, seeing new places and new people, and bringing the spirit of the adventure home with me to Kate. Now that's a fine idea, but really, my life out here is made up of stoplights, pickup trucks, Windows Vista, Wal-Mart, frozen pizza, gyms with freeweights, and espresso. (To say nothing of the work, which is in some cases new to me, but mostly what I know already.) So, basically, this adventure ain't all that adventurous.

Sure, Alaska's got its unique features. The omnipotent mountains. The eternal daylight, giving way at an astonishing clip now to surrounding night. A city like Anchorage, housing nearly half the state's population, which still has something of an edge-of-the-world feel to it. The log-cabin style homes and buildings, with their especially defiant huge front windows...and you can see, that I'm lapsing into more and more familiar, human things. What little I've seen of Alaska is the inhabited part, and I'm in no immediate hurry to wander into the uninhabited parts. "Into the Wild" isn't really a story I admire (though the soundtrack is pretty good and "Big Hard Sun" is a fantastic song). I'm not nearly that much of a misanthrope and I don't really care to put my survival skills to the test.

There's plenty of awe-inspiring and fascinating natural history for me to pay attention to, which is why I'm being a bit of a bookworm. But the upshot is, the spirit of adventure I bring home with me to Kate in Rhode Island won't be the, I-met-dragons-and-fought-with-ogres variety, but a quieter, more patient kind of spirit: that of learning new ways continually to keep my eyes and mind open to what's around me. The kind of spirit which itself leads to adventures.