Walking Dumpster Fire

I never wanted children. Growing up, I never fantasized about future kids because I wouldn’t have them. Kids, to me, were messy and sticky, not funny, and so annoying. Growing up, I had a wonderful and loving mother who put her children first in everything she did. And my brain thought, HARD PASS on that! 

I was going to have a dog farm with lots and lots of dogs who would take care of me in my old age. I would be the crazy dog lady, and I relished the idea. 

Then I met a boy. A stupid, stupid boy. 

I grew up in Arizona, attended ASU, and studied Wildlife Management and Ecology. I worked as a bartender, had great friends, and partied my ass off when time allotted. I loved my life. Then, I met a Wisconsinite named Jodi. 

Jodi was fresh off the farm, newly graduated from Stout, and working in Coolidge, Arizona, at the power plant. We met on an online dating site. This was back in the day before online dating was complete trash. When dudes had to email you actual words and coherent sentences. It was bliss. 

On our second date, Jodi asked me if I wanted children. I said nope, it’s not in the cards for me. He said he wanted children, and I thought, “Good luck with that, bro.” Nonetheless, he continued to date me, and children were never brought up again. 

Then, he took me on a trip to fucking Wisconsin. I don’t know if it was the cheese curds, meeting his family, the beautiful bluffs, or something in the dirty Wisco air. Still, suddenly, I could see having…a…baby…with this dude. And the thought didn’t make me want to crap my pants. 

As we were making our way to the airport to fly home, I looked at him and said, “Okay. I will give you one.” He almost crashed the car and yelled, “WHAT!!” I said again, “You get one, and that’s it. Now, let’s stop talking about it.” He grinned the whole way home. 

We had to move to Kansas City for his job for a few months a year later. One night, we had many, many martinis. Kettle One dirty martinis with blue cheese stuffed olives, to be precise, which I now refer to as “The Scarlett Maker.” We stumbled home and into bed, and ALL ROADBLOCKS WERE DOWN. No protection, no caring, no thinking. When we woke up the next morning, Jodi looked at me and said, maybe we should get a Plan B? I laughed and said, I think it’s cute that you think my hungover ass is getting out of bed today. I told him we were fine. My cycle at the time was incredibly irregular, so ovulation happened for me maybe three or four times a year. So, really, what were the chances?

About six weeks later, I flew down to Arizona for a weekend to celebrate my best friend’s birthday at a resort in Scottsdale. I am not going to lie; I looked radiant. My tits were on point, my hair was thick-ish for the first time ever, I was glowing like some sort of sun goddess. My friends looked at me and said, Carrie, you are glowing? I said, I know! What gives?! One of my friends joked that maybe I was pregnant. We both laughed, and I said, let’s drink! And we did. It was a great weekend. 

On the flight home, I sat beside a couple with extra drink tickets. They offered me one, and I said, “No thanks.” No thanks? To FREE booze!? What the hell? But I really didn’t want a drink. At all. I concluded that maybe I was starting to get a cold or too tired from the weekend, or perhaps because I knew I had to drive 30 minutes home once we landed. That’s why I declined the free drinks. Yes, that must be it. 

I got home, ate dinner, and went to bed early. But just before I went to sleep, I felt a slight cramping in my lower stomach. It wasn’t painful, just weird. A cramp that I hadn’t felt before. Like something was living in me. I thought, maybe I have a parasite? Or maybe I have one of those tapeworms who eats everything, and I will get super skinny. That’s the dream! I told myself I would take a pregnancy test in the morning, just to be sure. 

Since I was so irregular with my cycles, I took pregnancy tests like candy. It wasn’t odd for me to have four or five on hand. In the morning, I  peed on the stick, set it on top of the toilet, and turned on the water for the shower. Really, thinking nothing of it. Nothing new here. As I waited for the water to heat up, I looked down at the toilet and saw two lines. Huh, that’s new. Two lines. Two lines. HOLY SHIT, two lines! I stare down, slacked-jawed. I have one hand in the shower, staring down at this piss stick, and I am frozen. I finally make a noise and start yelling, Jodi, Jodi, Jodi!!

Jodi comes running in, and I point at the stick. It takes him a second to register; he didn’t even know I was taking a test, then he picks it up, looks at it, meanders over the bed, and lies down. He doesn’t say a word while I run around our tiny apartment, yelling absurdities like OH MY GOD! My Mom is going to know I am not a VIRGIN! And, MY ABS! My abs will be destroyed! And can I still have yogurt, lunch meat, or sushi? OH MY GOD, COFFEE! Can I have coffee?!?!

I grabbed my phone and texted my best friend, who is a therapist and my second mother. I needed directions and someone to say this would be okay. She immediately responded that I could do this, I could be a mother, and I could be good at it. She told me I was having a baby with a man I loved and who loved me. And then she wrote a list of things I couldn’t eat. It was as if she was reading my mind.

Okay, now I have a plan and a list. I can do this. Jodi finally came out of his coma and said we needed to both stay home from work today to process this. 

While living in Kansas City, I volunteered at a US Fish and Wildlife Preserve. A month prior, they asked me if I wanted to get red-carded to help with prescribed burns, which I would be paid for. I said absolutely, took the test, and became red-carded. The first prescribed burn I was assigned to was going to be that day, the day I found out I was pregnant. 

I told Jodi I had to go to work. Federal regulations state that 18 people must be on a prescribed burn, and I was the 18th person. I couldn’t back out. But I told him I would let my boss know the situation, so I wouldn’t be sucking up a bunch of smoke and fumes. 

When I got to the preserve, I still had a lot of prep work to do. Water stations needed double-checking. Were the hoses properly hooked up? Do we have all the equipment we need? Are the trenches ready and cleared? While driving around, I looked at my boss, Terry, and thought maybe I didn’t need to say anything. Maybe this will be one of those smokeless fires, or maybe I won’t even be around the fire. I said to him, So, fire. He looked at me and said, um, yep. I asked, and there’s going to be smoke? He looked at me confused and responded, Yes, Carrie, that’s how fires work. I asked if we would be inhaling a lot of smoke. He said there would probably be masks if I wanted one. I knew I couldn’t get out of this without telling him. 

I said, So, funny story, about two hours ago, I took a test and I am pregnant. He stared at me. Terry was a kind soul who grew up in Missouri, the southern-kind-of-Missouri. He was incredibly conservative, and he knew I was a dirty liberal. We fought constantly over politics, but it was fun fighting, and we respected one another. Plus, his wife made the best pie I had ever tasted, which he would share with me, so Terry could do no wrong in my eyes.

After I told him, he quietly asked, are you going to keep it? I just laughed and said, yes, Terri, I am keeping it! I know I am a liberal, but I am not asking you to take me to an abortion clinic right now. I just need to know if I will be inhaling smoke and what can be done to prevent that. 

He told the fire chief, who had made the proper accommodations. I have a picture of myself sitting in an ATV, just staring at the camera with my full fire gear on while there was a whole giant fire behind me. I was useless on that burn. 

Weeks and months pass. Besides the first trimester, when I was constantly nauseous, I had an incredibly easy pregnancy. Around 30 weeks, I sat next to my dog on the couch and petted her pretty head. I had an Australian Shepherd named Monroe, and she was about 7 at this time. Monroe was my lifetime dog. She was my everything, my homegirl, my ride-or-die. I loved her unconditionally. We basically grew up together. But now, I was panicking. 

I loved the little baby girl growing inside me, but did I love it as much as I loved Monroe? I don’t think I did, and it panicked me. What if I never love her as much? What kind of monster would I be if I loved an animal I wasn’t related to over my child? I called my Mom, and she picked up, and I blurted out, what if I don’t love my baby more than Monroe? She said, what? I repeated the question. Then, she laughed. I started getting angry; this was no laughing matter, MOM! But then she said it doesn’t work like that. You will love Monroe just as much, but you will have a new love. It’s a love that is indescribable. It will just be there, trust me. I said okay, but I was still uneasy. 

Then the big day came. I decided to get induced, which don’t ever do, by the way. By 7 am, I was all hooked up with pitocin and having mild cramping. Easy peasy. The nurses kept reminding me that I could get an epidural at any point; just let them know. The cramping was getting a little more intense but still very manageable. I thought, seriously, if this is it, I don’t understand why women bitch about the pain that is labor. Oh, stupid, stupid Carrie. By 10 am, I was having borderline painful contractions. And finally, one contraction brought tears to my eyes. I called the nurse and asked her to get the anesthesiologist because I was ready for drugs.

Now, in my mind, I thought the anesthesiologist was just outside my room, waiting for my beck and call. In my mind, I thought there were 20 anesthesiologists at that hospital, holding epidural needles and waiting for pregnant women who needed them. 

No. At this damn hospital, there was one anesthesiologist on duty, and he was currently in surgery. But the nurse concluded that he should be here “shortly.” Okay, I can do “shortly.” Twenty minutes later, I am writhing in pain. Now, fellas, I will describe exactly what contractions feel like, in case no one told you. Take a dull blade, one that is super rusty and old. Put it against your abdomen and start slicing. Get deeper and deeper with every slice, and do this for 30 seconds. Then, take a 2-minute break and do it again for 30 seconds. This time, even harder!

I am in so much pain that at one point, my Mom runs out to the reception area and yells, give her something, anything! I actually think I physically can’t do this. I have a pretty high pain tolerance. I can run marathons, race in Ironmans, crash bikes, and jump out of planes, but I didn’t think I could physically do this. This is how I will die, I think. I now have a full-blown panic attack, my first one ever; lucky day! The nurse sees my breathing has become more shallow and severe. She runs over, grabs my hands, and says, Breathe with me; breathe. I stare at her like she is Jesus Christ himself and breathe. It doesn’t take away the pain, but at least the panic is gone. 

Finally, the drugs arrive! He sticks me when I am having a contraction, and I don’t even feel it. Epidurals are the greatest thing ever invented. I felt like I had been touched by God. The next few hours are blissful and boring. I am dilating more, and then I get to 8 cm, and that’s it. My doctor checks to see why, and it looks like my baby is upside down. Her head is facing up, and it should be down. It’s fine, but not ideal. She says she will try to move her so her head faces down for delivery. I am like, sure. I am so numb at this point that she could stick an elephant in me, and I wouldn’t even flinch. 

She starts to turn the baby, and the monitor starts to go off. My doctor’s eyes widen, and within 30 seconds, 8 people in the room, multiple nurses and an EMT medic. Directions are being yelled out, someone puts a needle into my arm while another nurse puts an oxygen mask on me. I have no idea what is going on, and I look over to see my Mom in the corner, trying to suppress her tears, unsuccessfully. Jodi is just pacing. 

The monitor returns to normal. My doctor explains that when she went to turn her, her heart rate dropped dramatically and if that happens again, a c-section will have to be performed. I think, uh, no. I have Viking blood running through these Danish veins. I have hips for days, and my grandmother gave birth to 11 children, 8 of those at home, all through her vag! But I don’t say this; I say okay. 

Luckily, it didn’t come to that, she has me start pushing when I am at 9 cm, as it doesn’t look like I am going to dilate more. I push for 45 minutes. Again, thank you, baby Jesus, for epidurals. Then Scarlett arrives. 

My Mom was right. The love is indescribable. There are no words. It’s a fierce, magical, almost maniacal kind of love. She is perfect. How can anyone be this perfect? Her fingers, her toes, her messy, matted hair. I love all of it. No one can touch her; no one can hurt her. I know I would lose my life for her if it came to it. I would do it without thinking. She is a part of me. She is part of me more than my arms, legs, or my heart. She is the greatest thing I have ever created. She has transformed me. In just one moment, she made me a mother. 

She arrived on May 2, and today she is 13. Scarlett is more than I could ever have imagined. I honestly think God was like, SHE is having a child? Carrie? Hey Angel, please send her one of our easy children. Thanks!

She is funny, smart, inquisitive, and curious. She is an old soul who valiantly protects her friends. She is a fierce ally of the LGBTQ community. She has one of the most creative minds I have witnessed. She is the Rory to my Lorilei and my best friend. So, thank you, Scarlett, for giving me the greatest gift. You.