A Blessing

My dad kept tapping on the steering wheel, a habit he always did when he was nervous. I was close with my father and could always tell what his mannerisms entailed. One time when I was ten we visited his mother who he did not have a pleasant past with. From time to time her name would show up on our caller id and they would chat for a few minutes but their relationship was not ideal for a mother and son. On our way to Belwick, where she had lived, I spent about two hours listening and observing my dad and his nervous characteristics. He bounced his thumbs off the steering wheel ever so slightly, constantly changing the radio station before a song could even finish while trying to make conversation with those around him. My father was trying to make the time pass, doing anything possible to forget his destination. He focused getting his mind off of things before facing the big bad wolf we called my grandmother.

A mother and son should have a great relationship though, right? It all started when my father was around twenty years old. He was in college with goals of being a doctor, maybe a surgeon, just like his mother. He was the highlight of her life, always getting good grades, doing what he was told and never getting into trouble. He was on a path for success and she had dreams of him being intelligent, rich and in love with a woman up to standards for her baby boy. However, that was not the case. The story that they tell me is when he was in med school at Elmira College, there was an art school about ten minutes down the road. Students from Elmira and the art school Oldfield College of Art would always meet up at parties, socialize and get to know each other quite well. One night when my father John was at a party, he “laid eyes on her and instantly fell in love” (her being my mother Christa). They connected instantly, loving every moment they were spending together. My grandmother, however, did not approve. She hated that he was bound to a woman so free and careless, a true artist by nature, and the fact that my father kept pursuing her made her furious. My father never became a doctor or a surgeon, he opted for the route of a physician’s assistant (close to a doctor but not good enough for his mother). They slowly began to lose connection and by the time he announced their wedding and found out they were expecting in the same day, my grandmother became cold. She stopped keeping in touch, sending birthday and holiday cards and soon my mother and father stopped trying to keep up the relationship as well. My grandmother couldn’t stand the fact that her son had basically signed away his future of success for a woman who she deemed unworthy.

Needless to say growing up, my grandmother was never really around much. She never came to my school plays or dance recitals and I never got a card for my birthday containing money in it like everyone else’s grandparents did for them. Never was she around to take care of me or watch me grow. So going on this trip to see her with my father was nerve racking for me too but I would never let my father see that, he had enough to worry about. We pulled into her driveway, slowly rolling along the pavement until we came to a stop. I got up and out of the Honda Civic and realized my dad sat motionless in the front seat. “Come on dad, we have to do this” I said. Why was he being like that? We’re family. She has to welcome us into her house with open arms.  He slowly unbuckled his seat belt and started climbing out of the car. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea anymore” he said “she doesn’t even know that were coming”. Yes, I admit driving two hours to see her was a little hasty, especially because of our not so great history, but she was our only hope and this visit was needed.

Together we slowly walked up the brick pathway leading to this extremely large house, one that put ours to shame. The garden was perfectly grown, each set of flowers systematically placed next to one another. Grass mowed to perfection, everything just seemed to fit exactly how you would want. Perfect. That’s what she always aimed for, what my father couldn’t hold up to. My father stood behind me in a frightful way, waiting for me to press on the doorbell. I did and a few seconds later my grandmother, looking much older than I last remember, opened the door with a smile which quickly turned to a confused yet disappointed look. “John! Rebecca! I had no idea you were coming by, why didn’t you let me know?” up front she seems pleased maybe even enthused to see us but I knew deep down she was caught off guard and seemed a little disappointed it was us at the door. “Hi mom” my dad said “actually, we need your help”. Surprised and anxious to know why she welcomed us in, sat us down offered us coffee or food and asked what the problem was, seeming to be genuinely concerned.  

I am 31 years old and married. I have tried for many years to get pregnant and it never seemed to work. This time, I really am. The problem is, it seems too good to be true. I have the worst luck, especially with my body. It seems that whenever I have something going good for me, it all goes wrong. When I got my first job at the local hospital (medicine seems to run in my family’s blood), I was enthused. A year later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to quit my job and undergo extensive treatment including radiation. I finally overcame that but the endless amount of pills and chemicals that went into my body harmed it and prevented me endless times from having a child and now that I have the opportunity to nothing can go wrong.

My grandmother is a renowned doctor not only at the mercy hospital but also all over the country. She is known for her research and scientific practices and most importantly, her work as an obstetrician, as she was the lead doctor in her field as noted by New York Magazine. I knew I was bound for a miscarriage or problems with my pregnancy and I knew that nobody else but her could help me. Surprisingly, when I told her this, she obliged cheerfully. Was my grandmother as bad of a person as they said she was? She seemed genuinely grateful that I came to her with my problem and that I trusted her. Maybe she felt guilt from her lack of being there in my childhood but if this was the way she wanted to make it up to me, which was okay with me.

We started with a plan of attack. Pregnancy with my heath conditions could hurt my health or my baby. We planned that I would meet with my grandmother every three weeks at the hospital. I would undergo a series of tests, looking for the reoccurrence of cancer, ultrasounds, and blood tests for HIV/AIDS and hepatitis. Screening blood tests were taken to see if my child had any genetic abnormalities. My soon to be retired grandmother was excellent at her job, almost worn out. But each time within the seven months I met with her she welcomed me with open arms, seemingly grateful I had actually come to her for help.

After each appointment, everything with my pregnancy seemed normal. I was cancer free and healthy, the baby had no genetic abnormalities and we were on a path for success. I knew my pregnancy wasn’t doomed but I knew it was better to be safe than sorry and my grandmother was the best at what she did. One day, as my pregnancy was coming to the end, my grandmother caught me by surprise. She turned to me and said “Rebecca, I know I wasn’t always there for you but I’m happy you came to me for this”. But why would I not come to her? She was my family after all and a professional in the field I needed. No one was more qualified than her and if she was willing to put away the past and start a new future with me, then I would be too.

It was a Tuesday night and my husband Dave just laid down for bed. I was putting away the laundry I had left before I went to bed when my water broke. I called Dave into the room and he had a look of panic on his face. “Get your stuff together and let’s go, I’ll call your grandmother”. In a nervous panic I packed some clothes and my phone and shoved it in my bag and then rushed out the door. I hopped into the car and Dave sped out of the neighborhood and all the way to the hospital where my grandmother and parents all stood together waiting for me. This was the day, I made it all the way through my pregnancy without any complications, a dream I hoped would come true. I was rushed into a delivery room and asked questions by surrounding nurses about my health information and what my birth entailed. After hours of contractions, we learned my baby was breech. My baby was facing head down and couldn’t be turned or born naturally. My grandmother made the call and an emergency cesarean section needed to happen. She rushed me in the emergency room and it was time. With my grandmother instructing surgery right next to me, I was sure I would be okay. My mother and father were right by my side and so was my husband, I wouldn’t have had this birth any other way.

An hour later, I emerged from the emergency room as a new proud mother of a baby girl. Looking back at the process, my grandmother was there the whole time for me, supporting me and guiding me.  Not just because it was her specialty but because she truly did care about me regardless of our past together. “What should we name our new baby girl?” Dave asked me as I was laying there, memorized at the new beautiful baby in my life. “I want her name to have meaning” I said “I want to name her after the woman I couldn’t have done this without, the one that made it so meaningful. The name also means blessed, I am so lucky to have this child. I want to name her Katarina, after my grandma”.