I dreamed I moved in with the woman up the hill. We’ll call her K. I came to talk about my Feelings on Abortion (Own Uterus Only) with her, since apparently I was pregnant, and somehow that turned into her offering me the coolest master suite ever. It had its own entrance to the house, this enormous balcony, a microwave/fridge area, and two or three queen beds at any given moment. Also, spa tub. I seem to want one of those pretty intensely.
I saw her daughter again for the first time in years; she was going to school in Philadelphia but had come back on vacation. Pretty girl, hair dyed darker than it is. Her younger son had also moved home, but her older son was gone and, she thought, not coming home ever. “You can tell him it’s okay,” I remember saying.
Also, she had been to Dallywaters and had just a few shreds of my favorite berry tisane left in her pantry. Okay, sold. Hey, she needed help with the family business; I was going to help, since all of my previous plans had been put on hold. The baby’s father wasn’t able to participate in its life, never you mind why. I didn’t blame him so you won’t either. I could either stay home with my parents (“Now we’re supporting TWO of you?”) or move into this fine bedroom/apartment.
So I moved in. And that’s when shit got real.
One of the people she was looking after had an obvious genetic illness that left her physically pretty wonked. Couldn’t move well on her own, had developed some kind of infection. K had called a doctor to see her who claimed it was malaria, and two ladies who had heard of the case had come to argue their case (the undiagnosed whatnot). Surprisingly, I was the one who faced down Doctor Stupid, on the grounds that the kind of mosquitoes that could have given her malaria weren’t here. So. Cue trip to get girl help, which for some reason meant she was strapped in right next to me in the front seat, using an extended buckle. And then we stopped at a bar, where all hell broke loose. Bzuh? Obviously, all I ordered was a Shirley Temple.
There were also pieces of video blogging, in which I was her cameraperson. At this point, I was more than earning my keep. Oh, and somehow I was in charge of sorting celebrity laundry following a divorce?!
Finally, labor. What a doozy. She woke me in the night because I’d had a nosebleed so intense I’d fallen unconscious and oops! Contractions! We ran around the apartment packing for me. Though I was petrified of puking on the way to the hospital, she put a bucket next to my go-bag. I told her if I really threw up in her car, I’d pay for cleanup, so get that triggery little bucket OUT OF MY SIGHT. I felt those frelling contractions. I complained pretty constantly that the little shit was still kicking me in the ribs. Must have been one long baby. Or one short me. That’s more likely. When I really couldn’t stand much more of the kicking and the contracting, off we went! And then she thought to ask how far in my labor I’d gotten. I reached down and there was a HEAD. And then, a minute later, a NECK. How had I not noticed? I told her to pull over; I was not giving birth in her car. I was going to give birth in the lobby of the nearest hotel.
That is when I woke up.
And that was only half the night.