Operation Caffeination

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I really should be sleeping.

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I know this will turn out to be a very strange post, and I may delete it tomorrow and feel a little silly for putting these thoughts into writing in the first place, but it is nearly 5 a.m., and I have been laying awake for hours. I’ve been reading Irshad Manji, the news, the weather report… listening to my babies grow in their sleep beside me. Life is too fast, too full of action and change for me.

My mind wanders, and I remember reading about the rock cycle for my geology class a few quarters ago, about how even rocks move and develop, recycling themselves, churning in the molten core of the earth, dissolving and reforming. They work their way back up to the surface to live new lives, lives that are measured in eons, lives that make our centuries look just as short as they feel.

I thought about mortality a lot as I approached Melia’s birth this summer, driving past the cemetery for our ob/gyn appointments, counting the headstones as we ambled by on the bus. I was thoroughly informed of the risks I was taking in choosing an elective c-section for myself and my baby, and I didn’t take those risks lightly…but I had to find a way to reclaim my life, to leave the trauma in the past where it belongs and move forward. So I grappled all over again with mortality and suffering, with the possibility that I could lose my baby, or perhaps even worse, that my babies could lose me, that I would have no choice but to leave them to go through life with a hole in their hearts. It was terribly depressing, very painful stuff, but I could not reclaim my life from the capriciousness of nature without exercising some of mother nature’s ruthlessness. It became terribly important to me that I win this round, that I not submit to the natural order, that I claim ownership over my fleeting existence. I needed to fight back against what one birthing book termed my “inner monkey” to reclaim my dignity. I may not be much, but I will be damned before I allow animal instincts and autonomic responses to define what I am.

When I die, I don’t hope to attain heaven or fear lasting torment in hell. I only want to become one with the rocks; I want to sink into the earth, become one with majestic tectonic plate movements, oceanic rifts, dissolve into molten lava, be spewed into the sky to descend as igneous stone. I want to create, recreate, and recreate, for the rest of time.

I don’t buy the mystical, spiritual interpretations of reincarnation, but I would very much like to “come back” to the earth as a rock. Perhaps it is my way of reclaiming the immortality I was promised as a child, but no longer believe that any of us can attain. Or perhaps it is the same rebellion that drove me to the OR. I refuse to let my passing be defined by an inscription that someone else decides to put on a pink granite headstone: “here lies a loving wife and mother.” I crave something more meaningful than that; a journey to the center of the earth would be just the thing.

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Written by GRSeim

September 18, 2011 at 12:08 pm

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