Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Where The Wild Things Are


Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Now, I didn’t go home and start googling, because I have learned that The Internet doesn’t always tell the truth! *gasp* I KNOW. That’s the problem with The Internet sometimes, especially when you’re looking up something about your daughter’s head: it’s unfiltered. Like Lucky Strikes.

Besides, denial being a powerful thing, I sent my mother, brother and sister in law out for as many small hats as I they could find to cover up Amelia’s bump. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, I couldn’t remember what it was called AND I DIDN’T WANT TO BE REMINDED. We’d scheduled a follow-up with the pediatric neurosurgeon for a week to the day that we were discharged so that we could go over the MRI that she’d undergone.

This is a picture dated February 3, 2009, which meant it was before we learned specifically what she had. We were in limbo. I was not well.


You want warts, Internet? YOU GOT THEM.

Dave took this picture and said, “You look so SAD,” and you know what? I was.

Because for all the advances in modern medicine; for all that we have learned, kids still die. Babies still die. Life is fucking fragile, it’s unfair and sometimes it sucks. These are facts too. Until this stops happening, I will always carry this sadness around in my heart, as much a part of me as my black hair and my love of cheeseburgers.

For all of the scans, the vials of blood taken from my daughter, for all of the experience the neurologist had, at this point, we really nothing to go off of. I had no way to know which way was up.

Dave loves a plan and once he knew we’d be meeting with the doctor, he felt better. Dave also never had to rotate through the transplant floor and see kids who would die if they didn’t get a new kidney, so it’s safe to say that both of our perspectives are a bit skewed. Somewhere in the middle would have been the rational place to be, but what the fuck is rational about living in limbo?

No, I couldn’t celebrate Amelia’s birth until I knew that she wasn’t just going to die on me, nor could I handle the well-meaning people who dismissed my fears. No, Internet, I don’t mean you, don’t worry.

In the face of these sobering facts about my daughter’s condition, I quickly grew weary of people telling me not to worry. It would be like telling me telling you to hold your breath for a week. Not quite within your control. It felt like a slap in the face after the 56th time.

I could write volumes on how unhelpful that was.

But brain herniation or no, I had a life that I had to lead no matter what. The world marches on even after yours has fallen apart, and I can’t help but think it was for the better. I still had a toddler to feed and love on, a 7-year old who was so proud to be a big brother, and a menagerie of animals who missed me desperately and followed me about the house nervously wherever I went.

I spent most of that week cleaning the house from top to bottom, trying to channel my nervous energy away into something more useful than wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth. I find it’s the one thing that helps quiet my mind, short of exercise and gardening, and it being February in the Midwest, and being freshly postpartum, those two ideas weren’t exactly going to work.

I suppose I could have dug a large ditch in the backyard, because fuck, digging out a trench in the frozen ground? WOULD HAVE TAKEN A LOT OF TIME AND ENERGY. And then spring would have come and I would have kicked myself for digging a trench in my already wee backyard. I guess we could have turned it into a mud-wrestling pit, but I fear I may be going off track here.

It’s a real shame I didn’t have a deck to build or a house to paint, because I could totally have done it singlehandedly right then. Never underestimate the power of a parent in crisis mode, right?

I’ve never felt like more of a fraud than I did those first few days home. I was so happy to be home, every single time my daughter woke up from a nap and opened her large eyes to look at me, I got misty-eyed. Here was this beautiful creature, all my own, who I may have to give back in the next few weeks. This miracle whom I’d loved from the moment I found out I was pregnant was probably not mine to keep.

I don’t remember a whole lot about those days, although I do remember how loved she was. Even by Alex, my little man, The Momma’s Boy, ESQ, was enchanted by her loveliness. Even if she did sort of look like a garden gnome. She was my garden gnome, dammit. I was so, so happy and so, so sad all rolled into one gigantic, arrogant, leaky puss-bag of a woman.

Through a haze of anti-anxiety meds, the first week passed and we found ourselves at the door of the neurologist, who looked shockingly like Stephen Colbert. He was a kind man, which reminds me that I probably should write him a card telling him how incredibly kind he was to all of us. It can’t have been easy to see us there, I was weeping softly, my daughter so new and fresh; still a fetus, really, and Dave, poor Dave, just trying to keep it together for the rest of us.


I remember when my father had his unexpected heart attack in the winter of 2007 and wound up in the ICU for nearly a week. A day like any other, a day like today, in which my biggest concerns went quickly from ‘Man, I hope Alex goes to fucking sleep tonight’ to ‘Man, I hope my dad makes it through the night.’ The shift in thinking here is vast and it’s frighteningly quick.

Suddenly, even news that on a normal day would be some of the worst news you could hear ‘he had two clots, one of which is threatening to kill him, but we’ve removed one of them’ sounds rather…good. It could always be worse, you tell yourself as you pace up and down those hospital corridors peeping into rooms whose occupants, well, HAD it worse than you do.

But somewhere in those dark recesses of your brain, you remind yourself that even though for now, for RIGHT now, things are going as well as you can expect, they can sour without warning. There isn’t a newsletter that goes out to tell you that,”Today, Becky Sherrick Harks, is going to be the day you’re going to die.”

Yesterday, The Daver and I took our week old daughter to a pediatric neurosurgeon after we picked up her MRI films from the hospital. We sat there in the waiting room, me with a baby on the boob while he filled out the piles of paperwork and received the kind of pitying looks from the other patients as they walked by that made my heart swim with tears.

Yes, it reminded me, it is this bad.

After the neurosurgeon, ranked one of the best in the area, bounded into the room, filling it up with a sort of ebullient energy that only someone who abso-fucking-lutely loves his job has, he flicked through the massive stack of films to find one to show us what was wrong with our daughter. In cross-sectional picture form.

And for some reason, despite my incredible love of anatomy, my utter lack of horror for things like internal organs and dissections (I am, apparently, my father’s daughter), I could hardly handle looking at these films that showed my daughter’s head. In ways I never wanted to imagine it.

It’s funny. I know HOW these things work, I could probably give you a dissertation on reading an MRI of the brain without much prep, and yet seeing these parts of brain, parts of my DAUGHTER’S brain, made me cry and feel revolted.

It felt unnatural to be looking at these films. In several, I could see that she was crying, or at least her mouth was open and neck arched backward and I ached. I physically ached for her.

Sure enough, right where some brilliant tech had put some of the measurements on the films, the brilliant and kind doctor pointed out what we can easily see from the outside: her cyst. In medical terms, as I alluded to by the title of my last post, it’s called a cephalocele, and it’s sort of like a hernia on the skull where the bones of the skull didn’t properly fuse together while in utero.

I’d known all about cephalocele’s before I’d birthed Amelia, before I married Daver, and I knew enough to know that the one that my daughter has been born with is really pretty minor. Typically, they cause all other sorts of neuro symptoms and retardation, but by the grace of God, Amelia seems to have none of those. We will, of course, know more as she ages and appropriately (or not) hits all of her milestones.

The upside to her cephaolcele is that it’s not an ENcephalocele, which means that the cyst is full of cerebrospinal fluid WITHOUT brain matter. The bad side is, of course, that she’s still going to need brain surgery in the following weeks. And no matter what way you try and spin this, it’s fucking scary.

(ed note: the above paragraph was not true, and was written the day after our appointment with Neuro #1. Amelia did have a true encephalocele, complete with brain matter)

The bounding doctor would like her to have this surgery in the next couple of weeks so she won’t remember it when she gets older, and while it makes sense to me, I’d still like to cocoon myself away from the thought of my daughter going under the knife for the next, oh, I don’t know, 60+ years? By which time I’ll be dead and I won’t have to sit in the PICU for several days while she wakes up, my breasts aching and full.

Unfortunately, the doctor whom I adored on sight, does not take my insurance and although I have a PPO, I’m not sure we can swing the thousands of extra dollars it’ll require to have him specifically do the surgery. He referred us to a colleague of his whom we will see on Wednesday of next week and form a Plan Of Attack.

I only wish this Plan Of Attack included leaving my sweet baby girl’s head unscathed and eating a bunch of Funyons while sitting on my bum, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get out of this one.

And so I sit here, waiting again while freaking out quietly, and trying to remind myself that things could always be worse. Always. It doesn’t help much, but it’s all I have to cling to right now.

Well, that and my brand new bottle of Valium.

Part VI

Part VII


Part IX

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