Episode 14: ”Like Dylan in the Movies”—Belle + Sebastian.
“Yeah you’re worth the trouble and you’re worth the pain
And you’re worth the worry, I would do the same
If we all went back to another time
I will love you over”
I have fallen in love at first sight with two different individuals. In reverse chronological order: my daughter Dylan Ruby, and her father Ryan. Ironically (or then again, not “ironic,” just really unfair), her life began only a few months after his ended.
Dylan emerged into the world just as the sun was setting. She was slippery and angry. I was exhausted, delirious, relieved, amazed.
I won’t bore you with the “Miracle of Life” details.
Instead I will tell you this: I was fucking terrified.
I had spent the last few months, hiding in my mother’s house, reading long dreary Russian novels and listening to early-nineties gangsta rap. I emerged only to go to a drawing studio at the nearby college.
And there was the crying. Hours and hours every night while wearing my dead boyfriend’s clothes, after my mom went to bed. Usually around midnight, my mom would emerge from her bedroom to make me herbal tea and watch some sort of cheery old movie with me.
I could not/would not speak to any of my Chicago friends. This left only two people in my life: my mom (my new best friend) and my life long best friend, Laura (Dylan’s godmother). And this was just fine, as I had very little to say. I was killing time, waiting to move on with my life. I assumed (mostly incorrectly) that this would happen after Dylan was born.
I wasn’t afraid of the pain of giving birth or the hard work involved in child-rearing. I was afraid of being someone’s mother. What if we hated one another? What if she (because by then, I knew that a girl was in my future) blamed me for her father’s death? What if I was just a really bad parent? What if I became one of those women crazed with post-partum depression who drowns her kids in the lake before running off with a married man? And so on. The truth is, I am an anxious weirdo, spending a lot of time worrying about every possible bad outcome to any situation…even if it’s something minor like, “What if I bought too many bananas at the grocery store and then they get brown and then I get fruit flies in the kitchen?”
Dylan was stubborn about being born. For one, she arrived two weeks late, narrowly escaping the lifelong curse of “Scorpio.” And then when labor finally started, she was still resistant about meeting me. I couldn’t sleep or eat or really walk around after a certain point. Things got hazy. My blood pressure inexplicably dropped and suddenly I was receiving drugs to keep me alive. A day later, I was still waiting. Relatives dropped by. I played a game of gin rummy with my grandma. The phone next to my bed rang non-stop with callers requesting status updates.
And then FINALLY it was time for the main event.
Nurses were scurrying around, transforming the space into a sterile delivery room. Walls disappeared. My bed was pushed across the room.
Just as bright lights appeared and my doctor was putting on gloves and my best friend was pulling out her camera…the full weight of it all hit me.
This was it.
And nothing was at all as I had planned it. No beaming partner/father-to-be. Instead, just my mom, grandma, and best friend. No XY chromosomes in this room. I had no job. I was living with my mom in rural Pennsylvania. My artist boyfriend and our bohemian lifestyle were part of some long lost dream. Now I had only Medicaid and the love of my mother.
After hours of numbness and confusion, I was brought back to earth with an agonizing thud. I found myself throwing up orange juice and salty tears. I couldn’t do this. I could not survive more disappointment. If just then, someone had offered me the use of a time machine, I would have traveled back to that April Fool’s Day when I had met Ryan. And I would have gone to a movie instead. I turned to my mom. “I just can’t do this. I’m sorry.” She pulled a photo of Ryan from her purse and put it under my pillow. “I know you say you don’t believe in anything, but I know that Ryan is here in some way. For five minutes, or ten…however long this takes, just let yourself believe that he is part of this.” I gave myself a silent pep talk. This was my chance to prove to the world that I was tough. This was one of those make-it-or-break-it moments. No backing out now. And with that–and a few minutes of encouragement and breathing and pushing and all of the other stuff involved–Dylan was born. I didn’t see her for five minutes, as she was being cleaned, poked, and prodded, all in the name of healthcare. I could hear her screaming just five feet away. I craned for a view, but I saw nothing. When she was finally handed to me, she was wrinkly, peely, and not at all lovely. And she was voicing her displeasure with her newly begun life. “Hi, Dylan,” I said almost shyly. And she immediately stopped crying. I know babies can’t see very well, but I swear she looked right into my eyes. And with that, I was in love. I knew that somehow, some way, everything would be okay…even if nothing had gone as planned.
Moreover: Dylan’s favorite bands/musicians are Michael Jackson, The Decemberists, and Blondie. She is eight now, so she also likes that Miley Cyrus girl. She prefers books about science and she thinks vegetarianism is “stupid.” And yes, she IS named after Bob Dylan. That’s what happens when both of your parents are painters/record geeks.
