The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —
Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —
I've known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —
- Emily Dickinson
Daisy was conceived against medical advice.
Approximately two weeks before her zygote-hood I was in exam room one, waiting for the gastroenterologist to confirm what I already knew but did not want to admit: my Crohn's had come back. The eight short years of remission were over and I was, once again, a 92-pound bloated tick of an abdomen with matchsticks for arms and legs. This is what Crohn's does: at first, you don't realize you're losing weight because your belly is so distended.
I noticed there was a copy of Everybody Poops among the magazines. Why? It felt like a cruel choice for reading material, even if the exam room was meant for pediatric patients with inflammatory bowel disease. Yes, everybody poops -- but not everybody poops fourteen times a day.
By the time the gastroenterologist came in, I was sobbing. He sat down and said, "Well, the good news is Prednisone isn't the only option anymore. There's a whole new class of drugs out there than the last time you were sick. Sulfa is a thing of the past, and they've come up with more tolerable ways to get the 5-ASA where it needs to go."
I said, "Can you take it when you're pregnant? Because I really, really want to have another baby."
He put his hands to his temples and said, "No. We are not having this conversation. We're going to get you stable. That is the only thing we are going to do now."
I do not remember the rest of the visit. I imagine we talked about drug options, I had blood drawn and he sent me home with prescriptions for mesalamine and cholestyramine resin. All I had heard was that I was not supposed to get pregnant, and as you know, I only had two modes when it came to maternity: nary a thought of children, or wanting to be pregnant yesterday.
The thought of Sabina being more than two years older than her younger sibling felt intolerable. At that time, I perceived every unhappy moment of my childhood as a direct result of my siblings being eight, eleven and fourteen years older than I was. And that sibling who's eight years older than I? We hadn't discovered each other yet. I mean, I knew about Lo, but we had never been in the same phase of life at the same time, and I had no reason to believe we ever would. Before she left for college, her interest in me was limited to my ability to assemble snacks. "I'll time you," she'd say, as if that somehow made it fun.
The day after that awful appointment, something unthinkable happened: the gastroenterologist called me on the telephone to apologize for the way he had spoken to me in his office.
I'll give you all a moment to regain consciousness.
Yes, a doctor called me to say he had been wrong. "I was way too harsh," he said. "Would I want my daughter to conceive while on mesalamine? No. Would it be safe? Probably. But you're entitled to want a baby, just like any other woman. And I had no right to dismiss you out of hand."
So there I was, on a drug that had not yet kicked in, living on Ensure and overcooked carrots. (I don't care how many flavors Ensure adds to its repertoire. They all taste the same: like the can they come in.) I looked cadaverous, and yet, in two weeks I was pregnant.
And I was terrified.
I can honestly say I did not relax for one moment of that pregnancy, even though as sometimes happens with autoimmune disorders, I was back into remission by the end of the first trimester. Daisy was born at thirty-six weeks and two days: long enough to weigh a respectable six pounds and five ounces and have a healthy amount of lung surfactant, but not one moment longer. I truly believe she was trying to make things easier on me.
For the first four weeks on the outside, Daisy did nothing but eat and sleep, sleep and eat, and sleep some more. Her eyes were almost always closed.
At some point during the fourth week, she opened her eyes and saw that it was Not Good. Daisy was a much fussier baby than Sabina had been, but made up for it by having eyes like stars.
Daisy did not like her bassinet. She did not like strangers. She did not like her bouncy seat. She did not like the car. She did not like to be held in any position that was comfortable for the person doing the holding. Oh, sure, I was a handy food source and LB was tolerable company. But there was really only one person in her life who could do no wrong.
Guess who?
Happy 16th birthday, Daisy! I'm so glad to be in your society.





































































