Written by guest blogger: Erin
This is the almost, kind of, somewhat true story of the day that I was born. Of course my mother will deny everything. It was a lovely Sunday in April, long long ago. It was fairly early in the morning. The sky was still dark and my parents were getting the other children ready for church. “Why do we have to go to 5 am mass?” My mothers reply was that the good priest with the best homilies was saying the 5 am mass. It was almost Brady Bunch like, the other kids dressed up in the church clothes standing on the steps leading to the upstairs. They rubbed their eyes and yawned, wishing they could just go back to bed. Little did they know that their wish would soon be granted.
My mother started to have contractions and yelled at my father to get the hospital bag and get the car started. Dad looked up at the other kids and said well, looks like no church today. The other kids started cheering and ripped off the church clothes only to reveal the pajamas that were underneath. My mother was livid, it was her favorite priest saying mass and this heathen of a child was going to make her miss church. (Wow so I was a heathen before I was even born, did not think that was possible) She was throwing a fit the whole way to Central Dupage County Hospital. “I was supposed to help pass the collection basket, now I’ll be put at the end of the line, do you know how hard it was to get to the top of the list?” My father looked away and rolled his eyes. He then grabbed some change from his jacket and put it in the ashtray. He handed it to her, “Here pass this back and forth”. She was not amused. I was probably being a pain the butt and kicking her and wanting out. After a short drive, they made it to the hospital. My dad dropped off my mom at the entrance. “Make sure you park where you can pull right out, I hate when we have to back out of spots.”
My mom waddled inside and started walking the hall, peering into a room she spotted a priest giving someone their last rites. “Father! Father!, this kid is messing with what surely was going to be a great homily and I am missing it! I need you to come here right now and give me a sermon. I cannot possibly go through today without the word of God.” The priest was obviously very embarrassed. He was a man of the cloth, so he begrudgingly gave her a short sermon. “God is good, god is great, we should do what he says so we don’t burn in hell, go in peace my child.” My mother thought it was pretty lackluster, luckily my father arrived to steer her in the direction of her room. He apologized profusely to the priest as he led her away.
Some reports say that they had to use restraints on my mother while lying in the hospital bed. Nurses still shudder at the sound of her name. They say she was trying to make it to the chapel for the morning service even though the doctor was telling her to push. She wanted to partake in communion. Someone took a few crackers off a discarded plate in the hallway and tried to use that. She said it was sacrilege to make fun of a very important part of the mass. At that point, I am sure it was the drugs talking and not my mother. The reports however are hazy and years of therapy have made it difficult to get a clear account of what happened that Sunday morning. I was being close to being born and things a good catholic should never utter were being uttered, quite loudly. The Cook County Hospital nurses could hear her. Then at 7:13 I arrived. The yelling stopped, the cooing began. After weighing and measuring me, they turned to hand me to my mother, she was gone. High jacked a wheelchair and made it to an 8:00 service. So there you have it, the story of my birth. Ask the siblings and they will confirm the story.
After several years of working with the public, it has come to mind that I have become bitter to a certain respect. I am a fairly happy go lucky person, but when one of the 100 gets broken, I get irked. Funny word, irked. I do enjoy finding a word people do not use often, and then try to use it as many times as I can in one day. Sure it can get annoying, but if more people used it, then I wouldn’t have to. Anyway back to the 100, which I never fully explained. The 100 is a list of 100 things that drive me up the wall. The sad thing is that some of the things are so minor, but after so many years, they just have become a major issue. I’ll be at work, and if one of the 100 occurs I would say something to the fact that ok, number 66 on my list of things that annoy me. I assign numbers, but I cannot remember which number goes with which annoyance, except for number one.