Dar-Dar

A little short story I've been fiddling with for a long time, too long.

Dar-Dar

By Shawn Kessler

Copyright 2014

Like most brothers, Dart and Daryl shared a common pool of genes provided by their mother and father; but unlike most brothers, Dart and Daryl took it a step further and shared the exact same set of genes.

The thought of identical twins so unnerved my father that he refused to enter the delivery room until both babies were cleaned and tucked away neatly under my mother’s arms, as if not witnessing the delivery would somehow make it possible for him to believe that they didn't originate from her body. He paced the hospital floor for fifteen hours listening to his wife’s screams and moans. He was filled with joy when the doctor finally came out to tell him they were ready for him, but his joy was soon overcome by dread when he saw both boys suckling at his wife’s tits. She look loaded down like a wild animal and from that day forward he couldn't help but think of Dart and Daryl as a pair of feral dogs, interlopers lasciviously clinging to what he once thought were his wife’s greatest assets.

Before Dart and Daryl were born, Dad was home every night by six and made a point to never work weekends. We played board games in the evenings, went camping on weekends, and the house was always filled with his laughter and the sounds of his heavy feet moving across the hardwood floors. That all went away when Dart and Daryl arrived. Dad became a ghost in his own home; you would only know he had been there because his shoes had moved from the front step and an unrolled, partially read newspaper would be splayed out across the kitchen table next to an empty cup of coffee, the spoon on the table still warm from his touch. A year after the twin’s birth I assumed Dad left us for good as his shoes stopped moving and the coffee and paper ceased being consumed.

Mom never seemed to mind Dad’s departure. As far as I could tell, in her mind, two boys suckling at her breasts were just as good as one full grown man doing it. And so life in our house continued on as normal but with fewer board games, and camping trips, and the sound of laughter replaced with that of crying babies.

Any sane and just court would find that I had every right, and perhaps even a duty, to be angry with the twins, that whatever mean and spiteful ways I acted toward them and my mother would be completely justified and tolerated. However the twins were always such a novelty to me that I never thought to be angry with them (or Mom). Granted I was mean and spiteful in ways that are the prerogative of an older sibling, but I don’t believe I ever overreached precedence set by billions of siblings before us.

My fascination with them largely stemmed from their interchangeability. At birth they were perfectly identical: they weighed the same (6lbs 3ozs), they had the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, the same red birthmark above the right knee that slowly faded and disappeared on the same hour of the same day two years after their birth. The hospital put little bracelets on their wrists, each with a name and shared birth date, but the boys were in such sync that their wristbands would fall off just at the perfect moment, when everyone had their backs turned to them. The first time it happened my mother put the wristband that was closest to each baby back on its wrist but later confessed that she had no clue from that point forward which was originally Dart and which was Daryl. She still made an honest effort to see each as a unique individual and always went out of her way to make distinctions between them. She always dressed them in different outfits, but as soon as they were alone they’d switch half of their outfits, Daryl wearing Dart’s shirt or Dart wearing Daryl’s pants. She tried cutting their hair different styles, but their hair always ended the day sloppily parted to the left side. Then she had the idea to make one of them grow his hair out, but as soon as she cut one of the boys’ hair the others would begin to fall out. She’d find chunks of hair in the bathtub drain, on the pillows in the morning, and stuffed away between books and couch pillows when cleaning up in the afternoon. She hid all the scissors in the house but still the hair appeared and before the week was over they had the same short, sloppily left-parted hairs, this time with matching cowlicks on top.

When the twins went out to play they’d leave the house wearing clean clothes, each in their own unique outfit. When they arrived home hours, or even minutes later they’d both be dirty, with swapped clothes. I always imagined that the first thing they did when out of sight was to furiously rub together like two sticks trying to catch fire.

While growing up, only once did I hear one of them speak while in the others presence. If you could get them apart they would speak in brief broken sentences, usually requesting to be reunited with “my brother.” They never did well in school, although they were good at math and writing, their inability to be apart or to speak when the other was around made them unbearable to most teachers and after the third grade mother decided to home school them. It was at this point that we began shortening their names to Dar; then eventually we referred to the two of them together as Dar-Dar. By the time they were teenagers, they were both called Dar-Dar as a pair and as individuals. If one was in the kitchen with Mom and me, and she asked, “Where is Dar-Dar?” I knew that she meant the other Dar-Dar, not the one sitting in the kitchen with us, and besides, we really had no idea who was Daryl and who was Dart anyway.

The name Dar-Dar only became a problem when Mom would write letters after I moved to Chicago for college. Without the context of a shared life I could no longer determine who she was talking about. I knew she no longer had a way to communicate a distinction between the two of them, and it probably never even occurred to her that I had any trouble knowing who she was talking about (and rarely was their a distinction worth making between the two), so I never bothered to tell her about the difficulty I had reading her letters.

After college I stayed where I was and continued to receive letters from Mom. When I was thirty she sent me a short letter that convinced me to call home.

Hello My Darling,

Your brother Dar-Dar is going to have a sex change.

I don’t know what to do!

Love Always,

Mom

I was shocked! Were they both having a sex change? If not, how could only one of them want to? And which one was it? All of the sudden who was Dart and who was Daryl was of utmost importance. I quizzed Mom with these questions but she wasn't sure if both of them wanted to do it or just one. At first she thought it was just one of them because only one of them at any given time would voice the desire but then she realized she didn't actually know if it was the same Dar-Dar each day that was saying he wanted a sex change. They were twenty-four years old now and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop either of them from getting the procedure done. The procedure was scheduled for the day after I called; she would have told me sooner, but she didn't want to worry me needlessly, but it looked like it was really going to happen.

By time I found a flight home and touched down at the airport, Dar-Dar was under the knife. By time I arrived at the hospital, the procedure was done. Dar-Dar was in the recovery room, one lying on a bed asleep, and the other reading a magazine while sitting quietly in a chair next to the bed, both wearing hospital gowns. I asked Mom if they had both had the surgery. She said that they hadn't but Dar-Dar insisted on wearing the gown for as long as his sister had to. I joked that we’d at least be able to tell them apart now. Mother frowned and then cried.

After the surgery Dar-Dar went on medications to adjust her hormone levels to suit her new body’s needs. Gradually a small swell grew in her breasts but true to form brother Dar-Dar’s breasts grew bigger along with our sister’s. When it was all said and done they still looked identical: thin boys, with boyish hair cuts and slightly swollen breasts. I never saw the final plumbing downstairs, so from my point of view nothing had changed—they were still the same Dar-Dar and I still couldn’t tell them apart. After being home for two months I had to return to work. I felt bad leaving Mom alone with them but at the same time I felt that nothing had changed and the three of them could manage without me like they’d done for so many years before.

On the plane ride home I dreamt of Dar-Dar naked, rolling around together in a mass of flesh, they “ohhed” and “ahhed” and whispered “my brother” and “my sister” to each other. I watched through a window and was turned on myself. I was filled with shame, but couldn’t stop watching and enjoying the spectacle. When I arrived home I had another dream of them. This time they had hundreds of small children that looked just like them when they were young. Sister Dar-Dar sat in a rocking chair, angelic and beautiful, while brother Dar-Dar stood behind her combing her long hair, cherishing it like gold. The clone children played silently around their feet. I awoke feeling like someone was sitting on my chest, barely able to breath.

The next day I called Mom to ask what the living arrangements were going to be long term. I couldn't get the image of them together out of my head. She said she hadn't really thought about it but imagined they’d just keep on sharing the same room. I felt sick, but didn't argue with her. I stopped calling home and threw away letters that arrived without opening them. Mom stopped calling too, except once a year at Christmas to let me know everything was alright.

Dar-Dar made it impossible for me to ever want my own children, what if their condition was genetic and I had a pair just like them? I pushed the idea of fatherhood out of my head, and with it went the idea of being a husband.

Mom called out of the blue one year: Dar-Dar has cancer, he’s dying. I found myself once again on an airplane, to visit one of the twins in the hospital.

They still looked near identical, he was thinner and gaunt, but she appeared to be wasting away with him, just not as fast. He was asleep in the hospital bed when I arrived and she sat next to him in a matching hospital gown, quietly reading a magazine.

“Hello brother,” she spoke with a low feminine voice that was entirely alien to me. I didn't know what to say or how to respond to her. I told Mom I needed to go to the house and rest. While I was there, sleeping in my old bed, Dar-Dar died in his sleep. They called to tell me; I assumed that the other Dar-Dar would die too, that we’d soon be reenacting the last half of E.T.

But it didn’t happen. Dar-Dar came home; she didn’t speak to me again. She tells Mom that she’s dying, but it’s not true, she eventually lives to be eighty-one. We bury Dar-Dar in the family plot out at the cemetery. It was a hot sunny day. We were all miserable in our matching black suits and dresses. I’m pretty sure Dad was there too—though I never saw him—dressed in black or buried under some tree of his own, either way still a ghost.

I drove Mom and Dar-Dar home from the funeral. Dar-Dar cried in the back seat. Mom cried in the front seat. I was annoyed with both of them. And grateful, and embarrassed by my gratefulness, because one less twin meant that much less weirdness in our lives. No more Dar-Dar. Just Dar. I looked in the review mirror and tried it out, “I'm sorry Dar.” Although a person was surely there—I had opened the door myself and let her in, closing it behind her—the backseat was a great void, a gaping black and lifeless chasm until I completed her name, “-Dar.” She nodded her head in recognition of my condolence. I returned to Chicago. Mom and Dar-Dar moved to a house more appropriate for two people.

After Mom died Dar-Dar moved again; this time into a home where three warm meals were served each and every day by a paid and trained staff. Here she spent the reminder of her life, putting together puzzles, watching day-time television, and being appreciated by those who ran the home for her brevity and general lack of drama. I received a letter and a box after her death. It read:

As Daryl's lone surviving next-of-kin, he designated you the heir and recipient of all of his worldly belongings. You will find in the accompanying box any possessions that we deemed to hold either monetary—or potential sentimental—value . In addition, a cashiers check for $10,484.54 can be found in the same envelope this letter arrived in along with a full accounting of his expenses and bank statements for the past year. Please accept our deepest condolence and know that your brother was well loved and taken care of at The Sunny Days facility.

I hadn't seen or heard the name Daryl in the context of one of my siblings in such a long time that it took me a moment to realize that some mistaken had not been made. I searched his bank account statements and his little box of possessions for clues about how he became Daryl again, how she had become my brother again. But there was nothing. Had I been wrong about which sibling had died all those years ago? I wrote multiple letters to the home asking for clarification, but they all ended up in the trash or burnt up in the fireplace; there was no way to ask the question without sounding crazy. I placed upon the mantel the only picture that arrived in Daryl's box, a little black-and-white of Dar-Dar and Mom and a man I couldn't recognize, his arm draped across Mom's shoulder with so much familiarity, probably taken while I was in college. Across the back were inscribed four names: Daryl, Dart, Mom and Dad.

The Complexity of Math. Or the Conclusion of Jon

The story is he didn't do it.  The cyanide not withstanding, he always maintained his innocence.

His girlfriend, the little girl's mother, stood by his side. Whatever the facts were, at least those presented to the jury, weren't sufficient to save him. On the account of not being there, I have a lot of unknown variables.

Certainly there must be some value in a mother standing with the accused, calling her own daughter a liar. But we know for certain that instances exist where a parent will side with a lover even at the detriment of their children. Is she such a parent? I don't know her. Never set eyes on her. Never heard a story about her other than this one.

From the darker parts of the Internet he did a little research, and God knows how exactly, he managed to put together a small pill and snuck it into his sentencing. He walked in knowing that what he would hear that day was not the difference between freedom and prison but life and death.

As the words dropped, as the verdict was read, the guard reported he saw Jon slip something in his mouth.

Half hour later leaving the courtroom he falls to the ground. Soon he's in a coma. His vital organs shut down. He's put on machines to drag his life out, but a few days later his soul goes off to where ever it goes.

Was he innocent?

Somewhere there is a little girl who can answer that question. Should I feel some relief in his possible innocence?

Her mom says she made the story up because Jon and her wouldn't let the girl date a 21 year old guy (when she was thirteen).

Before me sits two plates. One crawling with spider. The other filled with scorpions. One of which I must eat. Somewhere out there is a little girl who was molested by her mother's boy friend and abandoned by her mother. Somewhere out there is a little girl who invented a lie so dark and terrible it sent a man to the deepest despair. Somewhere out there is a little girl with a heart already filled with a life's worth of pain and sadness. Somewhere out there is a dead man. Somewhere out there is a whole network of people eating plates of poisonous insects.

Does his innocence even matter now? Is the math worth the effort? Or should we just eat?

Growing Bears

Two events with Berkeley have recently brought me unexpected joy. Sometimes it's easy to forget that she's on an ever-changing trajectory toward "adulthood", that even though she's just a little girl she's right in the middle of the process of growing up, that she's changing. You can sense it, like you can sense passing near someone on a foggy night, but until they get close enough, or the fog clears just right, you're not really sure what's out there.

A few nights ago we were out to dinner with a group of friends. Berkeley and Wren were the only children there. Berkeley sat at the table and did her usual things: played with her food before eating it, talking over other people, being loud, just typical three-year old stuff. The conversation amongst the adults turned to where some of them went to high school. There was a brief exchange and a minor pause in the conversation and Berkeley found it the perfect time to interject and said, "I go to school."

Writing about it now I don't know if I can even convey how great I found this. It made me laugh first and then upon reflection it ended up being the highlight of the day. It feels like a milestone. She's following free flowing adult conversation and not only understanding what is being spoken of but attempting to be a part of the conversation in a meaningful and non-destructive way. It felt very grown up to me, and part of the joy I felt stemmed from the moment's unexpectedness. I didn't know she could do it.

A few nights later I went to do some indoor rock climbing, this is a new thing for me and so I was telling Berkeley about it before I went and to help her understand what I was doing I showed her a little video of some kids climbing before she went to bed. I left to go climb while Robyn was in the middle of putting Berkeley to bed and when I came home Robyn was the only one awake. The next morning Berkeley called me into her bedroom. I pulled her out of bed and we went to the kitchen to have breakfast together, just the two of us. After I poured her cereal and sat down next to her she asked, "Papa, how was your rock climbing?"

Again I was taken by surprise. And again I feel inadequate at relaying why I found it extraordinary. The question required more memory and, maybe more importantly, more empathy, or interest in other people's enjoyment, than I expected out of her. It was an incredibly thoughtful question for someone who spends most of her days mostly worried about who is going to keep her entertained and play with her. Her concern, maybe expressed for the first time, wasn't about her enjoyment, but about someone else's.

Even more recently--this post is like three weeks in the making--Robyn went on her first photoshoot since Wren was born. When she returned home Berkeley asked, "How was your picture taking, Mama?" I wasn't taken by surprise this time, but instead I was a little embarrassed. I hadn't gotten around to asking Robyn about the details of her event, and our three-year old had to remind me about the proper way to be excited and interested in those you care the most about.

A HeartBreaking Work of Stagging Heartbreak

I don't know why I chose the particular title I did, other than I could fit the word heartbreak into it twice, the post doesn't really relate to the similarly titled book.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about specific bad events. I've sort of mentally prepared myself for the worst, as much as one can. Maybe we all have. I've thought, what would I do if--heaven forbid--one of my loved ones was seriously hurt or died well before their time? During these contemplative moments I mostly ponder the concept of forgiveness. I hope that if I ever am tasked with the need to give great forgiveness, I'll be equipped to hand it out in abundance. It's hard to know till it happens, but I feel like a) being aware that you hope for it and b) actively visualizing it, will make it more likely when, if ever, it's called for. I feel like an athlete picturing in his mind the three-point shot he'll have to make at the end of the most important game of his life. You can go through it in your mind a thousand times but you still might not hit the shot when the time comes, but hopefully you've upped your odds.

Unfortunately this sort of meditation has left me ill-prepared for an event that took place this week. Actually the event took place a few years ago but my discovery of the event was just this week.

A friend sent me a message over Facebook with a link, he asked, "Did you see this?" I opened the link and found before me a picture of a different friend, a mug shot, and the description of the list of his crimes that included words like "thirteen year old girl" and "sexual assault in the first degree."

These things I can't understand. Honestly, when I think about it for more than a couple seconds I have to fight back the urge to cry. It's such a fucking mess.

There's the obvious, likely life long, pain some little girl will get to grow old with. That's the sort of suffering I feel like I've been preparing myself for. But this is something else, instead of the boogeyman being some stranger, some random act of violence perpetrated on one of my loved ones, it's one of my friends, he has become the perpetrator and it's not a state of affairs that I've equipped myself to deal with.

For redemption to mean anything it has to mean something for this man, he who has fallen the furthest. It has to do so without belittling those he has hurt, the girl in question, her family and his own friends and family. But all I can feel is, "God damn you, Jon! God Damn You!"

And then I feel stupid for even talking or thinking about forgiveness. It's not mine to give here. It belongs to a whole other family if they ever chose to give it. And yet it feels like mine, like it should be all of ours. He's likely ruined his life with these actions. At one point I tried to imagine what it felt like at the moment he had his mug shot taken. The terrible sinking feeling captured forever in a flash that says, "It's over. You're done." His own stupid useless staggering heartbreak. And I was crushed under its imaginary weight; I'm incapable of imagining what horror it must have been. There's more than one tragedy here, but I'm left only knowing how to feel about one of them. God damn you, Jon. I hope one day I'll be able to follow that up with a plea for peace upon your soul, but that day isn't today. God damn you.

Binding Agents

For posterity, especially Wren.

On December 20th, Robyn was ten days past due and went in for her regular stress test for her and the baby's health. While there the doctors noted protein in her urine which is a symptom of preeclampsia.  They also measured her blood pressure and had her do a more thorough 24 hour urine test. Blood pressure was elevated compared to prior measurements but not considered high for a healthy pregnant woman.

The next day, the 21st, we went to the labor and delivery floor of UCSF to turn in the sample and talk to the doctors. They wouldn't have the results right away but they took Robyn's blood pressure again and monitored the baby for about an hour. All seemed well but the doctors pushed for induction because of her still elevated blood pressure, but Robyn greatly wanted to avoid induction. The official diagnosis was gestational hypertension, but they'd have the results from the 24 hour tests in a few hours and at that point they could decide to either call it preeclampsia or stick with hypertension. Either way they wanted to induce but with the preeclampsia they REALLY wanted to induce. Some major risks of preeclampsia: strokes and seizures; delivery of the baby/placenta is the only way to completely avoid the risks.

We decided to not induce at that time but would wait for the test results, hoping it was just hypertension. At midnight they called to tell us that the tests confirmed there were elevated levels of protein and that they were now extra interested in induction. We agreed to come in at 5am so that we could get some sleep prior to starting what we recalled being a very intense and tiring process with Berkeley.

At 4am we woke and had our friend Courtney come over and stay with Berkeley. We had warned Berkeley the last few nights that she might wake up one morning and find Courtney or Grandma Lynn there rather than us so we were sure she'd be fine with the change. We packed our mostly already packed bags and headed off to the hospital once Courtney arrived.

When we arrived at the hospital we called Lynn to tell her to come relieve Courtney whenever was convenient  Also there at the hospital we met our friend Jenny who was going to be with us throughout the labor as a helping and comforting hand. For our prior labor and delivery Leisel took the journey with us, and we were hoping she would be here again, but that little baby cooked too long. But we felt confident and comfortable having Jenny's loving hands and heart there with us.

The trip over to the hospital was so different from when we did it with Berkeley. The first time Robyn had already labored at home for hours and was having mighty contractions. We noticed every bump and stop (her more than me); this time it was a calm drive up the same road with little to no note of the condition of the road.

We were admitted as planned and then assigned to beautiful labor room 2 (which has the best views, maybe in the entire city, not to brag). Robyn's blood pressure had gone up some more, but was still at safe levels. She was hooked up to an IV so that pitocin could be added to her blood stream. Some blood samples were drawn and by 8:30am they started dripping small amounts of the synthetic hormone into her body.

The great difficulty for Robyn was that we had been told that the introduction of pitocin can make labor pains more intense than those that come naturally. She wanted to do the delivery without pain medication, especially no epidural, and she worried that the pitocin would make that task all the harder. The doctors and nurses assured us that they could start off the contractions slowly so to simulate the natural birth process but at the peak strength the contractions would be, and must be, very strong regardless of whether or not pitocin was used or the process was started naturally. So we hoped and prayed that the pain could be managed even with the introduction of the hormone.

At the point of induction I called Jason and let him know that we had started; he planned to join us later that morning. I felt a little out of sorts at that point. Robyn didn't seem to need any specific assistance and even when the contractions started they were pretty minor. The nurse suggested that Jenny and I go get some breakfast. It seemed like a crazy idea to me but everyone else was on board so I assumed it must not be that crazy to leave Robyn on her own at this point. Breakfast was had, and we quickly went back up stairs.

The baby's heartbeat was monitored and the familiar thump thump of the monitoring system started up. It brought a tear to Jenny's eye as she remembered her own pregnancies. I on the other hand dread that sound a little; it was a source of stress for us with Berkeley's delivery. The length of the delivery had the heart rate changing frequently and the doctors worrying about it. This time we barely took note of it. It's so very strange how different the two experiences were starting out.

The pitocin levels were increased and soon the contraction strength matched the new levels of the pitocin. Robyn opted for a spell in the bathtub. She threw-up a lot during Berkeley's delivery and was feeling nauseated this time too. She really didn't want to go through the constant vomiting again. But more of a concern to the doctors was her blood pressure. Recent readings had reached levels too high. So they gave her some meds to try to bring it down. This worked a little but she remained right below the "too high" level for most of the rest of her delivery. Because preeclampsia causes seizures they wanted to put her on magnesium sulfate to help prevent them. It's a very rare symptom but they wanted to be precautious. There didn't appear to be any major side effects to the magnesium sulfate so we consented to it.

The contractions in the tub started being super strong, strong like I remembered seeing with Berkeley. Finally I felt I had something to do besides sit around and stare at my hands or out the window. Jenny seemed much better prepared and equipped for those quiet hours before the labor got really intense. She knew immediately to take a beeping medical device out of the room to avoid bothering Robyn (I just stupidly messed with it trying to figure out how to make it shut up). The muscle memory of lending Robyn my strength through words and body contact came back and I think I did a swell job of coaching her through some very difficult contractions. We did a lot of breathing. A lot of remembering the utility of the pain. And a lot of encouraging.

Jason arrived near the end of the bath. Though I didn't see him in that moment I knew he was there and a certain amount of relief filled my own body.

Once the magnesium sulfate was ready Robyn had to depart the bath. They didn't want her having seizures in the water. We took the long, long trip from the bathtub to the bed. Though the distance was mere tens of feet, the journey felt much longer and was great and trying.

I asked the nurse if Robyn could be checked for progress, she hadn't been checked since we came in that morning but the prior day she had already been at 4 centimeters. They hadn't checked earlier because she hadn't had any contractions between that time and when the induction started.

She laid down on the bed and one of the doctors came in to check her out. Eight centimeters was the determination. Robyn was laboring very strong at that point, I think in her mind she had to already be a ten and nothing less than a nine was going to ease her mind.

Things happened fast from there. Mostly I remember words.

Robyn: "NO NO NO NO NO."
Robyn: "I can't, it can't be only eight."
Robyn: "I can't do it."
Nurse: "The next two will go so fast."
Me: "You can do it. You are doing it."
Nurse: "Doctor don't leave. She's grunting. It will happen soon."

Suddenly someone picked up a phone and then the room was filled with nurses and doctors. They asked Robyn to rollover (there was some cord maneuvering that needed to happen) but she was somewhere else, somewhere primal where words and requests cease to mean what they mean to you and me in our regular waking hours. She arched her back. She howled. She wailed. She reasserted over and over that she didn't know what to do. Did she speak to me or the doctors or the baby or God? I can't say, but oh my heart.

One doctor told me I needed to make Robyn do what they were asking. As if I had super powers or something. As if I was the one who bent rivers and moved mountains. We did eventually get her to make the requested movements and no more than five minutes after she was checked, the baby's head made its first appearance. Nine had come and gone. Ten was here. It was time to push.

When Berkeley was born Robyn pushed for three hours while protected by an epidural. It was a long tiring process, like raising an army. But this baby was nothing like that. In the full throws of her motherly pains she pushed and wailed, exclaimed she did not know what she was doing or what she was suppose to do, when suddenly, at 11:38am, a new life entered the room, the youngest person on the planet for a second or two. I missed the actual exit it happened so fast. But there she was our new little family member. We were fortunate this time to not have any meconium in the delivery so our new baby was placed directly on Robyn's chest and she got to realize the double prize of her struggles (baby and pain relief). And we got to experience again the good and Godly tears of an enlarging family.

One thing that should not be overlooked is the admiration I have for Robyn. She was so strong and determined, and even when she thought she couldn't complete the task she set before herself, she did, and did it amazingly. I'm so proud of her and to be her husband; and so glad to have her be the guiding star for my two little girls to look up to.

Unfortunately our journey was not yet done. Robyn had internal hemorrhaging that the doctors were not able to stop there in the delivery room. After some deliberation we decided to send Robyn to the OR where she could receive some more powerful drugs and they could clear her uterus of blood clots and use a balloon type device to apply internal pressure to stop the bleeding. Robyn consented because her goal was only to deliver the baby without meds but she was more than willing to take as many as necessary once the baby was safely in our arms.

I went with the new baby to the nursery for her initial checkup while Robyn went to the OR. I thought Jason was going to go with her but the doctors wouldn't let anyone accompany her and it broke my heart to find out when I returned from the nursery that she had gone in there all alone. It was a mixed bag of joy for a successful delivery and the stress of having the love of your life go through more pain and I presumed danger. Luckily, for me, Jason was there with me; talking with him distracted my mind somewhat.

I would be remiss to not mention a thought that stayed with me throughout the day, before the day even, and still wanders through my brain now and maybe forever. We are so fortunate, so blessed and so fortunate. A friend of mine a few weeks prior, her little sister's husband had a heart infection that required surgery. After his surgery, maybe the day after, his wife delivered their first baby. He was there for that, he saw his little baby for ten minutes then complained of a headache, passed out and never awoke. Ten minutes. Those two words and so much weighty meaning have been with me since, and were especially there in the delivery room. I'd spent some days watching the clock, wondering what happens in ten minutes? When our baby was born I couldn't help but glance at the clock. Ten minutes went by so fast. The tears I shed that day weren't just for my family, and they weren't just for joy. On that day some sadness traveled with me as well. Those tears were for Baby Logan, his passed father Josh and his grieving mother Erica. What little help it may impart I don't know, but I hope they can one day know that their sorrows are spread far and wide, and maybe that net of humanity will somehow help hold up the weight they feel all around.

Those ten minutes passed so fast. I can't imagine. All I know is we've been unfathomably and unfairly blessed.

Robyn returned from the OR drugged up but in better repair. We waited for some of the fuzz to clear and then had Berkeley and Lynn come meet their new sister and granddaughter. It was a joyous meeting. Berkeley came in with the greatest smile, clearly eager to see us and her sister. She had written a note with the help of grandma telling us that she loved us. She wanted to hold the baby and she knew when the baby cried to rock her. It was a heart softening experience to see her little body bounce up and down in an attempt to soothe an even smaller body.

That night I went home with Berkeley and we played a little before she went to bed. Then exhaustion and stress and adrenaline and the after affects of a great emotional upheaval took their toll on me. I sat in front of the toilet for an hour, waiting for what my stomach told me was inevitable. But it never came, so instead I grabbed a bowl and curled up in a ball in my bed and let stomach pains do battle with an exhausted mind. Eventually the latter won out and I was a sleeping father of two.

The next morning I took a shower. And there something really sunk in that hadn't occur to me explicitly after Berkeley's birth. These little children and these big experiences of labor and delivery, they are great in and of themselves, but they are also mighty binding agents. It's hard to think of moments when I've felt closer to Robyn than during the birth of our two children. Because of that day and because of many days before us, these two little girls will draw Robyn and I so much closer. It's an honor and a privilege and I hope I can always do right by the three of them.

After the shower I had a new experience, so fast upon me, of having the competing interest of a child at home and a recovering wife and new baby at the hospital. I did't expect to have to cope with that point quite so soon. On the morning of the 23rd, I sat at home with Berkeley playing Legos. And there I had to manage what felt like gravity from some great star holding me at Berkeley's side while an infinite desire pulled at my heart to rejoin my wife and new one at the hospital. These shall be interesting and trying times no doubt.

The hospital stay beyond that wasn't too exciting. Robyn ended up staying two nights and had a blood transfusion before we left to get her red blood cell count up, but otherwise it was a good stay and we were ready to go home after the two days.

The hour before leaving the hospital we decided upon the name Frankie Wren Kessler. Robyn has always wanted to name a little girl Wren. We had another name that was up for serious contention that we would have loved to use too (Clementine J.). Robyn still isn't convinced she made the right choice. Frankie is in honor of her Uncle Frank, who we're sure will love her greatly, as he does Berkeley. We'll be calling her Wren when she's young and it will be interesting to see when she decides to discard her middle name in favor of her first name, if ever. Frankie Wren was preferred to Wren Frankie because of the way it rolls off the tongue.

Tonight I was struck by the microcosm of life that labor can represent. In such a compact little space you have necessary pain followed by an explosion of joy. So many other animals seem to produce less painful birth experiences. Somewhere in here, in our suffering, is humanity, perhaps. It too, the labor, in its own way, is a binding agent. To each other, there in the moment, and hopefully way beyond. Somewhere in all that is what it means to be human and to see the face of God.

And lastly, I reviewed my prior rememberance of Berkeley's birth and it's interesting to note how singular that event was. How I had nothing to compare it to. But this one, I can't even talk about it properly without comparing it to the first. They're too entwined. They always will be. Not just the event, but the girls. Somewhere in that is the essence of having a sibling. I hope it's a great experience for both of them.

Samuel Hamilton

Samuel's children, in thinking and talking about him:

"They all wanted to say the same thing--all of them. Samuel was an old man. It was as startling a discovery as the sudden seeing of a ghost. Somehow they had not believed it could happen. They drank their whisky and talked softly of the new thought.

His shoulders--did you see how they slump? And there's no spring in his step.

His toes drag a little, but it's not that--it's in his eyes. His eyes are old.

He never would go to bed until last.

Did you notice he forgot what he was saying right in the middle of a story?

It's his skin told me. It's gone wrinkled, and the backs of his hands have turned transparent.

He favors his right leg.

Yes, but that's the one the horse broke.

I know, but he never favored it before.

They said these things in outrage. This can't happen, they were saying. Father can't be an old man. Samuel is young as the dawn--the perpetual dawn.

He might get old as midday maybe, but sweet God! the evening cannot come, and the night--? Sweet God, no!

It was natural that their minds leaped on and recoiled, and they would not speak of that, but their minds said, There can't be any world without Samuel.

How could we think about anything without knowing what he thought about it?

What would the spring be like, or Christmas, or rain? There couldn't be a Christmas."

I read these words for the first time, I suspect, somewhere around 2005 or 2006. Six-hundred pages of beautifully constructed sentences and these are the ones that stood out in my mind. But it wasn't a clear vision. I didn't write them down anywhere. They spoke to me, and like anything that makes its way through time but isn't pinned down and crystallized into some form of permanence, the words became jumbled and confused. My memory of them were condensed down to two of the sentences incorrectly mashed together. I had to re-read this novel because somewhere in its depths I thought it said, "Without their father Samuel, they wouldn't know what to think about the rain."

When I closed the book after finishing it the first time I thought to myself, I must read this again before I become a father. It had joined a very short list of books that also/only included "To Kill a Mocking Bird." I had at least four years to accomplish the task but never quite got around to reading both books prior to Berkeley joining our family. I did re-read "To Kill a Mocking Bird" but "East of Eden" was always harder to get back to; a six hundred page book is no small commitment. With baby number two merely a week away (if she arrives on time) I have another three hundred and fifty pages to go to make good on my vow before becoming a father a second time.

I always felt that the story was suppose to be about Adam and Kathy and their two boys more than it was about the Hamilton family. Samuel wasn't quite the main character and whenever I hear people talk about the novel they rarely mention him, instead they make reference to the bigger biblical allusions in the Trask family. It's hard for a character to hold the attention of readers when placed next to someone as big and horrible as Kathy. But to me, the story is Samuel's.

But why these sentences? Now that I have a child I realize there is no small conceit in my hope that my children will one day duplicate the feelings Samuel's children expressed. And yet, after reading about his relationship with his children and those specific sentences again, my fondness of the idea holds no less of a sway over me.

I feel some need to defend myself and my desires. If you read the novel you'll notice that what Samuel does not do is he does not force or even aim to make his children resemble his own character. He finds ways to enjoy their various personalities, and celebrates them in ways that make sense to him. He tries not to lead them to a specific path, but he's certainly the backbone of their journey, a stable force, an iron rod, a trusted source, even when in disagreement. His children don't know how to think about the rain not because they depend on Samuel to tell them what to think about the rain, but because he has taught them how to think, period. He's a pool of water they can throw a rock into and always know, without a doubt, that the rock will make a splash and from that splash will ripple out little waves. What those movements mean are up to them to divine but he's equipped them with the tools to do so and the place to test the waters, to wonder. This is what I hope I can one day offer my children.

August and Everything After

Grantland brought to my attention the fact that August and Everything After, Counting Crows' debut album, was released 20 years ago this month (September). The article is fun, though the author is wrong when he states that their second album was their best (all albums after their first are so inferior that it baffles my mind how they're even related to the first). That's beside the point though, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention a word or two about the album given that it is celebrating a major birthday and its significance in my own life.

I can't recall exactly how I became aware of the album. Surely I had heard Mr. Jones on the radio, but, as I'll explain later, that wouldn't have been reason for me to go out and make the purchase. I'm also pretty certain I didn't buy it in 1993, maybe 94 or 95. My only real guess is my best friend Jason, who lived half a country away, probably recommended it, a recommendation he probably regrets to some degree (again, more on that later). But I like its entry into my life being a mystery.

Leaving high school I probably owned five full length CDs of any importance to me:

1. August and Everything After
2. Pretty Hate Machine
3. Little Earthquakes
4. Portrait of an American Family
5. Rage Against the Machine

Those who knew me in high school, and later college, even my closer friends (other than Jason and my future wife Robyn) probably wouldn't even have suspected I had August and Everything After in my meager collection. Outwardly I lived and breathed NIN and Marilyn Manson. Had I had to guess which of those albums would be my favorite ten or twenty years later I would have guessed wrong.

But life wasn't like a Nine Inch Nails album, it wasn't like a Marilyn Manson album. What life was like was August and Everything After. What life and the album convinced me of, on a variety of levels, was that I was destined for heartache. And much of the album is a mental map of my failed early attempts at courtship with Robyn.

The amazing thing about this album, for me, is that at different points in time almost every single one of the songs on it was my favorite. As a whole, it remains my favorite album.

1. Round Here - Although this was never my favorite song it has the distinction of always being my second favorite song on the album. Other songs would rise to the top and then sink back below the white-on-white fog of this song. Thematically the song always felt a little off compared to the other songs that I loved the most on the album. It feels more like a portrait of a girl, while the songs I loved the most were portraits of a boy who loves a girl.

I once heard a joke in Sunday school. What's the most read verse of the Book of Mormon? First Nephi, Chapter 1, verse 1. The joke being (I have to explain this) that most people, even the devote, start the book but never finish it, and First Nephi chapter 1, verse 1 is the start of the book. Similarly, I listened to this CD back before music was online, or even on your computer (other than with the intent of putting it on another CD), so I always listened to it straight through, and so this song is likely the single most listened to song in the existence of Shawn. Can I be certain? From my last year of high school through to the end of college I literally fell asleep listening to this album six or seven times a week. Here is why Jason probably regrets having introduced the CD to me; he had the great misfortune of being my roommate for all four years of college. It might also be his single most listened to song.

2. Omaha - Another thematically confusing song to me. It unfortunately isn't as pretty lyrically or musically as the first song and so it never made its way deep into my heart. I remember once stumbling on the fact that one of my friends (hi Betsy) loved, loved, loved this album and she considered this her favorite song on the album. It blew my mind, it still blows my mind.

3. Mr. Jones - It took almost 20 years for me to appreciate Mr. Jones at all, I always considered it the low point of the album. In a record of broken heart love songs this one felt the furthest from the mark. In addition the up-beat tempo felt like a song destined for an album of happier times. I didn't hate the song because the radio played the crap out of it, remember I listened the album nightly so I'm suited to hearing the same music a lot. On an album of muted grays and blacks, this song shined. I wanted to cover my eyes and ears when it came on, for the shock of it.

I recall the moment pretty vividly still. Driving along a back road in Northern California, headed to a Vegan BBQ retreat at the Farm Sanctuary, enjoying the green grasses blowing in the wind, the warm sun on my skin, and the twisting roads, this song came on the radio and I really really really listened to it. And there was this little thing that clicked in my head. I'm not sure how true it is or if it was the intent, but I see this song now as a meta song about the album itself. Which still places it at odds with most of the other songs but it helps ease the pressure of its existence at this precise moment in time. The other songs are songs about love. A boy in love. Losing that love. And what that feels like. But what this song is about is about that same boy meeting someone else, someone older whose already been there and done that, and to some degree still is groping around trying to fill that missing love. Mr. Jones is precisely the kind of guy who would love this album.

4. Perfect Blue Buildings -  Now we're getting somewhere! Look, as the Grantland article pointed out the lyrics on this album aren't mysterious and deep like a Nirvana song can be, but it's also not as opaque and lifeless as a lot of love songs (they are kicking the crap out of most country songs). The lyrics here use symbolism to set the mood, is there anything more somber than a perfect blue building? I'm not convinced there is. This was probably my first favorite song on the album. I love some of the simpler lyrics, "I have bones beneath my skin," "where I have friends who care for me," "help me stay awake, I'm falling."

5. Anna Begins - This is one that was a favorite early on and stays near the top. It never fails to impress me. Never fails to yank at my heart. Never fails to make me think of failed romance. The lyrics from beginning to end slay me. If I tried to quote some of my favorite lyrics it would likely include the entirety of this song. I'll try to pull out my favorite three, "It seems like I should say, as long as this is love, but it's not all that easy." "Every time she sneezes I believe it's love." Poor Robyn. "I'm not ready for this sort of thing." The last proves nothing on lyrical quality but how great Adam's voice is at delivering even these simple lines with emotion. OK, one more: "Maybe I should, snap her up in a butterfly net, pin her down on a photograph album."

6. Time and Time Again - "I wanted so badly, someone other than me, staring back at me. I wanted to see you walking backwards, get the sensation of you coming home. I wanted to see you, walking away from me, without the sensation of your leaving me alone." I think I spent two years of college feeling this way about Robyn. Just want want want want wanting, without a clue on how to make it happen. I felt like I got close time and time again. And each time it drew near again I wondered if this time it would last or if I should be guarded (smart?) and not get my hopes too high. I always got my hopes too high. Why fly if you're going to stay near the ground?

7. Rain King - This song has the same up-beatness to it that Mr. Jones has but I never had a problem with it. And though it isn't in my top three or four songs it always felt the most "Counting Crows" to me. Like it some how exemplified them as a band. It's so perfect now when I see crows in the rain I think of them as "rain kings." The song has made me love the metaphor of lover as queen.

8. Sullivan Street - There may not be 10 seconds of guitar that stirs my soul more than the beginning of this song. Sullivan Street currently reigns as my favorite song on the album, and has been in this most honored place for perhaps the longest of all. It's spot, I suspect, is secure for all time and eternity. This is the perfect broken down love song. Not a violent I hate you sort of break up, but something softer and yet just as devastating. When Robyn spurned me all those years ago, I walked with my head down, lost, along my own Sullivan Street. The mood of the song and the lyrics capture perfectly what I felt when I felt the saddest I've ever felt. However terrible, it's an amazing gift to be able to dial up that sort of emotion pretty much at will. "Past the shadows that fall down wherever we meet." "Pretty soon now, I won't come around." "If she remembers, she hides it whenever we meet." DEATH! "Either way now, I don't really care." LIES! "Cause I'm gone from there."

The song basically ends with this lyric "It's almost everything I need." I love the line. When they released a live album I was sort "eh" about it but Adam does this thing with this line, where he sings it and then alters what comes next to "no no no no no, It's EVERYTHING." I don't know if I can explain how much that alteration means to me.

9. Ghost Train - This song actually never made it to the top of my favorite list. It never inspired the same level of distaste I had for Mr. Jones or even Omaha, but I've never been particularly attached to it, except in as much as it's part of the album and seems perfectly natural here now.

10. Raining in Baltimore - The desire for a phone call and a rain coat have never been sadder. You want to mope in your loving sadness? Wait for a rainy day, put some headphones in, and take walk and get soaked while listening to this song. Totally worth it. "I miss you, I guess that I should." I think this song is the best example of the passion in Adam's voice. I can't imagine anyone else singing it with the same impact.

11. A Murder of One - After my initial infatuation with some of the other songs this one crept into my subconscious and became my favorite for an extended period of time, but was eventually overcome by Sullivan Street. I don't think I even realized I liked the song, or that I knew it well. It being at the end of the album, I rarely heard it when I was falling asleep. But it perched in my sleeping ear like a crow on a fence, singing its song.

When Robyn dated other people I thought of this song often. It reinforced this notion in my mind that none of them could be as good to her as I would be. In all my arrogance, I worried "all [her] life would be such a shame shame shame," if she didn't pick me.

For the longest time I thought this song contained my favorite lyric, "There's a perfectness in side you, sleeping underneath your skin, when you open up your wings to speak I wish you'd let me in." I probably believed this to be the lyrics for a good five years. One day I read the actual lyrics and was destroyed when I saw it's "There's a bird that nests in side you." ACK! Anyway, that was a sad day. It may or may not have corresponded with the switch from this to Sullivan Street being my favorite song.

Other funny thing, I never understood the title. I don't know that I really get it even now, but it occurred to me just this year that the "Murder" in the title is not a murder as in death, but is the word for a group of crows. It's a group of one crows. A lonely crow. I'm dumb, but I love that 20 years later I'm still unearthing little nuggets in the album.