Jake told me about a conversation he had with my mom last week. As she explained to him how well Stephen King is able to put his readers inside the story, Jake responded,

“Stephen King is nothing. Just wait until my mom gets published.”

And so, as I sit here with my noggin, my fingers, and an open Word document, now with the added pressure of disappointing my own child who just told a decades-long, die-hard Stephen King addict that he is nothing compared to me, I will take a moment to share a few words with you lovely folks.

Shit.
Fuck.
Damn.

There ya go. A few words.

But seriously. Jake’s birthday is tomorrow. 17 years ago today, I had an seizure . I was 33 weeks pregnant at the time. Lots of words were tossed around in those 33 weeks. Pre-eclampsia. Eclampsia. Bed rest. Non-stress test. 3+ pitting edema. What the fuck. Holy shit. Pregnancy-induced hypertension with a blood pressure of 180/130. Hold yer breath, here comes the pee-hole catheter! I WANT MY MOMMY!! HELLP syndrome. Multi-organ failure. “Terminate the pregnancy.” Dead. Yeah. That last one got tossed around, too.

Fortunately for the planet, those last two things didn’t happen. For either of us. Well. My pregnancy was terminated, but I think there was a moment of distress as that phrase was a bit misunderstood in the translation between the doc and husband and mommy.

I was actually the lucky one in the whole mess. I got to be unconscious for the worst part. But when I woke up, this is what I saw.