The responsibility gene.

I suppose I should preface this post by saying that I'm not sure what this is about. In truth, I'm infuriated right now and need to write my way through it or strangle someone. My sister is an absolute moron and has me at wit's end. I've never been good at wit's end. I make much more sense and operate better in that state of calm that I only recently found again after dealing with all sorts of hellishness the past few years. I'm not ready to give that up again.

If you've spent any time discussing much with me, you already know that my younger sister and her two boys, my husband and I all live together. And you know that her two boys are preemies; one of whom has no complications, the other of whom has faced them all and pulled through by sheer force of will more times than I can count. And if you know me, you already know that when that first baby came early, I put my life on hold to be there for him. And when the second came, life came crashing down.

Reality is not shining happy around here. For me, reality is a never ending coil of tubes and wires all connected to my two year old nephew. They give him the nutrition that makes him grow, they blow the air into his lungs that helps him survive. They drain the fluid from his brain that makes his head grow faster than his little body. They drain his bladder every two hours, breathe medicine into his lungs every two hours and into his stomach every four. Reality is the trach that we fight daily to keep him from pulling out in a fit of temper.

Despite all that, reality has its happy moments. His first word. The first time he crawled. The first time he sat up on his own. The first time he was able to get his little feet under him and find the strength to make those little legs lift his bottom from the ground. All of those moments were phenomenal. And they were made even more so because they were moments we were sure we would never see. We have almost lost him multiple times in his short life.

And now my sister has worked up the courage to tell me that she is pregnant again. And I cannot find it in me to congratulate her. In truth, I can barely find it in me not to stick my foot up her ass and twist it until my toes tickle her tonsils. I've been waiting for the news for weeks, knowing that eventually she would get over the idiocy that has kept her silent and she would tell me. How could she not? Despite her posturing the past few weeks, she knows that I have every right to know that. She knows beyond a doubt that for good or ill, I will be there. I don't know how not to be.

I continue to be the rock because there is no one else. She must learn to sink or swim on her own, but when sinking or swimming means leaving behind two children I absolutely adore? It's not so easy anymore. I'm not mom, but I know what mom goes through daily. I go through it too. When Alo stops breathing, my heart stops too and then instinct takes over. But in that split second, I pray for all I'm worth that it's something simple; a trach plug, a cold. I've watched his heart stop beating more times than I care to count and if the end I envision in that moment ever comes for real, it will destroy me just as quickly as it does her. They're my children too. They always have been. Always will be.

So, I comfort her. And I suppose, she didn't want to tell me because she knew I would be infuriated at her irresponsibility. I would kiss her happily and tell her congratulations had we not been through two preemies. But now? Learning she is pregnant is wondering when in the world she'll go into labor this time and praying all the time that it doesn't happen. And it is kicking myself for always being around to bail her out and be that rock. And she knows that. And that pisses me off. She knows this. She knows she was irresponsible and that getting pregnant is the worst thing she can do for her, the boys, and a baby. Maybe everything will work out and this baby will be a full term, healthy and happy baby. But, let's face it. We're staring in the face of birth defects, a possible genetic abnormality and two previous preemies... those don't make the odds so hot.

And she knows that despite the fact that I'm always there, I'm still recovering from all of this. From the miscarriage that came only a few short days before Alo arrived. We were so busy with him, my own turmoil had to be shut off. There was no other option. And for so long, he wasn't okay and we didn't know if he would survive, that it remained shut off. And then one day, he was home and doing okay. My grandfather was gone. My two year old cousin was gone. My baby was gone. And I lost touch with reality. Everyone that grounded me, except that tiny little baby that was not mine, was gone and I had to deal with it. Believe me, that's easier said than done. When your world changes completely in such a short time, dealing does not come in some magic formula. It comes in sobs. Great gulping sobs that make you just want to give up for a while. And you do. Through some miracle, you then crawl back from the brink and start living again. You let yourself fall apart and have faith that you will come out the other end whole and you do and you swear you'll never do it again. Ever.

And, in one of those marvelous twists that really make me wonder what the hell I ever did to piss whoever is in charge off so incredibly badly, she looks at me with those shame filled, slightly terrified eyes and I know I will be there this time too. She's the irresponsible one, and I'm the one that will hold her hand through the entire pregnancy, praying to whatever God will listen that this one isn't a preemie and we don't spend the next two years of our life heartbroken and marching on because that's what reality demands. No time to fall apart. No time to breathe.

Maybe that is selfish, but in truth, I think I may loose my mind if we have to listen to monitors scream as another baby turns blue and stops moving. It's not fair to a baby. It's not fair to her. And I'm not sure I have the energy to be the only barely sane person left in the family through all of that again. And I can't help but think that is what it will be. Me holding her hand, being the driver, the coach, the aunt, the sister, the sounding board, the rational mind that listens attentively, absorbs it and passes on the reality to everyone else in the family who is too frightenrf of the translucent skin and screaming monitors to come close. Too unsure what to say to make it better.

The words I'm pregnant aren't absolutely amazing here. They are terrifying. I can't wake up and a little piece of me hates her for being so irresponsible as to put us all through all of that again. And then I remember why children should never have children. She is close enough to being my child. I did more of her raising than my parents. I was not ready for that; I'm only two years older than her. And I want to strangle them for it.

Birth control isn't a necessity, it's a damned miracle. And yet... people continue to ignore responsibility never realizing that the lives they change are not only their lives, but those of everyone around them. Or maybe they do know, and just can't get a fucking grip long enough to take charge of their own lives and show a little personal responsibility and put on a rubber or whatever the situation may be. Instead, those of us who are responsible end up taking responsibility for everyone else. Why? Because it's the only thing we know how to do in these situations. We came with the gene that says you are responsible for your own life... and we end up exhausted trying to hold those other people together long enough for that same gene to grow.

That gene doesn't grow, not while you're holding it together. Eventually, you just have to let it go and say to hell with it. I will adore this baby as I do Kaia and Alo... but I've decided that no matter what comes, she's on her own after this. I will be there for the children, but no longer in the same house. She'll sink or swim if someone has to tie me down to make it happen. More than me holding her together as we wait to see where this leads, she needs me kicking her ass until she gets it that some things just aren't acceptable. Getting pregnant because you couldn't use a rubber despite having been there and cried through everything the baby on a ventilator in the next room went through? That's not acceptable.

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