More Than a Brain Cramp

Between the giggles of random conversation and the expressions of serious inquiries, as I sat across from my oldest son during our KFC lunch date, a reminiscence of birthplaces surfaced. Bradan commented on this and discussed that, but my thoughts could no longer grip the conversation and quickly slipped into oblivion. My memory blanked like a stark canvas. Completely. With a deep gaze fixated on Bradan's face--for about 30 seconds--I struggled to recollect the events surrounding Gavan's birth. The memories seemed buried beyond retrieval. "I can't remember where Gavan was born," my panic briskly told Bradan. With a slight hesitation, he gently grinned, "Merced, Mom."

Yes! He was correct. Finally, it came to me: Gavan is my five-year-old son, the youngest of four children. He was uniquely delivered by my good friend, Miranda, amidst a whirlwind of utter chaos in the passenger seat of her minivan--alongside the hospital loading docks. The vehicle was still running in Park setting, Bon Jovi was blasting from the CD player, and hospital sirens were alerting all available medical staff while Miranda quickly ministered aid to me. Hundreds of on-lookers witnessed from their dock ramps or hospital room windows Gavan's grand entrance into this world--with his deep purple coloring and an immediate swaddling in a tablecloth. The only available cutter for the embilical was the cell phone charger cord. The sign above the docks read, "Deliveries Only." That made me giggle. It still does.

I remember all the details of that event. Now. During the conversation with my son, however, my brain did more than cramp, it temporarily arrested cogitative processes.