"Happiness is
a Pig-headed Grandma"
- Oza Meilleur
a Pig-headed Grandma"
- Oza Meilleur
I was baptized the very next day, right there at the hospital, because the doctor and priest feared for my life. And just in case I didn't make it through the night, my grandmother sneaked into the nursery as soon as the bell sounded -- indicating the visits were over -- and proceeded to sprinkle me with the holy water she carried in her purse at all times, secured in an empty aspirin bottle, ready to splash all over herself in case she was caught in an electric storm.
My mom wanted to call me Hélène, my godmother was dead set on Thérèse. But dear old Grandma Meldrude Meilleur had other plans, and my delicate condition gave her even more reason to rush to my side and pronounce the words that would forever resonate in my ears: "By the powers invested in me by the Almighty God, I now baptize you...let me go...OZA! I BAPTIZE YOU OZA!...she's my granddaughter...IN THE NAME OF...don't you dare stop me...THE FATHER...I'll rip your hair off if I have to...THE SON...she's dying, I tell you...AND THE HOLY...shit, you asked for it...GHOST...Ha! I did it!...AMEN!" Then the bottle was knocked out of Grandma's hand, it went flying by the nurse's head, ricocheted on my incubator, and landed in the diaper bin, nearly knocking over the statue of Christ The King, to whom the hospital was dedicated.
Now you may not believe that I remember all this, and to be honest with you, I hadn't intended on telling you about it at first, but I'm writing this story in order to make peace with all the stuff I've had to deal with in my life and to finally get to move on to a "better place," so I'm going to tell it the way it's been haunting me for decades: I was eleven hours old, I couldn't sleep because of the humming from the incubator motor, my grandma had one of her goofy homemade hats on -- a purple thing with what looked like a pigeon wing on the side --, and she called me Oza because it sounds like "osa," which means "dared" in French. She hoped with all her heart that I'd dare to go on living.
I love you, Grandma!
My mom and I stayed an extra seven days in the hospital, my mom resting in her private room, me in my incubator by the nurses' station, struggling to drink out of a bottle with only half my mouth sucking away at the nipple.
My dad was the one who picked us up at the hospital and brought us home. He hadn't seen me till it was time to leave, hadn't wanted to after hearing about the crooked head and all. But as I was bundled up in my newly knitted yellow layette, with only my rosy cheeks and nose poking out from the covers, he was happy to see me somehow, and off we went in his Burgundy Pontiac station wagon to resume "normal life" in his parents' second floor flat.
Living with my grandparents was a lot of fun. Grandpa Théodore rocked me all day long, singing the same song over and over again; my mother went about her daily chores whistling along with whatever was playing on the radio; and Grandma Meldrude chanted a medley of hymns to make sure Saint Ann would hear her plea and deliver me from the evil spirits that were crippling my body. When she wasn't chanting, Grandma prayed. She had Saint Ann pictures and medals and statues all over the place. She even subscribed to Saint Ann's monthly magazine. She was determined to get her wish.
That she did.
As the weeks went by, my left side started to come alive. By the middle of September, it was fully functional and already having a wild time with the other side, making it that more complicated for Grandpa to hold me on his lap.
Alleluia!
You should have heard the singing and whistling and chanting going on in that kitchen -- cacophonous happiness. BIG TIME.
If you're wondering about my head, it ended up being as close to a sphere as can be -- my mom made sure I alternated sides when sleeping. I also wore a bonnet nearly 24/7, so maybe it rounded the edges a bit. But one thing's certain, I'm as pig-headed as my Grandma was...and I'm darn proud of it too!
