How I Met Dan Aykroyd /OR/ Lovely, I Have To Tell You Something

 

I can't believe I haven't written about this till now. See -- there's a couple of pictures on my Facebook page that I never explained very well of Mark and me with Dan Aykroyd . Yes, that Dan Aykroyd. The one and only (I bet) Dan Aykroyd. Comedian, writer, actor. One of THE original Saturday Night Live Alums. One of the Coneheads. One half of The Blues Brothers. One fourth of the Ghostbusters (who ya gonna call?).

And proprietor of Crystal Head Vodka.

A couple of years ago, my husband sent me an email saying that Dan Aykroyd would be at The Shoppette on Redstone Arsenal to promote Crystal Head Vodka. He would autograph your bottle, too.

Oh my!

The Shoppette is a gas station -- a gas station, people -- and Dan Aykroyd was going to sit in it and autograph your pre-purchased, exquisitely crafted glass skull and let you have your picture taken with him.

Um...yes, please.

I don't remember the exact dates -- my Facebook pictures were uploaded on May 14, 2010, so it was somewhere around in there...but Mark had sent me an email announcing Dan Aykroyd's illustrious presence in a gas station on the military base in Huntsville a mere day before he was to be there. I don't know what came over me. I just got this wild hair that we were going to do this, by gosh, and I only had twenty-four hours to pro cur a bottle of Crystal Head Vodka to take to The Shoppette. Yes, The Shoppette had plenty bottles of CHV on sale -- boxes and boxes of them -- but without a military ID, neither Mark nor I could purchase it there.

So that very afternoon, I dropped Nicholas off at his gymnastics class, and I drove to a liquor store. Isn't that what good moms do -- drop off their kids at their extracurricular activities and go buy liquor? I wondered what my deceased grandmother would think of me driving to the liquor store while her great grandson was at gymnastics. I decided she'd think it was pretty cool, what I was doing. :-] She was hip like that. She used to ferment her own wine from her own grapes, for Pete's sake.

Nicholas' gymnastics class happened to be in my hometown of Albertville. Only two or three weeks before, a tornado had ripped through this small town and literally tore it apart. Really, it was a sad and awful thing.  Because of trees down and roads closed, I had to take a different route to the ABC Package Store. I had to go down some side streets I wasn't that familiar with, and since all the trees were split, damaged, or just completely no longer there, I got lost. Being lost in the town where you grew up is a strange thing. It simply should not happen. But when you look down a street that once had century-old trees lining it, and suddenly those trees are GONE and now you see nothing but blue sky...it's disorienting. But I eventually found my way to the package store. :) They had two whole bottles of Crystal Head Vodka at around $70 apiece. I bought 50% of their stock and found my way back to the community center just in time to pick up Nicholas at the end of his class.


That was long-winded and only marginally relevant to my Dan Aykroyd story. Sorry.


So the next morning (also called The Day I Would Meet Dan Aykroyd In The Flesh), I met Mark somewhere in Huntsville and he drove me on post. I don't remember where in the world we parked, but we had to walk several minutes to get to The Shoppette. Bear in mind that The Shoppette is an average size gas station -- maybe 1000 square feet? Maybe 700? I don't know. But it's a smallish place that on that day in May held a LOT of people! Mark and I got there early enough that we were inside the door, but late enough that we still had to stand in line more than an hour and a half. If you were wearing your military uniform, you were ushered to the front of the line ahead of all us civilians (and rightly so, if you ask me). It seems like Mr. Aykroyd was going to be there from 11:00 till 2:00, or something like that -- right smack in the middle of lunch time. We were STARVING, but we didn't care!  

And then it was our turn to meet Dan. He is really, really tall! And handsome -- there, I said it. He said hi, and we said hi. Mark asked him about the newest installment of Ghostbusters while he signed our bottle of Crystal Head Vodka AND our "Blues Brothers" DVD. Outwardly, I was smiling, and I was calm and collected. But inwardly...
I was doing the Snoopy happy dance!
I also found myself wishing my name was Jane so that I could have asked him to say, "Jane, you ignorant slut!"







Forget I said that.






So after he signed our stuff, one of his assistants used our camera to take our picture with him.




{Read the following in my squealy, extra-girly voice:} LOOK AT US! There we are with THE Dan Aykroyd with HIS HANDS on our bottle of Crystal Head Vodka and "Blues Brothers" DVD -- the Sharpie ink is probably still wet!

I swoon. I swooned then and I swoon now. And I will continue to swoon for some time. Did I just conjugate all the tenses of the verb "swoon?"

Later that evening Mark and I uploaded our Dan Aykroyd pictures on our PC. We looked at them and giggled and talked about how much fun it was to have that experience. And during one of those lulls in the conversation where you've both said a lot of things enthusiastically and you kind of pause to reflect and breathe, I abruptly said, "Lovely (I call Mark 'Lovely'), I have to tell you something." Mark said, "OK..." WELL, right after this picture was taken, Mark and I thanked Dan Aykroyd for coming to Huntsville and for signing our stuff and for letting us have our picture taken with him. He was very gracious and polite, by the way. He also said that he and all the rest of the cast were going to work "really hard" on the upcoming "Ghostbusters" movie. Then he shook each of our hands before we left.

But here's what I had to confess to Mark:

Me: Lovely, you know how he shook my hand? Well, his right hand was shaking my right hand, right? Well...{read this next part in my squealy, extra-girly voice too} I took my left hand and placed it on top of his right hand and his hands were SO SOFT! And I did that on purpose so that I could say both of my hands were touching his hand!
Mark: That is SO COOL! Well, Lovely (he calls me 'Lovely' as well), I have to tell you something too.
Me: OK...
Mark: Do you see in this picture how I'm smiling? Like, really, really smiling, kind of like I'm up to something? Well...{This time Mark's voice went kind of squealy and girly. Read it in your head as such.} I had my left arm on your back, right? And I was like, "What should I do with my right hand?" So [imagine severely geeking-out facial expressions here] I put my right hand on his back so that I could say I touched Dan Aykroyd's back!
Me: That is SO COOL!

I have yet to sample my $70 bottle of vodka. I don't think I can bring myself to open that autographed bottle. It's sitting on a shelf in the living room right next to our "Blues Brothers" DVD. But I have a birthday coming up, so maybe someone will give me an unautographed bottle of CHV so I can finally try it.
Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Parker

I wrote this shortly after Parker's birthday party. Then I revised and revised and revised until I came up with this. Why all the revisions? One reason is because that's what writers do (and now I'm calling myself a writer?!). The other reason is because I had thought about entering this particular piece in a writing competition. I ended up submitting a different paper though. Several people had a hand in this piece about Parker. I owe them my deepest and sincerest gratitude for helping me to write effectively, for taking an interest in the random thoughts in my brain, and for encouraging me to write, write, write: David Kendrick, Karina (Kari) Harris, Dianne Sharit, Jackie Holcomb, CSD, Kenith Jolley, Shelly Ann Edge McDonald, Kevin Allen, Mark Hyatt, Captain Larry Turner, KC and Rose Kyle, Celeste Stapler, Courtney Kyle.

            I am cleaning up the veritable carnage left after my son’s third birthday party – torn streamers, deflated balloons, smashed cake, abandoned favors. I am already exhausted from baking cupcakes and setting up birthday decorations. The house is a monumental mess.  And though I have “miles to go before I sleep,” I could not be more thankful to be carrying on through this exhaustion.

            Three years ago today, I was in the delivery room trying to bring my son, Parker, into the world. I had been in this place before when my first son was born. I will never forget the moment Parker’s older brother, Nicholas, was laid on my chest. Our eyes locked, and I distinctly remember thinking, “This is the moment – this moment of surreal recognition and unfathomable joy – THIS is why we bake a cake and hang streamers and inflate balloons and invite everyone we love to celebrate the anniversary of this incredible day, year after year after year.”

            Parker and I never got to have “that” moment. I could tell something was not right. I pushed for two hours, but I still had no newborn.  Parker’s vital signs were becoming more erratic with every contraction. I was beyond discouraged to have come so far only to hear my doctor announce that I needed to have a C-section.

Mark, my sweet husband, was beside himself. Only days before, we had watched a documentary film about several different expecting couples, each with their own unique birthing stories. The couple whose wife had a C-section scarred Mark for life. It is, after all, an invasive surgery. Bear in mind that this was not on a “regular” television station; this was on one of the premium movie channels, and it showed EVERYTHING! Mark said (and rather confidently, I might add), “I’m so glad my baby won’t be born by C-section. I don’t know how any woman could recuperate from that AND be able to enjoy her baby.”

So when an emergency team was assembled, and I was prepped for surgery, Mark went into a sort of shock. There I was comforting him, telling him everything would be all right. Who was having this surgery again?

The medicine administered through my epidural allowed me to be more or less awake, at least to begin with. I remember that everyone, including Mark and me, was wearing blue, and that the lights were very bright. I remember there was a blue curtain dangling over my chest. I remember that my voice went away completely. I felt dehydrated. I remember desperately wanting to be awake. I could not imagine my youngest son coming into the world to a mother who had closed eyes. But the urge to slumber became more powerful than my will to stay awake. I slid in and out of consciousness, and then surrendered to sleep.

I awoke to some activity. Although I could feel no pain, I could tell that I was being sutured. There were some soft voices from the doctors and nurses. They were using soft voices? I was being stitched up, so I knew my baby had been taken out. My baby was born! Where were the whooping and hollering and other sounds of merriment? Where was the joy? Where was the birthday party? I managed to look at Mark by my side. His head was down and he was soundless. He didn’t even know I was looking at him, and I could not speak or move to gain his attention. Then a female voice said, “His color is improving.” Were they talking about Parker? And why in the world did his color need to be improved upon?

That blasted blue curtain was blocking my view. My brain earnestly tried to tell my right arm to move that curtain, but my arm felt like a ton of bricks. I kept trying though, and I finally managed to push the curtain aside. I saw a half dozen or so people hovered over my lifeless baby boy. I saw the bag valve mask over his little face, and a nurse was using it to squeeze air into his lungs.

I could not cry, for I was too dehydrated. I could not ask what was happening, for I had no voice. I could not sit up to better lay my eyes on this angelic little creature that I had loved for the last nine months, for I was weak. All that I could do was turn my head into Mark’s knee and close my eyes. I lay there knowing everything in my world was all wrong, and there was nothing I could do about it. The only thing I had any control over was prayer. I did not bargain with God; my prayer was not negotiable. I did not even ask God if he could help. I commanded God to make Parker be all right. “Help him. Fix this right now.” I had no intention of going home to an empty nursery.

The wait was agonizing. The only thing that kept me from acting like a disquieted bundle of nerves was the lethargic effect of the drugs I had been given. This was probably a blessing to everyone in that operating room, now that I think about it. Finally, someone said, “He’s going to be OK.” I heard him whimper for the first time, and the nurses sounded their approval. Then I heard him cry – really cry – and there were more expressions of joy from these blue-clad people. Mark and I smiled. The pediatrician wanted to keep a close eye on Parker, but said it was all right for Mark to go with him to the nursery while the nurses attended to me for post-op procedures.

As my drugs wore off, my voice came back. I had lots of questions for the two nurses preparing me for recovery, and I did not hold back. I learned that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around Parker’s neck. He was nearly suffocated. He did not breathe on his own for a full five minutes. I asked about his Apgar score. An Apgar score ranges from zero to ten. Anything above seven is favorable, and anything below three is “critically low.”  His initial Apgar score was a meager two.

The nurses tending to me wheeled me into the hallway where the windows to the nursery were. Much of Parker’s extended family was there, cooing and chattering over how beautiful he was. Mark stood on the other side of the window with Parker, taking pictures and touching him and laughing. The two nurses and I gave each other a poignant, knowing glance. We knew that this tender moment almost had not transpired. The nurses held back their tears. I did not, and could not, even if I had wanted to.

Parker’s journey these last three years has been delightful. He is a perfectly healthy, happy, rambunctious, assertive little boy. Mark and I have truly enjoyed every midnight bottle feeding, every scream and cry, every laugh and smile, every milestone…even every “terrible two” tantrum (and there have been many). Nicholas and Parker are at once the best of friends and the worst of enemies, as brothers often are. I cannot imagine my life without either one of them.

So tonight, three wondrous years later, I sit in my house amidst the aftermath of my child’s birthday party. My husband and I have done all the cleaning we can for today. It is time for dinner. As is usual in our house, we hold hands while Mark says a prayer before we eat. He thanks God for our food, for the day, and tonight, he also thanks God for the last three years we have had with Parker. But when we say, “Amen,” Parker has not let go of our hands. We look at him, and he looks at us. Then Parker says, “And presents…and balloons…and [Hotwheels] cars.” Such simple things make our three year old happy. He knows he is loved. He knows he is important. He knows he matters not only to us, but to God as well. That is really all I could ever ask for.