In my time away from this blog, here is what I've learned: some things are beyond words. I tried so many times to craft a posting, to describe events and feelings as they were happening (that is what a blog is for, right?), but I just couldn't do it. Throughout history, only a handful have ever written well on the subjects of love and the death of love . . . in fact, one of my favorite poems (see below) laments man's inability to describe love or any of his deep emotions, really.
So. If T.S. Eliot can't do it, who the F am I?
Phineas died on April 24th. Since then, I've been in a very dark, very quiet place. A place without words.
It's true. He was just a dog. He never did anything great like save a baby from a burning building or work as a seeing eye pug. He wasn't the smartest, the most well-trained, or the friendliest, but he might have been the cutest.
I am nonetheless shattered by his death.
If you don't understand this - how a dog's death could knock me into the dark place - please know that this fact makes me incredibly proud and will someday make me happy. You see, the depth of my sorrow is a reflection of the depth of my love, and the more it hurts, the more I trust my capacity to love, really, truly love another being. Our culture encourages us to live superficially. And also that only the suckers get hurt. I remember being at a wedding with my husband of ten-plus years, whom I thought I was loving deeply, and being shaken to tears by the sermon which basically asked "Are you loving to your fullest capacity? And, if not, why are you holding back?" He said the Greeks had several different words for love, one of which was 'agape,' and this is the love that would compel us to self-sacrifice for strangers, and somewhere in that explanation it hit me that I was loving strangers more completely than I was loving my husband. Why? Pride and some other irrational beliefs. Oh, and a huge fear of getting hurt: of loving him more than he loved me; of being left behind; of being the weaker one.
I don't regret chosing to love more deeply, and I'm not going to stop because of the pain I feel right now. I will learn to enjoy the silence.
. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
doggy update
According to the vet, Phin has an infection that is likely causing tightness/inflamation in his digestive tract, and he probably has a pyloric valve issue which the tightness/inflamation from the infection exacerbated, so no food was leaving his stomach.
The vet gave him a heavy antibiotic and something to make him stop throwing up. She also put him on prescription dog food.
She wasn't worried about the dog dying or anything, so that's the good news. I am still concerned, but a whole lot less.
Well, the baby showers were awesome, and I have 704 thank you notes to write, so the postings will be slim for awhile.
I have such a difficult time getting my brain around so much kindness and good will, and then there's the sheer excitement that surrounds the birth of a baby.
Pam's shower started this morning at 8:30, and I can see by all the white space on this page that I am still overwelmed; perhaps I will be able to sum up the showers tomorrow.
Right now, it's all too much.
The vet gave him a heavy antibiotic and something to make him stop throwing up. She also put him on prescription dog food.
She wasn't worried about the dog dying or anything, so that's the good news. I am still concerned, but a whole lot less.
Well, the baby showers were awesome, and I have 704 thank you notes to write, so the postings will be slim for awhile.
I have such a difficult time getting my brain around so much kindness and good will, and then there's the sheer excitement that surrounds the birth of a baby.
Pam's shower started this morning at 8:30, and I can see by all the white space on this page that I am still overwelmed; perhaps I will be able to sum up the showers tomorrow.
Right now, it's all too much.
Friday, April 17, 2009
fair is what you pay to ride the bus
It seems that God is trying to extract payment from me for giving me this miracle pregnancy. I don't necessarily believe in a vindictive God, really, but I do believe in cosmic balance, in Karma. Do good, and good things will happen. Do bad and a plague upon your house. But what if I'm all wrong, and cosmic balance requires a bad event to neutralize a good one?
Disaster has never danced so close to me as it has since I became pregnant: the economy/stock market; my dad's heart attack; Mr. R's job; my library's levy. These were all big, nasty things that almost happened but didn't. Like maybe Vindictive God is spinning a wheel, red-I-get-her-father, black-and-its-her-livelihood . . .
My dog is really sick. He had some type of episode in February that I erroneously thought was a reaction to heart worm medication because it came on like a runaway train and reduced him to a shivering, vomiting, shadow of himself. He's improved, but he's not fully recovered, and now he's getting worse. Since Tuesday he has barfed every day. I put him back on his old food and made an appointment for blood work, etc., for next Tuesday. This morning, he projectile-vomited and refused to eat his breakfast. At this rate, he simply won't survive until Tuesday. I asked Mr R if he could take the dog in today since I could not get out of work, and he said, "absolutely."
Silver lining? You bet.
Vindictive God? If you're listening, this little dog doesn't deserve this, and neither do I. If you'll recall, I never asked you for a baby, I asked that your will be done, and I was fully prepared to accept infertility if that be your will.
You know my heart.
Please don't take my dog.
It's simply not fair.
Disaster has never danced so close to me as it has since I became pregnant: the economy/stock market; my dad's heart attack; Mr. R's job; my library's levy. These were all big, nasty things that almost happened but didn't. Like maybe Vindictive God is spinning a wheel, red-I-get-her-father, black-and-its-her-livelihood . . .
My dog is really sick. He had some type of episode in February that I erroneously thought was a reaction to heart worm medication because it came on like a runaway train and reduced him to a shivering, vomiting, shadow of himself. He's improved, but he's not fully recovered, and now he's getting worse. Since Tuesday he has barfed every day. I put him back on his old food and made an appointment for blood work, etc., for next Tuesday. This morning, he projectile-vomited and refused to eat his breakfast. At this rate, he simply won't survive until Tuesday. I asked Mr R if he could take the dog in today since I could not get out of work, and he said, "absolutely."
Silver lining? You bet.
Vindictive God? If you're listening, this little dog doesn't deserve this, and neither do I. If you'll recall, I never asked you for a baby, I asked that your will be done, and I was fully prepared to accept infertility if that be your will.
You know my heart.
Please don't take my dog.
It's simply not fair.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
busy week
I had my 32-week check-up on TU, and we're "cruising right along," to quote my OB-GYN. I am 33 cm, and I've gained 4 pounds since the last visit which is interesting because I had not gained anything for almost 6 weeks. The baby's heartbeat was good, too. I asked the doc when I would be able to resume my exercise plan, post-baby, and she said it all depended upon how I feel and if I have any stitches but generally I should be able to start right back in to my cycling and/or walking. Great news considering my Easter conversation with my sister-in-law-who-knows-everything. She's especially annoying with this stuff, of course, because she already has two kids. So, she comes up to us and asks - with this real serious, lets have a heart to heart manner, "what's your biggest fear?"
I wasn't being glib, but since getting past the fear of labor, I am pretty much fearless. I know things are going to change, and I also know the changes will be so fundamental that I cannot even fathom them at this time, so why fear it? Sure, there are many changes/things I will not relish - some I even dread - but that's a far cry from fear and I am just snarky enough that I would not give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement. However, social dictates being what they are, I came up with one fear, and that was about the workouts, and that is bonafide, Blair Witch horror for me.
To which she replied, knowingly, "Oh, you won't be able to work out for 6 weeks, either C-sec or vaginal birth. The bleeding is horrible! I tried to take a walk after my second because I was feeling good, and I made it halfway before I had to turn around for all the bleeding." And so now I am panicked. She asked Mr. R the same question and got the same answer, sans the workout woes, and I think she was generally disappointed that we denied her the opportunity to teach us about parenting (but I can't really be sure because I was obsessing about the workout-thing.)
Also, her kids are insane. They are like savages at the dinner table. One would think their behavior would chasten her somewhat in the parental-advice department, that and the fact that she is wrong so much of time, like with the workputs. My doc says it mostly depends on the women's level of fitness and the difficulty of labor. Pity that I am in twice the shape , at 39, as my 28(?)-yr-old sis-in-law.
Today was the hemotologist appointment. The platelets are stable at around 110,000 which should be enough to greenlight an epidural, but I have to go again in 6 weeks in case the platelets tank and an intervention is necessary. It was a moment of reckoning to realize it might be for naught: I am 8 weeks from my due date, and going in 6 is a very real possibility. It also becomes clearer to me that I really do not want the epidural . . .
My mother asked me if I had any "premonitions" about how the birth would go. I don't, though I wish I did. When I think about it, I get nothing. I asked Mr. R the same question, and he thinks it will be a C-section because I have a very small pelvis (yes. he really said this.) This whole pregnancy has gone like butter - so much better than I anticipated - maybe that fact has the greatest predictive value.
Someday soon I will write a post about missing my pregnancy as that thought continues to pop into my mind.
Still to come this week . . . a not-baby-shower-baby-shower thing given by Mr. R's car friends and their wives. I'm not supposed to know about the shower aspect, just that it is a reunion, of sorts, for the car guys. I'm a really crappy liar and hope that the kindness of the gesture is compelling enough to make my feigned surprise seem authentic. Certainly, I am authentically touched. That's on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, my friends from work are throwing a real baby shower, and that should be a hoot. Thus far, no one has tried to touch my belly (except my mom); I have a strong feeling I won't be able to say that much longer.
I wasn't being glib, but since getting past the fear of labor, I am pretty much fearless. I know things are going to change, and I also know the changes will be so fundamental that I cannot even fathom them at this time, so why fear it? Sure, there are many changes/things I will not relish - some I even dread - but that's a far cry from fear and I am just snarky enough that I would not give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement. However, social dictates being what they are, I came up with one fear, and that was about the workouts, and that is bonafide, Blair Witch horror for me.
To which she replied, knowingly, "Oh, you won't be able to work out for 6 weeks, either C-sec or vaginal birth. The bleeding is horrible! I tried to take a walk after my second because I was feeling good, and I made it halfway before I had to turn around for all the bleeding." And so now I am panicked. She asked Mr. R the same question and got the same answer, sans the workout woes, and I think she was generally disappointed that we denied her the opportunity to teach us about parenting (but I can't really be sure because I was obsessing about the workout-thing.)
Also, her kids are insane. They are like savages at the dinner table. One would think their behavior would chasten her somewhat in the parental-advice department, that and the fact that she is wrong so much of time, like with the workputs. My doc says it mostly depends on the women's level of fitness and the difficulty of labor. Pity that I am in twice the shape , at 39, as my 28(?)-yr-old sis-in-law.
Today was the hemotologist appointment. The platelets are stable at around 110,000 which should be enough to greenlight an epidural, but I have to go again in 6 weeks in case the platelets tank and an intervention is necessary. It was a moment of reckoning to realize it might be for naught: I am 8 weeks from my due date, and going in 6 is a very real possibility. It also becomes clearer to me that I really do not want the epidural . . .
My mother asked me if I had any "premonitions" about how the birth would go. I don't, though I wish I did. When I think about it, I get nothing. I asked Mr. R the same question, and he thinks it will be a C-section because I have a very small pelvis (yes. he really said this.) This whole pregnancy has gone like butter - so much better than I anticipated - maybe that fact has the greatest predictive value.
Someday soon I will write a post about missing my pregnancy as that thought continues to pop into my mind.
Still to come this week . . . a not-baby-shower-baby-shower thing given by Mr. R's car friends and their wives. I'm not supposed to know about the shower aspect, just that it is a reunion, of sorts, for the car guys. I'm a really crappy liar and hope that the kindness of the gesture is compelling enough to make my feigned surprise seem authentic. Certainly, I am authentically touched. That's on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, my friends from work are throwing a real baby shower, and that should be a hoot. Thus far, no one has tried to touch my belly (except my mom); I have a strong feeling I won't be able to say that much longer.
Monday, April 13, 2009
major meltdown
I try to avoid saying things I will later regret, but this one got away from me (though, as yet, I do not regret it). I am 8 months/32 weeks/32+centimeters pregnant, and thus far I have asked Mr. R. for very little in terms of additional support, either emotionally or with household chores. I worked an 8-hour day on Saturday and stopped at the dog food store afterwards because my dog is sick with some unknown ailment that causes him to look absolutely pathetic and clearly feel miserable so I have decided to try him on a holistic, human-grade food called Candidae. When I arrived at home, Mr. R and two of our cars were missing (no note, no phone call), the dogs needed to go out as well as be fed and the diabetic cat was roaming about the house in need of an injection. In and of themselves, not the stuff of major meltdowns, but I could feel the pressure building. Add to this a sink full of dirty dishes (yeah, we DO own a dishwasher. It's right next to the sink for maximum loading convenience.) that I discovered while dialing Mr. R's cell to ask," WTF and WTF are you?"
It rolled into voice mail. Now, this simply does not happen. Mr. R. is great about picking up his calls and keeping his phone charged and on his person. So, I left a message, kinda snotty but overall respectful. And waited for him to call me back.
I fed the dogs, dosed the cat, gathered up a load of clothes for washing, and left another message in Mr. R's voice mail. Kinda respectful but overall snotty, this time I reminded him that I was 8 months pregnant and his being unavailable (I was referring to his cordial phone greeting which states, "I am unavailable to take your call at this time, yada yada") to me at this time was not an option, so pick up your effing voice mail and call me back, you inconsiderate, selfish man.
Cordless phone and laundry in hand, I went downstairs and there discovered a bunch of blood on the washing machine. Creepy, to say the least. What happened? Cat cut his paw? Mr. R. cut his hand and forget to clean up? Chainsaw-killer hiding behind my furnace? Pondering these scenarios, I started filling the washer which I could do with the one hand I had available whereas cleaning up the blood would require the use of both, and as the water was rising and I was about to add the clothes to free up my hand to clean up the blood, I noticed a little dead mouse behind the suds. And completely lost my composure.
My next call to Mr. R. wasn't even close to respectful, but it was the one he finally picked up. He's not used to me crying, and I don't think he's ever seen/heard me in the hysterical state I was in at that moment, and he caught the full brunt of my anger and self-pity. And, unlike most of our other tiffs, this time I was inconsolable. I heard his words, his empty explanantions, and then assailed each one, beating my fists against the washer, BANG!BANG!BANG!.
Determined to handle the situation myself (what choice, really?), I needed to remove the mouse from the machine, but with each failed attempt, my despair closed, and as my body shook with big, gigantic sobs, I wondered how it could possibly be that a bloody, wet, bludgeoned mouse could be so cute, still?
Surveying my laundry room, in a post-insanity fugue, I could only laugh at a memory that came unbidden of a friend who had once told me a story of how she lost her mind in her own laundry room, right there among the piles of never-ending whites and oppressive darks, and then I thought of a poem I had read by a poet we both admire, and so I will print it here in hopes that she finds it, like I did, before the insanity finds her again.
the shoelace, by charles bukowski
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire; fears in front of you,
fears that hold still
you can study them
like pieces on a chessboard . . .
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood . . .
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse . . .
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left . . .
the dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
constipation
speeding tickets
rickets or crickets or mice or termites or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
lightswitch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
Sears Roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the market's
down
and the tiolet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avacados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at Norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of
80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rearview mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in and
the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
It rolled into voice mail. Now, this simply does not happen. Mr. R. is great about picking up his calls and keeping his phone charged and on his person. So, I left a message, kinda snotty but overall respectful. And waited for him to call me back.
I fed the dogs, dosed the cat, gathered up a load of clothes for washing, and left another message in Mr. R's voice mail. Kinda respectful but overall snotty, this time I reminded him that I was 8 months pregnant and his being unavailable (I was referring to his cordial phone greeting which states, "I am unavailable to take your call at this time, yada yada") to me at this time was not an option, so pick up your effing voice mail and call me back, you inconsiderate, selfish man.
Cordless phone and laundry in hand, I went downstairs and there discovered a bunch of blood on the washing machine. Creepy, to say the least. What happened? Cat cut his paw? Mr. R. cut his hand and forget to clean up? Chainsaw-killer hiding behind my furnace? Pondering these scenarios, I started filling the washer which I could do with the one hand I had available whereas cleaning up the blood would require the use of both, and as the water was rising and I was about to add the clothes to free up my hand to clean up the blood, I noticed a little dead mouse behind the suds. And completely lost my composure.
My next call to Mr. R. wasn't even close to respectful, but it was the one he finally picked up. He's not used to me crying, and I don't think he's ever seen/heard me in the hysterical state I was in at that moment, and he caught the full brunt of my anger and self-pity. And, unlike most of our other tiffs, this time I was inconsolable. I heard his words, his empty explanantions, and then assailed each one, beating my fists against the washer, BANG!BANG!BANG!.
Determined to handle the situation myself (what choice, really?), I needed to remove the mouse from the machine, but with each failed attempt, my despair closed, and as my body shook with big, gigantic sobs, I wondered how it could possibly be that a bloody, wet, bludgeoned mouse could be so cute, still?
Surveying my laundry room, in a post-insanity fugue, I could only laugh at a memory that came unbidden of a friend who had once told me a story of how she lost her mind in her own laundry room, right there among the piles of never-ending whites and oppressive darks, and then I thought of a poem I had read by a poet we both admire, and so I will print it here in hopes that she finds it, like I did, before the insanity finds her again.
the shoelace, by charles bukowski
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire; fears in front of you,
fears that hold still
you can study them
like pieces on a chessboard . . .
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood . . .
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse . . .
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left . . .
the dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
constipation
speeding tickets
rickets or crickets or mice or termites or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
lightswitch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
Sears Roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the market's
down
and the tiolet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avacados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at Norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of
80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rearview mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in and
the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
math challenged
Something's been bothering me for 31 1/2 weeks: if a pregnancy lasts nine months, why is my due date 40 weeks? I feel too embarrassed to ask my doc (or anyone else for that matter), but no matter how I slice it I can't get the numbers to work.
So today I am reading, The Must-Have Mom Manual, and here is a quote from pg. 27 . . .
"Dads, even though you are in the labor room, you should still expect a lot of waiting. Movies portray a huge rush to the hospital: throwing the suitcase in the car and speeding through streets in the family car (which is probably the only part most men look forward to - a reason to speed legally) while the mother is breathing hard, sweating, and cursing. Upon arriving at the hospital, nurses scurry the expectant mom into the delivery room and immediately people start screaming, 'Push!'
Ah, that's not at all how it happens. And we'll never understand why the media seem to consistently portray it incorrectly. (Just like that whole thing about being pregnant for nine months. Nobody's pregnant for nine months. It's forty weeks, and that means ten months, people!)"
Here's more on the subject . . . A pregnancy is suppose to last 40 weeks but not really because they add the 2 weeks between your LMP and your conception date. It's weird, so actually it's 38 weeks. P.S. Never count the months... counting by the week is way more accurate.
Source(s):
Pregnant for the 4th time.
And more . . . Gestation in a human being is 266 days. (9 months is actually 274 days; 40 weeks = 280 days.). The reason that most doctors say 40 weeks, even though that is not biologically correct, is that they start the count at the first day of your last period. That adds 10- 15 days to the actual number of days of gestation. From the day of actual conception to birth is 266 days. For your own information: The actual length of any animal's gestation has to do with size. The larger the animal, the longer the gestation period, in general. Be glad your not an elephant! Indian Elephant gestation= 624 days.
I wonder if this would be any easier in metric?
So today I am reading, The Must-Have Mom Manual, and here is a quote from pg. 27 . . .
"Dads, even though you are in the labor room, you should still expect a lot of waiting. Movies portray a huge rush to the hospital: throwing the suitcase in the car and speeding through streets in the family car (which is probably the only part most men look forward to - a reason to speed legally) while the mother is breathing hard, sweating, and cursing. Upon arriving at the hospital, nurses scurry the expectant mom into the delivery room and immediately people start screaming, 'Push!'
Ah, that's not at all how it happens. And we'll never understand why the media seem to consistently portray it incorrectly. (Just like that whole thing about being pregnant for nine months. Nobody's pregnant for nine months. It's forty weeks, and that means ten months, people!)"
Here's more on the subject . . . A pregnancy is suppose to last 40 weeks but not really because they add the 2 weeks between your LMP and your conception date. It's weird, so actually it's 38 weeks. P.S. Never count the months... counting by the week is way more accurate.
Source(s):
Pregnant for the 4th time.
And more . . . Gestation in a human being is 266 days. (9 months is actually 274 days; 40 weeks = 280 days.). The reason that most doctors say 40 weeks, even though that is not biologically correct, is that they start the count at the first day of your last period. That adds 10- 15 days to the actual number of days of gestation. From the day of actual conception to birth is 266 days. For your own information: The actual length of any animal's gestation has to do with size. The larger the animal, the longer the gestation period, in general. Be glad your not an elephant! Indian Elephant gestation= 624 days.
I wonder if this would be any easier in metric?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
more surprises
I'm really surprised at how much I am enjoying sharing my pregnancy with my mom. During the early days, she didn't seem comfortable talking about labor and delivery very much (which I am nearly obsessed with), and I think she was intimidated by her own lack of labor experience: I am an only child, a c-section, bottle-fed, and 39 years young. I'm also not one to talk about my body very much with my mom, and early conversations were somewhat stilted. I figured all of this was best discussed with Mr. R (who I thought would be much more interested in my ever-changing body than what has actually occurred) . . . surprise!
My mom's true level of interest was first revealed in her desire to accompany me to my OB/GYN appointments. I was totally fine going alone because not much happens on these visits, certainly not enough to pull Mr. R out of work, but she managed to be very enthusiastic without being overbearing, and we gave it a try. I continue to hope she will see an ultrasound, but so far she has only heard the baby's heartbeat, and when she does, she cries. It's very beautiful.
I can't really remember how she intimated her desire to be with us for the baby's birth; again it was enthusiastic, not overbearing, and Mr. R. said he had no problem with sharing the experience. the choice, he said, was mine, but he did remind me that no one can piss me off quite as quickly or as thoroughly as my mom. Nonetheless, I put it to her. At least she didn't cry this time.
I've talked to several women who would rather kiss snakes than have their mothers present during labor and delivery, and to a certain extent, I get it. One said her mother makes her feel inadequate. Another said she wanted it to be just herself and her husband for the baby's arrival. Et cetera.
For myself, I tend to regard the baby as belonging to our clan more than just to Mr. R and myself, and I am glad to share her arrival with our clan. Or so I thought until I extended the logic of the clan argument to include my mother-in-law and the room started getting very crowded. And annoying. I still haven't closed the door on extending the offer to Mr. R's mom, but I am dead-against dividing Mr. R's attention between managing the crazy moms and helping me. He's with me.
As for the second contention, my mom rarely makes me feel inadequate on purpose. And she has vast experience comforting me. I still remember sick days at home with her as a child, how she could hug nearly anything away, how she knew exactly the "special" food I needed to feel better, how listening to the sound of her voice with my head on her chest, rocking, was the best medicine I ever knew. No one knows how to comfort me like my mom, so it seems crazy not to have her on my birth team.
I asked her to read a book about labor and delivery, written by a middle-of-the-road, experienced ER nurse whose basic message was, "be flexible." Well, she's read every page, and our conversations are so wonderful right now as we both speculate how the labor/delivery will go. In fact, she's speaking the language now, too. I did tell her if she blows in my face (the book advised the helpers to do this as a reminder to breath during contractions) I will push her away forcefully.
My mother is also the keeper of our family stories, and I want Audrey to hear the story of her birth in the special way my mom has of telling forth.
My mom's true level of interest was first revealed in her desire to accompany me to my OB/GYN appointments. I was totally fine going alone because not much happens on these visits, certainly not enough to pull Mr. R out of work, but she managed to be very enthusiastic without being overbearing, and we gave it a try. I continue to hope she will see an ultrasound, but so far she has only heard the baby's heartbeat, and when she does, she cries. It's very beautiful.
I can't really remember how she intimated her desire to be with us for the baby's birth; again it was enthusiastic, not overbearing, and Mr. R. said he had no problem with sharing the experience. the choice, he said, was mine, but he did remind me that no one can piss me off quite as quickly or as thoroughly as my mom. Nonetheless, I put it to her. At least she didn't cry this time.
I've talked to several women who would rather kiss snakes than have their mothers present during labor and delivery, and to a certain extent, I get it. One said her mother makes her feel inadequate. Another said she wanted it to be just herself and her husband for the baby's arrival. Et cetera.
For myself, I tend to regard the baby as belonging to our clan more than just to Mr. R and myself, and I am glad to share her arrival with our clan. Or so I thought until I extended the logic of the clan argument to include my mother-in-law and the room started getting very crowded. And annoying. I still haven't closed the door on extending the offer to Mr. R's mom, but I am dead-against dividing Mr. R's attention between managing the crazy moms and helping me. He's with me.
As for the second contention, my mom rarely makes me feel inadequate on purpose. And she has vast experience comforting me. I still remember sick days at home with her as a child, how she could hug nearly anything away, how she knew exactly the "special" food I needed to feel better, how listening to the sound of her voice with my head on her chest, rocking, was the best medicine I ever knew. No one knows how to comfort me like my mom, so it seems crazy not to have her on my birth team.
I asked her to read a book about labor and delivery, written by a middle-of-the-road, experienced ER nurse whose basic message was, "be flexible." Well, she's read every page, and our conversations are so wonderful right now as we both speculate how the labor/delivery will go. In fact, she's speaking the language now, too. I did tell her if she blows in my face (the book advised the helpers to do this as a reminder to breath during contractions) I will push her away forcefully.
My mother is also the keeper of our family stories, and I want Audrey to hear the story of her birth in the special way my mom has of telling forth.
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