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.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April Fool's
This has been a pretty lame April Fool's Day - I've neither played nor been played anybody's fool, but the night is young and I may still be able to trick Mr. R with this one: "Honey? I think I'm in labor." Good one, Christy.
Yesterday was my 30 week check-up. I haven't gained any weight since the beginning of February but my Doc doesn't seem concerned, and the baby is certainly growing. I'm going biweekly now, and at my 28-week visit, I measured 28 inches. This week, I measured 32, and the doc laughingly cautioned me to slow down, said I was too small a girl to have a big baby. I think she's looking at 37 inches as a good measure for labor/delivery. I hope someone tells this to Audrey.
My mom asked the doctor if she could determine the baby's position, and she said, "Of course I can, dummy, I'm the OB/GYN" which should keep my mom from asking any more dumb questions in the office. While it's still early days, she's head down. I hope she's comfortable :-)
It's funny to re-read this post with all of its pregnancy lingo and know that some day, I will look at this and not have the first clue what any of it means. By then, I will be on to some other lingo - soccer or dance or PTA or teen slang.
For better or worse, I bet that the rest of my life will be as sharply defined as the lingos I will use to describe them.
Yesterday was my 30 week check-up. I haven't gained any weight since the beginning of February but my Doc doesn't seem concerned, and the baby is certainly growing. I'm going biweekly now, and at my 28-week visit, I measured 28 inches. This week, I measured 32, and the doc laughingly cautioned me to slow down, said I was too small a girl to have a big baby. I think she's looking at 37 inches as a good measure for labor/delivery. I hope someone tells this to Audrey.
My mom asked the doctor if she could determine the baby's position, and she said, "Of course I can, dummy, I'm the OB/GYN" which should keep my mom from asking any more dumb questions in the office. While it's still early days, she's head down. I hope she's comfortable :-)
It's funny to re-read this post with all of its pregnancy lingo and know that some day, I will look at this and not have the first clue what any of it means. By then, I will be on to some other lingo - soccer or dance or PTA or teen slang.
For better or worse, I bet that the rest of my life will be as sharply defined as the lingos I will use to describe them.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Audrey's new stroller
Yesterday I called my mother from work, and she said, "your stroller arrived today!"
"Stroller? I didn't order a stroller." A few more of these intellectually-charged sentences between us, and I surmised the stroller was purchased from our gift registry (though my mother couldn't tell me who was on the return address label because she couldn't read it without her glasses.)
The whole thing was way more exciting than I expected. It came from Grandpa R. and his wife, and wouldn't you know the first gift would come from the one person I cannot invite to the shower? Though Mr. R and I recently clarified our position in the ongoing saga of old wife v. new wife, I still feel like an as$hole.
It seems the wrong stroller was delivered to us, however; the one we received is a two-seater, and the one we registered for is a one-seater, and since it holds the infant carrier we were gifted from friends, I'm pretty firm on having the one I selected. So tonight we go exchanging.
Well. That's it for this posting. Nothing fancy, simply a record of Audrey's first gift from the registry.
"Stroller? I didn't order a stroller." A few more of these intellectually-charged sentences between us, and I surmised the stroller was purchased from our gift registry (though my mother couldn't tell me who was on the return address label because she couldn't read it without her glasses.)
The whole thing was way more exciting than I expected. It came from Grandpa R. and his wife, and wouldn't you know the first gift would come from the one person I cannot invite to the shower? Though Mr. R and I recently clarified our position in the ongoing saga of old wife v. new wife, I still feel like an as$hole.
It seems the wrong stroller was delivered to us, however; the one we received is a two-seater, and the one we registered for is a one-seater, and since it holds the infant carrier we were gifted from friends, I'm pretty firm on having the one I selected. So tonight we go exchanging.
Well. That's it for this posting. Nothing fancy, simply a record of Audrey's first gift from the registry.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
pink slips, or the lack therof
Funny how what you fear the most meets you halfway (eddie vetter, poet laureate), and sometimes, if you're willing to stare it down, it actually retreats. Two weeks ago, I'm driving home from work, looking forward to a trip with Mr. R to Virginia Beach, and he tells me he's probably going to be offered a). a severance package or b). the opportunity to apply for a network engineer job within the company. In one week. I thought I was going to pass out I was so frightened. I think I said something like, "Now? With the baby coming?" I slept very little that night, but we were both determined to chin up and enjoy our last getaway before baby, though I can't say I really saw his chin go down.
We spoke very little on the way down (invariably, I fall asleep in the car), but when we arrived and settled in for a seafood dinner on the boardwalk, he opened up about contingency employment plans, and I reciprocated with a clarification of my fears: uncertainty, not lack of confidence. As we spoke about new starts, I felt the familiar spark, and I heard it in his voice as he described his discontent with Corporate America and the American Dream as we've come to know it. He has ideas for starting his own business, and still enjoys fixing cars and would be very content doing just that. I came away realizing my sense of safety was misfounded, so I began shifting it off of his employer and onto his own shoulders.
And I slept that night.
In the days to come, thoughts of the pink slip were amazingly optimistic. I felt brave, excited, and not fearful in the least. On Tuesday, he thought he might want to be a teacher. On Wednesday, it was laser tattoo removal. Thursday, auto mechanic. On Friday, I surprised myself and told him I thought he should fore go the network engineer option altogether and just take the package. Mentally, emotionally, we had lept.
This morning, he had a late start. He was in the addition, working on his laptop, and I was upstairs getting ready for work. I heard him talking, assumed he had dialed into a meeting, and went about the business of blowdrying my hair. I had the strangest thought about how retirement plans are essentially Ponzi schemes, and I couldn't wait for him to finish his call so I could discuss this profound observation with him. So, he came upstairs, and I blurted out my Ponzi nonsense, and he said, "they didn't offer me a package." Totally out of context, this hit me like a brick, and then as my Ponzi-focused brain reversed direction and put his statement into the proper context, I felt the fear again, thinking he had lost his job and his employer had just stiffed him on 8 month's of severance, to boot.
Turned out, they did not offer him the option but rather told him he was being reassigned, effective immediately. As he relayed this to me, there was no spark in his eyes, there was a resignation - one which I felt, too.
It's time to move on, that much we know. I said joyful invocations all day for his continued employment, but the experience reminded me that I would work two jobs to keep him from selling his soul to the highest bidder or to keep me feeling "safe." It taught me that I still have a few risks in me. Last week, he said the most secure 8 months he would have ever had with the company would have been the 8 months of severance, and he was absolutely right.
Safety is an illusion.
We spoke very little on the way down (invariably, I fall asleep in the car), but when we arrived and settled in for a seafood dinner on the boardwalk, he opened up about contingency employment plans, and I reciprocated with a clarification of my fears: uncertainty, not lack of confidence. As we spoke about new starts, I felt the familiar spark, and I heard it in his voice as he described his discontent with Corporate America and the American Dream as we've come to know it. He has ideas for starting his own business, and still enjoys fixing cars and would be very content doing just that. I came away realizing my sense of safety was misfounded, so I began shifting it off of his employer and onto his own shoulders.
And I slept that night.
In the days to come, thoughts of the pink slip were amazingly optimistic. I felt brave, excited, and not fearful in the least. On Tuesday, he thought he might want to be a teacher. On Wednesday, it was laser tattoo removal. Thursday, auto mechanic. On Friday, I surprised myself and told him I thought he should fore go the network engineer option altogether and just take the package. Mentally, emotionally, we had lept.
This morning, he had a late start. He was in the addition, working on his laptop, and I was upstairs getting ready for work. I heard him talking, assumed he had dialed into a meeting, and went about the business of blowdrying my hair. I had the strangest thought about how retirement plans are essentially Ponzi schemes, and I couldn't wait for him to finish his call so I could discuss this profound observation with him. So, he came upstairs, and I blurted out my Ponzi nonsense, and he said, "they didn't offer me a package." Totally out of context, this hit me like a brick, and then as my Ponzi-focused brain reversed direction and put his statement into the proper context, I felt the fear again, thinking he had lost his job and his employer had just stiffed him on 8 month's of severance, to boot.
Turned out, they did not offer him the option but rather told him he was being reassigned, effective immediately. As he relayed this to me, there was no spark in his eyes, there was a resignation - one which I felt, too.
It's time to move on, that much we know. I said joyful invocations all day for his continued employment, but the experience reminded me that I would work two jobs to keep him from selling his soul to the highest bidder or to keep me feeling "safe." It taught me that I still have a few risks in me. Last week, he said the most secure 8 months he would have ever had with the company would have been the 8 months of severance, and he was absolutely right.
Safety is an illusion.
Monday, March 2, 2009
baby tricks
I like reading ahead on the your-pregnancy-week-by-week sites: not too far ahead, just what should be happening the next week. So, while reading about the 26-week markers (which is where I am now), I learned that the baby's eyes develop quite a bit even though the iris is not yet formed. You can test this, says one of the sites, by shining a flashlight on your belly. If you feel the baby move when you shine the light, she's noticing it.
I told Mr. R about the experiment, and he was more curious about the flashlight trick than he has been about any of the stupid baby tricks I've told him about, to date, including the one where she comes shooting out of my vagina like a rabbit out of a hat. So, after dinner I tried it, and it totally worked. I put the flashlight on my belly, and I felt her move away from the light. It was really cool. Suffice to say we spent a fair amount of time harassing her with the flashlight thoughout the evening. I think we desensitized her because her movements were lighter each time, but we'll see what happens tonight.
So, the theme of the week, last week, was, "how a father affects his daughter's future relationships with men." It started, innocently enough, with a conversation about Drew Peterson, the 54-year-old cop whose 20-something wife disappeared about 18 months' ago. Over dinner, I told Mr. R that he was engaged, again, to a 24-year old, and Mr. R's response was to stare at me for about 20 seconds, shake his head, and say, "this is why men need to be better fathers to their daughters." Wow. I am so glad he gets that, being that he's going to begin raising our daughter in 3 short months. Next came the Mardi Gras party we attended. Our neighbors threw the party, and their college-aged daughter and her cohort of male friends came home for the bash.
I will have to continue these thoughts on another post as I am being called away from my computer. Sorry.
I told Mr. R about the experiment, and he was more curious about the flashlight trick than he has been about any of the stupid baby tricks I've told him about, to date, including the one where she comes shooting out of my vagina like a rabbit out of a hat. So, after dinner I tried it, and it totally worked. I put the flashlight on my belly, and I felt her move away from the light. It was really cool. Suffice to say we spent a fair amount of time harassing her with the flashlight thoughout the evening. I think we desensitized her because her movements were lighter each time, but we'll see what happens tonight.
So, the theme of the week, last week, was, "how a father affects his daughter's future relationships with men." It started, innocently enough, with a conversation about Drew Peterson, the 54-year-old cop whose 20-something wife disappeared about 18 months' ago. Over dinner, I told Mr. R that he was engaged, again, to a 24-year old, and Mr. R's response was to stare at me for about 20 seconds, shake his head, and say, "this is why men need to be better fathers to their daughters." Wow. I am so glad he gets that, being that he's going to begin raising our daughter in 3 short months. Next came the Mardi Gras party we attended. Our neighbors threw the party, and their college-aged daughter and her cohort of male friends came home for the bash.
I will have to continue these thoughts on another post as I am being called away from my computer. Sorry.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
preparedness
Yesterday, Mr. R and I attended an 8-hour, prepared childbirth class. We didn't have to watch a video of childbirth (thank God. we already did that, online, months ago and it scared to crap out of us), so neither of us hurled, and the information we received was very helpful. I've been reading a lot of books and likely would be "prepared" with the information I've gleaned, but since Mr. R will NOT read anything beyond horsepower manuals or golf tutorials, and since he is so flipping smart, and calm, and knows exactly how to shut down the voices in my head, he needed an education in order to get us through labor and delivery. The instructor was kooky, but she totally focused the class on the coaches (in other words, the husbands), and she did a great job of showing the process as mechanical, and linear, and I know my coach understood every word. In fact, looking around at the other couples, I was really glad for the coach I had.
My key takeaways were the breathing instructions and the hospital tour. At least I now know by which door to enter.
The thing that really surprised me, though, is that I'm not afraid of labor anymore. And, it wasn't because of the class. I've just started thinking about birth from Audrey's perspective: one minute, you're bobbing along in a cozy cocoon, and then suddenly it starts to disintegrate. No warning, no idea what lies beyond, no training for the journey, and no one to coach you through it.
Me? I have knowledge, other people's advice and experience, a coach, and a whole team of professionals. And, more importantly, I'm the mom. It is now my job to be the calm one, the one who is in charge, the one who holds it together, the one who she relies on during times of crisis.
Thinking about it in these terms changes everything. I'm almost looking forward to it.
My key takeaways were the breathing instructions and the hospital tour. At least I now know by which door to enter.
The thing that really surprised me, though, is that I'm not afraid of labor anymore. And, it wasn't because of the class. I've just started thinking about birth from Audrey's perspective: one minute, you're bobbing along in a cozy cocoon, and then suddenly it starts to disintegrate. No warning, no idea what lies beyond, no training for the journey, and no one to coach you through it.
Me? I have knowledge, other people's advice and experience, a coach, and a whole team of professionals. And, more importantly, I'm the mom. It is now my job to be the calm one, the one who is in charge, the one who holds it together, the one who she relies on during times of crisis.
Thinking about it in these terms changes everything. I'm almost looking forward to it.
Friday, February 13, 2009
friday the thirteenth
I usually love this day - it's my wedding anniversary (sorta). I was married on Friday, 10/13/95, so I weasel extra celebrations out of my husband every time a Friday the Thirteenth rolls around (this year, we get 3). Actually, I've always been a fan of the number 13, oddball that I am, and it continues to bring me good luck: Audrey will be born in our 13th year of marriage, and she's due on June 7 (6+7=13).
I'm having a really hard time keeping my chin (make that chins. I'm starting to notice a double chin at this stage in the pregnancy) up today. I love my husband so much, but I really hate my life today, and how do you explain this to the person who is, effectively, half your life? I don't think you can. "It's not you, it's just that I don't want to be here anymore?" If he told me that, I'd take it very personally.
For now, I'll chalk it up to hormones and try to minimize the damage. Looking forward to better days ahead.
I'm having a really hard time keeping my chin (make that chins. I'm starting to notice a double chin at this stage in the pregnancy) up today. I love my husband so much, but I really hate my life today, and how do you explain this to the person who is, effectively, half your life? I don't think you can. "It's not you, it's just that I don't want to be here anymore?" If he told me that, I'd take it very personally.
For now, I'll chalk it up to hormones and try to minimize the damage. Looking forward to better days ahead.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
the heart is a lonely hunter
My father left work early on Monday. He was painting an apartment when suddenly he felt very weak. He also described pain down his right arm and side. He asked his partner to clean up for him, and he headed for the hospital, figuring if he was having a heart attack, he could just roll out of the car, in the FH parking lot, and someone would take care of him.
Well, the feeling subsided, so instead of staying the course, he went home. And told my mother. Who then told me. While I was working and therefore powerless. Over the course of several heated conversations with my parents, I made absolutely no headway towards convincing him to get to the hospital. In fairness to my father, it's not just his bullheadedness nor his refusal to listen to anything his daughter says, he has very, very crappy health insurance.
Nonetheless, I decided to play all my cards. When the longest work day of my life finally ended, I stopped in at my parents' house and laid down my cards. My father's response was to tell me he felt fine, had experienced no further sensations like the morning, and probably it was indigestion. I wasn't scheduled to work the next day, and I offered to take him to a doctor or urgicare center. I also offered to go with him to MetroHealth where he qualifies for state medical assistance (but it would be a day of paperwork first). He blew me off. I left in a huff, angry with both my parents.
Unbeknownst to me, my mom and dad worked out a bargain: she would leave him alone about going to the doctor if he promised to go to the ER, immediately, if the pain returned. Better they didn't tell me about this because I wouldn't have trusted them anyways, and I would have been openly critical of their wishy-washy, mamby-pamby plan anyways.
Whether it was love for my mother, or the compunction of his word, or two hours' listening to Carl tell him how foolish he was being (Carl had a heart attack 9 years ago), or the thought of not being able to hold his granddaughter (yes, I played that card), at 11:00 PM, when he felt the familiar pain in his chest, he woke my mother up, and she took him to the ER.
Early the next morning, Mr. R. walked into our weight room and beckoned me to the phone. It's always serious when he interrupts my ride. It was my dad, and his trip to the ER confirmed that Monday's episode was, in fact, a heart attack. Later that day, he underwent a catheterization which revealed 90% blockage in the main artery, 30% in the left, and 40% in the right. The doctors cleaned out a fair amount of plaque and a blood clot from the main artery and implanted a stent. Afterwards, the main concern shifted to his leg and the artery that served as roadmap for the catheter. For 45 minutes, 2 nurses applied direct pressure to the incision. Next, he had to lay perfectly still, on his back, for 8-9 hours. About 1/3 of the way through, his nurse placed a sandbag on his groin to steady the leg even further.
And, because life is nothing if not absurd, we experienced high winds all night on this, the first night my father ever spent in hospital. A huge chunk of tree blew down onto their driveway, crosswise, and pulled a power and cable line with it. Mr. R risked life and limb to move the tree out of the way so my mother could access her car, but as of this writing, the house is still partially without power. My father, however, is home safely.
I wonder if he'll see this as I do - a blessing, a second chance, a karmic break? And, I wonder what he will do with it? It's not difficult to understand why he had the attack: 40 years of smoking; 60 years of my grandmother's authentic, delicious Southern cooking; red meat at the exclusion of all others; and a very cavalier approach to self-preservation. Things come easy to my dad, especially physically. I don't hold any of this against him as we all take risks with our bodies, and I am certainly no exception. But I do wonder what comes next - the devil you know or the dark unknown?
Well, the feeling subsided, so instead of staying the course, he went home. And told my mother. Who then told me. While I was working and therefore powerless. Over the course of several heated conversations with my parents, I made absolutely no headway towards convincing him to get to the hospital. In fairness to my father, it's not just his bullheadedness nor his refusal to listen to anything his daughter says, he has very, very crappy health insurance.
Nonetheless, I decided to play all my cards. When the longest work day of my life finally ended, I stopped in at my parents' house and laid down my cards. My father's response was to tell me he felt fine, had experienced no further sensations like the morning, and probably it was indigestion. I wasn't scheduled to work the next day, and I offered to take him to a doctor or urgicare center. I also offered to go with him to MetroHealth where he qualifies for state medical assistance (but it would be a day of paperwork first). He blew me off. I left in a huff, angry with both my parents.
Unbeknownst to me, my mom and dad worked out a bargain: she would leave him alone about going to the doctor if he promised to go to the ER, immediately, if the pain returned. Better they didn't tell me about this because I wouldn't have trusted them anyways, and I would have been openly critical of their wishy-washy, mamby-pamby plan anyways.
Whether it was love for my mother, or the compunction of his word, or two hours' listening to Carl tell him how foolish he was being (Carl had a heart attack 9 years ago), or the thought of not being able to hold his granddaughter (yes, I played that card), at 11:00 PM, when he felt the familiar pain in his chest, he woke my mother up, and she took him to the ER.
Early the next morning, Mr. R. walked into our weight room and beckoned me to the phone. It's always serious when he interrupts my ride. It was my dad, and his trip to the ER confirmed that Monday's episode was, in fact, a heart attack. Later that day, he underwent a catheterization which revealed 90% blockage in the main artery, 30% in the left, and 40% in the right. The doctors cleaned out a fair amount of plaque and a blood clot from the main artery and implanted a stent. Afterwards, the main concern shifted to his leg and the artery that served as roadmap for the catheter. For 45 minutes, 2 nurses applied direct pressure to the incision. Next, he had to lay perfectly still, on his back, for 8-9 hours. About 1/3 of the way through, his nurse placed a sandbag on his groin to steady the leg even further.
And, because life is nothing if not absurd, we experienced high winds all night on this, the first night my father ever spent in hospital. A huge chunk of tree blew down onto their driveway, crosswise, and pulled a power and cable line with it. Mr. R risked life and limb to move the tree out of the way so my mother could access her car, but as of this writing, the house is still partially without power. My father, however, is home safely.
I wonder if he'll see this as I do - a blessing, a second chance, a karmic break? And, I wonder what he will do with it? It's not difficult to understand why he had the attack: 40 years of smoking; 60 years of my grandmother's authentic, delicious Southern cooking; red meat at the exclusion of all others; and a very cavalier approach to self-preservation. Things come easy to my dad, especially physically. I don't hold any of this against him as we all take risks with our bodies, and I am certainly no exception. But I do wonder what comes next - the devil you know or the dark unknown?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
for anna and george
Hi Guys!
We received your care package yesterday - Mr. R can't get the mobile working, but aside from that, it felt like Christmas, again. When I saw the dress, I got weepy. It's such a beautiful little thing, and while we've been acquiring clothes and other items for Audrey all along, this was the first time I realized that one day soon our child would be wearing it, that this IS really happening. And, rather than evoking my usual feelings of fear and inadequacy, I felt such peace and such longing for the day when she will be with us.
And, you're both to blame for that, too. Seeing you with the twofers is just about the most precious thing, and despite your tales of sleepless nights, vomit, and mountains of baby poo, you make parenthood look so good.
Until the next time we're together . . .
We received your care package yesterday - Mr. R can't get the mobile working, but aside from that, it felt like Christmas, again. When I saw the dress, I got weepy. It's such a beautiful little thing, and while we've been acquiring clothes and other items for Audrey all along, this was the first time I realized that one day soon our child would be wearing it, that this IS really happening. And, rather than evoking my usual feelings of fear and inadequacy, I felt such peace and such longing for the day when she will be with us.
And, you're both to blame for that, too. Seeing you with the twofers is just about the most precious thing, and despite your tales of sleepless nights, vomit, and mountains of baby poo, you make parenthood look so good.
Until the next time we're together . . .
Thursday, February 5, 2009
sitting shiva
It's been 4 years, and we're still grieving. Some years, one of us comes close to forgetting your anniversary, but - pathetic bunch we are - one of the others invariably keeps us all remembering. I guess that's a good sign, really, that we keep coming back because having a place to come back to signifies we've moved on (most of us. Your brother won't let go.)
When I hear the others' grief, I feel isolated. I don't miss you like they do, and to an extent I hold myself back out of reverence for our relationship, our exclusivity, our privacy. But, no. I don't miss you for me. You weren't a regular part of my life when you died. We lived in different states, and we weren't ever going to connect as we once had. What I felt and still feel is anger, with you, for being such a witless prick. How could you be so cavalier with the lives of the people who were going to miss you? Your mother? Your brother? Scott? Sally? And what, exactly, did you not comprehend - you with your 140+ IQ - with respect to managing your diabetes? Check your sugar, take your injections OR YOU WILL DIE! Maybe I'm the only one who will say it, but there is no way in hell that you didn't get it. You rolled the dice because you were either too unhappy, too romantic, or too damn lazy to grow up, and I will never wax romantic about your "tragic death" simply becaue I won't give you the satisfaction. It was not romantic; it was stupid. And wasteful. And, from what I can surmise, undignified.
Sally thinks the diabetes explains your mercurial personality, and I think she's right, but once you received your diagnosis (after the first time you went into a sugar coma), it was on you to manage it.
You and I should have spent more time talking through this, but we were idealistic, romantic, and wreckless, and I don't know if I could have explained to you what I know now: that growing old is more beautiful and more admirable than dying young.
I will always, always cherish our time together. It was altogether unique, and I'm glad I've never experienced anything like what we had, before or since. But it wasn't enough, Matt. You had more to do, and if it wasn't the next great American novel, it was still more to do.
When I hear the others' grief, I feel isolated. I don't miss you like they do, and to an extent I hold myself back out of reverence for our relationship, our exclusivity, our privacy. But, no. I don't miss you for me. You weren't a regular part of my life when you died. We lived in different states, and we weren't ever going to connect as we once had. What I felt and still feel is anger, with you, for being such a witless prick. How could you be so cavalier with the lives of the people who were going to miss you? Your mother? Your brother? Scott? Sally? And what, exactly, did you not comprehend - you with your 140+ IQ - with respect to managing your diabetes? Check your sugar, take your injections OR YOU WILL DIE! Maybe I'm the only one who will say it, but there is no way in hell that you didn't get it. You rolled the dice because you were either too unhappy, too romantic, or too damn lazy to grow up, and I will never wax romantic about your "tragic death" simply becaue I won't give you the satisfaction. It was not romantic; it was stupid. And wasteful. And, from what I can surmise, undignified.
Sally thinks the diabetes explains your mercurial personality, and I think she's right, but once you received your diagnosis (after the first time you went into a sugar coma), it was on you to manage it.
You and I should have spent more time talking through this, but we were idealistic, romantic, and wreckless, and I don't know if I could have explained to you what I know now: that growing old is more beautiful and more admirable than dying young.
I will always, always cherish our time together. It was altogether unique, and I'm glad I've never experienced anything like what we had, before or since. But it wasn't enough, Matt. You had more to do, and if it wasn't the next great American novel, it was still more to do.
Monday, February 2, 2009
the big game
Is it true we can't say Super Bowl anymore? Well, call it whichever you will, I watched the first half of the Big Game last night, nonstop to the point where the big Pittsburgh Steeler ran back a fumble for a touchdown. It was the longest play in Super - oops - Big Game history: 99 yards.
Now, I have not watched a single, NFL game all season. I had no business watching this, let alone choosing sides! But my mother had been regaling us all through dinner with stories of Kurt Warner's amazing foray into pro football (he was a bagger at the local grocery store for God's sake!), and every other phrase out of her mouth was, "God bless you, Kurt Warner," and I was highly annoyed but ultimately swayed to throw my support to the Cards. Who lost. In the last 35 seconds. But I did not see this because I quit watching sometime in the third quarter, in keeping with my true, fair-weathered fan, self.
I love watching football with my dad. He is a true fan, and he can look at the plays and tell you exactly what happened, what should have happened, and what's likely to happen next, but not in a way that ruins the game like my mother with her God-bless-you-kurt-warner mantra. My parents left at halftime because they never stay later than 8:00 and they also hate Bruce Springsteen. I flipped over to the Puppy Bowl, Animal Planet's attempt to cash in on the Big Game, so I'm not sure if Bruce exposed a breast (or anything else). Seeing the puppies playing football made me wish I could spend a whole day playing with puppies. It would be messy but therapeutic.
Final score: Steelers 20, Cardinals 14.
Now, I have not watched a single, NFL game all season. I had no business watching this, let alone choosing sides! But my mother had been regaling us all through dinner with stories of Kurt Warner's amazing foray into pro football (he was a bagger at the local grocery store for God's sake!), and every other phrase out of her mouth was, "God bless you, Kurt Warner," and I was highly annoyed but ultimately swayed to throw my support to the Cards. Who lost. In the last 35 seconds. But I did not see this because I quit watching sometime in the third quarter, in keeping with my true, fair-weathered fan, self.
I love watching football with my dad. He is a true fan, and he can look at the plays and tell you exactly what happened, what should have happened, and what's likely to happen next, but not in a way that ruins the game like my mother with her God-bless-you-kurt-warner mantra. My parents left at halftime because they never stay later than 8:00 and they also hate Bruce Springsteen. I flipped over to the Puppy Bowl, Animal Planet's attempt to cash in on the Big Game, so I'm not sure if Bruce exposed a breast (or anything else). Seeing the puppies playing football made me wish I could spend a whole day playing with puppies. It would be messy but therapeutic.
Final score: Steelers 20, Cardinals 14.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
It's good to be back. I've been sucked into Facebook hell, and that's keeping me away from this blog. You see, I can only do so much web-2.0-ing . . .
Well, so much has happened since the last post: Obama's inauguration; I read a really good book titled, The Happiness of Bliss; I saw Slumdog Millionaire on the big screen (awesome awesome awesome!); we've had the snowiest January on record (almost. We still have a few more inches to go, but snow is in the forecast for the next few days). Um, on paper it doesn't look like much, but it's really a lot. really.
I'm 22+ weeks now. I'm really showing, and I'm finally feeling the baby kick. It's much more subtle than I imagined, but she's still wee and doesn't have the reach to connect yet. Personally, I chose to think she's too sweet, too good-natured to want to hurt me, and no one needs to disabuse me of this image. Also, while it seems like I have been pregnant FOREVER, it's actually going fast. I have chronic heartburn, and I'm starting to feel the weight now, but otherwise I am tip-top.
Oh, yes! I've just about finished with the nursery: crib; new mattress; new crib set (adorable); car seat; mobile; pack and play; changing table; cloth diapers; dresser. The hard part was clearing the room. Mr. R and I are like a pair of goldfish in that we will grow to fill any space, and we had that room filled top to bottom. We still occupy the closet, and I have no idea where that stuff is going to fit, but I'm banking on the fact that she won't need the closet for awhile.
I also registered for baby stuff. Mostly I did this from my desktop, but in the end I invited my mother- and my sister-in-law along to guide me through the process. We had a lovely time being girls.
Well, more to say on that but out of time for this post. More soon.
I'm two weeks away from the final trimester. Unbelievable.
Well, so much has happened since the last post: Obama's inauguration; I read a really good book titled, The Happiness of Bliss; I saw Slumdog Millionaire on the big screen (awesome awesome awesome!); we've had the snowiest January on record (almost. We still have a few more inches to go, but snow is in the forecast for the next few days). Um, on paper it doesn't look like much, but it's really a lot. really.
I'm 22+ weeks now. I'm really showing, and I'm finally feeling the baby kick. It's much more subtle than I imagined, but she's still wee and doesn't have the reach to connect yet. Personally, I chose to think she's too sweet, too good-natured to want to hurt me, and no one needs to disabuse me of this image. Also, while it seems like I have been pregnant FOREVER, it's actually going fast. I have chronic heartburn, and I'm starting to feel the weight now, but otherwise I am tip-top.
Oh, yes! I've just about finished with the nursery: crib; new mattress; new crib set (adorable); car seat; mobile; pack and play; changing table; cloth diapers; dresser. The hard part was clearing the room. Mr. R and I are like a pair of goldfish in that we will grow to fill any space, and we had that room filled top to bottom. We still occupy the closet, and I have no idea where that stuff is going to fit, but I'm banking on the fact that she won't need the closet for awhile.
I also registered for baby stuff. Mostly I did this from my desktop, but in the end I invited my mother- and my sister-in-law along to guide me through the process. We had a lovely time being girls.
Well, more to say on that but out of time for this post. More soon.
I'm two weeks away from the final trimester. Unbelievable.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
It's a . . .
Girl!!!!!!!!
Better still, a very active, very well-formed little baby. When she finally sat still, the ultrasound docs could see that, developmentally, she is right on track, and I couldn't be happier for that. The whole process is way more nerve-wracking than I envisioned. For example, you don't receive all the info at once because the docs need to change the views, take measurements, etc. It went something like this: "now we are measuring the head-to-rump. Photo/photo/photo/measure/measure/measure/place-measurements-against-the-norm. Perfect!
Now we are looking at the brain, specifically, the brain stem. We can check for water on the brain, and we can also look for Down's Syndrome again. Perfect.
Now we are looking at the heart (this took forever and had us on tenterhooks). Perfect.
Now we are looking at the kidneys (trust me). Perfect. Now we are . . . oh, would you like to know the sex . . . yes?"
But when the doc announced the gender, I shamefully admit I was disappointed, and now I am trying to hide this from the baby and a bunch of other people as well. It's not like I've cried about it or anything, and if we were in China, I wouldn't have her killed; it's just that I have been thinking of the boy-advantages way more than the girl-advantages, and I've pretty well convinced myself that the boy is the way to go. I feel badly for Mr. R - no legacy, and no Little R to follow in his footsteps. Mr. R is such a boy, and I wanted him to share his boy stuff and boy interests with our kid and please don't tell me that a girl can be a stand-in because there is just no way. She'll play his games, to a point, and then she'll be what she is: a girl. And the truth is, Mr. R will want it that way, and so will I. We both want to encourage the child to be her own person; we just think a boy would be easier. I mean, everything is more difficult with girls, and now we will be paying for college and a wedding, that is if we can guide her safely through her teenage years and ourselves survive the worry, the agonizing worry of sending a daughter out into the world, every single day. And, Mr. R. says already that he will be worthless as a parent because he's just going to give her everything she asks for (the marshmallow). Why, oh, why, did we ever think we could do this?
{sigh} My poor baby, Audrey Lee.
Better still, a very active, very well-formed little baby. When she finally sat still, the ultrasound docs could see that, developmentally, she is right on track, and I couldn't be happier for that. The whole process is way more nerve-wracking than I envisioned. For example, you don't receive all the info at once because the docs need to change the views, take measurements, etc. It went something like this: "now we are measuring the head-to-rump. Photo/photo/photo/measure/measure/measure/place-measurements-against-the-norm. Perfect!
Now we are looking at the brain, specifically, the brain stem. We can check for water on the brain, and we can also look for Down's Syndrome again. Perfect.
Now we are looking at the heart (this took forever and had us on tenterhooks). Perfect.
Now we are looking at the kidneys (trust me). Perfect. Now we are . . . oh, would you like to know the sex . . . yes?"
But when the doc announced the gender, I shamefully admit I was disappointed, and now I am trying to hide this from the baby and a bunch of other people as well. It's not like I've cried about it or anything, and if we were in China, I wouldn't have her killed; it's just that I have been thinking of the boy-advantages way more than the girl-advantages, and I've pretty well convinced myself that the boy is the way to go. I feel badly for Mr. R - no legacy, and no Little R to follow in his footsteps. Mr. R is such a boy, and I wanted him to share his boy stuff and boy interests with our kid and please don't tell me that a girl can be a stand-in because there is just no way. She'll play his games, to a point, and then she'll be what she is: a girl. And the truth is, Mr. R will want it that way, and so will I. We both want to encourage the child to be her own person; we just think a boy would be easier. I mean, everything is more difficult with girls, and now we will be paying for college and a wedding, that is if we can guide her safely through her teenage years and ourselves survive the worry, the agonizing worry of sending a daughter out into the world, every single day. And, Mr. R. says already that he will be worthless as a parent because he's just going to give her everything she asks for (the marshmallow). Why, oh, why, did we ever think we could do this?
{sigh} My poor baby, Audrey Lee.
Monday, January 5, 2009
big, big day
Tomorrow is my 18-week appointment with the OB-GYN. That's at 1:00PM. Then, at 3:00, I am scheduled for an anatomy scan with the specialist-guy in Beechwood. This should tell us if we are having a Colin or an Audrey. I'm so excited I really don't know what to write, but I guess it would be appropriate to record my gender thoughts before the scan.
Right now, I think I am carrying a boy. This is mainly because of the old wives' tales, ie, I am craving salty things, my left breast is not noticably bigger than my right, my pee is day-glo in color, etc. But, the problem is that I've checked several wives' tales sources, and some of them contradict, one saying the signs indicate girl and another saying the same signs indicate boy. So, I am basing my guess on the first source (so scientific) I consulted. The one thing I did not do was swing a pendant over my belly. That is probably the key predictor; I've just been lazy.
Last week, I was talking to my mom, and she asked of I had the "brown line" under my belly button. I checked, and I don't. Not even a trace. Now, this is a big deal in my family. For my mother's people (those being my aunt and two female cousins), this is a huge pregnancy symptom - the line is really dark and manifests itself pretty early. In fact, as my mother recalls it, she didn't know she was pregnant until her sister pointed out the line (linea negra). Well, my mom, aunt, and two cousins, each with their pronounced lineas, all had girls. Another tick in the Colin column, perhaps.
I think I'm more comfortable parenting a girl just because of my girl-life experience; I think I'm better-suited to parent a boy because of those same, girl experiences. I feel like I carry too much baggage to raise a healthy, happy girl, and I am scared to death of the mental/emotional damage I might cause a young woman simply because I have such trouble with my own body image and its relative importance in my life. I know that my relationship with my own mother is complex, on good days, and totally *ucked, on others. I just feel like I could hide my junk better from a son.
Well, Mr. R has been quiet on the subject of gender preference. Based on his interaction with his niece and nephew, his mother says he's partial to girls, but she's generally wrong about all things Mr. R, so go figure. Though he hasn't said it, I think he is concerned about my girl-raising abilities, too.
What we do know is we are one-and-out, so maybe we both hold back our preferences knowing our odds are 50/50, and - like everybody else - default to the "I-just-hope-it's-healthy" retort.
Today, I think I will enjoy my last day of ignorance (at least on this subject).
Right now, I think I am carrying a boy. This is mainly because of the old wives' tales, ie, I am craving salty things, my left breast is not noticably bigger than my right, my pee is day-glo in color, etc. But, the problem is that I've checked several wives' tales sources, and some of them contradict, one saying the signs indicate girl and another saying the same signs indicate boy. So, I am basing my guess on the first source (so scientific) I consulted. The one thing I did not do was swing a pendant over my belly. That is probably the key predictor; I've just been lazy.
Last week, I was talking to my mom, and she asked of I had the "brown line" under my belly button. I checked, and I don't. Not even a trace. Now, this is a big deal in my family. For my mother's people (those being my aunt and two female cousins), this is a huge pregnancy symptom - the line is really dark and manifests itself pretty early. In fact, as my mother recalls it, she didn't know she was pregnant until her sister pointed out the line (linea negra). Well, my mom, aunt, and two cousins, each with their pronounced lineas, all had girls. Another tick in the Colin column, perhaps.
I think I'm more comfortable parenting a girl just because of my girl-life experience; I think I'm better-suited to parent a boy because of those same, girl experiences. I feel like I carry too much baggage to raise a healthy, happy girl, and I am scared to death of the mental/emotional damage I might cause a young woman simply because I have such trouble with my own body image and its relative importance in my life. I know that my relationship with my own mother is complex, on good days, and totally *ucked, on others. I just feel like I could hide my junk better from a son.
Well, Mr. R has been quiet on the subject of gender preference. Based on his interaction with his niece and nephew, his mother says he's partial to girls, but she's generally wrong about all things Mr. R, so go figure. Though he hasn't said it, I think he is concerned about my girl-raising abilities, too.
What we do know is we are one-and-out, so maybe we both hold back our preferences knowing our odds are 50/50, and - like everybody else - default to the "I-just-hope-it's-healthy" retort.
Today, I think I will enjoy my last day of ignorance (at least on this subject).
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