tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82143588536403606212024-03-12T21:07:32.165-04:00I Won't Fear LoveI promiseJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.comBlogger337125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-31059560540605473022014-01-13T15:06:00.001-05:002014-01-13T15:06:31.786-05:00Round and round it goes...Eighty six moons ago I held A for the first and last time. I know because today is his yahrzeit, the anniversary on the Jewish calendar. Jewish months are lunar, starting when the new moon shows up, ending when the old moon is no more. A was born in the middle of the month, on the full moon. Almost surreally-ginormous yellow nearly-full moon accompanied me on my ride to the hospital. So surreal was it that for a while after I thought I made it up.<br />
<br />
It's been seven Jewish years, almost seven calendar years. It's a cliche, but it seems to've been both an interminably long and an absurdly short time. The moon's been full eighty six more times since I rested my boy's head on that one spot above my heart, since I willed my body to remember the feeling of his head there. So many things are hazy now, but if I bid it, that one spot, it still responds.<br />
<br />
Because 12 lunar months come out to less than the number of days that it takes the Earth to go around the Sun, but 13 lunar months come out to more, Jewish years are sometimes 12 months and sometimes 13. Specifically, seven out of 19 Jewish years have 13 months, and, as I learned this morning when I looked it up, there's a nifty way to know which years those will be by using the layout of a piano's octave. Of the last seven years two were these 13 months leap years. The year we're in, the one that started with the High Holidays in September, is also a leap year, but its extra month hasn't happened yet-- it's up next, after this current moon goes to naught. I also learned this morning that the Hebrew term for the leap year literally translates into "a pregnant year." Nice. Subtle. <br />
<br />
In Israel today they've buried Ariel Sharon, a former general and a former prime minister. As Vice President Biden eulogized him today, a complex man from a complex neighborhood. He died on Saturday after eight years in a coma. He had a stroke in 2006 and was in a coma ever since. Randomly, I thought of him about a week ago, wondering idly about whether he was still alive, whether anything in his condition had changed. But I didn't remember when I was thinking of him that his stroke happened before A died. I hadn't remembered just how long he'd been suspended in that ethereal space of technically alive. Time is a strange thing. <br />
<br />
Since A's been gone the moon's done its monthly dance eighty six times, and the year's been pregnant twice, and so have I. And the incredible, wonderful, challenging, funny, loving children that survived those pregnancies and their amazing, lovely, hilarious and somewhat-crazy-making big sister make me feel overwhelmingly lucky every day. Another cliche, but my heart and my chest do really routinely feel like they are about to burst with the love and tenderness I feel for them. And alongside all that, most days in a quiet undertone, but some days like today in a major theme, their joyful presence underscores A's absence, everything he didn't get to do. They grow, they change, they amaze. He doesn't. But damn, I miss my son. That is all. Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-37852569343596644452013-02-19T02:11:00.000-05:002013-02-19T02:11:13.685-05:00His name, in lightsThere are precious few things that bear A's name. I mean, I could cover reams of paper with it, in different fonts and different languages. I could pay someone to sky write it. Both of these-- and many more-- seem sad and pointless to me. He's still dead, you know. <br />
<br />
For the most part, by now I am ok with A's lack of Earthly possessions and his generally tiny material footprint. But, I recently discovered, concern over his obscurity hasn't faded into irrelevance for me. On the anniversary of his death I stumbled upon a mention of a <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1994087663/return-to-zero-starring-minnie-driver-and-paul-ade">Kickstarter campaign</a> for a little indy movie about a couple whose first child dies and is stillborn. It is called Return to Zero, and most likely you've heard of it by now. <br />
<br />
Sadly, Sean Hanish, writer-director of the movie, knows whereof he speaks. Or films, as the case may be-- the movie is based on Sean's and his wife's own experience of stillbirth of their first child. The clip on the Kickstarter page had me nodding with recognition, and the caliber of the cast gave me hope that they could pull off showing what life is really like on our side of the "I am really sorry, but..."<br />
<br />
And so, for A's 6th birth day we gave ourselves a present-- we contributed to the movie's Kickstarter campaign. We've never supported any crowd sourcing projects before, even though I've been meaning to look into that for a bit. I knew the general idea-- small donors promise to support a project at various levels, project leaders promise the donors various perks in return for various levels of support, and if enough donors pledge to support a project that it reaches its goal sum in 30 days or less, everyone gets charged at once, at the end of that 30 day period. And at some point, donors get their perks.<br />
<br />
Reading through the list of perks for the movie, I was thinking about how well thought out they seemed, and was trying to figure out whether I wanted a DVD of the movie or just the digital download, when I read all the way to the $250 level. Which is when I was suddenly willing to part with way more money than I was only a second before. Because what you get at that level of support is a credit at the end of the movie-- a "thank you" or an "in loving memory of". A's name in lights. Well, in zeroes and ones, really. But the point is, it will be there. I know it will go by fast. I know virtually nobody in the theater, if the movie is picked up for distribution, is staying to watch that part of the credits. But I am. And we will have the DVD, and we (and maybe some day A's sisters and brother) will be able to pause the thing riiiiiiight there. I am not saying I plan to stare at it for hours. But I am not saying I may not forget to turn off the TV one day. It happens, you know.<br />
<br />
I am also not saying I am obsessed with this or anything, but I did leave a tab of the <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1994087663/return-to-zero-starring-minnie-driver-and-paul-ade">Kickstarter page</a> opened in my browser. Make of that what you will-- I am ok with it, I own my crazy. The campaign was originally for $50K, and they got there last week. So the project is definitely getting funded, which means the movie will be shown at some festivals this year, and, hopefully, will be picked up for distribution at one of them. But the campaign clock still has 3 days on it, and the filmmakers have set a new goal-- they would really like to get to $70K. That will increase the quality of the editing they are able to do, and so should increase the chance of the movie being picked up.<br />
<br />
So if you want to, if you are able, go take a look at the <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1994087663/return-to-zero-starring-minnie-driver-and-paul-ade">campaign</a>. And, if you are inclined, join us and-- as on right now-- 335 other donors in giving this movie a little push towards the big screen. And hey, if you have and are inclined to spend the kind of coin that gets you that private screening in your home perk, can I count as your friend? Or family-- I am not picky. Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-38342328172403378442013-02-12T20:49:00.001-05:002013-02-13T03:50:01.007-05:00From time to time(Those of you who still visit, thank you. Thank you for your comments and your clicks. I need to tell you about the Cub and about the anniversary, and I will. But I have to say this first.)<br />
<br />
A died on a Tuesday, the last Tuesday in January. In 2007, that was January 30th. This year, the last Tuesday in January was the 29th. Two weeks ago today. A year has 52 weeks, give or take. So it was (52 x 6) + 2 = 314 weeks ago that my son died. <br />
<br />
<i>The President shall from time to time give to Congress information
of the State of the Union and recommend to their Consideration such
measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.</i><br />
<br />
That's from the Constitution. Article II, Section 3, as you undoubtedly heard or read in the last couple of days, if you've had electricity and had a news source on for any length of time. Even with the Pope news, and the storm news, and the madman in LA news, I am sure someone somewhere has quoted to you the Constitutional authority of what is about to transpire in the Washington, DC in mere hours. I will watch it, as I watch every one of these, whether delivered by the guy I voted for or not. <br />
<br />
It takes conviction to deliver a speech like that well. It takes preparation and planning, but it also takes a backbone. But tonight, it is possible that the person with the strongest backbone in the room will be one of the 25 guests of the First Lady. Though, I imagine, to her, that backbone might feel more like a pulsating column of raw pain and anguish.<br />
<br />
I heard her voice before I even knew her name, though not before I knew her daughter's name. “You don’t how hard this really is,” Cleopatra Cowley said out of my radio this weekend. “And those of you that do know how hard this is, I am sorry.”<br />
<br />
I heard her in the way we sometimes hear each other, in the way where I could've finished her sentence. Ms. Cowley was on my radio because 312 weeks after my son died, mere two weeks ago, someone mistook a bunch of teenagers seeking cover from a rainstorm for members of a rival gang and opened fire. Cleopatra Cowley's beautiful fifteen year old daughter, Hadiya Pendleton, was shot and killed.<br />
<br />
Hadiya had performed at the inauguration just 8 days before, and she was killed barely a mile from the President's Chicago home, details that called national media's attention to one of what is likely to be many hundreds of murders in Chicago this year. The First Lady attended Hadiya's funeral, which is why my radio was covering it. <br />
<br />
And today, just two weeks after her daughter's death, Cleopatra Cowley will sit with the First Lady for the speech. Could you do it? Two weeks out? Two weeks out I was barely able to follow a plot of a TV episode, let alone a speech. Could I really get dressed and put on makeup and walk into a room understanding that TV cameras would be there? I am not sure. But I think that even if I don't exactly grasp how she will do it, I have a good idea of why she is doing it.<br />
<br />
Two weeks out, and for much time after, the thing that bothered me more than pretty much anything (except for the central fact of A being dead) was that nobody knew him. Nobody knew him and nobody needed to know. At the time I thought this to be a unique thing about babyloss-- that because others haven't met our babies, they can safely go about their business, unaffected by the world missing the light of our lives. Now I see it differently. Most people are not known to most of us, and so the passing of most people does not affect most of us. But when the pain is yours, you just might want everyone to suddenly realize that even if they didn't know it before, they too have been robbed by the death of your loved one, that their world, too, has been made smaller and poorer by the passing. Looking at Hadiya's smile, it is hard to disagree.<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
</div>
So presumptuous as it may be of me to think so, I think I understand the <i>why</i> of Cleopatra Cowley's evening. And, maybe, after all, I understand the <i>how</i>
too. Perhaps it is another oldie but goodie of the grief experience--
one foot in front of the other, and try to remember to breathe.<br />
<br />
<i>Today is also Maddy's sixth birth day. Please stop by and remember with <a href="http://awfulbutfunctioning.blogspot.com/2013/02/birth-day-vi.html">Tash</a>.</i>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-76719025676500164372013-01-30T18:07:00.001-05:002013-01-30T18:07:38.793-05:00Number senseApparently, there is a famous experiment that demonstrates our innate (lack of) number sense. You take a two year old and a bunch of pennies. I suppose it can be a bunch of quarters too, but pennies are comfortable for little fingers to pick up. So you spread the pennies on a table and you sit the two year old nearby. And then you ask the two year old whether they could please hand you a penny. And they usually do, and it is usually one penny. Then you ask them whether you could please have two pennies. Sure, says a two year old. And happily hands you a handful of pennies. See, they don't really get <i>two</i> yet. They understand <i>one</i>, and the rest is <i>not one</i>. <br />
<br />
This can be a two year old who can count in order way past two, by the way. Because we say the words to them, and they repeat after us. But conceptually, they are not yet what is referred to as a <i>two-knower</i>. It takes repetition, a lot of repetition, for them to get the concept of two. You'd think that at that point they would also get the concept of three, right? Well, if you did, you'd be wrong. A two-knower is not necessarily a three-knower. And it takes, again, a lot of repetition to turn a former into a latter.<br />
<br />
I tell you this because the Cub, I recently discovered, is still teetering on the edge of three-knowing. We have this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/SmartGames-SG-010-Castle-Logix/dp/B004TGVOOC">spacial reasoning game</a> that we gave him for his birthday. He loves it, and over the last many months has made his way through most challenges in the booklet. Sometimes, it's me who's helping him with it, sometimes JD, and sometimes Monkey. And she can actually keep to the role of helper, letting him figure it out and only asking him leading questions if he gets stuck. The whole thing is ridiculously sweet, really. But anyway. He made his way through all but the highest, Master, level by now. And at Master level it becomes important to pay attention to how long pieces are. The Cub could, from the drawing, call a one-long piece, and a two-long piece. But the three-long one? He said it was "mmmmm... ten!" long. But he can show you three fingers no problem. So, not a confident three-knower yet.<br />
<br />
Which helps explain a bit of Cub-hilarity. He loves dinosaurs. He's four, so that makes perfect sense. He also knows that when dinos were around, there were no people (this makes him feel better, by the way, and I can see his point, because have you <i>seen</i> some of those 'saurs?), and he knows that dinosaurs died out. And that it was a while after that that first people appeared. And all that warms my science educator heart and contains only trace amounts of laughter-inducing materials. The hilarity reliably ensues, however, if you ask the Cub when all of this went down. You know, the dying out of dinosaurs and the rest. I have only heard him answer that one of two ways-- he either says "seven years ago" or "six years ago." Most often, it's six. Because he is not a reliable three-knower, <i>six</i> must seem to him as reasonable an answer as a <i>billion</i>. <br />
<br />
He understands dinosaurs dying out as a cataclysmic event, a tectonic shift. And it occurred to me one fine day not so long ago, that on the scale of one family, our family, he's kinda right. Our cataclysm, our tectonic shift, our meteorite impact, that happened six years ago. Six years ago today.<br />
<br />
And in a sense, it is about to happen again. Tonight. Because I am an enormous chicken, and because we are human and tend to pain-avoidance. See, I always thought that any subsequent children we'd have would grow up knowing about A, that it wouldn't be scary because it would be normal. And I started out like that with the Cub, talking to him about A when he was a baby, taking him to the cemetery with me. One of those visits, when the Cub was a toddler but no older than 18 months, he was standing by the grave and I said something like "that's where your brother is," and you could see by his face that he was processing that anew, and then he looked scared, and he started to cry. I calmed him down, but never took him back again, and we've never talked to him about A since. See? Chicken. <br />
<br />
Last year, on the birth day, the Cub was three and a half, and was a bit confused by candles (Monkey still insists) and cookies and such. But I was pregnant then, and I didn't want him to be anxious through the rest of that, seeing as he was three and seeing as finds enough to be anxious about already. So we distracted him and he let it go. He won't tomorrow. And so tonight, with no margin left, we will talk.<br />
<br />
We saw the date from a mile away, well, from a couple of months back, but it'd always felt like we had more time. This year yahrzeit (anniversary on the Hebrew calendar) fell on last Wednesday. I thought for sure we'd talk then. But we didn't, lighting the candle with Monkey after the Cub'd gone to sleep. I thought he'd ask about the candle burning in the middle of the kitchen island the next day. But he didn't, and so, again, we didn't talk. We had my nephew (we will call him Bear around here, because, you know, his parents often do), for part of the weekend, and we were just busy for part of it. Lame, lame excuses. Otherwise known as life.<br />
<br />
But now we are out of time and out of excuses, and even Monkey will be home tonight. And we will talk, ensuing cataclysm and all. Wish us luck. <br />
<br />Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-71289428062371259182012-08-09T02:12:00.000-04:002012-08-09T10:26:09.242-04:00July bounty<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHZ4vobVP0eIKGKPmCa17ux0Fy0tzGIXsIQ-zSnBWBuCw-RrfohNA4kNWEbNB3noKfv976dRcp5NDmAwAuJkBDO9eAcwQaS6xY_lFLo84xOAfnU9_NJd21TlURrG4qKcvFMe_8NAw6995/s320/IMAG0197-001.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" />The long and winding absence was almost equal parts an unbelievably silly rookie mistake and a little girl who needs to be held upright A LOT so she can take her time working out all the details of sharing her sour milk with whomever is doing the holding (hint: I go through a lot of laundry). Actually, by now it's more the latter. The former, though, did me in for the first two weeks or so of being home.<br />
<br />
Rookie mistake you say? Ah, yes. And I will tell you what it was. Because, see, I am willing to be your cautionary tale, even though I am convinced none of you would fall for that one. The mistake was, and I really can't believe I made it the fourth time around, upon returning home from the hospital, to confuse the meds working with me actually feeling well enough to jump into the thick of it while lapsing with the taking of the aforementioned meds. You know what anti-inflammatory drugs are good for? Turns out, reducing inflammation. Who knew, right? Probably the doctors writing me the script for ibuprofen that I was sent home with. And, of course, every single one of you. And, theoretically, me. Practically though, by discharge physically I felt pretty darned good, which is likely why my brain, busy processing all the rest of everything, forgot to mention to itself that the chief reason for me feeling fine was likely that the meds were doing what they were supposed to be doing. So unnecessarily long story short, I didn't take the meds for a bit after coming home, which made the inflammation worse, which then sat me on my ass for a while. Which actually was extremely uncomfortable for most of that time due to the selfsame inflammation. <br />
<br />
The little girl though, is lovely, upright holding and curdled milk and all. In the picture she is holding the first cucumber of the season. Which was delicious. And a bright spot in the whole aspiring gardner saga. (Yes, a post of woe and lament on the garden blighted is forthcoming. Possibly with pictures.) What is even sadder than withering tomato plants is the fact that I took and even uploaded the picture above while the month on the calendar was still July, which means it was well over a week ago. And in that whole time I couldn't find the time to put together a post. Pathetic. What's worse is the state of my reader and a number of tabs my browser has open from, I believe, all the way back to our first week home-- I read some posts that week (primarily while breastfeeding, on a precariously balanced laptop) that I wanted to respond to thoughtfully. Like I said, the tabs are still open (long live restore all tabs feature). Hopefully, I can get that and the reader taken care of soon. Because I also have a whole lot to say. This time is very different from last time, much more different than I expected it to be, and it feels important to talk about it all.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-40545041503451915272012-07-08T03:19:00.000-04:002012-07-08T03:19:17.766-04:006:31 amShe is beautiful, we are going home in the morning, and I managed to luck out all the way until about fifteen minutes ago on changing a dirty diaper. Considering how many of those she's produced over the last 44-ish hours, I'd call that a minor miracle. <br />
<br />
There is much more to say. About the delivery itself, about the hospital and staff, about Dr. Best, about Monkey and the Cub, and the fierce and the tender of them towards their little sister, and about how all of that feels, knowing we are done. But I am sleepy and she is fussy, needing to be picked up every couple of minutes for the last hour and change. And so all of that will have to wait until we get home. For now, I just need to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me and with me over the last five plus years. Thank you for welcoming me back and for hanging in with me over this last stretch. Thank you or listening and for your words. I am having a hard time expressing how much your words have meant to me without sounding like a massive cliche. Oh, screw it, cliche or not, here goes. You have made me laugh, which is generally and always welcome, but is also somewhat remarkable, given the road so far. You have made me cry, with sadness, and recognition, and validation of being heard and understood. You have abided, and I am deeply, deeply grateful. <br />
<br />
And oh, so sleepy. More from home, including pictures. We have a whole bunch, but very few made it off the camera yet.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-1333698301200063502012-07-04T10:08:00.000-04:002012-07-04T10:08:06.926-04:006 years ago this weekSix years ago last week, towards the end of it, I was frantic. Happy too, but mostly frantic. My hunch from the weekend before that, when I suddenly threw up my breakfast only to feel absolutely fine the very next moment, proved right-- I was pregnant. So I called my GYN. At my regular appointment several months before we'd discussed my history and the fact that we were planning to begin trying come summer. She'd said that while they do not routinely check progesterone levels and don't tend to prescribe progesterone supplementation, she understood why I would be nervous given my history, and so she would put a note in my file to do these things for me when the time comes. Ha! Because when I called to talk to ask her for testing and supplementation, she just flat out told me that there is no conclusive data that supplementation helps, and they just don't do that. <i>Yes, sure, but we talked about this, and you were supposed to do this for me. </i>The worst part was, of course, that I was relying on her and did not have anyone else I could call up on a Thursday afternoon to try to get these things straightened out. Her response was something about how she would never say that and how she thought I would probably want a doctor who would be a better match for me. No shit.<br />
<br />
To be fair, I received a letter from her a while later where she acknowledged that she did find the notation from our visit in the file, and she even sent me a prescription for progesterone. Though she still thought I'd want a different doctor. Again, lady, no shit.<br />
<br />
By the time I got the letter, her behavior still stung, but not nearly as much because by then, though I did not know it yet, I had already spoken on the phone to the most important medical professionals of the next six years, and maybe, not to be grandiose or anything, maybe of my entire life. And between her leaving me to fend for myself and that first phone call with Nurse Kind, there was another doctor, to whom I will be forever grateful for his kindness and professionalism, which put together helped me keep my head on through the next week.<br />
<br />
After I hung up with the GYN of poor memory, I needed to find someone who'd help. I called my friend Natalie. I didn't really want to tell anyone yet, but I met her OB/GYN a few years before, when she and her husband asked me to come with them to her second, now planned c-section. (Not two years before that she'd labored for a day and a half, pushed for several hours, and ended up with an emergency c-section.) Dr. N radiated confidence. He was funny, and you could tell he loved his job. You could also tell he was on the ball. That morning he bent the rules for us, for my friends, because he could see just how nervous Natalie's husband was-- he allowed a second non-medical person, me, into the OR. Moral support and all that.<br />
<br />
So when I called Natalie, frantic, from my car, I wanted to know whether she thought Dr. N would be able to help. Natalie was also at my house when I threw up the previous weekend, so she wasn't shocked when I called. She called Dr. N, then I called Dr. N, and then he ordered the tests and wrote me a script for progesterone. That test and two repeat tests later, hCG was rising like gangbusters, but progesterone was not, it was actually sliding, slowly. This is where the professionalism comes in-- after that third test, Dr. N called to say that he thought I probably needed a high risk doctor, and that he was not, and did I have someone I could call? By that time I was already planning to call the practice where I was when I had Monkey, but it was so nice to be treated with this level of care and consideration. <br />
<br />
When I called the practice they told me that the doctor I had when I was pregnant with Monkey had left the state, and I needed to pick someone else. They also said I was in luck-- they had this new high risk doctor, he just started, and so his schedule was fairly open still. He came from Texas and was very nice. Would I like to go with him? I had no idea just how in luck I was when I ambivalently accepted this new doctor. I also said I had concerns, and they said a nurse would call. Nurse Kind called later that day, took my history, and listened to my concerns. Dr. Best called later to say he wasn't convinced by the research that progesterone supplementation actually helped, but that there is no reason not to do it, given my history. He upped my suppository dosage, but didn't want to go to injectables because of the slightly higher risk to me later on in the pregnancy that was associated with that formulation. I hadn't yet laid eyes on him, but he was already talking my kind of medical language-- evidence-based, but not dogmatic, thoughtful and considerate, but not pandering. I liked him and I knew I could trust him. When I met both him and Nurse Kind later, I only liked them more. And it didn't hurt any that he was just about the most handsome man I've ever seen in person. (Think this is why he ended up on the practice's promotional poster? Nah, probably just a coincidence...)<br />
<br />
That pregnancy was A. Which means that Dr. Best and Nurse Kind have been there for three out of the four of my children. They have also met Monkey and ask about her all the time. They understand. Knowing they are my team made the last two pregnancies, while certainly not easy, something I could deal with. In fact, knowing they are my team is what made it possible for me to even think that I could handle another go round, given the <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2012/06/hnafu-headspace-normal-all-effed-up.html">ups and downs</a> of the pregnancy with the Cub. <br />
<br />
Yesterday was my last appointment for the pregnancy. If all goes according to plan, I will see Dr. Best tomorrow before my induction (he's around, though he's not officially working on the floor), and both of them at the 6 week appointment. Nurse Kind asked that I send pictures from time to time. She walked in with that <i>oh, wow</i> misty look, and I suspect I looked like that too. We sat there talking about 6 years ago and that first phone call. She said she'll be keeping tabs on us on Thursday. Man, I am going to miss her.<br />
<br />
Even Dr. Best was a little misty, though with a good dose of mischievous too, joking about me joking with him and the new tech who was, I gather, just getting acclimated with the practice. She's nice, though I hope I get to see their usual tech, K, again. I am going to miss her too. Dr. Best was talking about how well he thought I was doing this time around, how from his point of view this has been a qualitatively different pregnancy, in terms of my fears and anxiety levels. I said not exactly as far as the daily normal base level, but that this time there have been far fewer actual reasons for freakouts, and so I've had fewer above that already difficult to take normal. Interestingly, his perception is that I was also more freaked out during my pregnancy with A than now. I probably was, to some degree, because I had that <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/03/wherein-i-come-clean-come-out-fess-up.html">crazy premonition</a> and was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.<br />
<br />
Dr. Best was also very pleased yesterday that my cervix is getting ready to get this show on the road-- I am more than 3 cm already, anterior, and 50%. So if me make it all the way to tomorrow's scheduled induction, he thinks it will be a fairly easy process. But, he said, you know you don't have to wait. I know, I know.<br />
<br />
I want this to be done. I hope this is the end of my reproductive phase, and I hope it's a happy end. I am also wistful. Or maybe mindful is the word. I am grateful to be here. I am grateful for the people who helped me get here. I am a little sad about what this road has looked like. I love all my children-- the two here, who despite what they sometimes say, are crazy about each other, get along better than most siblings I've seen, and who are waiting, mostly patiently, along with us; the one we are all waiting to meet, the strong baby girl who rolls more than she kicks and tends to hide her face on ultrasounds; and my beautiful first son, who I miss every day, the one who never got to be oh, so many things. I want to feel this place fully, and I want to remember what this place felt like. Which is why I am happy to see that the sun is peaking out after the gray and wet morning here-- we were planning on taking some family pictures today, and if the sun keeps, we'll be able to do that outside.<br />
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Happy July 4th, everyone!Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-31949138924309701882012-06-28T21:35:00.001-04:002012-06-28T21:35:15.183-04:0038 at 38I turn 38 today.<br />
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(And SCOTUS <a href="http://www.scotusblog.com/2012/06/dont-call-it-a-mandate-its-a-tax/">gave me a present</a>! Thank you, Chief Justice Roberts! You really should have, though I did not at all expect it. :))<br />
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So I turn 38 today. It's a weird thing, somehow. I was not looking forward to this birthday at all. Partially because there was no way for me to know what the day would bring. We could've had a live baby by now. We could've had a dead baby by now. Hell, we can still have either today-- it's only 1pm here*.<br />
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I am also 38 weeks today. And have an induction date scheduled for next Thursday morning. Dr. Best, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, tried to schedule us for the evening of the 4th, since most rooms on the L&D floor have an excellent view of the city's big fireworks. Sadly for him and JD, this plan was shut down by the scheduling powers that be. I am ok with it-- the 5th was always the date I had in the back of my mind as the longest we'd go, though given how my pregnancy with the Cub went, I really didn't think we'd get there (or even here, for that matter). When Nurse Kind said that she'd rather get the spot for the morning of the 5th before that one goes and we have to look at further dates, I felt myself starting to get panicky-- not so sure I could get my head to stay on even a day past the 39 weeks mark.<br />
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It is strange to be here, at 38 weeks. I did really well for a long time in this pregnancy not having assumptions or expectations. Or almost not having them. I sort of expected pre-term contractions. And those did start, and earlier than last time. At which point I sort of began expecting to have this pregnancy continue to follow the script of the Cub's, to include a high number of L&D visits, some amount of bed rest and, eventually, an early-ish delivery. So up until about two weeks ago I didn't think I would ever be this pregnant again. JD keeps commenting on how vast I look. But the truth is, I look good. I haven't looked this good or felt this good in pregnancies with either of my boys. Last time I was this pregnant, it was Monkey on the inside, and I was more than ten years younger. But that pregnancy included a few hospitalizations too and some amount of modified bed rest, for partial placenta previa. And, as I recall, some amount of foot swelling towards the end. This time? I keep shaking my head because at this point while I need to wear wrist supports to drive and I do get tired somewhat easily, and I am not getting much sleep, and I waddle, I feel good. I move, I get things done, and I don't even have stretch marks. I know-- shoot me.<br />
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Honestly, I like that I am feeling this good. (The only explanation I have is the workout program I did last summer. I mean I still have definition in the arms, so that's something. That, and I think we've gotten luckier with infections this time, in that I haven't had any.) But it's a mindfuck. I told my doctor, the first time I saw him this go-round, that I wanted the world's most boring pregnancy. It hasn't been that, but it has been probably as close as I was going to get. And I am still waiting for the other shoe to drop. At the end of last week's appointment, after Nurse Kind booked our induction date, I went out to the reception area and booked the rest of my appointments up to then-- two remaining BPPs, two remaining NSTs, two remaining doctor visits. It was so very surreal to not only actually expect to still make every one of those, but also to know that if this baby lives, these will be my very last ones at this office ever, except for the 6 week follow up. My last BPP is tomorrow morning, and they will estimate her size again-- last time she dropped into the 30th percentile, you know, plus/minus a full pound, from the 50th where she'd resided since they'd started measuring her. Is that where the shoe is hiding? Probably not, since, you know, it's plus/minus a full pound on the estimate, but I am also not about to whistle a happy tune. <br />
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Even now it is easier for me to imagine <i>something</i> going wrong than everything going right. I used to have "getting to the labor floor with a live baby inside" as a sort of a finish line in mind. Not that I've never known things to go bad after that point, but it really was a sort of a testament to how my previous labors have gone, as well as to the faith I had in how my particular hospital does things in L&D. But last week a careless remark from someone who should really know better (ahem, husband) had me suddenly coming up with all kinds of scenarios where things go south. Because why the hell not, right?<br />
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Yesterday, walking to my sister's house, I was trying to figure out what it would mean if she died on my birthday or if she died the day before and was born on my birthday. It's a thing I've been doing for a while-- thinking through the what ifs of baby death occurring on other significant family dates. With the Cub, I was most worried about him possibly dying <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/07/agency.html">before or the day my sister was getting married</a>. This time, we've already made it past JD's 40th, complete with a party shared with a friend, and the back-to-back anniversaries, my sister's and ours. In the longer-past event horizon, we made it past Monkey's tenth birthday (and A's due date the day after). What I figured out is that I tend to just hold my breath on these days and hope we make it through. It's not that it would be less horrible if my daughter died on a different day. It would just be less loaded of a day, and hey-- there's enough shit in grieving without having to take it as that specific kind of a cocktail, you know? After today, there's only one significant date between here and the induction-- my sister turns 30 on Tuesday (yes, my family really does pack it in there-- and you should see the rest of our July). Monkey, therefore, thinks it would be an excellent day for her sister to be born. When she says it, I mentally add "alive"-- it really would be a pretty good day for her to be born alive. <br />
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So I am 38. I turn the number in my head, and on my tongue. It's not doing anything new, really. Many friends have been turning 40 this year, and I think in my head I've been "almost 40" since that wave started up in earnest in the fall. I wonder whether that feeling might change over the next year, whether it might become important to me, perhaps around the time I turn 39, that I am in fact not yet <strike>dead</strike> 40. I guess we shall see. In the meantime, I am tip toeing through the day and the rest of this very weird time. If I walk quietly enough, maybe I can make it all the way to next Thursday. <br />
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<i>*Clearly, it takes me forever to write a post. In my defense, it wasn't all in one sitting. Damned errands. And dinner. :) </i>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-11535966428003020892012-06-24T23:49:00.001-04:002012-06-25T03:02:47.905-04:00The scary puppy post (and scary long-- sorry)You know the cute puppy from the <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2012/06/they-grow-up-so-fast-sniff-sniff.html">previous post</a>? This is the post about the Bad Thing (TM) that happened to him, how we got lucky, and how the whole thing messed me up. I am not sure that the last part was a necessary consequence of the first two put together, but in the context of my <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2012/06/hnafu-headspace-normal-all-effed-up.html">pre-existing crazies</a>, it might not have been easily avoidable.<br />
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="266" data-width="190" height="266" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ9fS-BSoGnzGAOCfOjLoRL9ZTmXgVD87hnIawambdJ2Yjua6QR" style="height: 266px; width: 190px;" width="190" /> </div>
This magnet is prominently displayed on the filing cabinet at the emergency check in at the big veterinary hospital where the main act of the drama went down. It's funny, and, as it turns out, prescient. Which, I am sure, is the reason it is positioned in that very strategic location. <br />
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So let's rewind reality, about oh say... 11 weeks and three days. Monkey and JD are out of the country, attending a family wedding. The Cub is visiting my parents. V the puppy and I are having a pretty good week. I am actually getting stuff crossed off the all-mighty list, I am getting work done. I am even hoping to get to blog (no, honest-- that too was on the list for the week, just never happened). And on Thursday night, V and I are off to puppy school. I'd never gone before-- the timing hadn't worked out, but I'd heard much about the characters from JD. So we manage a walk and a puppy dinner before getting into the car, and I am feeling mighty pleased with myself.<br />
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Half way to school I hear a funny sound, look and see a... um... pile of what was, going in, his dinner. While I pull over and call the school to see whether they think we should turn around and go straight to the vet (remember-- I'd never had a dog before), V thinks about it for a few, and-- look away if you are squeamish,-- eats the whole pile back up. Yum. And since the school is letting the answering machine pick up, I decide to keep going. When we get there, I ask about our little gross adventure, and the teacher tells me puppies do that kind of thing. Oh, ok then. I actually have a video from that night, of V being playfully chased by a much smaller, but very feisty French Bulldog. It was very, very cute. But knowing what must've been happening on the inside for V, I look at that video and wonder.<br />
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So the next day, after teaching my class and office hours, I still had a few things on tap-- namely submitting some stuff for work and, later, a haircut appointment. You know, because I actually had time to spend on myself. So I am working on the submission, minding my own business, when I see the puppy start to make the freakiest oval on the rug-- he'd throw up just a bit of the lunch he'd just consumed, then move over a bit and do it again. In the end, he'd made a shape'o'piles on the rug. Extremely appetizing. While I shoot an email to JD to say <i>WTF?</i> and also, <i>do I take the puppy to the vet now?</i>, and <i>did I say</i> <i>WTF</i> <i>yet?</i>, V starts to go around the piles and eating them back up. Capital W weird, no? And then he goes to play outside. <br />
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Call the vet, who says we're open until 7-- go get your haircut if he's playing and call us if he's off when you are back. Sounds like a plan. Except as I am finishing the submission, the puppy walks into the house, lays down by the couch, and starts to whimper. For maybe 30 seconds. Then gets up and goes out to play again. But did I mention I'd never had a dog before? The whimpering? It freaks me out. So I call the stylist, who works out of her house and is a dog person, and tell her that I am worried about the puppy and could we push it because I will take him to the vet now. She's on board with it, and off to the vet we go.<br />
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Where, of course, V starts to act like his usual self. By which I mean wanting to play with every dog in the joint. Because? OMG!DIDYASEETHAT????IT'SAPUPPY,ANDSOAMI!!!!!!!LETME!!LETME!!LETME!!! It's crazy enough that I make a crack about how if my daughter paid the puppy off to pull this on me so that I miss my haircut, I will be very miffed (did I mention Monkey doesn't like me getting haircuts? She plays with my hair for fun, so if it gets too short for her after a haircut, she disapproves). Funny, no? Though I am fully aware, even in the moment, that the joke only works if it does, in fact, turn out to be nothing. <br />
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So finally we get to see the doctor. Who says the puppy's "acting appropriately." Though his belly is a bit tender, so maybe a bland diet for a few days. I must not look too relieved because then she says that the puppy doesn't need an X-ray, but that they can do one in abundance of caution. You know, to calm me down.<br />
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This is where we take a short diversion for a love letter/ode to <a href="http://awfulbutfunctioning.blogspot.com/">Tash</a>. Because way before we ever got the puppy, Tash had told me, early and often, to never ever get a pet without first getting pet insurance. I have ears (and eyes-- she's said it in chats too), and she has tales that demonstrate rather convincingly why that's the case, and so when we finally had the date for V's arrival, I got on JD's case to pretty please figure out the insurance thing but yesterday already. Turns out, things are a bit more complicated these days, since there is a whole new model of pet insurance out there, and we ended up going with that new model in the end-- it's cheaper out of pocket and covers all kinds of bad things. If you want to know more, I can explain in the comments-- I think the post is getting too long already. Short version is having pet insurance saved us thousands of dollars, literally. And I still owe Tash a beer or something stronger. Am daydreaming of when she will finally show up to collect. <br />
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Back to the story. I lurve the information age. Because see, while I was fairly sure our insurance was good to go by then, I wasn't <i>sure sure</i>. And the person who made it happen was not so very on the same continent at the time. But text messages, they cross oceans and all that. So I sent one, and JD called me a few minutes later. The reason I am telling you this long form is to underscore than the X-ray we got the puppy was universally believed to have been for the benefit of calming me down, since, as a first time dog owner (did I mention?) I seemed to have been a bit out of sorts still. That is, JD promptly told me that I didn't need our insurance's particulars, since it is a mail stuff in for reimbursement kind, but that since I still sounded nervous, he thought we should get the X-ray. So we did.<br />
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A sidenote-- they bring the image to show you on a freaking iPad. Which is both way cool and a bit crazy. But hey, it was fast and it was easily available for me to see, so I am not complaining. The thing on the image, though? Thin and bright. Metal. A needle? Really? Even the doc couldn't believe it, so she ordered a second X-ray at a different angle to make sure it wasn't a thin piece of something. It wasn't. Second X-ray, same result. The puppy ate a frigging needle! <br />
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At this point they tell us we should go to the big veterinary hospital, and pronto. And I get that this is fairly urgent, but my brain is still protecting me-- I am not clear on either how urgent or how dangerous. The office gives us electronic copies of the X-rays and tells us to go straight to the hospital, but we stop by the house first to grab a few things. In my defense, the house is about a mile from the vet's and is <i>almost</i> on the way. <br />
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When we get to the hospital, things at first do not seem to be moving that fast. We check in, and we are supposed to wait in the special doggy ER waiting area. It is separated, you see, from the cat ER waiting area. No, not kidding. It is also to the other side of the big open central area from where non-emergency animals hang out. Which meant that V was being kept away from the dogs he knew were in the building by his mean owner. He barked early and often, presumably to explain to the dim-wit holding his leash that there were DOGS to sniff, and not more than a few seconds away. Eventually, he barfed a bit more, and shortly after an ER doc arrived. Who was funny and warm and clearly disappointed that the fresh haul didn't contain the needle from the X-ray. She then explained to me that they would try to get the darned thing by means of endoscopy, but she wanted me to know that if they fail, he'd have to have gastrotomy, which is a fancy term for opening the dog up and getting the thing straight out of his stomach.<br />
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So V got weighed and I had to sign off on being willing to spend many many dollars for the first procedure, and also that I am willing to spend more if that fails and they have to cut. A nice technician then led the puppy away, leaving me with his collar and leash. And I waited. Can't tell you how long-- I don't have a sense anymore. Finally the vet came out, sat at the table with me and told me that they'd tried to get the thing via endoscopy for good twenty minutes, but that there was so much grass and wood chips inside that they literally couldn't find the needle in that haystack.<br />
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This was the first time I sank. Not literally-- I was sitting after all. But you know what I mean-- my insides, all of me, just sank. Before this news I thought I was so fucking clever-- made sure to have insurance, made the catch on the behavior that neither my husband nor the vet made. I rocked, see? And suddenly I was the first time dog owner idiot who let her dog eat grass and gnaw on sticks (he was bringing those in over the last couple of days and making a thorough and quick job of them). The ER doc tried to talk me off of that particular ledge. She said that these things he was doing were his instinctual way of dealing with the foreign body. That's how he was trying to protect himself.<br />
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She told me to go home, since they would have to keep him at least overnight after the surgery. She promised to call as soon as they were done. I thought I'd calmed down by then. I drove home, I had dinner with my sister and her family. I waited for the call. But when three days later we still couldn't find the collar and leash that I was sure I remembered taking from the hospital to the car with me and then bringing into the house, and finally I'd called the hospital and they had it, well, that's when I knew I was not fine that Friday night. Managing to acquire tactile and visual memories of something that never happened? I was not fine. <br />
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Eventually the nice ER doc called. Surgery was a smashing success and the surgeon was happy they'd done it because, and I quote, he wasn't sure the grassy mess they took out would've made it out on its own. They weighed the mass-o-grass, and there was a full pound of it. They also found the needle, complete with a good length of black thread, yellowish and kinda rusting itself. I don't have any yellow needles. He did not eat OUR needle. He must've found it on a walk or, alternatively, under our deck, if the previous owners dropped it there accidentally however many moons ago. We were incredibly lucky-- he only had a small ulcer on the esophagus and he had no perforations of the stomach, and apparently no infection. He'd need to stay overnight, as promised, but we could get him the next day. We ended up leaving him an extra night and then having my sister and brother in law pick him up and take him to our house, since I had to fly to get the Cub back from my parents. The hospital they told me not to visit the day after the surgery-- V had already revealed his boisterous nature, and they were worried he'd need sedatives after if I come but then go and leave him there. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K06-oel16NYuI0bduU4hyphenhyphenXEppZezFXGXSS-DiT813TJWqA0KBcj0iqDYMGMcTO7YdH368QaiZd_i5xi-Te126ATP6tHj_trYowuD9igdWTCQS7ZntA2xiIFpULH2n62LY2ByA7v9r29h/s1600/IMAG0115-001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K06-oel16NYuI0bduU4hyphenhyphenXEppZezFXGXSS-DiT813TJWqA0KBcj0iqDYMGMcTO7YdH368QaiZd_i5xi-Te126ATP6tHj_trYowuD9igdWTCQS7ZntA2xiIFpULH2n62LY2ByA7v9r29h/s320/IMAG0115-001.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a> This is <i>after</i>. Sunday after the Friday. His tummy is shaven and he has scary looking staples in it. And his discharge instructions say, as point number one, to keep the puppy chilled and as inactive as possible for the next two weeks. Yup, a four and a half months old terrier puppy. That was going to be no problem. No problem at all.<br />
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It was relatively doable while he was taking drugs. It got a lot harder when he no longer was. It was particularly tough the night Monkey and JD got back from overseas. And he was not at all on board with the whole only going outside to do business and only on a leash plan. But in the end we managed, and all of us survived. <br />
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The next time I felt myself losing it was after everyone was back under the same roof, and things were on the mend. For some reason, driving back home one day I let myself really understand what the breeder told JD when he asked her how fast puppies recover from such surgeries, in her experience, that is. When he told me, days before, I didn't really process it. I mean I understood what the words were saying, but not what they meant. She'd said that most often needles are found on necropsies, but that if people know the needle is there, with no money for such surgeries and not many vets qualified to do them anyway, most often all an owner can do is feed the dog bread mixed with cotton balls, essentially to do what V did for himself by eating grass-- coat the foreign body and hope it comes out the other end. So driving home that day it suddenly hit me what it must feel like to be that human, sitting with your dog, knowing all you can do is feed the dog fucking cotton balls with bread. Knowing your dog would most likely die, and most likely from a raging infection. I thought I was going to throw up.<br />
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When JD called the insurance company to ask how to file the claim (they were wonderful, btw), he also asked about how frequent claims like this were. And the nice lady told him that usually these claims come with serious courses of antibiotics for a profoundly raging infection as well as with removing damaged sections of the intestine.<br />
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So yes, I probably saved V's life, or at least his quality of life. And likely because I was so inexperienced with puppies that I worried enough about the smallest changes from his usual to take him in right away, whereas an experienced dog owner might've written those off as the weird things puppies do. And after I'd exhaled, after rationally speaking everything seemed to be improving, I realized that I was still on edge. The blowback, something I should've expected, but didn't, had me in a crazy hypervig<span id="goog_1145080190"></span><span id="goog_1145080191"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a>ilant overdrive about the pregnancy. Because see, I saved the dog. I noticed something nobody else did. I, therefore, might have the power to notice something similarly obscure that would jeopardize my baby's life. And what's worse, I was the only one with that power. The only one. <br />
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The day of the surgery I was 26 weeks 1 day. I didn't have an appointment scheduled until 27w5ds, and it wasn't until right about 27-1 or 27-2 that I even realized why I was as on edge as I was. So when I showed up for that appointment, I couldn't hold it anymore. I told Nurse Kind that I was losing it, that I had the worst time trying to be vigilant. She wanted me to tell Dr. Best the same thing, and I did. I thought I had to wait until about 32 for the thorough monitoring. Turns out, NSTs are best done starting then, but <a href="http://www.webmd.com/baby/biophysical-profile-bpp">BPPs</a> can be started as soon as 28 weeks. Which was coming up rapidly. And Dr. Best was not in the mood to be shy about those. We started BPPs that very Friday, at 28w1d.<br />
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That? That was not only incredibly validating, but also calming. Not right away, mind you, but when Friday rolled around, when the ultrasound goop hit my belly? Yes, yes it was. Because suddenly I was no longer the only one with the power to help my baby-- the doctors, and ultrasound technicians, and big machines, they all had my back. They all had <i>her</i> back. I knew then and I know now that a BPP passed with flying colors is no guarantee of live birth or even of survival for the next week, until the next BPP. And hey, the very day of my first BPP I also got the first run of my first real contractions for this pregnancy. So it's not like the clouds parted and I became a blissful pregnant woman, far from it. But it made me feel better, not to mention valued and respected, and I will forever count that as one of Dr. Best's greatest hits. <br />
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Finally, and blessedly, the end. Oh, wait-- PSA: If you are contemplating getting a new pet, please, please, please do yourself a favor and get pet insurance. All set. Now it's really the end. <br />
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</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-54374450797222556852012-06-18T18:18:00.003-04:002012-06-18T18:18:52.389-04:00They grow up so fast! (*sniff, sniff*)The thing about falling off the wagon is that when you get back on, you feel like you must explain. Or at least I do. And my excuses? They are rarely anything but lame. This time is no exception. I fall asleep <i>all.the.time</i>. Truth be told, it's really more about I spend the day trying to be at least semi-productive, clearing items of various size off the to-do list (though don't ask about the big "apply for better jobs" one-- the experiences of doing that over the last couple of years leave me mostly depressed and wishing, in the rare instances when something appropriate pops up in the ads, to postpone doing of this as long as humanly possible) because I think I will be able to write a bit later in the evening. And then the evening rolls up on me, and I go clunk. Or <i>click</i>, like the light. See? Lame. Ok, switching gears, because really, I am bored with me and my sad tale of sleeping sickness. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIWiCOR_PtMV0JVxvao_WsWCLzKadNAdvYHEH_SMnlP0PFTZ1ExItYQQVXqn52X82pmY67I0zqFJkbn_I3HM14hF-r4E0c5tAgrS95ralsk1UFfV3oI1suLIyCojIkCbsLuJfB3uS3XAsr/s1600/IMAG0045-001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIWiCOR_PtMV0JVxvao_WsWCLzKadNAdvYHEH_SMnlP0PFTZ1ExItYQQVXqn52X82pmY67I0zqFJkbn_I3HM14hF-r4E0c5tAgrS95ralsk1UFfV3oI1suLIyCojIkCbsLuJfB3uS3XAsr/s320/IMAG0045-001.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a> So the title of the post. It is sooooo not talking about kids, mine or otherwise. But you knew that, right? This here is the long-promised fuzzy happy puppy post. Because the puppy? Is cute. Also, following JD's return suddenly a lot less crazy puppy-like in his behavior. An abrupt shift, really. Very strange and a bit disconcerting, though admittedly a lot easier to deal with.</div>
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This is one of his very first pictures this side of the pond. He flew in from the Old City, round about when he was 2.5 months old. Minutes out of the crate, and he's trying to make friends with Monkey. Right outside the cargo terminal at the airport. Monkey was a bit freaked, actually, as you might be able to tell from the awkward position of her hands. It passed, quickly, and these days she does a pretty good job bossing him around.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sY3ic5xDSyrspXzhqcT5ejef6gvEBPOj6yTNvnLsTAkGF6sQ7ehHwb3q5kD7p5sdKVhL7cSJVOQbBXsHDWGfr5hdZyzDDQdFRbsr2YPX0wOw7r72QovLvs5XTzr9azFnbZFxG2AYSTKk/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sY3ic5xDSyrspXzhqcT5ejef6gvEBPOj6yTNvnLsTAkGF6sQ7ehHwb3q5kD7p5sdKVhL7cSJVOQbBXsHDWGfr5hdZyzDDQdFRbsr2YPX0wOw7r72QovLvs5XTzr9azFnbZFxG2AYSTKk/s320/DSC_0034.JPG" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="320" /></a></div>
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This next one is one of the first home shots, with a bonus glimpse of the Cub. See how tiny the dog used to be? The kid was sooooo excited for the puppy to come that when it finally happened, he was in the poor animal's face continuously, and eventually got a tiny bit nipped. He spent the next two weeks or so moving around the first floor mostly from couch to an adult and back again. Slowly, he began petting the puppy again, then playing nearby, then chasing. And now if you look up "a boy and his dog" in the great encyclopedia of cliches, you will undoubtedly see a picture of the two of them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyguKnPG2KzEA3TeG-e8Us4n78LhxW4tk4ck3rq9WOtbuRFtL-H46Je6GfLGZKtIQFdK6E8yl6l3KkKc7WFibG7pCrfLHtOa7wATmerDdFA35QPwkag6aqkQVTvVpZ-eu20vMMq9VyJN2q/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyguKnPG2KzEA3TeG-e8Us4n78LhxW4tk4ck3rq9WOtbuRFtL-H46Je6GfLGZKtIQFdK6E8yl6l3KkKc7WFibG7pCrfLHtOa7wATmerDdFA35QPwkag6aqkQVTvVpZ-eu20vMMq9VyJN2q/s320/DSC_0060.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a>This is about a week later. Growing, gaining weight, taking a rare respite from getting into trouble.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nXaLxLkhhNSJYdu2oNC-6bJNtpWUeKyXHki0edxnpY70mTY2S4TGLqXwcmO_2zGOVq5x6EwWnskFDQENtm38oz3QmWTEDz0eVWtfnLgPA9InUf9MWL5Ab2x9wEc8M51s4EKjzC1rr9YG/s1600/DSC_0679.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nXaLxLkhhNSJYdu2oNC-6bJNtpWUeKyXHki0edxnpY70mTY2S4TGLqXwcmO_2zGOVq5x6EwWnskFDQENtm38oz3QmWTEDz0eVWtfnLgPA9InUf9MWL5Ab2x9wEc8M51s4EKjzC1rr9YG/s320/DSC_0679.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a>
About three more weeks later here. See how much more of a redhead (redbody?) he is?</div>
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The puppy is an Airedale Terrier, which, if you know anything about puppies, terriers in general, or Airedales in particular, should translate for you into plain English as "they be crazy." His name is a nerdy joke, stolen with absolutely no shame from the cartoon villain (not protagonist!) of "Despicable Me"-- his name starts with a V, and he is so named because we fully expected him to commit mischief with both direction and magnitude. (Get it? If not, congratulations, you are not a nerd! But do look up the movie and it will tell you the villain's name, and as a bonus there should be his picture in a bright orange jump suit.) If anything, V exceeded all our expectations in this area. Up until this week, that is. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUM-V4QpkORitCUiDnEEDfnTKmrjvZGrpJsUvNUE8S5noxJbojEp1rBF_n6cwlmppXJUBw28AonbYoVaZowJ9jfIVnPV463ML5hyLls5a1tgSdE099wVdOlA3loTKoXdD7R_M4PMmm4BIn/s1600/DSC_1420.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUM-V4QpkORitCUiDnEEDfnTKmrjvZGrpJsUvNUE8S5noxJbojEp1rBF_n6cwlmppXJUBw28AonbYoVaZowJ9jfIVnPV463ML5hyLls5a1tgSdE099wVdOlA3loTKoXdD7R_M4PMmm4BIn/s320/DSC_1420.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a><br />
About three more weeks. First doggy playdate. With a slightly older (and much bigger) Bernese Mountain dog.<br />
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And this is where we take a small break in photographic evidence and accompanying narration, to be filled in by the scary puppy post. *Cue ominous music.* On the plus side, that post is to include the cutest ever puppy-in-a-cone pic. It will also include a public service announcement and a love note to <a href="http://awfulbutfunctioning.blogspot.com/">Tash</a>. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNk7hvxLTIFYAYIzaLrKI_ewq1XoVw2mSLfj-SS_a8Mk3iYX0542eQLYtSvfKs02uVWJh_aSoBozceJlGArLvnEUN97v2zqP8nLll74mO524ypulBRJGIrc0UvWUPsgqVEcV09l__sOvEY/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNk7hvxLTIFYAYIzaLrKI_ewq1XoVw2mSLfj-SS_a8Mk3iYX0542eQLYtSvfKs02uVWJh_aSoBozceJlGArLvnEUN97v2zqP8nLll74mO524ypulBRJGIrc0UvWUPsgqVEcV09l__sOvEY/s320/DSC_0064.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>So here's the much shaggier, much bigger dog, more than a month later. This is post <i>the incident</i>, and post recovery therefrom. The puppy doesn't really seem worse for wear, does he? Wish I could say the same for this owner. On the other hand-- cute, no? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXii9OLK_QKNOzsH_rPj_R4d-8Z7iiFpmBGj4cwKOX1kzOAxmFnIaq5oCANEnJpkmSTyVr5qSuKgNHG6NMiygjFPHfZt7p4Esr3yR2ldWm2Nejjiikq9TgBxj3UDtrvxAeizN9-DhbZzW/s1600/IMAG0131.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXii9OLK_QKNOzsH_rPj_R4d-8Z7iiFpmBGj4cwKOX1kzOAxmFnIaq5oCANEnJpkmSTyVr5qSuKgNHG6NMiygjFPHfZt7p4Esr3yR2ldWm2Nejjiikq9TgBxj3UDtrvxAeizN9-DhbZzW/s320/IMAG0131.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a> A dog's life's is so tough, isn't it? This is a couple more weeks and nearly the height of the shaggy-- he's about to get a haircut (hairpull, actually-- fancy Airedale grooming thing). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN06X6sYDM9er81ajj8F-9zELIfbtupFbN1qesnqUTXl-Qn5559AsKqnnQw4oFwIy6jAeKLO9KH4cMfSAw7cLWALCwau80lxWBo9Sdx3_20DSPbspLMiuwxRTr89k4XaCi0TLKNTs1UzD/s1600/DSC_0424.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN06X6sYDM9er81ajj8F-9zELIfbtupFbN1qesnqUTXl-Qn5559AsKqnnQw4oFwIy6jAeKLO9KH4cMfSAw7cLWALCwau80lxWBo9Sdx3_20DSPbspLMiuwxRTr89k4XaCi0TLKNTs1UzD/s320/DSC_0424.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a> So grown up! Why do haircuts make cute little things look so much more grown? In my experience that happens with toddlers as well as with dogs. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEooFzRSbI5TDmfx-GeVVN8uHt4_zk1OnXNMo3GltSw5YAgoI6st3awCpwC8SzN2JWqbR0bpH2IGYS06Bd4Pu8vaSqfTeQc161VgxPbRd4ZT_y_XN3Agg7XkQVIEOmPx9DLR49HMcbutn/s1600/DSC_0472.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEooFzRSbI5TDmfx-GeVVN8uHt4_zk1OnXNMo3GltSw5YAgoI6st3awCpwC8SzN2JWqbR0bpH2IGYS06Bd4Pu8vaSqfTeQc161VgxPbRd4ZT_y_XN3Agg7XkQVIEOmPx9DLR49HMcbutn/s320/DSC_0472.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a>Our vet called him a beautiful specimen. Not that I am biased or anything, but methinks that this pic makes it tough to argue with the assessment. </div>
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcpp68rmpPZ7LSWCmb5262vMhUXxubgKB6093l4XVd4YnpI1_gJBee1bydIor0Pz4SNde6ld_a9XlhL9ESoVr_k59Bt_TsMKRn1l_5pnTFDlMXDyZIuPYHkb-a_ng1_2KImLYpplZtj_cd/s320/IMAG0142-001.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /> </div>
Altogether now: awwwwwwwwww!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-62XJPM458hv0QUzxtQY9ZHgxylGvj0LW8EM2JdTq0Lu7NgGvyJp6_bVBWCtbR1NBw1j7oqdht_rXohP912dTR7D4C5cfN3rYad_QA6axA8PLPnAtDo1oVVt_PyeZlCAnQW3jbt9wErW/s1600/pillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-62XJPM458hv0QUzxtQY9ZHgxylGvj0LW8EM2JdTq0Lu7NgGvyJp6_bVBWCtbR1NBw1j7oqdht_rXohP912dTR7D4C5cfN3rYad_QA6axA8PLPnAtDo1oVVt_PyeZlCAnQW3jbt9wErW/s320/pillow.jpg" width="320" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sY3ic5xDSyrspXzhqcT5ejef6gvEBPOj6yTNvnLsTAkGF6sQ7ehHwb3q5kD7p5sdKVhL7cSJVOQbBXsHDWGfr5hdZyzDDQdFRbsr2YPX0wOw7r72QovLvs5XTzr9azFnbZFxG2AYSTKk/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>And also? He thinks he's people. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQ0gRlAkAjPZM12JIYBNOVUtUKWnJ_MgXWlwr_YU2dzGjzQVVNeJDpekRaKk63gjp5yUF1iV_hjTXVl6b6pP_RsyJ8Wlv0hUtK-WaMJsJrpvFdA6Uoh__DaA2IVwM7gObZWuWl8PjcW_m/s1600/IMAG0176-001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQ0gRlAkAjPZM12JIYBNOVUtUKWnJ_MgXWlwr_YU2dzGjzQVVNeJDpekRaKk63gjp5yUF1iV_hjTXVl6b6pP_RsyJ8Wlv0hUtK-WaMJsJrpvFdA6Uoh__DaA2IVwM7gObZWuWl8PjcW_m/s320/IMAG0176-001.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a> Yesterday. Getting shaggier again. And bigger. Tough to believe, but he does still have some growing to do.</div>
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And that makes us up to date on the puppy front. If you are not a dog person, apologies for way too many pictures. If you are, I hope this was fun. <br />
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Scary puppy post coming up next. And a post on gingerly stepping back into certain elements of past lives. Also, in Mel's words, <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com/2012/06/supreme-court-affordable-care-act-and-infertility/">about giving a fuck</a>. Happens to be one and the same post.<br />
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Meanwhile, today, incredible as it seems, I am at 36w 4d. That would be the same gestation as I was the evening before the night I actually gave birth to the Cub. If nothing funny happens until then, sometime tomorrow I will be more pregnant than I've been but once before. Kinda crazy. More on that later too. <br />
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</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-87621935031227357852012-06-13T23:37:00.000-04:002012-06-14T03:53:53.167-04:00HNAFU: Headspace Normal, All Effed UpThe thing about choices, catches, calls, and all things of the sort is that they come with consequences. We are, of course, usually hoping for the good kind of those, but have to accept all comers, even the unforeseen kind. Which is why hindsight can be a bitch. And not only when what we see in the rearview mirror is a mistake. Uncertainty, as I found out, can be fairly profoundly haunting. <br />
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When the Cub was born, he spent a week in NICU, most of it because of <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/08/moving-day.html">an infection</a>. Three weeks before he was born, I spent a <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/07/complete.html">weekend in the hospital</a> on magnesium. I remember that when they put the loading bag of mag on, they said the dose would go down after the first bag. It didn't. I knew it was because the contractions didn't slow down yet-- I could read the monitors even if I couldn't feel them anymore. The thing is, though, that along with the IV fluids and the mag, they also gave me antibiotics, since I was presumed to be positive for group B strep-- it grew on the cultures from the amnio Dr. Best did after A died but before his membranes ruptured in the course of that induced labor. I could tell that when contractions didn't slow down soon after they started the mag, the thought was that we'd likely end up delivering that weekend, though it would be nice to make it past the 48 hours needed for steroids to take full effect. And so when contractions did slow down and eventually went pretty much to nil, I was more inclined to credit the antibiotics for presumably defeating the infection I presumed caused the PTL in the first place. We won't, of course, ever know for sure. But even Dr. Best says that my scenario is very possible, and is certainly no less possible than my contractions turning productive for no apparent reason that day. <br />
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Barely five days before that weekend at the hospital I <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/07/protector.html">wrote here</a> about the crazy of being The Protector, the one person in the universe with the possibility of catching something that would save that baby's life. That weekend it really seemed like I might have. In the rearview mirror though? Things are a lot less clear when viewed from anywhere past point of Cub's delivery. Because see, the math goes fuzzy once the infection he was born in is included in the assessment. Now the assessment goes like this: I caught the PTL that started before 34 weeks, which helped to keep him cooking for those crucial weeks more, weeks he would've likely spent in NICU had he actually been born then. Yay for me! BUT what if he wasn't born when he was? What if the infection NICU ended up kicking in the balls was allowed to keep going on the inside? That could've ended a lot worse than a few weeks in NICU he was looking at had he been actually delivered when PTL hit. He could've died. He really could've died too. <br />
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This is the crazy-inducing <i>what if</i> game that I still can't wrap my mind around. This is really why I eventually agreed to see a shrink-- I knew we wanted another baby one day, and two things messed with my head when thinking about potentially trying again. First was that being The Protector was completely exhausting, but that because I did catch the PTL, it felt like I'd have to voluntarily sign up for precisely that level of crazy in any pregnancy that would follow. The other thing was that having made the catch on PTL, I may have set the Cub up for the danger of another infection later on in gestation. Some protector.<br />
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This is not resolved in my head to any satisfaction as yet. Though it helps that this has been a less eventful pregnancy in terms of the trips to L&D and happenings that precipitate those. Going into it I knew anxiety would come to stay, and I had to be <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2012/05/come-what-may.html">sort of ok with it</a>. Which I sort of am. But not enough to be zen or anything. And not enough that catching a life-threatening condition in our new puppy didn't then result in major anxiety blowback. Which is really why I am talking about this now-- I am going to tell the puppy story in the next day or two (provided I can stay awake enough to write, and the creek don't rise, of course), and I wanted to explain the headspace in which the crazy that fuels it all resides. The completely fucked up headspace, but the only headspace I've got.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-51794390644733496012012-06-09T23:44:00.000-04:002012-06-10T02:35:39.998-04:00Hanging on...I am not entirely off the wagon, though obviously I am not entirely on it either. More like hanging on to the sides of said wagon, being dragged through the streets. A lovely sight, really. I blame the tired (I fall asleep way before I intend to what seems like every other day) and the busy. The busy is a lot more fun than the tired, and I plan on talking about at least the last three days worth of busy. I might even have a link to share... For historical reasons, the last three days of busy are also a decently-sized mindfuck, so I need to stew on it for a bit before spewing forth with it. <br />
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I also have a couple of puppy posts brewing. With JD away, I feel all the more acutely the charge of, in the words of the fox from <i>The Little Prince</i>, the responsibility for what we have tamed. (Though the degree to which this particular relative of the wolf can be considered tamed differs in my mind from day to day-- I am mostly joking here, and he is getting more and more well-behaved, but he does, still, like to check on whether maybe he can appoint himself to be in charge around here, what with the big dude not being around and all.)<br />
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See, I've never had a dog before. Which probably saved this puppy's life a couple of months ago, last time JD was away. And, with a short time delay, resulted in a major anxiety blowback for me. The story will be the topic of the puppy post that's not all cuteness. But given that as background, let me just tell you that I freaked right the fuck out when he started behaving unusually yesterday (including gifting me with the mighty smelly piles in the house-- this from the months-ago-housetrained dog). The vet's office accommodated my panicked phonecall, even though they fully expected him to need at most some meds for stomach/GI issues. And that's all he did end up needing. Well, that and a bland diet, which means that I cooked for the dog more than I cooked for the humans today. He was back to his old self by morning, and I am grateful, even though he's a much bigger handful this way. Actually, this is how you know he's feeling better. <br />
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This concludes my post of lame excuses and coming attractions. I, of course, use the term "attractions" loosely. Except for the post with all the puppy pics, of course.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-21789220725796774162012-06-07T23:57:00.003-04:002012-06-08T00:19:50.753-04:00Heartburn?Oh, how fun. I've never had this before, which is why it took me two days to figure out the strange feeling in my throat that seemed to show up out of the blue towards the evening is not the remnants of the Cub's virus. Seems I have myself a new symptom-- heartburn. Bad enough that the other day I ... how should a lady (don't laugh!) say this.... parted with the contents of my stomach in a way I am not too fond of and in a rather swift manner? Something like that, yes. And immediately ran back to the scene of the crime with paper towels lest the puppy get at the remnants of chocolate... because I didn't.. um... make it all the way to the bathroom when that... um... came up. Sorry, oversharing. That's obviously also a symptom.<br />
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Also, because I am slow on the uptake, for the two days I was enjoying the symptoms before figuring out what's up I did not get much sleep. Hence, I crashed like a toddler after a sugar high yesterday. Bad enough that three separate attempts at kick counting all ended the same way-- with me clunked out after two kicks. For good 40 minutes to an hour. I finally got the message on the third go round and went to sleep for real. <br />
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Also, it was back, briefly, this afternoon. After I had tea. Which makes me think sad thoughts about the possibility of tea triggering it. So what am I about to do after I post this? If you said "make self a cup of tea," you win. And I am not claiming to be a genius here, though I prefer to think of this as looking for experimental confirmation rather than simply being a dumbass. Because I am certainly not giving up this habit on the flimsy evidence collected so far. Or, you know, EVAH. <br />
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On a separate, unrelated, and much lovelier note, my friend <a href="http://furtherrecords.wordpress.com/">Beruriah</a> had her baby boy yesterday. On what Monkey gleefully pointed out was a mathematically fun 6.6.12 date. If you feel like it, please stop by and congratulate her.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-62794840871986324922012-06-05T23:37:00.000-04:002012-06-06T02:26:30.628-04:00Ready and waiting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXW5XU8UXrCXJzBONs7_yO1MNP1vPmbYiIS5VkwXTNZLA8qGLsizs_98P7dyz_ql75WGnobOW6hUpgwQN6UWevm4wm5dnikGMh0DTR27MrW4-OWFurHkS-1q2mROCe0Ao8djTq_YZhawB/s1600/IMAG0148-1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXW5XU8UXrCXJzBONs7_yO1MNP1vPmbYiIS5VkwXTNZLA8qGLsizs_98P7dyz_ql75WGnobOW6hUpgwQN6UWevm4wm5dnikGMh0DTR27MrW4-OWFurHkS-1q2mROCe0Ao8djTq_YZhawB/s320/IMAG0148-1.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0;" /></a> Lest you think that I lost what little remained of my marbles, let me reassure you-- the title of today's post does not in any way refer to me. It is all about my garden. <br />
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Did I tell you that my friend Sam rocks hard core? Well, she does. She is a woman of frightening competence and remarkable achievement. But also? Incredibly nice. And? She likes me enough to go along with many of my crazy schemes. Last year, when she came up here for our college reunion, she stayed a few days after, and, among other things, the two of us entirely redid Monkey's closet. In two days. Like took apart what was in there, caulked, painted, and hung up the new hardware. Oh, and there was much rejoicing. <br />
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This time she came out just to see me. And how do I repay her? By asking her to "help" with the garden, by which I mean do most of the physical labor of getting it cleaned up, organized and expanded. <i>And</i> she agreed.<br />
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Brief historical diversion. I am not very good at gardening. Two summers ago we put up our first raised beds. And (don't laugh) planted tomatoes in a shallow bed that was mostly in the shade. Predictably, pretty much a fail. Last year, <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2010/12/6/colors-of-his-home-by-numbers.html">in the new house</a>, we planted tomatoes in a deep bed, though one that still spent a sizable portion of the day in the shade. Cucumbers went into a shallow bed. So did peas and green beans, but the damned bunny made quick work of those, twice. Cucumbers and tomatoes though? We had a lot of them. They were <i>goooooooooooood</i>. And they made me feel so accomplished. I know it was mostly photosynthesis, but hey, I managed to stay out of its way enough to let it do its thing. And I learned a few things along the way. Including that I probably overcrowded the tomato bed, and it might be a better idea to use deep pots for individual plants next time around. <br />
<br />
Back to present tense. It's been raining for days on end. Sam arrived Saturday, but not until today, the day she was leaving, did we get breaks in the rain long enough to reasonably expect to not get soaked while spending a decent amount of time outside. So we pulled all of the grass and random other plants that made their annoying way into last year's shallow bed. And then Sam moved some of the old dirt from the beds into the pots, nine in all. After which we started opening the nags of new soil, to add to and mix with the old, in both the pots and the beds. Altogether we used over 17 cubic feet of soil, most of nine large bags, and Sam lifted, tipped, and shook every single one of them. In her nice jeans. I was only allowed to scoop soil out of open bags to direct the flow. And now my deep pots and my beds, shallow and deep, are ready and waiting for the seedlings that will be going in tomorrow. And I have one more cubic foot of soil to deal with the smaller pots my sister brought over for me to use-- I think those will end up being herbs.<br />
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So I still don't know what the summer will bring. But at least, barring some major fuckups, there will be tomatoes. And cucumbers. And, hopefully, brussel sprouts. And maybe I will try those peas and green beans again-- maybe the bunny won't show up this year with the new puppy's scent all over the back yard. <br />
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Also, Sam rocks. No? <br />
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</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-74286280404958416852012-06-04T23:56:00.000-04:002012-06-05T02:45:48.883-04:0034 weeks 4 daysI've been exactly this pregnant four times. Given the time of night though, only three of these have been with a live baby. After tomorrow, which is the gestation at which A was delivered, and provided nothing exciting happens between now and then, it heads downhill. I remember sitting in the doctor's waiting room at my first several appointments of this pregnancy and thinking that it doesn't actually compute that (a) I would get as large as the women there, and (b) <i>if</i> that happened, that it would be for the <u><i>fourth</i></u> time.<br />
<br />
I'd said for years that I wanted three children. It turned out that what I actually meant is that I'd wanted to raise three children. Not exactly a semantic difference, as it turns out. In the months after A died, one thing that I kept returning to was that I used to think that when it came to the number of children in a family, four seemed like a qualitative jump from three. And suddenly if we still hoped to get to raise three, we were going to end up being parents of at least four. Seemed crazy, as an idea. <br />
<br />
So, how do you eat an elephant? Piece by piece, as it turns out. I <i>am</i> this big. And this is my fourth child.<br />
<br />
Monkey has this teammate. They were on the team together the first year they were competing. The family left the gym at the end of that season, but they just returned last week. In the middle of a group conversation in the observation room, the mom asked me what number this one is. For the briefest of split seconds I considered a long form answer, but dismissed it in favor of a matter-of-fact "fourth." I am sure at some point she will count those present and be confused. And if she asks, I will tell her. <br />
<br />
<br />
I expected to be much more of a mess in the last day or so than I've been. Paradoxically, I think it helped to have had an actual concern to deal with today. Yesterday, the Cub woke up with some strange stuff on his skin. We thought it was a mark he left by playing with the dog's leash. But in the afternoon it was clearly a rash, disorganized, irregular, and pretty well all over the place. So off to Children's we went, where they determined the rash to be hives, most likely viral. And since there is one virus that can cause hives and could also cause trouble in the final trimester, they told me to call my practice and report the developments. The Cub got Benadryl and his skin was was clear as day by morning, though something was starting up again tonight, so he's now medicated again.<br />
<br />
And I called the practice today and discussed the situation with a triage nurse. She explained exactly how long the wait for test results would be (about five days) and what they would do during the wait (monitor, duh). She also said I could come in today, but because of how long the test takes, she thought it would be fine to wait until my appointment on Tuesday morning. Wanting to cover my bases and because today is, you know, 34w4d, I asked if she'd mind checking with my doctor on whether he approves of the plan. She said sure, and promised to call either way. When she did, a couple of hours later, she sounded really pleased with herself. The word from Dr. Best was that he thought waiting until tomorrow would be fine, though he was surprised that I hadn't been tested for the immunity to the virus before.<br />
<br />
And so this nurse went back through my records "all the way back to 2007," as she put it, to find that Dr. Best did test me for it (as part of the post-stillbirth search for clues, I surmise), and that I am, in fact, immune. When I got off the phone with her I was just happy and grateful to be with this doctor and in this practice. I felt supported and cared for. I still would've rather the Cub didn't get sick, but if he was going to, in a weird way, this was pretty good timing for it-- even though JD was on the plane flying across an ocean while we had our little ER adventure, a very good friend was visiting, and she stayed home with Monkey and her playdate. This very same friend also kept me sane today just by being here. And the confidence-building interaction with the practice helped a lot. I was also hoping to garden today, but the drizzle made that not so very attractive. Well, I guess you can't always get what you want. <br />
<br />
Yesterday was the gestational equivalent of the last good day-- the last full day when A was alive, the last day when I was just a pregnant woman with a history of some obstetric complications. Most likely, his fate was already sealed sometime that day. But we didn't know. And so I might've expected a curve ball from yesterday, by which I mean I wouldn't have been surprised to have had my ass kicked by yesterday. I don't think I did. (The Cub's preschool, same one Monkey went to, same one A would've gone to, had an end of the year celebration in the morning. I started crying as soon as they turned on the first song-- a tune I remember from Monkey's time at the preschool,-- and the curtain opened on the row of graduates at the front of the stage. I wasn't picturing him in that row. I think it was the music, actually.) Though the day did manage to make me clunk out without writing last night. Which makes yesterday the one out of seven days that I take off from blogging. Better publish this then, or it will be two in a row...Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-676280219753278412012-06-02T23:53:00.000-04:002012-06-03T01:51:07.992-04:00Known unknownsThis hasn't been an easy pregnancy. Early on it was physically more challenging than the previous ones, except for the nausea, which was better than with either of the boys. But as time went on, physically it has become less hard than the last time around. Not in every aspect (carpal tunnel is definitely worse, for example), but on aggregate I am fairly confident that this is the case. I also feel more compact, move easier, and, to be completely honest, look better than last time. I think most of that can be attributed to the Insanity thing I did last summer. As evidence I proffer my upper arms-- there's actually still some definition there, all these months later. Most importantly, I've only had two visits to L&D so far, and no hospitalizations. With the Cub, at the dates I am now I was <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/07/home.html">newly back</a> from a weekend of mag sulfate and steroids at the hospital. <br />
<br />
What has been hard is the uncertainty. Hard isn't even the exact right word here. Exhausting is probably more apt. And by this I don't mean the the global kind of anxiety, the will she or won't she make it kind. That kind I try not to even allow myself to entertain, though I know it's always there. The way I know is that it jumps out of whatever fold dark corner it hides in to grab me by the throat with its cold clammy hand every time I am not sure I've felt enough activity in the last X amount of time. But here I mean more the pedestrian kind of anxiety, where every plan is by default soft and subject to however the hell the day will unfold.<br />
<br />
Real contractions started a week earlier than with the Cub, at 28 weeks and one day. That happened to be the day of my first BPP, and Dr. Best was there for it. I joke that I get to call the contractions stupid because they are not doing anything to the cervix. Which, of course, if I am to have contractions, is the way I'd prefer them, thankyouverymuch. And since they are non-productive, their effect is to annoy me, and to occasionally royally mess up my immediate plans by either causing me to surrender to the couch or to actually send me to L&D.<br />
<br />
Each individual episode of sustained contractions is not what is actually exhausting. Sometimes they are, if they impact my ability to sleep. But most of the time it's rather the possibility that a day may include such an episode, or that the amount of activity might decrease enough to cause concern that messes with my head. I get up in the morning with some idea of what I absolutely need to accomplish that day and what would be nice to accomplish. But all of that is against the background of knowing that even <i>absolutely need to</i> is more like <i>hopefully will be able to</i>. <br />
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Those<i> absolutely need to</i> items are about immediate and essential needs-- food, transportation, clean dishes. The<i> would be nice to accomplish</i> items are things that make life feel less out of control-- excavate the bedroom, for example (almost finished now; and please don't ask me how long it'd been since we let things begin to pile up in that corner and on that surface and also over there-- it's actually embarrassing), or plant this year's garden (not done, but hopefully Monday), or do all the laundry as opposed to just the most critical load or two, or clear up the sewing/mending pile. I've been making slow, but steady progress through that list since the semester ended. But it's not done, and, realistically, done is well more than a day away.<br />
<br />
I think that if I could clear this list, I would feel less anxious in general. I mean checking things off a list is always gratifying, but here especially getting things off the list means they won't need to be done <i>after</i>, however <i>after</i> turns out. But maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe this is just the level of crazy that a pregnancy inspires in me now, and if I solved this bit, I would find that the hum of my inner monitors would pick up to compensate. There's only one way to find out, though, and that is to clear the list and see what happens. <i>If</i> I manage to get that done, I guess we'll find out. Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-5668344690070884682012-06-01T23:48:00.000-04:002012-06-02T01:29:49.924-04:00Department of gripes and observationsDamn, ladies. You sure know how to make a girl feel special. It's really nice to know you haven't kicked my silent ass out of your readers yet. I am firing up my own tomorrow, and will start to catch up with everyone then. Let's see if I still remember how to leave a comment... :)<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I (re)discovered that falling off the blog writing wagon is extremely easy. For example, I nearly rolled off of it in my sleep just now when the little 45-50 minute nap I was allowing myself to take expanded and almost claimed me for the night. (That would've been embarrassing, given my lofty posting goal for the month.) But as they say in the movies and bad sitcomes, <i>I am up, I am up</i>. Though not enough to get especially thoughtful. So I guess today's post will be brought to you by the gods of small chuckles and unfortunate choices.<br />
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Starting with the chuckle. I gave myself one with the juxtaposition of the two books I picked up while shopping last weekend. So I got this<br />
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... and also this: <br />
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<br />
Um... guess which one's for a book club?<br />
<br />
I got them at Costco, along with an assortment of other items, random and not so much. It probably just goes to show that I am easily amused, but the bit that served to amuse me was imagining buying the same two books together online, thereby causing a number of very confused double takes from the hypothetical future customers looking at either of these and seeing the other pop up under "customers who bought this book also bought..."<br />
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Transitioning ever-so-gracefully to the <i>unfortunate choices</i> part now. So maybe I am not altogether easily amused because <i>Fifty Shades</i>? It mostly annoyed me. It was picked as the inaugural book for the fledgling book club a friend is starting because it is what "all the girls" are reading now. For the record, that email exchange, where the book club was proposed and the book picked, was the very first time I heard about it at all. Yes, I live under a rock. Why do you ask? (But at least when SNL did a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DW-4Fn-d9OY">parody commercial</a> featuring the book literally days later I already knew what they were talking about.)<br />
<br />
My problem with the book is that it's so very poorly written. It features a narrator who's graduating college with a degree in English Literature. So then why is her language so barren? Why is her vocabulary so limited, why does she utilize the same damned turn of phrase every other page and why, why, why does she repeat words in subsequent sentences or even within the same sentence? Here's the one that made me groan out loud, and I swear I am not making this up. <i>My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.</i> No, really, this is in a book. Sold by a major publishing house. A book that made about gazzilion dollars, my $9.99 among them. <br />
<br />
Which is really what burns me-- I paid actual money for this. And, apparently, I am supposed to read the other two books from the trilogy before we meet in two weeks. I am soooooo not paying one red cent more. I am going to be a good sport and read them, but I am planning on borrowing the remaining books. To be fair, email exchanges between the characters are a decent read. But anything that involves even a touch of narration? Teeth-numbing. Too bad I don't have a tooth ache that needs taking care of. (In stark contrast, I started <i>Drift</i> the other day, and <i>ahhhhh...</i> my brain exhaled and said "thank you.") <br />
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So spill the beans-- have you read the <i>Shades</i>? Whatdayathink? Either way, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DW-4Fn-d9OY">see the SNL skit</a>, just not at work.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-34283233397857555122012-05-31T15:05:00.001-04:002012-05-31T15:11:56.199-04:00Come what MayLast time I wrote here, it was May, of 2011. I thought I was finally back from hibernation, with thoughts and ideas and things to say. It's May again, almost not May anymore, of 2012. Almost 13 months since my last post. Three days less than that since the event that made it hard to speak for a long while. It really shouldn't have been this monumental. My grandmother was in a nursing home because of the rapidly progressing Alzheimer's. She wasn't herself, hadn't been for a long time. Her death was really a good thing for her-- what she had at the end was no life at all. And in that sense, it should've been a good things for all. But of course, as with all things death, it turned out to be much more complicated.<br />
<br />
May 6th last year was a busy-busy day. A busy, but a very good day. I took Monkey and a friend to see older girls from her gym compete at a national-level meet, I stopped by an old place of employment to drop off student work, and after a very short pit stop at home, went to a girls' night out. Promising, no? Until the phone call from my sister. "Go outside," she said. I still remember that I didn't understand what she wanted. I didn't want to get up, and I thought she was telling me she's passing nearby the restaurant and wants to wave at me. Instead, she wanted to tell me that our grandmother took a sudden physical turn for the worst, and, just like that, she wasn't expected to last the night. She didn't. She died while I drove home from the restaurant.<br />
<br />
The next few days are not actually a blur. I can trace them more vividly than many a day since then. One of the things we did was put together a collage of our grandmother's pictures. Well, my sister, she of software riches, did. I asked her to email me the scans of two of my favorite pictures -- I thought I would write of our grandmother, and soon. I have the pictures, but writing about her has not yet happened. Maybe now, though. I feel somehow steadier.<br />
<br />
<br />
And so it is May again, and almost not May anymore. And a lot has happened. We have a puppy. By now, a respectably sizable puppy. He's over six months now, and, true to his breed, a lean and beautiful mischief machine. Monkey is 10. That's a little crazy as a concept, but even with all that the age brings, I have to say I like who she is, who she is becoming. The Cub is going on four, and is an incredible mix of sweetness, wiry energy, imagination and stubbornness, with a side order of strange little anxieties.<br />
<br />
And (deep breath) I sit here today 34 weeks into what I hope is my last pregnancy. If this baby girl lives. I allow myself small little glimpses of what that might be like. But when people at the school or at Monkey's gym talk about "when" or any other sort of thing that implies how done this deal is, I just want to crawl into a small dark hole. I can't take it, though for the most part, somehow, I take it. It's four days now to the gestational age when A died. JD will be out of town when we roll up on it. But a good friend from college will be visiting. And Dr. Best is as ever vigilant and most kind. "We don't keep track of frequent flier miles. If anything at all feels off, call and come in. We understand." That's on top of my now twice-weekly monitoring. When I first called the practice to say I needed them again, Nurse Kind called me back with appointment dates and just to talk. "Are you ready for this?" she asked. "No," was my answer, with two "but"s attached-- I was more ready than I was a year before, when I first thought we'd try, but more importantly, I told her it would've been a lot harder to decide to jump again if we didn't know they were there to help us along.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago we went to the 50th birthday party for someone who was rather influential in our formative years-- he was a somewhat older grad student who was in charge of our living group for most of my undergraduate years. We were there when he and his wife brought their middle son home, to the tutor's apartment in our living group. So even though it's a terrible cliche, and even though I know it can be incredibly annoying and embarrassing, I couldn't help myself when I saw that kid walking through the room two weeks ago-- almost 17, way taller than me, and still completely recognizable. Last I saw him, a few years back, he was still a kid. Now-- a young man. His older brother, who did homework in our student lounge and had dinner with us, and pretty much thought of us as the coolest thing since sliced bread, he's married and has a baby. And still remembers and likes us. Damn! And a little bit of a mindfuck, I guess-- makes the math of our own ages pretty inescapable.<br />
<br />
As the music started to play, I was chatting with the college friends seated at our table. JD, however, was watching the dance floor. He leaned over to me to point out that without being told, the two older boys got up and invited their grandmothers to dance. I knew what he saw, what he meant-- there will never be a day when both of our mothers are dancing with their grandsons at the same time. Another tiny never in a long string of nevers for us, but for whatever reason for JD, this one went deep. This one is not objectively easier or harder than any of the thousand cuts we've stumbled into over the years, or the many that I am sure are still to come. Each one revealing and underscoring the depth of the chasm that can't be remedied, can't be made better.<br />
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While I was away from here, I still occasionally wrote for <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/">Glow in the Woods</a>. And this week I am there again, talking about that chasm, about how the enormity of it dwarfs all things, and how that makes me bristle at the idea of their deaths having a meaning or a reason. Please <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2012/5/30/the-meaning-of-a-life.html">stop by</a>, if you are in the mood.<br />
<br />
I've been away too long. I am not saying this because I am under any kind of delusion that the blogoverse didn't keep spinning without me-- I am fairly sure my absence made not much of a difference to others. But I've missed this space, as I always do when I am gone. I want to be back in a real way, not haphazardly, as I've done since the Cub was born. So I am going to try to do for my mind what I did last summer for my body-- I am employing a commitment device, my very own blog writing marathon. Last summer I did the Insanity program-- 9 weeks of stringent exercise (on DVDs), 6 out of 7 days a week. I am declaring this to be my blog goal for the next month-- writing 6 out of 7 days for the month of June. For my own sake, I hope I stay on the wagon.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-57284407006932366592011-05-03T13:07:00.002-04:002011-05-03T15:20:59.685-04:00Wondering, slightly off-topicIf anybody is still here, and on the off chance you still want to know where the hell I've been, I'll tell you. I spent the last day and a half same place most you likely did-- glued to screens and speakers, catching up on details and coverage. (Where I've been for months before that is a separate question, one I keep meaning to address in something other than a sidetracky note in parenthesis.) <br /><br />As you undoubtedly know, among the coverage from the Pentagon and from Pakistan, and from the White House, there is coverage from Ground Zero and from many a studio where family members of those who perished on September 11th have come to answer questions about How They Are Feeling Now. <br /><br />A digression, or a sidetrack, if you will. About two and a half years ago Elizabeth McCracken's <span style="font-style:italic;">An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination</span> started making rounds in our little corner of the blogosphere, and so did the lines from the book that many of us wanted on t-shirts (or carved carefully and lovingly into rotten tomatoes conveniently available to us any time the urge to throw one, or at the very least the line on it, at the clueless/malevolent overtook us). One of those lines, one quoted frequently and with gusto by many a babylost mother was "closure is bullshit." <br /><br />Back to present day. I notice one persistent theme in the coverage. Every time a relative or a friend of a 9/11 victim is interviewed, no matter the outlet, there is always that ridiculous question-- "does this provide closure for you?" <br /><br />And so, though I know that is not the main thrust in the events that have been unfolding around the world since early hours of Monday morning Pakistan time (not entirely surprising, this, as I do tend to, from time to time, you know, digress... wait, where was I? oh, yes-- not entirely the central point, but...) I wonder whether maybe, just maybe, this time it will finally sink in. <br /><br />Because in an inspiring display of dignity (and honestly, I find myself offended for these people every time they are asked about this), every single relative that I've seen or heard has said approximately what Elizabeth wrote, though in language more suited for mass media,-- there is no closure, there is no such thing, it doesn't exist, he/she/they are still dead, and we still miss them and have to live without them.<br /><br />Closure is a convenient stamp. It is a useful plot device, and it is a great marker for those unaffected who want those affected to be OK-- what you need is to get closure and move on. I hope it will sink in, but I know it's unlikely. The allure of simple explanations and carefully wrapped up stories is too strong, and we're only human. And yet, knowing full well that I am pretty much hollering into the wind, I want to echo Lee Ielpi, father of Jonathan, firefighter who perished on 9/11, as quoted in the NYTimes this morning: <i>"No closure. That word should be stricken from the English language."</i>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-39332140357631434812011-01-29T16:08:00.003-05:002011-01-29T22:51:00.414-05:00Almost hereAlmost here. That's both <i>it</i>, another anniversary, and me. For me, that's about this place. The place I miss and want to inhabit again. The intensity varies through time, from burning to simmering, but it's always there. Always, despite the months and months of terrible neglect. I see the weeds all around, and I don't expect anyone to still be wondering by, looking for me. So I know it's not about the audience. It's about me. <i>I</i> still want to be here, still need to be here. <br /><br />A few months ago now (ouch, already?), I told a couple of bloggers I met for the first time that night (hi, gals, if any of you still have this place in the reader) that my first post back would be a "how do you know you are still a blogger?" and would essentially boil down to "if you are constantly composing posts in your head, you're it." And I am. So I guess I am. <br /><br />Last calendar year deserves a post all its own, and it will probably get one, sometime next week. This past month, January. Well, it should've gotten a small stable of posts, but except for <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2011/1/10/coming-up.html">the one I had on Glow earlier</a>, this is it so far. <br /><br />But what's there to say, this fourth time around? I miss him. Still, always. In some ways that are now familiar, and in some ways that are new and sharper for it. Thoughtless things people say can still get me. Sometimes in a new way. The one that happened earlier in the fall, but then crept back into my head and heart to mess with both earlier this month, was about how insignificant A is to others. It hurts, and it hurts worse for the casual manner in which she did it. And yet, as with other things, once I dissected that enough to understand what in it was so hurtful, it receded. These things always do. The one that doesn't is the simplest and the most basic of them all-- he is not here. He will never be here.<br /><br /><br />Four years ago I was still just a pregnant woman.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-22938308263164054242010-08-15T02:40:00.002-04:002010-08-15T03:58:10.565-04:00Time, flight ofBack in April I said I am taking 2-3 weeks off. Ha! Tomorrow it will be 18 weeks. 18, which is, 3 squared times 2 ([3^2]x2). I did that for a bit-- thought as each week drew to a close that come Monday I will definitely post again, and, because nerd is who I am, not just what I do, found a way to represent the number of weeks it was in terms of 2s, 3s, and mathematical operations-- 2+3, 2x3, 2x2+3, 2^3, 3^2, 2x(3+2), 3^2+2. I think that's where I stopped, at 11 weeks out-- it got too depressing as each week zoomed by with a cackle and a whooooosh. <br /><br />It was about the house projects at first. Then it was all about the job-- a great interview the very day of that last post, an interminable wait, a growing panic, and an official rejection email. Yup, email. Some more drama, twists and turns, and finally an offer of adjunct position for the fall. More drama yet with the course planning and coordination, then a major plot twist and a cliffhanger. The latter only resolved as of two weeks ago, prompting a mad dash of meetings and emails trying to get the course organized, coordinated and ready to go. <br /><br />I am still in the middle of that dash, and will be right through the first part of the term at least. Because damn, but it's impossible to put the whole course together in the time I had from the final staffing assignment to the start of the course. Not happening is all I am saying. Also, there's the crazy and fun science thing I am doing at Monkey's school. Not paid, but I am getting to put a lot of my crazy ideas into practice, so that's a plus. <br /><br /><br />I haven't been entirely unplugged since that last post. I've peeked, here and there. More lately, as I've tried to get back to this place. And now I sit here, a mere hour (exactly) until the point in time when my youngest son turns two. If I look at him or, say, pick him up, two seems just about right for the heft of him, and for what he is up to these days. Though two also seems like a lot. And it just doesn't feel like it's been that long. <br /><br />Or maybe it has. I am feeling ready to talk about the last part of my pregnancy with the Cub, and his early days, and what the whole thing did to my head and my heart. Last year the topic still felt tender, the way it doesn't anymore. Tonight I've been walking through the timepoints, two years ago. I am feeling a sort of a removed wonder, tenderness towards the people in the moving pictures in my head, towards the moments in those moving pictures. But I am not there, in the moment. I am here, this side of it all. Though I am compelled to watch again, to trace the timeline. <br /><br />So I guess two fits what I am feeling, or what I am feeling fits two. I guess two it is then. <br /><br /><br />I've missed you all. I've missed this place. I've had things to say. I have things to say. Hopefully, I can find time to say them, and time to be a good blog reader as well as a writer-- time to read, time to comment, time to be there. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And if you have a bit of time, would you please stop by <a href="http://tuesdayshope.blogspot.com">Sally's</a> as she is walking through her hard days-- from Hope's due date today towards her birthday on Thursday, the 19th?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-33864546598324418342010-04-12T23:52:00.002-04:002010-04-13T08:59:13.395-04:00What? Where? Aaaa.... Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!So today is my blogoversary. Again. Where did my online year go? Anyone seen it? <br /><br />Actually, I have a pretty good idea what happened. As I think back on where it all went kaboom, I have to go back to the one insane project that ate my March of 09, and then joyfully munched on April for good measure. <br /><br />See, as part of the Judaic studies curriculum, in the second half of first grade, Monkey's school presents each student with their own prayer book, to be used for prayer and study. And as part of the community/continuity/uniqueness thing, the school asks each family to design and make a cover for the book, personalized to each child. <br /><br />I bitched about this <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2009/03/not-exactly-wordless-wednesday.html">before</a>, and even posted a picture of the work in progress, while I <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2009/04/plans-best-laid-as-usual.html">bitched some more</a>. You may ask why the hell was the work in progress weeks after the ceremony where the books and the covers were handed out. Excellent question. And I will even tell you. <br /><br />See, I spent a lot of time last March making drawings and looking for fabric. Predictably resulting in needing to more than less make the actual cover in laughably short time, like less than two days and two nights. Also predictably, I ended up pulling an allnighter the night before the thing was due. <br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ1HithHo1HFm9QpfGPnoZa1gibYw5KJQcZdlkr0oWkT7KKlJQXOHvJ_Ri1MSwVOyB_m_zksjb-RFuuEeBRisUMP5gO29zn41NehUaA7-jB473KJqCNWCuDbNH6c4ES4d94cfbWeVnBn2/s1600/DSC_0482.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ1HithHo1HFm9QpfGPnoZa1gibYw5KJQcZdlkr0oWkT7KKlJQXOHvJ_Ri1MSwVOyB_m_zksjb-RFuuEeBRisUMP5gO29zn41NehUaA7-jB473KJqCNWCuDbNH6c4ES4d94cfbWeVnBn2/s400/DSC_0482.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a></div><br />I took pictures as the assembly process rolled on. Here's the nearly finished front and the back the way I was going to let it be for a time. The table under the stars thing is the back cover (books in Hebrew open from what we are used to being the back). See the monkey in the tree?<br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTKfQhs3uZYU1IOVbEzzz7nmO2VNluUpoTOaeKW-acm0Vnc33mH-r2o7A92BkSMrTgPjwa2ECsQ1PEQ8cUbR12SV18FuqugGpGu737DMezYSPCTNUuX-hQ9-XUKhJB7WstCSvRcvNCYAB/s1600/DSC_0486-1.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTKfQhs3uZYU1IOVbEzzz7nmO2VNluUpoTOaeKW-acm0Vnc33mH-r2o7A92BkSMrTgPjwa2ECsQ1PEQ8cUbR12SV18FuqugGpGu737DMezYSPCTNUuX-hQ9-XUKhJB7WstCSvRcvNCYAB/s400/DSC_0486-1.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a></div><br />Finished front cover, already on the book. Quick tour through the significance. Behold the Tree of Life. The top of the trunk recalls the schools logo, and the each root hides the first letter of Monkey's name in the three languages of her life-- Old Country, English and Hebrew. Point being that she integrates all the parts of her identity at the school. And monkey in the tree is because she is, you know, Monkey. <br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrgCKwtwPBAgAPeSkZvPkD3DU-7FuX5fjZZ9EmIUoT9MXTbdyPba6iWPKECwcq63toXJ30r4mnjprApWzs9YpVHKfgTxBzMir6iSKbYkOgJk-GDt8c73MUVCf3KZnnL73iWxZRqh-jF_n/s1600/DSC_0911.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrgCKwtwPBAgAPeSkZvPkD3DU-7FuX5fjZZ9EmIUoT9MXTbdyPba6iWPKECwcq63toXJ30r4mnjprApWzs9YpVHKfgTxBzMir6iSKbYkOgJk-GDt8c73MUVCf3KZnnL73iWxZRqh-jF_n/s400/DSC_0911.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a></div><br />The back cover, when it was finally finished. By which I mean that when it went to school on the day of the ceremony, the back was just that table at the top of the world. Over the next couple of weeks I kept taking the book home on the weekends until finally the table was set for Shabbat and the travelers were on their way. <br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotOencfEp5Yxzc22lwmuaSoGHCFIsQhFHauS_7dfusd9RIvfZJ56SkhZG7Y41ywR6NrTzC-cu2bYiHwv1nyaXVLI86LsrDJP8b0hTjnGMW92UGEog098eAknxKjEBysEJ11WOQNJoux7i/s1600/DSC_0908.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotOencfEp5Yxzc22lwmuaSoGHCFIsQhFHauS_7dfusd9RIvfZJ56SkhZG7Y41ywR6NrTzC-cu2bYiHwv1nyaXVLI86LsrDJP8b0hTjnGMW92UGEog098eAknxKjEBysEJ11WOQNJoux7i/s400/DSC_0908.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a></div><br />Closer view of the travelers. Monkey's actual middle name makes her a lioness, so there she is, carrying a cub that represents (DUH!) the Cub. And the puppy... The puppy is for A, hopefully looking at least a bit like <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/01/day-366.html">our stuffed A puppy</a>. <br /><br /><br />Before this thing happened, I was almost down to zero in my reader again. But then the cover came over, made itself comfortable, and decided to stay a while. And I fell behind on my internetting. And never caught up. Oh, I made several rather valiant attempts at it, but I always, always lost. Giant FAIL. So now it is over a year later, and I have to admit defeat. <br /><br />Which I am doing, now. I have been a crappy internet friend and supporter over the last year. I know I missed important events, both good and bad, in the lives of many of the bloggers I read, and I never got around to adding everyone who was so lovely in <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2009/04/unmatched.html">coming out of the bloggity closet</a> for me a year ago. <br /><br />I need to write. But I also need to read. Not being able to do either (I have to admit to feeling bad about writing without reading) because of the backlog and because of all the continuously accumulating life crap has not been good for me. Not even a little, as my sister is fond of saying. <br /><br />So here's what I am going to do, as an anniversary present to myself and a serious mental health measure. I am going to take a blog break for the next two to three weeks. By which I don't just mean that I won't be writing here during that time-- I've gone longer stretches in this past year, every one unintentionally. What I mean is that this time I am going to close the tab with my reader, and am not even going to attempt to skim. (Though I will read comments, since they come by email and since I am way too weak-willed not to.) I am going to use the time to clear the hell out of my to do list-- items large and small, you're all on notice. And when I come back, I am going to hit that awful <i>mark all as read</i> button, add all the blogs I have been meaning to add, and will start again with a clean slate. Clean slate sounds nice. <br /><br />I've missed you all. I miss you all. I will be back. Soon.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-37548640918729370672010-03-25T23:19:00.003-04:002010-03-26T01:17:28.150-04:00Show and Tell: Sand and TimeIf anyone was looking for me sometime in the last couple of weeks (ha! like anyone would), my apologies, but I was wholly swallowed by preparations for and after-care of one little girl's way too many birthday parties. (Plus, a cool school-related project. Not material to today's post, though hopefully to be expounded upon tomorrow.) <br /><br />This year, we are apparently going for a new record on the number of times one can celebrate a birthday. For the last two years Monkey has already had two kid parties-- one for classmates, and one for kids of our friends, the ones she grew up with and still hangs with a lot. Think of them as an unusually large bunch of cousins. Separate because I could never find a place that would accommodate that many kids all at once. This year a third kid party made its debut-- one for the girls of Monkey's gymnastics team. <br /><br />She lucked out with that one-- envisioned as a karaoke party (because she wanted one, and because we figured the team was just small enough to fit here, unlike the contingents of either of the remaining parties), it turned into a mostly outdoor party thanks to a rather atypical patch of weather. A first for Monkey, and a big hit all around. Her class party was actually on a weekday, brought to all of us by the parent-teacher conferences and the attendant lack of classes. It went surprisingly well, and I might just bookmark those spring conferences as good days to keep track of for possible future birthday parties. The last of the kid parties is next weekend, but that is not the point here. <br /><br />The point is that with all this crazy, I just couldn't bring myself to consider making the little bags'o'crap (aka the goody bags) that are such an integral part of kid birthday celebrations. In this country, that is-- we never had these in the Old Country, and we all turned out just fine. For a wide range of the values of <i>just fine</i> of course. So goody bags. Couldn't hack them. Came up with a brilliant idea to do a craft, and for that to be their goody bag. Hence, it had to come out looking nice and be somewhat useful. And I really didn't need it to break the bank. <br /><br />Somehow I hit upon the idea of doing mosaics (getting a kit for someone else's birthday and seeing all the things you could buy piecemeal didn't have anything to do with this, I am sure). Shouldn't take too long, reasoned I. Doesn't look too messy at the design/tile gluing stage-- a definite plus. And of course, I wasn't about to let any of them near the grouting.<br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGjd9flDgrowrsEQXtiGCRAJcE6kdUWNXF80gc3rkiM91GdxSvcuLYn6X3RwsRBQjp5szVwVzenWmhSWgHRjVbzzvRubx9NoWEjixFwL7c-FGpHkyC2qiwHta1jvbOw2yTZyVp1w5O4rx/s1600/DSC_2553.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGjd9flDgrowrsEQXtiGCRAJcE6kdUWNXF80gc3rkiM91GdxSvcuLYn6X3RwsRBQjp5szVwVzenWmhSWgHRjVbzzvRubx9NoWEjixFwL7c-FGpHkyC2qiwHta1jvbOw2yTZyVp1w5O4rx/s400/DSC_2553.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br />You know grout, yes? It is this sandy stuff that you mix with water until it's a fairly thick paste. You grout around, say kitchen tiles you install, that I knew. But it turns out you also grout to fill space between the pieces of glass and plastic that constitute your mosaic design. Then you wait a bit and sponge (or scrape with some serious effort; either way, you know) off the excess grout. <br /><br />So some kids in the class didn't want to make one. And some kids at the gymnastics party wanted to make two. Altogether, that left me with 30 pieces to grout. Various number of tiles involved. Some very symmetrical and evenly spaced and all kinds of thought out. Others-- less so. <br /><br />The thing I failed to consider when embarking on this ever-so-clever no goodie bag path? Time. Just.how.much.time it would take to finish 30 projects. And let me tell you, it took hours and hours. And hours. Many-many hours. But last night the last batch was drying, and today almost all of them went home. Like ET, but with far less drama. <br /><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh730tpJ3J0_ujILgiI9p_wea-83wTod5j0lIKbkuPUNJJ1I_z56R-npjovquQaGU0IFwO8C3L5UAYzRH39iL7tlg_kgqh7Tv8Ln07jA66lNOJUgnJxuRjs4auHpOjErMTrHxD2SZLGBRyi/s1600/DSC_2556.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh730tpJ3J0_ujILgiI9p_wea-83wTod5j0lIKbkuPUNJJ1I_z56R-npjovquQaGU0IFwO8C3L5UAYzRH39iL7tlg_kgqh7Tv8Ln07jA66lNOJUgnJxuRjs4auHpOjErMTrHxD2SZLGBRyi/s400/DSC_2556.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br />But nu? They come out pretty, yes? <br /><br /><br />This post is part of <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com">Mel's</a> Show and Tell for the week. To see what the cool kids are showing, <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com/2010/03/the-97th-circle-time-the-show-and-tell-weekly-thread/">click on over</a>!Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-77228563008612980442010-02-10T23:27:00.002-05:002010-02-11T02:46:08.466-05:00Nadia RoseEight years ago I was in the hospital. Confined two days before, exactly four weeks before my due date, with the second episode of bleeding from my (as it turned out, partial) placenta previa. <br /><br />The first night I was there, the 8th, I had a roommate. She was about 31 weeks along then, her first pregnancy. Around Christmastime, something like seven weeks earlier, a scan found severe growth restriction in her daughter. Severe as in that 24 week singleton fetus was nowhere near a pound. She was in the hospital that night because the doctors thought she'd might've reached a tipping point on the in vs. out safety scale, and they were going to decide, early in the morning, whether to do the C-section right then. <br /><br />I wasn't allowed to get up on account of the whole previa thing, and she couldn't or wouldn't, I don't remember anymore. We talked through the so-called privacy curtain that night. In my memory, the lights in the room, or most of them at least, were off. In my memory, we talked in the dark. We talked for hours. So it is not exactly surprising that though I saw her in the light of day the next morning, and though I saw her several times after, it is her voice, her turns of phrase, and not her face that I remember. <br /><br />I remember how she called one of the doctors in the practice Doogie Howser, because he-- DUH-- looks like the character. I still refer to the doctor by that nickname. I remember how she described the daughter of an acquaintance who was born weeks and weeks early, but only had a few minor challenges, fine motor skills, that type of thing, a few years later. I could tell that was her guiding light, her hope. <br /><br />I remember her talking about the doctor who became her MFM after that scan at 24 weeks. I knew him too. A very big shot, chief of ultrasonography at the whole place, he showed me an extraordinary human kindness in the early, spooked days of my pregnancy with Monkey. A kindness I sorely needed because this was my second pregnancy, first ending in a miscarriage barely two months prior. For my roommate, he went beyond a kindness. He had her come in for a scan every weekday of those seven weeks. A short respite in each day for her, reassurance of "for now." I remember her talking about how scary the weekends were, having to make it from a Friday scan to a Monday one. I remember her saying that the doctors admitted to her some time earlier that when they first diagnosed the IUGR, they thought the baby wouldn't make it, and they thought that might be the best outcome for the baby. But not anymore, not since she's hung on for so long, not since she's put on that little bit of weight that she did. <br /><br />I asked if the baby had a name. Nadia Rose, she said. Another trick of memory-- I don't remember my roommate's name anymore, but I remember her daughter's. I asked why she chose that name, and she said she just liked it. She talked about hope too, and I asked her if she knew that Nadia meant hope. She didn't, but she was glad I told her. <br /><br /><br />In the morning, after a somewhat prolonged back and forth among no less than three doctors, they decided to do the section that morning. I think I thought they would bring her back to our shared room after. But they didn't, and I was still on bedrest. I don't remember if I tried asking the nurses for information, but I know I didn't get any. A couple of days later as they wheeled me down to the clinic for the big ultrasound, my former roommate flagged me down. She was smiling. The surgery went well. The baby was very small, only about a pound. But she was in NICU and doing well. Come visit us sometime, she said. <br /><br />I was hospitalized one more time that pregnancy, at 37.5 weeks. My MFM came on the floor with the morning shift, and that time his instructions were to get up and walk around. If I didn't start bleeding again by the end of the day, he'd send me home. <br /><br />So I walked around the floor for a bit, and when nothing dramatic happened, I went to the NICU. Nadia Rose had one of the four glass-enclosed cubicles in the front of NICU. She was tiny and had a whole lot of wires about her. My former roommate was out, but I got to talk with the father for a bit. She has been doing real well, he said, but it is tough. This life, the NICU life, it's hard. And not just emotionally. I remember him talking about parking, and I remember thinking it odd in the moment that this would be what he'd gripe about. Now I think it a very human thing, to gripe about parking after the tubes and the wires and everything else becomes normalized into one's reality. And besides, he had a point-- they had to pay $6 for parking every day. And if they wanted to leave and come back, another $6. And they were looking at months more of this. <br /><br /><br />So, about that... A few days after I'd had Monkey, and we'd gone home, I had to go back to the hospital to be seen. Let's leave the gross and embarrassing details out of it, and just say that they needed to make sure I was healing appropriately. After they did, I made JD go by the NICU with me. As it turns out, the desk lady only buzzed me in because she thought I was a NICU mother. When she figured out I was trying to see someone else's baby, she focused on getting us out the door. I kept asking for Nadia Rose, explaining that she's my roommate's daughter, but the desk lady wasn't budging. She didn't know who I was talking about, or didn't want to tell me. I got her to let me look into what I thought was the cubicle where she was those couple of weeks earlier, but she wasn't there. Another baby was. After that it was quick work of kicking us out. <br /><br />Once outside, I thought I looked in the wrong cubicle. But I couldn't be sure. JD, who then didn't know about the lengths of NICU stays, didn't get why I was so upset. I knew, though, and so I had to explain it to him. If she wasn't there in NICU, if I didn't just screw up the cubicle, or if she wasn't moved to the common room in the back where less fragile babies were, then she didn't make it. Then she died. But I didn't know for sure. And I had no way of finding out.<br /><br />I thought of them, my roommate and her Nadia Rose, through the years. I hoped they made it, but always I didn't know. I still don't. After A died, I thought of them more often. And for some reason I wanted to know enough that at the Cub's anatomical scan appointment, supervised by my former roommate's ultrasound wizard of a doctor, the one who showed me that very human kindness, I blurted out my question. I asked him if he remembered Nadia Rose, baby of a patient from more than six years ago by then. The one he did daily scans for, the one with severe IUGR. What happened to her, I asked. He said that he honestly didn't remember this particular patient. That sadly he has too many patients who match the description. But also, and this I should've known, that even if he knew exactly who I was talking about, he couldn't tell me because of the privacy laws. <br /><br /><br />This past weekend, at Monkey's gymnastics competition, there was a girl with a name that reminded me again, essentially the same name, but spelled a bit differently. And a hyphenated last name-- not the same child. But thinking back, I realized that it was February when I met her mother. A bit of mental calendar flipping later, and I was sure-- her birthday was coming up. February 9th, somewhat early in the morning. <br /><br />And this is where I am stuck. I don't know the proper grammar form to use now. She is eight now? She'd be eight now? I hope her mom, my former roommate, is busy with party plans for the coming weekend. But I also know it is very possible that she is walking through her hard season now, her grief season. <br /><br />I don't really know how to end this. I hesitate to say Happy (belated) Birthday, because I don't know whether it was, whether it can be. So maybe just this then-- Nadia Rose and Nadia's mom, wherever each of you is now, I hope you are both happy.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8214358853640360621.post-10712626463343023792010-02-02T15:44:00.003-05:002010-02-02T16:12:57.500-05:00Grief, changes<div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaBkCQSoeL57166FrbRMAz-b2IjmkQeSodgWNXMICDAggWgppJjm1SfXagGjQAP8EKDkaWEuZu40KwDyEv9PW-rNrxvI_Or5O80IvZwPAVcqTTndvUBto8YtSktFKbE2XYTjd2qcaSXUD/s1600-h/DSC_1903.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaBkCQSoeL57166FrbRMAz-b2IjmkQeSodgWNXMICDAggWgppJjm1SfXagGjQAP8EKDkaWEuZu40KwDyEv9PW-rNrxvI_Or5O80IvZwPAVcqTTndvUBto8YtSktFKbE2XYTjd2qcaSXUD/s400/DSC_1903.JPG' border='0' alt='' /></a></div><br />Heading towards the first anniversary, <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2008/01/paperchase-on-precipice.html">I said</a> we were not the cake and candles type of people. Yeah, go ahead, cue the laugh track. Last year Monkey <a href="http://wontfearlove.blogspot.com/2009/02/thaw.html">changed her mind</a> from previously conceived cupcakes to brownies sort of last minut-ish. Specifically so that we wouldn't have to make frosting. This year she insisted on frosting, to write his name with, and the date. And candles. (We didn't buy these candles for the occasion-- they were left from one of Monkey's birthdays. And yet, here it is-- happy birthday on A's cake. Um, actually, Monkey's reaction merits a longer description. I'll be back with that, later in the week.) <br /><br /><br />The weekend was ok, mostly. I spent some of my alone time with the Cub on Saturday morning asking him who I love the most in the world, and answering with all three of their names. Sometimes just the firsts, but more times the whole nine years-- first, middle, patronimic, last. Rinse, repeat. I think it was the convergence towards the end of the long form names, but the Cub found that hilarious. He laughed and looked at me expectantly. And I did it again, and again. That felt nice. And yet sad. Like maybe I was sneaking this in, being a little furtive. <br /><br />Brownies came out well. Despite the projected great freeze, the weather was tolerable at the cemetery. I found nice flowers at the store (though as I was standing there considering whether to supplement with a bunch of small off white roses, eventually deciding in favor, a woman doing her own flower shopping proclaimed from behind "yellow and blue-- looks like spring"; apparently she wanted to register her approval of my choices, but sheesh lady, you have no idea; and besides, there was green too, and I thought they looked manly, so there). And did I mention the brownies were yummy? <br /><br />So yes, the weekend was ok. Until a somewhat profound realization and the attendant complete breakdown Sunday night (actually, the clock said it was Monday by then), the kind that leaves you weak-limbed and exhausted at the end. I realized that besides the familiar missing, which, though bone-deep and abiding, I could almost call civilized, there is a whole other, much more ruthless and savage, side of grief lurking in me. I still want him. And ain't that a bitch, what with him being dead and all. <br /><br />I am just now coming to, I think. I had grand plans for yesterday, and a list to go with. But in the morning I found myself still wrung out and exhausted, mentally and physically, and not much got done. Instead, I spent the whole day regaining my footing, partially by slowly, slowly, a drop, a word at a time <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2010/2/1/still.html">writing about it</a> at <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com">Glow</a>. Visit me there too, if you will. <br /><br /><br />There is a common theme here, see? Surprises. Unexpected things that pop up, still, three years on. And yes, you can totally say that "DUH!" you've been holding in now. I know, I know-- grief is simultaneously about constancy and change. This is why it can get us, years on-- it finds new ways to say the same old thing. I guess I was just due for a refresher.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09745262857388007041noreply@blogger.com12