The world. It's too effing small. Tiny, really.
See, having grown up in the Old Country, I knew next to nothing about the religious aspects of being a Jew. I have since worked on rectifying this particular deficiency, but that is not the point of this post, except that one of the consequences has been my rabbi asking me last year to go look at this one Jewish day school. They are different, she said. You will like it, she said. Long story short, I went, I looked, I liked. Which surprised me for a variety of reasons, but again-- not the point here. Since I liked, JD was dispatched to also look, and he also liked. So we applied and after a little bit of drama, Monkey was admitted.
One more foray into ancient history here. Indulge me, please. So. I came to the Big University a couple of years after we arrived in this country, and eventually got involved with the Jewish student group on campus. But there were a few people, mostly of the very privileged background, that I didn't really get along with. Two of them, Jon and Rachel, were a couple, and Rachel and I had many a disagreement throughout the years. Last one of those came on the alum email list when I was very pregnant with Monkey. The reason it started is irrelevant, but it was over whether or not a pregnant woman needs access to a hospital. Seeing as I had previa, and didn't know whether I would be able to deliver or would need a C-section, I was rather unamused with her point of view that a laboring woman does not need to go to a hospital since women have given birth at home for thousands of years, and that's exactly what she, as a very pregnant woman herself, was planning on doing.
If you are playing along, you have now without a doubt realized who I met as I walked into the meeting for future Kindergarteners and their parents this morning. Right. But did you also guess they have a brand spanking new 3 month old baby too? If you did, you have a sense of humor as warped as the universe's.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Monday, May 7, 2007
More than words
Julie says it's National Nurses Week, and since she hasn't led me astray yet, I believe her. And since many things she does are a good idea, even if they are not the law, I figured I should thank the nurses that helped me survive.
Trouble is, I don't really know how I could ever thank them enough.
My day shift nurse. How do you thank someone for only saying "Oh, good-- you missed the bed" when you barf your clear liquids all over the floor because IV pain meds make you feel very very drunk? How do you thank her for holding your hands and talking you through the part where they put the epidural in with contractions 2-3 minutes apart? Sometime in the middle of all that she also put together a list for me-- tips, resources, remedies. Did you know that sage helps stop lactation? Well, now you know.
My night shift nurse. How can you ever thank a person for bringing warm blankets and a hat for your dead baby? Toasty warm blankets. As in, she warmed them up. Not right away, either-- she gave us time right away. And how on earth do you ever thank that very same person for being the one to look after his body after you let him go and for putting together his memory box? Or for not making you verbalize the reason you were hesitating to ask for the hat he was wearing? For understanding you enough to say "It's OK. I will put another one on him"? How do you thank a person for that?
How do you thank these nurses enough for not making you feel like what you were doing in that L&D room was any less than natural, any less than any other birth? Or for conspiring to keep you in that L&D room for close to 15 hours after delivery, instead of the allowed 2, so that you could go home right from there?
My OB's nurse. How do you thank someone for making sure that even three months later, your phone calls are always returned, your test results reported promptly, your questions passed on to the doctor and answers relayed to you the same day? How do you thank someone for simply saying "You know, I do think about you, and wonder how you are doing."? Yesterday. 14 weeks later. It doesn't sound like a lot now that I typed it out. But it is. Being able to trust the people you need to trust to keep your next child safe and to bring that child into the world is a lot.
So how does one thank them? You don't suppose a post on an anonymous blog is enough, do you?
Trouble is, I don't really know how I could ever thank them enough.
My day shift nurse. How do you thank someone for only saying "Oh, good-- you missed the bed" when you barf your clear liquids all over the floor because IV pain meds make you feel very very drunk? How do you thank her for holding your hands and talking you through the part where they put the epidural in with contractions 2-3 minutes apart? Sometime in the middle of all that she also put together a list for me-- tips, resources, remedies. Did you know that sage helps stop lactation? Well, now you know.
My night shift nurse. How can you ever thank a person for bringing warm blankets and a hat for your dead baby? Toasty warm blankets. As in, she warmed them up. Not right away, either-- she gave us time right away. And how on earth do you ever thank that very same person for being the one to look after his body after you let him go and for putting together his memory box? Or for not making you verbalize the reason you were hesitating to ask for the hat he was wearing? For understanding you enough to say "It's OK. I will put another one on him"? How do you thank a person for that?
How do you thank these nurses enough for not making you feel like what you were doing in that L&D room was any less than natural, any less than any other birth? Or for conspiring to keep you in that L&D room for close to 15 hours after delivery, instead of the allowed 2, so that you could go home right from there?
My OB's nurse. How do you thank someone for making sure that even three months later, your phone calls are always returned, your test results reported promptly, your questions passed on to the doctor and answers relayed to you the same day? How do you thank someone for simply saying "You know, I do think about you, and wonder how you are doing."? Yesterday. 14 weeks later. It doesn't sound like a lot now that I typed it out. But it is. Being able to trust the people you need to trust to keep your next child safe and to bring that child into the world is a lot.
So how does one thank them? You don't suppose a post on an anonymous blog is enough, do you?
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Tip of the day
Dear friends,
You know we love you and your kids. And most of the time, we are even happy to come to your kid's birthday party. Just one little thing, really. Could you please remember not to encourage random other friends of yours who we don't know and who come to the party with their infants to sit down on the bench next to us so you can take a picture? Especially if said infants were so obviously born within weeks of A's due date? Pretty please? 'Cause I could've sworn there was plenty of air to breathe in that room just a second before.
Signed,
Wiped Out
You know we love you and your kids. And most of the time, we are even happy to come to your kid's birthday party. Just one little thing, really. Could you please remember not to encourage random other friends of yours who we don't know and who come to the party with their infants to sit down on the bench next to us so you can take a picture? Especially if said infants were so obviously born within weeks of A's due date? Pretty please? 'Cause I could've sworn there was plenty of air to breathe in that room just a second before.
Signed,
Wiped Out
Friday, May 4, 2007
Other people's pain
I got a phone call yesterday. My cell showed a number I didn't know, but I picked it up anyway. The caller, whose voice I didn't recognize, spoke in the language of the Old Country. A second later he introduced himself-- Glen, my first crush, which (said crush, on him) I acquired at the ripe old age of 7. And yes, I do realize that Monkey is mere two years away from that particular age, the age at which I thought of myself as rather grown up and very, I mean very mature. Thanks for reminding me. No, this does not unsettle me. Why do you ask?
Moving right along. I knew that Glen's family lives in Another Big City-- my mom found them a few years back, and has talked to them and even visited with them on one of her many business trips (yes, our parents were friends in the Old Country). I think that's when I talked to Glen for the first and only time since leaving the Old Country-- my mom thought it would be a good idea to ring me up while she was right there with them-- and learned that they had a little girl a few weeks younger than Monkey. I felt a bit awkward through that conversation, but it was pleasant enough, and we ended it with me promising that if we are ever in Another Big City, we will call them up and come for a visit, and, I believe, vice versa.
So Glen called yesterday morning, and I invited him over for dinner. I was surprisingly calm. By which I mean I was not in the full freak-out mode. But I did worry, on slow boil, about whether he is a nice person now, about whether my house is sufficiently clean, and whether I have enough food for entertaining. I was anxious, though, about whether he knew. He didn't say anything on the phone, and I didn't remember my mom telling me she spoke to his parents since A died. Quick phone call to mom confirmed that she didn't, and so he wouldn't know. New worry-- do I bring it up? Would he ask me whether we are thinking of having another kid? Do I just not say anything?
Guess what? He is a very nice guy. If he lived here, we would probably be close friends. They have another little girl now. We looked at each other's pictures, talked about jobs, vacations, Old Country, soccer. JD liked him-- when Glen stepped out for a minute, JD said that I have good taste. I liked him too. And you know what? Not at any point did he ask why we are not having another kid, or even if we are thinking about it. Not even when discussing our nannies. Not even when we gave him the tour of the house and he saw a clearly freshly painted and clearly underutilized baby room. I do have good taste, don't I?
I began to think I would probably not bring it up. I didn't see how to even say it. "Would you like another piece of cake? And by the way, our baby died." Our mothers will obviously talk now that we met, and my mom will tell his mom. And then the conversation jumped from my grad school research interests (many moons ago) to his mother's diabetes, and how she is doing with it. And then he said "Dad died, though."
"Sorry" was all I managed.
It's been about two years now, Glen said, lung cancer. That's when he went gray and lost his hair. His brother was still very young, he said, and living at home. Still does.
You know what I did? I asked about Glen's brother, and then didn't come back to the topic of his dad. That's right-- I suck. I didn't ask how his mom was doing with it, or him, or his older daughter. I didn't ask how they did through his dad's sickness. Yeah, I suck.
It was getting pretty late by then. Glen invited us to come visit them. I told him about A, and he didn't say anything stupid. We exchanged complete sets of coordinates, said our goodbyes, and promised to keep in touch.
I called my mom this morning and I told her Glen's dad died. She was really shaken. She couldn't believe it's been over two years since she last spoke to Glen's mom. She started crying, and remembering all these things about Glen's family and his dad. I felt even worse for being such an ass yesterday. My mom said she will call Glen's mom a little later. I called again a few hours later, and she told me she can't call-- she is too shaken and needs a few days before she would be able to call.
All of a sudden I realized I wanted to call Glen's mom myself, which is unusual, because I don't tend to voluntarily call people who I am not close to. I called, and we talked for a while. She is just not the same. She seems a lot older than she actually is, her cadences, the ways she talks, things she focuses on-- all are more like my grandmother's than like my mother's. Is that because they are both widows?
I feel better having called, but I still feel shitty about yesterday. Am I not supposed to be good at this now? Am I not supposed to know what to say to people in pain? I guess I thought that somewhere among the mountains of booklets and paperwork with which we got discharged from the hospital, they issued me one of those all-purpose grief access badges. So why did I choke? I think I would know what to do if someone told me they've lost a child. Why then did I blow it so badly when it was about a parent?
Moving right along. I knew that Glen's family lives in Another Big City-- my mom found them a few years back, and has talked to them and even visited with them on one of her many business trips (yes, our parents were friends in the Old Country). I think that's when I talked to Glen for the first and only time since leaving the Old Country-- my mom thought it would be a good idea to ring me up while she was right there with them-- and learned that they had a little girl a few weeks younger than Monkey. I felt a bit awkward through that conversation, but it was pleasant enough, and we ended it with me promising that if we are ever in Another Big City, we will call them up and come for a visit, and, I believe, vice versa.
So Glen called yesterday morning, and I invited him over for dinner. I was surprisingly calm. By which I mean I was not in the full freak-out mode. But I did worry, on slow boil, about whether he is a nice person now, about whether my house is sufficiently clean, and whether I have enough food for entertaining. I was anxious, though, about whether he knew. He didn't say anything on the phone, and I didn't remember my mom telling me she spoke to his parents since A died. Quick phone call to mom confirmed that she didn't, and so he wouldn't know. New worry-- do I bring it up? Would he ask me whether we are thinking of having another kid? Do I just not say anything?
Guess what? He is a very nice guy. If he lived here, we would probably be close friends. They have another little girl now. We looked at each other's pictures, talked about jobs, vacations, Old Country, soccer. JD liked him-- when Glen stepped out for a minute, JD said that I have good taste. I liked him too. And you know what? Not at any point did he ask why we are not having another kid, or even if we are thinking about it. Not even when discussing our nannies. Not even when we gave him the tour of the house and he saw a clearly freshly painted and clearly underutilized baby room. I do have good taste, don't I?
I began to think I would probably not bring it up. I didn't see how to even say it. "Would you like another piece of cake? And by the way, our baby died." Our mothers will obviously talk now that we met, and my mom will tell his mom. And then the conversation jumped from my grad school research interests (many moons ago) to his mother's diabetes, and how she is doing with it. And then he said "Dad died, though."
"Sorry" was all I managed.
It's been about two years now, Glen said, lung cancer. That's when he went gray and lost his hair. His brother was still very young, he said, and living at home. Still does.
You know what I did? I asked about Glen's brother, and then didn't come back to the topic of his dad. That's right-- I suck. I didn't ask how his mom was doing with it, or him, or his older daughter. I didn't ask how they did through his dad's sickness. Yeah, I suck.
It was getting pretty late by then. Glen invited us to come visit them. I told him about A, and he didn't say anything stupid. We exchanged complete sets of coordinates, said our goodbyes, and promised to keep in touch.
I called my mom this morning and I told her Glen's dad died. She was really shaken. She couldn't believe it's been over two years since she last spoke to Glen's mom. She started crying, and remembering all these things about Glen's family and his dad. I felt even worse for being such an ass yesterday. My mom said she will call Glen's mom a little later. I called again a few hours later, and she told me she can't call-- she is too shaken and needs a few days before she would be able to call.
All of a sudden I realized I wanted to call Glen's mom myself, which is unusual, because I don't tend to voluntarily call people who I am not close to. I called, and we talked for a while. She is just not the same. She seems a lot older than she actually is, her cadences, the ways she talks, things she focuses on-- all are more like my grandmother's than like my mother's. Is that because they are both widows?
I feel better having called, but I still feel shitty about yesterday. Am I not supposed to be good at this now? Am I not supposed to know what to say to people in pain? I guess I thought that somewhere among the mountains of booklets and paperwork with which we got discharged from the hospital, they issued me one of those all-purpose grief access badges. So why did I choke? I think I would know what to do if someone told me they've lost a child. Why then did I blow it so badly when it was about a parent?
Public service announcement
Please go read Julie, and if you are so inclined, do what she asks. You know you always wanted to be a rock star.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Another one
My mom just called to tell me that a cousin of one of my friends from high school found out yesterday her baby died. They started the induction yesterday afternoon. Tuesday. It was a Tuesday for us too.
She is a couple of years younger. I remember her as a teenager. Bright, a little awkward, had issues with her parents. And now she is one of us.
She is a couple of years younger. I remember her as a teenager. Bright, a little awkward, had issues with her parents. And now she is one of us.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Hair and surprises
I got my hair colored and cut while I was waiting to find out whether I was pregnant. That was last June. Somehow, I never got around to having another haircut while pregnant. Sometime after A died, I lazily thought that I should get a haircut and maybe a color, since I wasn't pregnant anymore. But I wasn't getting around to it for two reasons. One, I have known Mia, the hairdresser, for something like 6 years, and just couldn't face going there for what she would think was a routine haircut just to tell her what had happened. Two, I knew I would start loosing my hair soon. You know, all the hair that doesn't fall out while you are pregnant that eventually falls out afterwards, and in giant clumps to boot.
About two weeks ago I couldn't stand the look of my hair anymore and I thought that maybe I didn't start loosing the hair for like 5 or 6 months after Monkey was born, so I called and made the appointment. And inspired by Julia, I wanted to ask about doing a perm. I had the cut last Wednesday, and a perm. I like the look, and it's easy to take care of (as desired). I shouldn't be too surprised, though, that my hair promptly started to fall out, should I? Oh, well.
The more surprising thing is what else happened at the haircut. Mia was recommended to me by a friend who found her through her stepmother. Turns out that my friend had been for a haircut and has told Mia about A. Mia was very nice, offered condolences, and didn't say anything stupid. And then she blew me away. I have known for a while that Mia does acupuncture too, but never cared much. Out of the blue Mia says "I want you to come for acupuncture. I want to give you a session free." I was a bit skeptical because the only acupuncturists I encountered before were Chinese men. But I have this new policy not to decline kind offers, so I said thank you and made an appointment. And it was good-- I felt better afterwards, and the things she said made sense. I am even thinking of scheduling a couple of paid appointments in the future. But it's the kindness of the offer that I am still amazed by.
When we were at the hospital, I remember feeling so much gratitude to the nurses and doctors, to our rabbi, to the funeral director. They were doing their jobs, yes, but they were also being kind, and somehow that mattered. Why is it that human kindness amazes me so? Is it because we are so fragile that it feels like we can't take any more hurt (even if we can), and when someone is kind, somewhere in the back of our minds we think "wow, that was nice. what if s/he didn't do that-- it could've hurt more," and we feel "extra" gratitude? Or is it just that I wasn't paying nearly enough attention before?
About two weeks ago I couldn't stand the look of my hair anymore and I thought that maybe I didn't start loosing the hair for like 5 or 6 months after Monkey was born, so I called and made the appointment. And inspired by Julia, I wanted to ask about doing a perm. I had the cut last Wednesday, and a perm. I like the look, and it's easy to take care of (as desired). I shouldn't be too surprised, though, that my hair promptly started to fall out, should I? Oh, well.
The more surprising thing is what else happened at the haircut. Mia was recommended to me by a friend who found her through her stepmother. Turns out that my friend had been for a haircut and has told Mia about A. Mia was very nice, offered condolences, and didn't say anything stupid. And then she blew me away. I have known for a while that Mia does acupuncture too, but never cared much. Out of the blue Mia says "I want you to come for acupuncture. I want to give you a session free." I was a bit skeptical because the only acupuncturists I encountered before were Chinese men. But I have this new policy not to decline kind offers, so I said thank you and made an appointment. And it was good-- I felt better afterwards, and the things she said made sense. I am even thinking of scheduling a couple of paid appointments in the future. But it's the kindness of the offer that I am still amazed by.
When we were at the hospital, I remember feeling so much gratitude to the nurses and doctors, to our rabbi, to the funeral director. They were doing their jobs, yes, but they were also being kind, and somehow that mattered. Why is it that human kindness amazes me so? Is it because we are so fragile that it feels like we can't take any more hurt (even if we can), and when someone is kind, somewhere in the back of our minds we think "wow, that was nice. what if s/he didn't do that-- it could've hurt more," and we feel "extra" gratitude? Or is it just that I wasn't paying nearly enough attention before?
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