I've been kicking myself for a week or so, knowing that I've not written ANYTHING for what I thought was about a month, but turns out to be a full six weeks. I thought and thought, trying to figure out why it was that I'd not come back here, what the precipitating event could have been. I did NOT realize, until I finally logged in a few minutes ago that the last entry I made was on the day I received the chromosome results. So, I guess I know why now. It's pretty obvious why my head imposed a gag-order on itself, eh? Duh.
Anyway, so I've amassed tons of moments, good, bad, and other, in that six weeks. I have a new niece, prettier than any daydream ever dreamt, and I'm dying to hold her tiny body in my arms and hug my little sister so tight she has to struggle for a little bit just to breathe. I suppose that will wait until MLK day, or whenever I can get the time and funds and arrangements together for a plane ticket.
I've also done something I swore I wouldn't, or at least I fear I have: grown rusty, out of practice, worse off in the fashioning of my "craft," than I was even under the stress of an undue miscarriage-- all for simple lack of practice. Duh again.
So, here I am, officially making an entry, no matter how pointless and devoid of substance. Exercising the non-muscle that resides inside my skull. Because that's the only way to keep the creative blood pumping, with the action of writing. Even if the only reason for doing it is so I can do it more.
Good night.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Last Night I Dreamt in Pink
Yesterday afternoon, following THREE DAYS of being told that my results from the chromosome analysis had arrived but couldn't be given to me until the doctor(who was "busy delivering babies," I swear that's what the nurse told me, as she tried to explain why it was taking so long for him to look at the damned file!) reviewed them, I FINALLY got a call from the office. Since I learned the additional information about LPD and the consequences of not treating it in a pregnant woman, after all the damage had been done of course, and during the post-D&C fog that envoloped me while I tried to grieve, I have felt a certainty that the results would be: 46 normal chromosomes, with the XX pair defining our embryo's gender.
Odd as it may seem, I knew this, knew it in a way I sometimes do, knew it in that part of me that is never wrong, even though there's no explanation that defines how I know. Carl Jung would understand, and I'm sure mystics and voodoo priestesses and the like the world over would think they understand, but really only Dr. Jung's understanding would be accurate and true. As much as I like being right, as much as it serves as fuel to the constant flames of advocacy and justice that burn inside me, this is one of a few times when I seriously, absolutely, positively wanted to be wrong. Crazy even, overly imaginative, paranoid, maybe on account of the hormone storms that accompany pregnancy and its subsequent loss.
See, if there had been a defect of any sort, then I think I could have let the whole thing go. Sure, I'd have composed one of my trademark tersely-worded letters to the doctor, explaining precisely why, even though my embryo couldn't have survived, he STILL should have listened to my history and made notes about it in my chart (which he didn't, as evidenced by the total lack of the letters LPD anywhere in the entire copy of the file I have in my possession). I'd have waged verbal war in that letter, pounding into his thick skull that, despite what has worked for him for the 30+ years he's practiced obstetrics, many women do NOT, in fact, like to be poo-pooed and patted on the head and told to just go home, relax, eat a few bon-bons, and not worry about their pregnancies. Some women want, no need to play an active part in their care, are equipped to do so, and are therefore highly insulted when they are summarily dismissed.
Unfortunately, I wasn't wrong. Our embryo. That's how I've made myself think of her until now. The idea of assigning personhood to her, much less a gender-specific pronoun, was too painful, and made the loss seem so very much greater a thing. She wasn't quite big enough yet to be called a fetus, when the endometrium that should have sustained her but couldn't because the doctor was too self-important to listen and check my progesterone levels and then TREAT them so that My Daughter might have a fighting chance at life finally failed.
Her heartbeat had been strong and clear before that, twice, and we saw on the screen the miraculous growth she had achieved in just the few short days between one episode of bleeding and the next. She went from a tiny, blurry blob on that screen, a seemingly empty gestational sac, to a living being, still totally dependent on my body to sustain her, but nevertheless a new and unique creature, a miraculous result of the combining of strands of DNA from mother and father, a divine innovation that had never before existed. And never will again.
"HELLO!" that heartbeat said, "I'm here! Don't be afraid, I'm healthy and well, and I'll grow and thrive and them come out and greet you soon." Our daughter. Our girl. Our baby, had she been born, would have finally been able to wear the cutesy little girl clothes that her maternal grandmother handmade for our daughter's cousin Erin, the first of the girl grandchildren, the clothes I've been saving for her, knowing in my heart she'd one day arrive, and knowing how perfect they would be on her. She'd have had this honor after her other cousin, Sicily, not yet born, but kicking away and on her way to meet the world any day now, outgrew them, right about the time Our Girl made her own appearance in the world. But then, after more blood, so much that there simply wasn't an adequate source of life giving nutrients left for her to hold onto, that heartbeat ceased. Our girl died.
My husband, our children's father (all three of our children), is in California, so I had to give him the news over the phone. I had been out on the road when the call came, and pulled over the moment I saw the number. The nurse, Tracy, only this Tracy maybe not so wonderful as I once thought OB nurses with that name must all be, called, irritation in her voice at having had to correspond with me SO frequently over the past few weeks, and said this:
"Hi Ms. Cakes, it's Tracy at Dr. Breakyourheart's office. He looked over the results, and said they don't show any chromosomal abnormalities or anything, so you don't need to keep worrying about any kind of genetic problem. He said that means there must have been some kind of problem with an organ or something, like probably the heart didn't develop properly. So, you can stop worrying."
"So chromosomally, everything was normal then?" I said.
"Yes." She replied.
"And what about the gender? Is it indicated on the report?" My heart pounding in my ears, stomach lurching, and me trying to calm things just long enough to keep from vomiting until I could complete the call and throw open my car door.
"It was a girl."
I drew on my last little bit of strength then, from way down deep in a place I know exists, but can't figure out exactly where, and said to her, "Ok. Can you please mail me a copy of that report? I signed off on that already when I signed the release to get the rest of my chart at my follow-up visit. It specifically states that copies of the chromosomal testing should be mailed to me."
"Yeah, sure, I can do that for you."
The conclusion of our call and my being hurled back into full-force grief happened simultaneously. I sat in my car, engine running, only partially blocking the driveway, and wept, screamed really, until I felt like I might pass out. Safety-minded as always, I forced myself to stop, to just breathe, long, slow, deep breaths, until the bruise-colored sparkles in front of my eyes disappeared and I could see clearly again. ("Sparkles," by the way, is a monkeyism. The elder monkey described that blacking-out that happens after great spins and quick changes of position from sitting to standing, that diversion of blood to the brain, as "seeing sparkles.") And eventually I could, so I moved my car out of the busy parking lot and next door to the weedy driveway of an abandoned business. There, I shifted it into PARK, and wept some more. It came out of me in choking, coughing, bursts, that sadness, little explosions from whatever parts of me had been holding it at bay but could no longer shield me from my own ugly pain.
After a minute or two, I phoned Mr. Cakes, who is presently in CA. He was angry, but not surprised, since he apparently puts much stock in the things I insist I "know," when really I can't. He commented then that even though he doesn't agree with the people in front of abortion clinics, he does understand how they can be so nutty. For them, it's like it was for us yesterday. That tiny cluster of cells, that girl, SHOULD have been born to us!
I should still be pregnant with My Daughter!
She should have grown up, worn pigtails, skipped to the bus stop, fairy princess lunch box in hand, jumped rope, played with dollies, and written her name in glittery ink all over every notebook she ever owned.
She should have climbed trees, wrestled with her older brothers, and devised clever and sneaky ways oto get back at them for chasing her through the house with frogs and bugs.
She should have put lipstick on them in their sleep, or tied pink ribbons onto their backpacks, or any number of other girl-boy sibling shenanigans.
She should have sung songs, danced, made jokes, written poetry, been a math whiz, a writer, a politician, a doctor, a mother, a grandmother, our daughter.
She should have, but she won't.
She won't because her doctor didn't believe that a woman, not just any woman, but that little girl's mother, might possibly know a thing or two about her own body, and therefore might be able to help him keep it a healthy and hospitable place for that little girl to grow from embryo to fetus to living, breathing, person.
She should, but she can't, because now she's dead, and no one can bring her back.
I can't bring her back, but if I do nothing, there will likely be more just like her, and I can't live with that. So, I'll meet with an attorney, and I'll see what measures can be taken, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be fortunate enough to affect change. I won't hold my breath, but it could happen.
Odd as it may seem, I knew this, knew it in a way I sometimes do, knew it in that part of me that is never wrong, even though there's no explanation that defines how I know. Carl Jung would understand, and I'm sure mystics and voodoo priestesses and the like the world over would think they understand, but really only Dr. Jung's understanding would be accurate and true. As much as I like being right, as much as it serves as fuel to the constant flames of advocacy and justice that burn inside me, this is one of a few times when I seriously, absolutely, positively wanted to be wrong. Crazy even, overly imaginative, paranoid, maybe on account of the hormone storms that accompany pregnancy and its subsequent loss.
See, if there had been a defect of any sort, then I think I could have let the whole thing go. Sure, I'd have composed one of my trademark tersely-worded letters to the doctor, explaining precisely why, even though my embryo couldn't have survived, he STILL should have listened to my history and made notes about it in my chart (which he didn't, as evidenced by the total lack of the letters LPD anywhere in the entire copy of the file I have in my possession). I'd have waged verbal war in that letter, pounding into his thick skull that, despite what has worked for him for the 30+ years he's practiced obstetrics, many women do NOT, in fact, like to be poo-pooed and patted on the head and told to just go home, relax, eat a few bon-bons, and not worry about their pregnancies. Some women want, no need to play an active part in their care, are equipped to do so, and are therefore highly insulted when they are summarily dismissed.
Unfortunately, I wasn't wrong. Our embryo. That's how I've made myself think of her until now. The idea of assigning personhood to her, much less a gender-specific pronoun, was too painful, and made the loss seem so very much greater a thing. She wasn't quite big enough yet to be called a fetus, when the endometrium that should have sustained her but couldn't because the doctor was too self-important to listen and check my progesterone levels and then TREAT them so that My Daughter might have a fighting chance at life finally failed.
Her heartbeat had been strong and clear before that, twice, and we saw on the screen the miraculous growth she had achieved in just the few short days between one episode of bleeding and the next. She went from a tiny, blurry blob on that screen, a seemingly empty gestational sac, to a living being, still totally dependent on my body to sustain her, but nevertheless a new and unique creature, a miraculous result of the combining of strands of DNA from mother and father, a divine innovation that had never before existed. And never will again.
"HELLO!" that heartbeat said, "I'm here! Don't be afraid, I'm healthy and well, and I'll grow and thrive and them come out and greet you soon." Our daughter. Our girl. Our baby, had she been born, would have finally been able to wear the cutesy little girl clothes that her maternal grandmother handmade for our daughter's cousin Erin, the first of the girl grandchildren, the clothes I've been saving for her, knowing in my heart she'd one day arrive, and knowing how perfect they would be on her. She'd have had this honor after her other cousin, Sicily, not yet born, but kicking away and on her way to meet the world any day now, outgrew them, right about the time Our Girl made her own appearance in the world. But then, after more blood, so much that there simply wasn't an adequate source of life giving nutrients left for her to hold onto, that heartbeat ceased. Our girl died.
My husband, our children's father (all three of our children), is in California, so I had to give him the news over the phone. I had been out on the road when the call came, and pulled over the moment I saw the number. The nurse, Tracy, only this Tracy maybe not so wonderful as I once thought OB nurses with that name must all be, called, irritation in her voice at having had to correspond with me SO frequently over the past few weeks, and said this:
"Hi Ms. Cakes, it's Tracy at Dr. Breakyourheart's office. He looked over the results, and said they don't show any chromosomal abnormalities or anything, so you don't need to keep worrying about any kind of genetic problem. He said that means there must have been some kind of problem with an organ or something, like probably the heart didn't develop properly. So, you can stop worrying."
"So chromosomally, everything was normal then?" I said.
"Yes." She replied.
"And what about the gender? Is it indicated on the report?" My heart pounding in my ears, stomach lurching, and me trying to calm things just long enough to keep from vomiting until I could complete the call and throw open my car door.
"It was a girl."
I drew on my last little bit of strength then, from way down deep in a place I know exists, but can't figure out exactly where, and said to her, "Ok. Can you please mail me a copy of that report? I signed off on that already when I signed the release to get the rest of my chart at my follow-up visit. It specifically states that copies of the chromosomal testing should be mailed to me."
"Yeah, sure, I can do that for you."
The conclusion of our call and my being hurled back into full-force grief happened simultaneously. I sat in my car, engine running, only partially blocking the driveway, and wept, screamed really, until I felt like I might pass out. Safety-minded as always, I forced myself to stop, to just breathe, long, slow, deep breaths, until the bruise-colored sparkles in front of my eyes disappeared and I could see clearly again. ("Sparkles," by the way, is a monkeyism. The elder monkey described that blacking-out that happens after great spins and quick changes of position from sitting to standing, that diversion of blood to the brain, as "seeing sparkles.") And eventually I could, so I moved my car out of the busy parking lot and next door to the weedy driveway of an abandoned business. There, I shifted it into PARK, and wept some more. It came out of me in choking, coughing, bursts, that sadness, little explosions from whatever parts of me had been holding it at bay but could no longer shield me from my own ugly pain.
After a minute or two, I phoned Mr. Cakes, who is presently in CA. He was angry, but not surprised, since he apparently puts much stock in the things I insist I "know," when really I can't. He commented then that even though he doesn't agree with the people in front of abortion clinics, he does understand how they can be so nutty. For them, it's like it was for us yesterday. That tiny cluster of cells, that girl, SHOULD have been born to us!
I should still be pregnant with My Daughter!
She should have grown up, worn pigtails, skipped to the bus stop, fairy princess lunch box in hand, jumped rope, played with dollies, and written her name in glittery ink all over every notebook she ever owned.
She should have climbed trees, wrestled with her older brothers, and devised clever and sneaky ways oto get back at them for chasing her through the house with frogs and bugs.
She should have put lipstick on them in their sleep, or tied pink ribbons onto their backpacks, or any number of other girl-boy sibling shenanigans.
She should have sung songs, danced, made jokes, written poetry, been a math whiz, a writer, a politician, a doctor, a mother, a grandmother, our daughter.
She should have, but she won't.
She won't because her doctor didn't believe that a woman, not just any woman, but that little girl's mother, might possibly know a thing or two about her own body, and therefore might be able to help him keep it a healthy and hospitable place for that little girl to grow from embryo to fetus to living, breathing, person.
She should, but she can't, because now she's dead, and no one can bring her back.
I can't bring her back, but if I do nothing, there will likely be more just like her, and I can't live with that. So, I'll meet with an attorney, and I'll see what measures can be taken, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be fortunate enough to affect change. I won't hold my breath, but it could happen.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
I Am a Counter-Terrorist!
Someone close to me, a woman whom I love dearly, has a lifelong ilness. It could kill her if it is not properly managed, and in fact, she nearly died from it just four years ago. As you might imagine, maintaining her health is her primary concern, since nothing else matters if she's dead. Although numerous medications are available for this illness, not everything works for everyone. It took half her life, but she and her doctors finally found the right combination, actually the ONLY combination, that is effective for her. These meds keep her healthy, but they also require that she be monitored constantly, because of the potential for damage to her major organ systems.
Recently, this woman discovered that despite her consistent use of TWO birth control methods, AND follow-up with "Plan B" after the failure of one of those two, she had conceived. At nearly 40, this may well be her last opportunity to have a biological child (she has none yet), and she very seriously considered going forward with the pregnancy, despite the potential for fetal harm (about a 5% chance of defects) posed by her medications. That's still a 95% chance that everything will be normal, right? Fate, it seems, had other plans. After less than six weeks of pregnancy, she started having severe liver and kidney complications, which happens in a very low number of women with this condition during pregnancy. Her best chance at surviving was to abort. Her next best chance was to be hospitalized, indefinitely, and hope that the medical professionals might be able to keep her stable enough to prevent permanent damage; the chances of that were VERY bad.
So, she chose life. Hers. It sucks beyond description that this beautiful, strong, intelligent, compassionate, kind woman, this woman who has already faced so very much hardship and difficulty in her life, arrived in that bitter set of circumstances in the first place. I hate that anyone should ever be in a situation that forces her to have to weigh her own life, or even the quality of her own life, against that of the potential life inside her. But it happens, and I am grateful to the Creator of the Universe that my friend chose to live. See, regardless of which option she chose, her pregnancy wouldn't have. I'd have either lost a friend AND her potential child, or just the potential child. I'm so thankful I've not lost my friend.
I went with my friend to the abortion clinic. She had orignially planned to go alone that first day, as she was only getting lab work and state-mandated counselling, but I begged her to let me drive her there. I'm again incredibly thankful that she capitulated, because the protestors were standing at the driveway to the place on the Driver's Side of the entering vehicles.
The exchanges I had with these ignorant, hateful, judgemental people who beat their drums and scream through their bullhorns and proclaim their own Christianity to everyone in the vicinity were interesting. I'll outline them soon, but not in this entry, as time is an issue. I will say though, that my friend got into and out of the clinic that day, and two days later for the actual procedure, without being accosted. Also, I managed to distract and occupy the protestors, not the entire time we were there, but long enough to keep maybe a few women from being screamed at, and that doing so made me feel like I'd made a difference. A small difference, yes, but one that mattered. I'm happy with that.
More soon.
Recently, this woman discovered that despite her consistent use of TWO birth control methods, AND follow-up with "Plan B" after the failure of one of those two, she had conceived. At nearly 40, this may well be her last opportunity to have a biological child (she has none yet), and she very seriously considered going forward with the pregnancy, despite the potential for fetal harm (about a 5% chance of defects) posed by her medications. That's still a 95% chance that everything will be normal, right? Fate, it seems, had other plans. After less than six weeks of pregnancy, she started having severe liver and kidney complications, which happens in a very low number of women with this condition during pregnancy. Her best chance at surviving was to abort. Her next best chance was to be hospitalized, indefinitely, and hope that the medical professionals might be able to keep her stable enough to prevent permanent damage; the chances of that were VERY bad.
So, she chose life. Hers. It sucks beyond description that this beautiful, strong, intelligent, compassionate, kind woman, this woman who has already faced so very much hardship and difficulty in her life, arrived in that bitter set of circumstances in the first place. I hate that anyone should ever be in a situation that forces her to have to weigh her own life, or even the quality of her own life, against that of the potential life inside her. But it happens, and I am grateful to the Creator of the Universe that my friend chose to live. See, regardless of which option she chose, her pregnancy wouldn't have. I'd have either lost a friend AND her potential child, or just the potential child. I'm so thankful I've not lost my friend.
I went with my friend to the abortion clinic. She had orignially planned to go alone that first day, as she was only getting lab work and state-mandated counselling, but I begged her to let me drive her there. I'm again incredibly thankful that she capitulated, because the protestors were standing at the driveway to the place on the Driver's Side of the entering vehicles.
The exchanges I had with these ignorant, hateful, judgemental people who beat their drums and scream through their bullhorns and proclaim their own Christianity to everyone in the vicinity were interesting. I'll outline them soon, but not in this entry, as time is an issue. I will say though, that my friend got into and out of the clinic that day, and two days later for the actual procedure, without being accosted. Also, I managed to distract and occupy the protestors, not the entire time we were there, but long enough to keep maybe a few women from being screamed at, and that doing so made me feel like I'd made a difference. A small difference, yes, but one that mattered. I'm happy with that.
More soon.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Language of Y--- Monkey Wrangling pt. 2
I'm down with a gnarly cold, so I spent almost the entire day on my couch yesterday, jacked up on cold medicine, shivering under a blanket, and begging my boys to just PLEASE not hurt each other or the house. Yeah, Mother of the Year Award, I know. Well, I stayed conscious, they were fed adequately, supervised (ok, that part only minimally), and no one was hurt or maimed. I suppose that's something.
Oh, and of course, Mr. Cakes was out of town for work yesterday. Save for the extremely important exception of our recent miscarriage, he generally is out of town when anyone's sick. Including himself, which bites, because then I can't even take care of him! It's totally out of his control, so don't think for a moment I'm kvetching about him. Honestly, I think he has a harder time of being away and alone than we do missing him... at least the three of us keep each other occuppied. If I didn't know better, I'd think there was some Cosmic Conspiracy to keep me from having help with the "hard stuff" of raising our boys. Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!!!
So, round about bedtime, Cakes the Younger shows up in front of me, a cup of water in hand and an impish grin on his face. "Hey Mommy! Guess WHAT!?!?!" says he, "I can blow water out of my NOSE!" Semi-coherent and feeling rotten, I guess I didn't actually comprehend what he'd said, although I was aware that he'd spoken to me. "Oh, ok," said I, "That's nice sweetie." And off he went.
A few minutes later, he's back in front of me, grin and water cup apparently unchanged. This time however, he demonstrated his new-found "talent," jettisoning a fine, but still rather profuse, mist of combined water and nasal secretions into my face and all over my blanket. Ok, that got my attention.
"EEEEEWWWWW!!!!" I shrieked, "Oh GOD, that's GROSS!!! Get... YUCK... go empty your cup into the sink NOW, and please PLEASE don't EVER DO THAT AGAIN!!!" Of course, I snatched up a towel and proceeded to de-slime myself and my surroundings, all the while muttering and grumbling my disgust. I suppose being zonked on Benadryl may have been a good thing in a way, because I wasn't quite as sharp, and therefore as pissy, as I'd maybe have been on a good day.
Obedient (mostly) little monkey(always) that he is, my little one walked quickly in the direction of the kitchen, and I didn't hear from him for about five minutes. When I did, it wasn't pretty.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Little Cakes came and stood at the threshhold between our kitchen and living room. He then shouted, "I don't WANT THIS CUP any MORE!!!" as he hurled the (thankfully now empty) vessel into the living room, behind the couch I'd occuppied most of the day. Alarmed, I turned to him and asked, "Honey, what happened?" His response? Both hands flew up and covered his face, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, DAMNIT, it was suddenly all clear to me. "Come here, Babylove," said I, in my most soothing tone, "Tell me what's wrong."
After a little more failed coaxing, I went over and scooped him up and brought him to the couch with me. He was crying so hard that I couldn't make out precisely what he was trying to say, except, "dump it in the SINK, and I did NOT LIKE THAT!"
My poor, poor, baby boy, reduced to this sobbing, hiccuppy emotional wreck, and it was every single bit MY FAULT! Gross? Um, yeah! Weird? Absolutely! But it was his NEW TRICK, and he came to me brimming over with pride at his accomplishment, and what did I give him? Certainly not the pat on his back and congratulatory attaboy he'd anticipated.
I scrambled to think of what to do and say... and here's what I came up with, once I'd calmed him a bit:
"Little Cakes, I am so very very proud of you for using your words to tell me how you were feeling just now. I hurt your feelings pretty bad, huh?"
Oh, and of course, Mr. Cakes was out of town for work yesterday. Save for the extremely important exception of our recent miscarriage, he generally is out of town when anyone's sick. Including himself, which bites, because then I can't even take care of him! It's totally out of his control, so don't think for a moment I'm kvetching about him. Honestly, I think he has a harder time of being away and alone than we do missing him... at least the three of us keep each other occuppied. If I didn't know better, I'd think there was some Cosmic Conspiracy to keep me from having help with the "hard stuff" of raising our boys. Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!!!
So, round about bedtime, Cakes the Younger shows up in front of me, a cup of water in hand and an impish grin on his face. "Hey Mommy! Guess WHAT!?!?!" says he, "I can blow water out of my NOSE!" Semi-coherent and feeling rotten, I guess I didn't actually comprehend what he'd said, although I was aware that he'd spoken to me. "Oh, ok," said I, "That's nice sweetie." And off he went.
A few minutes later, he's back in front of me, grin and water cup apparently unchanged. This time however, he demonstrated his new-found "talent," jettisoning a fine, but still rather profuse, mist of combined water and nasal secretions into my face and all over my blanket. Ok, that got my attention.
"EEEEEWWWWW!!!!" I shrieked, "Oh GOD, that's GROSS!!! Get... YUCK... go empty your cup into the sink NOW, and please PLEASE don't EVER DO THAT AGAIN!!!" Of course, I snatched up a towel and proceeded to de-slime myself and my surroundings, all the while muttering and grumbling my disgust. I suppose being zonked on Benadryl may have been a good thing in a way, because I wasn't quite as sharp, and therefore as pissy, as I'd maybe have been on a good day.
Obedient (mostly) little monkey(always) that he is, my little one walked quickly in the direction of the kitchen, and I didn't hear from him for about five minutes. When I did, it wasn't pretty.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Little Cakes came and stood at the threshhold between our kitchen and living room. He then shouted, "I don't WANT THIS CUP any MORE!!!" as he hurled the (thankfully now empty) vessel into the living room, behind the couch I'd occuppied most of the day. Alarmed, I turned to him and asked, "Honey, what happened?" His response? Both hands flew up and covered his face, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, DAMNIT, it was suddenly all clear to me. "Come here, Babylove," said I, in my most soothing tone, "Tell me what's wrong."
After a little more failed coaxing, I went over and scooped him up and brought him to the couch with me. He was crying so hard that I couldn't make out precisely what he was trying to say, except, "
My poor, poor, baby boy, reduced to this sobbing, hiccuppy emotional wreck, and it was every single bit MY FAULT! Gross? Um, yeah! Weird? Absolutely! But it was his NEW TRICK, and he came to me brimming over with pride at his accomplishment, and what did I give him? Certainly not the pat on his back and congratulatory attaboy he'd anticipated.
I scrambled to think of what to do and say... and here's what I came up with, once I'd calmed him a bit:
"Little Cakes, I am so very very proud of you for using your words to tell me how you were feeling just now. I hurt your feelings pretty bad, huh?"
He nodded emphatically at this, looking at me with impossibly wide and teary eyes, his bottom lip still aquiver.
"I am VERY sorry for that! It makes me very sad to know that I hurt you."
At that, he reached around my neck with both arms and squeezed tightly, stifling a sob.
"Were you trying to show me the new thing you can do?"
Another nod.
"I'm really glad you learned something new today, and I understand you're probably proud, since you learned it all by yourself! It's just that I don't like water and snot on my face, ya know?"
That got him going again, and I had to rub his back and SSSHHHHHHH in his ear to settle him again.
"If you and Brother and Daddy do gross stuff like that together, hey, have fun! But it's really kind of a guy thing, huh?"
A dawning look of understanding shone on his face then, and just like that, the world felt like it had returned to normal.
When I uttered Mr. Cakes' name, I remembered that he was actually on the ground, and might possibly be reachable by phone, so I called him for back-up. Upon hearing about his littlest child's latest, um, milestone, he responded much the same way as he had the first time the boy dropped trou' and urinated, unassisted on our front lawn, in full view of the neighbors, "YYYYYESSSSS!!!!!"
Uhhh... yikes. After hearing a quick synopsis of my reaction, he said in a rather urgent tone, "Wow. Put him on the phone, quick, so I can do damage control!" As if I didn't feel awful enough, thinking about the thousands I'd already cost us in psychotherapy, thanks to my lame handling of things.
Well, Little Cakes did not want to talk on the phone right then, and so instead ran off to his bedroom, where Elder Cakes was busy playing cars. LC crawled into his bed, hid under the cover, and insisted he didn't want to talk to Mr. Cakes. I tried my best to convince him to at least listen, but he was having none of it. So back and forth I went for a few minutes, talking to both LC and the Mister, assuring them both that I'm really not evil, and was simply unaware that such feats are praiseworthy. All this time, I was sure that Elder Cakes was so engrossed in his game of cars that he hadn't heard a word of any of it. WRONG!
Elder Brother looked up at me, completely serious, and in a tone that all but screamed his pity for me declared, "Aw, Mom, it's ok, don't worry so much! You just don't speak Boy."
How and when did my six-year-old become so astute in his observations? I checked with Mr. Cakes, and neither of us has ever used that expression, the thing about "speaking Boy." So, it was a fully independent, totally innocent, and completely accurate an assessment of the situation. I like to believe that mostly, I do speak Boy. I'm just not particularly fluent in some of the finer nuances of that tongue. I guess it doesn't matter so much. What does is that neither of my sons decided overnight that I'm so ignorant that I should be shunned. Thank God!
Friday, October 26, 2007
Disappearing Friend, v.2
Ok, this one's just sad, whereas the previous one was nothing short of excruciating. No book, just a vent.
So I met a chick through one of my husband's friends. She was crazy-introverted, never smiled, and so forth, but for some flippin' reason, I befriended her. Mostly, I suppose it was pity, because she seemed so incredibly sad and lonely and unloved, like a dog that has just been kicked its whole life... once in a (GREAT) while, those kinds of dogs will blossom when they're put into even a mostly sane home. I guess the old Flo Nightengale in me just couldn't resist. Ah well.
So, chick has a kid, whom she says (and I have no reason at that point to doubt her) is the product of a bad marriage to a crack-addicted wife-beater. EGADS! Chick's kid is a mushmouth, rather lacking in the brains department, only so very very much that I actually find myself thinking of Einstein, and how it's said he didn't speak a word until after his fourth birthday. Somehow, I suppose largely in part due to her insistence that her poor anemic progeny was actually just brilliant, I got it in my head that the kid just really needed adequate stimulation, and his problem wasn't actual retardation, but rather the deplorable conditions at the welfare-mother-daycare he had to attend because it was all she could afford and then just barely. In a frenzy to get everything fixed (that's what I do, after all, fix things), I get all the arrangements made so the local jackwads at the Exceptional Students Office will screen the pitiful little waif for giftedness. Um, it didn't go well. They didn't actually say the words, "Uh, I'm not sure you understand, ma'am, the screening for the DISABLED CHILDREN is at the other end of the hall," but it was pretty loud and clear even so. Wow, nice fix, eh?
Anyway, we stay friends, have coffee at my place every morning, our kids play together with relatively few altercations, and it seems ok. My little Pet Project. I'm such an ASS! Of course, there's the day hers and mine play in my back yard, hers inadvertenly scoops up a handful of dog poo (it should be noted here that he was trying to pick up a rock to throw AT my son's head. It's kind of a good thing he's in like the 20th percentile for brains AND brawn, because being so small, mine pitied him during those strange outbursts, where he might well have knocked the shucks out of a child of normal stature) and then carries it into my house, gagging and heaving all the way. Sad, sad, sad, the boy couldn't figure out the part where you drop the retch-inducing mess in your hand! A fair amount of clothing bypassed the washer altogether in favor of the trash that day, and I decided that my two had suffered enough of being essentially forced to try to get along with the neglected misanthrope. My two, even the one that is three years hers' junior, were utterly dumbfounded by the whole afternoon, and much very NOT Politically-Correct language was heard that evening from their mouths. Not a pretty scene, but at least they waited until their, um, target, had left.
Gently as I could, I informed her of our decision to keep the boys, read hers and ours, APART for an undetermined amount of time. I was as kind as I could be, and basically blamed it all on my own children, saying that I didn't like the way they behaved around hers, and that I didn't think it was right to subject ANY of us to all of that, when it was fairly clear the whole thing was just a bad mix. I insisted that she and I could remain friends... but she didn't buy it. I was SOOOOOO relieved! Except that by the end of the week, she was calling me again, begging to please PLEASE not lose the chance to be my friend. Aggggg. Fine, whatever, as long as the kids don't have to play together. Preferably EVER.
But then, like two months later, I swear she developed a case of MPD or something. Called me on my birthday, after no contact for WEEKS and my having figured she'd bailed altogether, and said some kind of cryptic b.s. that I couldn't make sense of no matter how hard I tried. I emailed her a few times after that, eventually actually spelling out to her that I was taking her lack of response/reply as an indirect but very clear desire to not be friends, and that I was in total acceptance, if somewhat puzzled as to what had gone awry. I got back some STRANGE messages, and then received a handwritten letter in the mail a month or so later. She freakin' stalked me... but in a fairly benign way... showing up behind me in line at the drugstore drivethrough, driving by my house ten times a week, and my receiving a sudden rash of hang-up calls from a person named "UNKNOWN." Eventually, it died down, and finally stopped altogether.
I don't miss the drama. I don't miss the weirdness of it. I don't actually miss her, because she is an incredibly difficult person to be around, and adding her very challenged child to the mix makes it unbearable. Still, that rational part of my brain, the part that has been mostly on hiatus for the last three weeks, sometimes turns it all over in my head again, like a sore on the inside of your cheek that you just can't quite leave alone and so it never heals, wondering what the hell happened. It doesn't matter, and it is a tremendous lightening of my daily toils to not have that to deal with anymore. It doesn't matter, but it's like a jigsaw with ONE missing piece, and it bugs the crap out of me. I hope she's well, I suppose, but no more so than I hope any stranger I see in the grocery store is well. I just wish I could complete the damned puzzle.
Hell, maybe she found the right, mostly sane surroundings, and is existing peacefully these days, rather than attacking and ripping to shreds anyone who tries to show her kindness. Stranger things have been known to happen.
So I met a chick through one of my husband's friends. She was crazy-introverted, never smiled, and so forth, but for some flippin' reason, I befriended her. Mostly, I suppose it was pity, because she seemed so incredibly sad and lonely and unloved, like a dog that has just been kicked its whole life... once in a (GREAT) while, those kinds of dogs will blossom when they're put into even a mostly sane home. I guess the old Flo Nightengale in me just couldn't resist. Ah well.
So, chick has a kid, whom she says (and I have no reason at that point to doubt her) is the product of a bad marriage to a crack-addicted wife-beater. EGADS! Chick's kid is a mushmouth, rather lacking in the brains department, only so very very much that I actually find myself thinking of Einstein, and how it's said he didn't speak a word until after his fourth birthday. Somehow, I suppose largely in part due to her insistence that her poor anemic progeny was actually just brilliant, I got it in my head that the kid just really needed adequate stimulation, and his problem wasn't actual retardation, but rather the deplorable conditions at the welfare-mother-daycare he had to attend because it was all she could afford and then just barely. In a frenzy to get everything fixed (that's what I do, after all, fix things), I get all the arrangements made so the local jackwads at the Exceptional Students Office will screen the pitiful little waif for giftedness. Um, it didn't go well. They didn't actually say the words, "Uh, I'm not sure you understand, ma'am, the screening for the DISABLED CHILDREN is at the other end of the hall," but it was pretty loud and clear even so. Wow, nice fix, eh?
Anyway, we stay friends, have coffee at my place every morning, our kids play together with relatively few altercations, and it seems ok. My little Pet Project. I'm such an ASS! Of course, there's the day hers and mine play in my back yard, hers inadvertenly scoops up a handful of dog poo (it should be noted here that he was trying to pick up a rock to throw AT my son's head. It's kind of a good thing he's in like the 20th percentile for brains AND brawn, because being so small, mine pitied him during those strange outbursts, where he might well have knocked the shucks out of a child of normal stature) and then carries it into my house, gagging and heaving all the way. Sad, sad, sad, the boy couldn't figure out the part where you drop the retch-inducing mess in your hand! A fair amount of clothing bypassed the washer altogether in favor of the trash that day, and I decided that my two had suffered enough of being essentially forced to try to get along with the neglected misanthrope. My two, even the one that is three years hers' junior, were utterly dumbfounded by the whole afternoon, and much very NOT Politically-Correct language was heard that evening from their mouths. Not a pretty scene, but at least they waited until their, um, target, had left.
Gently as I could, I informed her of our decision to keep the boys, read hers and ours, APART for an undetermined amount of time. I was as kind as I could be, and basically blamed it all on my own children, saying that I didn't like the way they behaved around hers, and that I didn't think it was right to subject ANY of us to all of that, when it was fairly clear the whole thing was just a bad mix. I insisted that she and I could remain friends... but she didn't buy it. I was SOOOOOO relieved! Except that by the end of the week, she was calling me again, begging to please PLEASE not lose the chance to be my friend. Aggggg. Fine, whatever, as long as the kids don't have to play together. Preferably EVER.
But then, like two months later, I swear she developed a case of MPD or something. Called me on my birthday, after no contact for WEEKS and my having figured she'd bailed altogether, and said some kind of cryptic b.s. that I couldn't make sense of no matter how hard I tried. I emailed her a few times after that, eventually actually spelling out to her that I was taking her lack of response/reply as an indirect but very clear desire to not be friends, and that I was in total acceptance, if somewhat puzzled as to what had gone awry. I got back some STRANGE messages, and then received a handwritten letter in the mail a month or so later. She freakin' stalked me... but in a fairly benign way... showing up behind me in line at the drugstore drivethrough, driving by my house ten times a week, and my receiving a sudden rash of hang-up calls from a person named "UNKNOWN." Eventually, it died down, and finally stopped altogether.
I don't miss the drama. I don't miss the weirdness of it. I don't actually miss her, because she is an incredibly difficult person to be around, and adding her very challenged child to the mix makes it unbearable. Still, that rational part of my brain, the part that has been mostly on hiatus for the last three weeks, sometimes turns it all over in my head again, like a sore on the inside of your cheek that you just can't quite leave alone and so it never heals, wondering what the hell happened. It doesn't matter, and it is a tremendous lightening of my daily toils to not have that to deal with anymore. It doesn't matter, but it's like a jigsaw with ONE missing piece, and it bugs the crap out of me. I hope she's well, I suppose, but no more so than I hope any stranger I see in the grocery store is well. I just wish I could complete the damned puzzle.
Hell, maybe she found the right, mostly sane surroundings, and is existing peacefully these days, rather than attacking and ripping to shreds anyone who tries to show her kindness. Stranger things have been known to happen.
Idea for a Book...
Just off the top of my head:
Two chicks meet, kinda say pretty crunchy granola types. They are INSTANT and PERMANENT friends. Chick 1 works for Chick 2's husband, only before he's Chick 2's husband, Chick 1 maybe has a little fun with him now and again... nothing even remotely serious, just playthings. Anyway, after the boss marrries Chick 2, they have fertility issues, so even though Chick 1 is by then ready for a second child (she's married with one already), she has and keeps an IUD and absolutely REFUSES her husband's attempts to persuade her to have it removed. Why? Because, despite the total lack of logic and rationality of it, getting pregnant before Chick 2 would be horribly painful for Chick 1, and she doesn't want to see her friend put in that position. So... they wait. And conceive, literally the day Chick 2 informs them that the treatments have been successful! BABIES all around.
Fast forward nine months after Chick 2's baby is born. Chick 2, who insisted throughout her pregnancy that she would have ONLY one child, EVER, has decided maybe two wouldn't be so bad. Miraculously, she conceives immediately upon cessation of birth control measures. Chick 1 flies cross-country, kids in tow, and for two weeks does all she can to help her VERY pregnant friend. When Chick 2 is ready to deliver, Chick 1 is there. Big, crazy, dramatic birth scene. Blah blah blah. All is well, despite a few scares along the way. Chick 1, exhausted, finally leaves the hospital so Chick 2 and fly can bond.
Chick 1 has, during this time, cooked like mad (because she likes to and feels useful and it makes her happy to do that for her friend) and all but filled Chick 2's freezer with food, so Chick 2 won't have to worry with such things once her second baby arrives. Chick 1 has also seen very little of her own children, but they're with grandparents (who live near Chick 2), so they're well. Chick 1 has actually stayed in the house with Chick 2 for the whole 2 weeks, lest Chick 2 go into labor without Chick 1 in attendance, ready to help.
After Chick 2 gets home, the first thing she does is tell Chick 1 that, well, Chick 2's house is awfully crowded now, and even though Chick 1 has made no other arrangements (because Chick 2 BEGGED her to PLEASE stay in her home!), she kind of has to go somewhere else. So, Chick 1 packs, leaves, and goes to hang with her kids, much devastated at her friend's sudden lack of interest in having her around. A few DAYS later, Chick 2 calls, acts like she truly doesn't know why she's not heard from Chick 1, oh, and by the way, she really hopes she hasn't hurt Chick 1's feelings or anything! Um, right. Not at all.
So... Chick 1 kind of "gets" that Chick 2 isn't exactly able to give, so much as she is to receive. Both return to their lives... and then, Chick 1 discovers that she is pregnant with a third child. ACK!!! Having not heard from Chick 2 for several months, AT ALL, Chick 1 figures it's a longshot, but calls anyway. And then again. ANd finally gives up, because no return calls are coming. But, just as Chick 1 has written the whole thing off, Chick 2 calls, overflowing with congratulations.... blah blah blah.
Then, tragically, Chick 1 miscarries, pretty much immediately after she has finally allowed herself to be excited about the unexpected turn in her life. Chick 2 is all sympathy and condolences... and then disappears. Chick 1 struggles in ways she's never known possible, and all the while just really wishes Chick 2 would call... that they could connect, even if it's only for a few minutes and on the phone. But what she gets instead is a lame voice message, more than a week after the D&C, that says Chick 2 has just "been SOOOO busy!" Chick 1 makes several desperate attempts to reach Chick 2, to no avail.
Chick 1 finally gives the fuck up, because even though she's silly, and has entirely too much faith in humanity and the loyalty of people who swear a birth oath that they're there ALWAYS, she does actually get it. Chick 1 has spent many years insisting to everyone she talks to that it is people's actions, and NOT their words, that matter, that prove what and who they are and whether or not they truly value who and what they profess to value. This time, Chick 1 takes her very own sage advice. It hurts too.
Two chicks meet, kinda say pretty crunchy granola types. They are INSTANT and PERMANENT friends. Chick 1 works for Chick 2's husband, only before he's Chick 2's husband, Chick 1 maybe has a little fun with him now and again... nothing even remotely serious, just playthings. Anyway, after the boss marrries Chick 2, they have fertility issues, so even though Chick 1 is by then ready for a second child (she's married with one already), she has and keeps an IUD and absolutely REFUSES her husband's attempts to persuade her to have it removed. Why? Because, despite the total lack of logic and rationality of it, getting pregnant before Chick 2 would be horribly painful for Chick 1, and she doesn't want to see her friend put in that position. So... they wait. And conceive, literally the day Chick 2 informs them that the treatments have been successful! BABIES all around.
Fast forward nine months after Chick 2's baby is born. Chick 2, who insisted throughout her pregnancy that she would have ONLY one child, EVER, has decided maybe two wouldn't be so bad. Miraculously, she conceives immediately upon cessation of birth control measures. Chick 1 flies cross-country, kids in tow, and for two weeks does all she can to help her VERY pregnant friend. When Chick 2 is ready to deliver, Chick 1 is there. Big, crazy, dramatic birth scene. Blah blah blah. All is well, despite a few scares along the way. Chick 1, exhausted, finally leaves the hospital so Chick 2 and fly can bond.
Chick 1 has, during this time, cooked like mad (because she likes to and feels useful and it makes her happy to do that for her friend) and all but filled Chick 2's freezer with food, so Chick 2 won't have to worry with such things once her second baby arrives. Chick 1 has also seen very little of her own children, but they're with grandparents (who live near Chick 2), so they're well. Chick 1 has actually stayed in the house with Chick 2 for the whole 2 weeks, lest Chick 2 go into labor without Chick 1 in attendance, ready to help.
After Chick 2 gets home, the first thing she does is tell Chick 1 that, well, Chick 2's house is awfully crowded now, and even though Chick 1 has made no other arrangements (because Chick 2 BEGGED her to PLEASE stay in her home!), she kind of has to go somewhere else. So, Chick 1 packs, leaves, and goes to hang with her kids, much devastated at her friend's sudden lack of interest in having her around. A few DAYS later, Chick 2 calls, acts like she truly doesn't know why she's not heard from Chick 1, oh, and by the way, she really hopes she hasn't hurt Chick 1's feelings or anything! Um, right. Not at all.
So... Chick 1 kind of "gets" that Chick 2 isn't exactly able to give, so much as she is to receive. Both return to their lives... and then, Chick 1 discovers that she is pregnant with a third child. ACK!!! Having not heard from Chick 2 for several months, AT ALL, Chick 1 figures it's a longshot, but calls anyway. And then again. ANd finally gives up, because no return calls are coming. But, just as Chick 1 has written the whole thing off, Chick 2 calls, overflowing with congratulations.... blah blah blah.
Then, tragically, Chick 1 miscarries, pretty much immediately after she has finally allowed herself to be excited about the unexpected turn in her life. Chick 2 is all sympathy and condolences... and then disappears. Chick 1 struggles in ways she's never known possible, and all the while just really wishes Chick 2 would call... that they could connect, even if it's only for a few minutes and on the phone. But what she gets instead is a lame voice message, more than a week after the D&C, that says Chick 2 has just "been SOOOO busy!" Chick 1 makes several desperate attempts to reach Chick 2, to no avail.
Chick 1 finally gives the fuck up, because even though she's silly, and has entirely too much faith in humanity and the loyalty of people who swear a birth oath that they're there ALWAYS, she does actually get it. Chick 1 has spent many years insisting to everyone she talks to that it is people's actions, and NOT their words, that matter, that prove what and who they are and whether or not they truly value who and what they profess to value. This time, Chick 1 takes her very own sage advice. It hurts too.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Semi-closure
Well, I had the post-op visit with the doc who failed to diagnose and treat me properly during my pregnancy, and then performed the D&C for my "missed abortion." I suppose another round of thanks to the creators of Xanax is in order, since it helped me just get through the damned visit. Well, that and the Amazing Mr. Cakes, who was at my side as ever.
The cytology reports have come back, but we're still awaiting the chromosomal analysis of the embryo. So, I can't really call this chapter of things, "done." That part seriously angers me, as I expected that this would be the final bit of awfulness in the whole thing. At present, I'm consoling myself with knowing that at least I'll not have to physically be in the office again, and that the doc and his staff won't be actually touching me again. There is that. Still, the idea of receiving THE phone call, not so happy a thought. When might it come? At home? While I'm running errands? Will I be alone? Will I be with people that won't possiby comprehend my reaction, whatever it might be?
Somehow, I am certain of two things: 1. The tests will reveal absolutely nothing abnormal. 2. The sex chromosomes will be a perfect pair of Xes. When/if I'm right about either of those, much less both, I haven't the faintest notion of how I'll react, but I don't feel much confidence that I'll handle it gracefully. Or sanely, even. I suppose the only thing I can do is my absolute LEAST favorite in the world: wait. Yippee.
I did manage to get complete copies of my chart. There is absolutely no mention anywhere in them of LPD. Not that I thought there would be. Also, no notes whatsoever reflecting the exhaustive verbal history I gave the doctor regarding my odd cycles, which in and of themselves were a major indicator of LPD, certainly enough for him to have made his own presumptive diagnosis of the condition. I just gets better and better.
Also of much concern to me is that, despite the fact that I appeared at my initial OB visit with a severe URI, for which he prescribed Zithromax without so much as peeking in my E-N-or-T, nowhere in any of the labwork is there any indication that a CMV screening was done. Good times!
I have the name of a highly-recommended, allegedly ethical and very effective, MedMal attorney. I've not yet called, nor am I certain I will. If I do, it will be after I have both verbal and written results of the lab findings in regards to the embryo's ir/regularities. We'll see.
Thus, instead of being able to finally close this goddamned book, it stays open and unfinished. Not sure how much longer I can tolerate that, but again as above, I get to do my most unfavorite thing: wait.
P
The cytology reports have come back, but we're still awaiting the chromosomal analysis of the embryo. So, I can't really call this chapter of things, "done." That part seriously angers me, as I expected that this would be the final bit of awfulness in the whole thing. At present, I'm consoling myself with knowing that at least I'll not have to physically be in the office again, and that the doc and his staff won't be actually touching me again. There is that. Still, the idea of receiving THE phone call, not so happy a thought. When might it come? At home? While I'm running errands? Will I be alone? Will I be with people that won't possiby comprehend my reaction, whatever it might be?
Somehow, I am certain of two things: 1. The tests will reveal absolutely nothing abnormal. 2. The sex chromosomes will be a perfect pair of Xes. When/if I'm right about either of those, much less both, I haven't the faintest notion of how I'll react, but I don't feel much confidence that I'll handle it gracefully. Or sanely, even. I suppose the only thing I can do is my absolute LEAST favorite in the world: wait. Yippee.
I did manage to get complete copies of my chart. There is absolutely no mention anywhere in them of LPD. Not that I thought there would be. Also, no notes whatsoever reflecting the exhaustive verbal history I gave the doctor regarding my odd cycles, which in and of themselves were a major indicator of LPD, certainly enough for him to have made his own presumptive diagnosis of the condition. I just gets better and better.
Also of much concern to me is that, despite the fact that I appeared at my initial OB visit with a severe URI, for which he prescribed Zithromax without so much as peeking in my E-N-or-T, nowhere in any of the labwork is there any indication that a CMV screening was done. Good times!
I have the name of a highly-recommended, allegedly ethical and very effective, MedMal attorney. I've not yet called, nor am I certain I will. If I do, it will be after I have both verbal and written results of the lab findings in regards to the embryo's ir/regularities. We'll see.
Thus, instead of being able to finally close this goddamned book, it stays open and unfinished. Not sure how much longer I can tolerate that, but again as above, I get to do my most unfavorite thing: wait.
P
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monkey Wrangling, Continued
I'm seriously working on the whole brevity thing, so I'm trying my absolute best here to keep it all short.
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Last weekend, I walked my sons to the schoolground immediately adjacent to our next-door-neighbor, where we were to meet a classmate and his mother. After a few hours of hardcore first-grader rough-and-tumble BOY action, all of us were wiped and it was time to go home. Mr. Cakes had joined us by then, and so he elected to accompany the boys on the walk home, while I stayed behind to ratchet-jaw with my friend for just a few more minutes.
My friend's son, who is also highly gifted and the same age as my elder boy, noticed my two boys, hand-in-hand, headed toward our street, and so inquired as to where they were going. He was terribly concerned, having not seen their father, who was only a couple paces behind them, and so asked if I thought they'd be ok. It bears mentioning at this point that we live in Baton Rouge, LA.
Said I, "They're fine, hon. Mr. Cakes is with them, and even if he weren't, I am positive that the Elder Cakes would have no problem getting them to our house, since we're just right there."
Said he, "Are you really sure, Ms. Cakes? Because, if they just go walking like that, they could end up in Illinois or something."
I hope he didn't say that on account of his knowing something I don't.
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Monkey-to-English Dictionary
Hock (adj): Of sufficiently high temperature to cause at least the sensation of being burned, if not actual damage to the skin.
Spap (v): To strike a person or thing, but only in pre-emptive or reactionary fashion. I.E. "I had to spap that bug, because it was going to bite me!" Also, "Mom, Brother said something ugly to me. You need to spap him!" [NOTE: We are often asked to do this. We decline.]
Spapper (n): Any object employed for the express purpose of spapping.
Screwdriver store (n): A retail outlet wherein a screwdriver purchase is made. [Etymology: Early Cakesian, originally referred to either of the two better-known hardware/home repair mega-outlets with logo colors of blue/white and construction orange, then gradually evolving to become the outlet wherein a screwdriver IS purchased.] See also: balloon store, milk store, popsicle store. (NOTE that in order to meet the definition, the item in question must actually be purchased, not just available, at a given retail establishment.)
Fluid (n): One of any influenza viruses. (Eg. ACHOO! I think I have a fluid.)
Dinner store (n): a restaurant
Dinnering (v): eating a meal at a dinner store. EG. Let's go dinnering.
mcdonald's (n): 1.Any dinner store that has a drive-thru window. 2. A fast-food establishment. [Unlike the worldwide franchise with a very similar name, this word is not a proper noun, and must always be preceded by a descriptive that is. EG. Wendy's mcdonald's, Chick-Fil-A McDonald's, Jack-In-The-Box mcdonald's, and Lowe's mcdonald's (because there is a Subway mcdonald's inside the Lowe's, which, alone, would be properly referred to as a "screwdriver store.")]
dark blue (adj): Descriptive phrase indicating that a given mcdonald's has an indoor playground. [Etymology is uncertain, but probably derives from Early Cakesian, Fist Progeny, when he observed that the McDonald's Playland nearest our home incorporated in its color scheme large amounts of dark blue.]
Doodah [DOOdah] (n): any of several varieties of large bead/shape sorting toddler toys, usually consisting of brightly-colored large wooden or plastic beads, running on various intertwined metal or plastic tracks that are permanently affixed to a solid wood or plastic base, and often found in the play areas of doctors' and dentists' offices.
Leaking (v): a state of imperfection and/or general disarray as applied to small children's clothing. EG. "My sock is leaking," if the sock has worked its way loose so as to no longer snugly envelope the toes. Also, "My shirt is leaking," if shirt tails have become partially untucked.
Payforits (n): a staffed, open cash-register. EG. Mommy, are we done getting groceries, or do we still have to go to the payforits? [Etymology: Early Cakesian, first monkey, from "Pay for it."]
Fickits (v): the magical power(s) possessed by our children's father, which gives him the ability to repair any item, regardless of size, construction, or severity of break/tear/breach. (EG: Mom, I accidentally dropped your priceless family heirloom and it shattered into a million pieces, but it's ok, because Dada fickits.)
Dirty Jobs Channel (n): any cable channel that is currently running an episode of "Dirty Jobs."
The Silly Show Where the People Fall in the Mud When They Miss (proper noun): MXC on the Spike channel.
Ap
Hannuka (n, adj): 1. (n) Synagogue, regardless of time of year or holiday being celebrated (EG: Mommy, I want to go to Hannukah today.) 2. (adj) Describing any item or custom used or observed in the context of Jewish Life (EG: Hey, where's my new Hannukah Hat [yarmulke/kippah]? My mommy's Hannukah scarf [tallit] is white and silver, just like my Hannukah Hat.) [Etymology: Derives from the earliest speech of Younger Cakes, who first recognized and was able to put into words the recognition of exclusively Jewish things and observances at the time of Hannukah. Since then, despite being reminded on no less than a hundred occasions, he refuses to use the "proper" terms for the items/customs, and instead goes with his own. Go figure!]
I'll add more later. Have a pleasant night.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monkey Wrangling, Chapter One
Ok, first, let it be known that my very dear friend M!ke is NOT the reason for this blog. See, he recently started blogging here (check him out at http://www.theviewsofmike.blogspot.com/) and one of his first posts is a list of VERY funny things he has overheard at his current workplace. It's a Sorority Fly-on-the-Wall kind of thing. Great stuff. Still, I've ben planning to start putting my own list of funnies down for quite some time now, and after an exchange yesterday between myself and one of my elder son's friends, I decided I'd waited long enough. I suppose that's my own attempt to briefly (HAHAHAHA) say that, while M!ke's records have perhaps inspired me to move forward with something I've been pondering for a long time, I'm not being a copycat;)
I know that parenting and being in the presence of children are notoriously entertaining, often shockingly so, thus the old adage, "Kids say the darndest things." In my house though, not only do the kids spew forth hilarity with alarming frequency, but so do we, the parents and adults. I have been noticing, over the past years, that our responses to the monkeyshines are often bizarre and guffaw-worthy, and I've often thought we should write some of them down. So, here is the beginning of what I hope will tickle some funny bones, and maybe also help anyone who doubts their sanity as a result of this Parenting Hysteria to feel a little more normal. Enjoy.
I. THE VERY USEFUL FLY SWATTER (Or, The Grossest Thing My Littler Son Has Done. Yet.)
Today my crew spent nearly the entire day in our upstairs, which consist of one enormous room, formerly a loft of some sort, but enclosed by the prevoius owner because she reportedly feared for her children's safety. Apparently, they had "discovered" shortly after moving into this house that the then-open area above the living room might make for some very interesting couch-jumps. Good times!
Anyway, the room is kind of an architectural orphan now, and we've used it for storage, as it is up and away from the part of the house where we spend most of our time. Having just returned from Madrid and its many museums and artistic history however, my husband has been bitten by the Art Bug, and is anxious to get a work area together where he and the boys (and me too, should I ever feel like trying the Visual Art thing) might create at will. Thus, all day long, the pitter-patter-KERTHUNK of monkey feet greeted me from above, and Dad made much progress toward making the area usable.
Among the many boxes of miscellany and forgotten-but-not-yet-discarded whatnots, my younger child found a white plastic "spapper." Actually, it's a flyswatter, and was one of those freebie junk items I get at Real Estate conferences. This one is emblazoned on one end with a green logo of a mortgage company whose name escapes me. Go figure. No matter, because one little monkey was most delighted with his new treasure, and promptly set about the business of "spapping" everything and everyone in sight. Until, that is, Dad grew tired of intervening (and probably of being the subject of a spapping or two himself), and impounded my darling's bit of booty. The toddler equivalent of tearing of clothing and gnashing of teeth ensued, but the spapper was out of service for the day. Except, somehow, it found its way onto our kitchen table in all the melee, where it remained, unnoticed by all.
Roughly two hours passed without significant incident, and I called the crew down for dinner. And there we gathered, the four of us, my gorgeous babes, handsome knight, and I, their Queen, for a royal dinner of frozen ravioli and canned green beans. Blissfully we dined, basking in the glow of each other's presence, we parents gazing fondly upon our lovely offspring with a sheen in our eyes.
And then, the roof caved in. I spied, much to my horror and disgust, the Little One, eating a bit of ravioli off of, you guessed it, the "spapper." Apparently, in his book at least, it is a multi-use tool, good for shoveling food into his grinning maw AND for putting a smackdown on his elder brother. Chances are very good that the item in question has never actually been used for its intended purpose, but no one is really certain, so the possibility exists, however remote, that the thing my child was using to move food into his mouth did, indeed, have upon it the remnants of some long ago dispatched insect. Or insects.
Ordinarily (and I say that as though this kind of thing is a common occurence in my home, which is frighteningly close to the truth, I'm afraid), I'd have snatched the spapper, in all likelihood flinging marinara sauce in a colorful red arc that would later be licked up by our Belgian Malinois, and my boy would collapse in tears and wails and I'd scoop him up, explaining that it was simply not safe for him to eat with that item. Today though, was no ordinary day, nor was this an ordinary utensil.
Instead of actually doing anything, I turned my head away from my child, shielding my periphery with my hand, and looked with revulsion into my husband's unsuspecting face. Seeing that I'd gone rather green, he followed the weak finger that I was by then using to indicate his younger progeny, and upon seeing what had gotten me so nauseated, looked simultaneously ready to vomit and throttle me for having not put a stop to the scene that was unfolding there beside me. The thing is though, I couldn't! Had I tried to so much as give voice to what it was I was thinking, had I so much as said, "STOP!" to my son at that point, I honestly believe I'd instead have hurled right there on the table. The best I could do, despite the possibility that my son was at that very moment ingesting microscopic leavings of squished insect bodies, was turn away and try not to puke. Hmmm, Mother of the Year Award?
Thankfully, their dad grabbed the Utensil of Doom away from the little one, but not before it was used to deliver at least one largish mouthful of ravioli to our child's piehole. Our boy wasn't thrilled to have the cherished and multi-faceted tool taken from him, but neither did he fall to pieces right there. Instead, he simply used his fingers, those on his non-dominant hand, I guess to keep things interesting, to pinch and then stuff more ravioli into his mouth. Thus far, he hasn't developed any new or frightening symptoms, so we seem to have escaped any of the life-threatening conditions that fly-bits ingestion might cause. I'll update if this changes, but I kind of doubt it will. I truly wish I could tell myself, with confidence, that this was finally the absolute most repulsive thing one of my children would ever do, but I know better.
Until next time, Happy Dining!
I know that parenting and being in the presence of children are notoriously entertaining, often shockingly so, thus the old adage, "Kids say the darndest things." In my house though, not only do the kids spew forth hilarity with alarming frequency, but so do we, the parents and adults. I have been noticing, over the past years, that our responses to the monkeyshines are often bizarre and guffaw-worthy, and I've often thought we should write some of them down. So, here is the beginning of what I hope will tickle some funny bones, and maybe also help anyone who doubts their sanity as a result of this Parenting Hysteria to feel a little more normal. Enjoy.
I. THE VERY USEFUL FLY SWATTER (Or, The Grossest Thing My Littler Son Has Done. Yet.)
Today my crew spent nearly the entire day in our upstairs, which consist of one enormous room, formerly a loft of some sort, but enclosed by the prevoius owner because she reportedly feared for her children's safety. Apparently, they had "discovered" shortly after moving into this house that the then-open area above the living room might make for some very interesting couch-jumps. Good times!
Anyway, the room is kind of an architectural orphan now, and we've used it for storage, as it is up and away from the part of the house where we spend most of our time. Having just returned from Madrid and its many museums and artistic history however, my husband has been bitten by the Art Bug, and is anxious to get a work area together where he and the boys (and me too, should I ever feel like trying the Visual Art thing) might create at will. Thus, all day long, the pitter-patter-KERTHUNK of monkey feet greeted me from above, and Dad made much progress toward making the area usable.
Among the many boxes of miscellany and forgotten-but-not-yet-discarded whatnots, my younger child found a white plastic "spapper." Actually, it's a flyswatter, and was one of those freebie junk items I get at Real Estate conferences. This one is emblazoned on one end with a green logo of a mortgage company whose name escapes me. Go figure. No matter, because one little monkey was most delighted with his new treasure, and promptly set about the business of "spapping" everything and everyone in sight. Until, that is, Dad grew tired of intervening (and probably of being the subject of a spapping or two himself), and impounded my darling's bit of booty. The toddler equivalent of tearing of clothing and gnashing of teeth ensued, but the spapper was out of service for the day. Except, somehow, it found its way onto our kitchen table in all the melee, where it remained, unnoticed by all.
Roughly two hours passed without significant incident, and I called the crew down for dinner. And there we gathered, the four of us, my gorgeous babes, handsome knight, and I, their Queen, for a royal dinner of frozen ravioli and canned green beans. Blissfully we dined, basking in the glow of each other's presence, we parents gazing fondly upon our lovely offspring with a sheen in our eyes.
And then, the roof caved in. I spied, much to my horror and disgust, the Little One, eating a bit of ravioli off of, you guessed it, the "spapper." Apparently, in his book at least, it is a multi-use tool, good for shoveling food into his grinning maw AND for putting a smackdown on his elder brother. Chances are very good that the item in question has never actually been used for its intended purpose, but no one is really certain, so the possibility exists, however remote, that the thing my child was using to move food into his mouth did, indeed, have upon it the remnants of some long ago dispatched insect. Or insects.
Ordinarily (and I say that as though this kind of thing is a common occurence in my home, which is frighteningly close to the truth, I'm afraid), I'd have snatched the spapper, in all likelihood flinging marinara sauce in a colorful red arc that would later be licked up by our Belgian Malinois, and my boy would collapse in tears and wails and I'd scoop him up, explaining that it was simply not safe for him to eat with that item. Today though, was no ordinary day, nor was this an ordinary utensil.
Instead of actually doing anything, I turned my head away from my child, shielding my periphery with my hand, and looked with revulsion into my husband's unsuspecting face. Seeing that I'd gone rather green, he followed the weak finger that I was by then using to indicate his younger progeny, and upon seeing what had gotten me so nauseated, looked simultaneously ready to vomit and throttle me for having not put a stop to the scene that was unfolding there beside me. The thing is though, I couldn't! Had I tried to so much as give voice to what it was I was thinking, had I so much as said, "STOP!" to my son at that point, I honestly believe I'd instead have hurled right there on the table. The best I could do, despite the possibility that my son was at that very moment ingesting microscopic leavings of squished insect bodies, was turn away and try not to puke. Hmmm, Mother of the Year Award?
Thankfully, their dad grabbed the Utensil of Doom away from the little one, but not before it was used to deliver at least one largish mouthful of ravioli to our child's piehole. Our boy wasn't thrilled to have the cherished and multi-faceted tool taken from him, but neither did he fall to pieces right there. Instead, he simply used his fingers, those on his non-dominant hand, I guess to keep things interesting, to pinch and then stuff more ravioli into his mouth. Thus far, he hasn't developed any new or frightening symptoms, so we seem to have escaped any of the life-threatening conditions that fly-bits ingestion might cause. I'll update if this changes, but I kind of doubt it will. I truly wish I could tell myself, with confidence, that this was finally the absolute most repulsive thing one of my children would ever do, but I know better.
Until next time, Happy Dining!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Counting down
We go on the 26th to the doc's office, both for post-op follow-up and, presumably, to get the results of the chromosome testing we consented to after the D&C. I have been doing my level best NOT to think about every possible reaction I might have to every possible outcome of said testing, but I've not been so very successful at it. Essentially, all I've determined is that I'll want to tear out the doc's throat with my bare hands, irrespective of whether our now-dead, almost-fetus was genetically flawed. Either way, HE DID NOTHING when I informed him of the distinct LPD patterns to my cycles. Try as I might to force order and sanity upon that fact, I can't make sense of his inaction. As long as there's no sense to be made of it, there's no way for me to be finished with it inside what passes for my mind these days. So, I've been feeling rather imprisoned by the whole business.
Don't misunderstand me, because despite being very sad about our loss, I feel mostly at peace with the notion that it's done, closed, complete. Only, then I start thinking about the fucking doctor again, and how he had AMPLE time, provided that our embryo was viable, which of course we don't know yet, to DO something to help keep it firmly rooted in its little spot, but instead just ignored my concerns, my information, my painstakingly-prepared-and-delivered detailed medical history. I want so badly for the whole thing to have a logical, sane explanation, but in my wildest imaginings (and truly, they're REALLY wild once I get going!), the best I can come up with are that he was maybe thinking about lunch, is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's and is no longer competent to attend anyone, or that he just didn't really think that a silly woman could possibly have a relevant clue about her own body and so didn't find merit in any of my contributions at my appointments. And remember, these are the best, the least paranoid, the most logical. Nice, huh?
On a somewhat happier note, it seems I may be beginning to emerge from the funk that has enveloped me for the past twelve days. I went to a birthday party today for one of my six-year-old's friends, and managed to neither collapse in a sobbing heap nor scream at anyone. I count those as pretty big accomplishments! Yippee for me.
I'll elaborate more later, really I will. Now though, I'm going to try for some sleep. That too has been abysmal, but I'll need to devote a whole entry to it. Later.
G'night.
Don't misunderstand me, because despite being very sad about our loss, I feel mostly at peace with the notion that it's done, closed, complete. Only, then I start thinking about the fucking doctor again, and how he had AMPLE time, provided that our embryo was viable, which of course we don't know yet, to DO something to help keep it firmly rooted in its little spot, but instead just ignored my concerns, my information, my painstakingly-prepared-and-delivered detailed medical history. I want so badly for the whole thing to have a logical, sane explanation, but in my wildest imaginings (and truly, they're REALLY wild once I get going!), the best I can come up with are that he was maybe thinking about lunch, is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's and is no longer competent to attend anyone, or that he just didn't really think that a silly woman could possibly have a relevant clue about her own body and so didn't find merit in any of my contributions at my appointments. And remember, these are the best, the least paranoid, the most logical. Nice, huh?
On a somewhat happier note, it seems I may be beginning to emerge from the funk that has enveloped me for the past twelve days. I went to a birthday party today for one of my six-year-old's friends, and managed to neither collapse in a sobbing heap nor scream at anyone. I count those as pretty big accomplishments! Yippee for me.
I'll elaborate more later, really I will. Now though, I'm going to try for some sleep. That too has been abysmal, but I'll need to devote a whole entry to it. Later.
G'night.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Memory. Again.
I recently "found" an old High School acquaintaince, of the male variety, but with whom I maybe flirted, and maybe even a LOT, but always maintained a strictly Platonic relationship. So, in corresponding, he mentioned two things we'd done together, one I remembered fairly clearly, and the other not at all. The absent memory was of a Senior Trip I'd supposedly attended with him, and try as I might, I couldn't remember ANYTHING about it. So, I asked him to jog my memory with as much detail as he could, and he did exactly that.
Turns out, I had in fact gone to the Renaissance Faire with a bunch of other students one year, and that was the trip he was recalling. And after I read through things a bit, it came back, not with crystal clarity, but vividly enough that I am certain it really happened (No "recovered memories" here, thank you very much!)
A quick point, because it is a gorgeous quality this guy has: Note he not only USES spell check, but actually ADMITS to it!!! Can you even believe? Now, if I can manage to get him to get that across to all the CEOs in the world, we're all on the fast track to Utopia, BABY! Simply beautiful!
Anyway, I'm tired as hell now, and so I'm lazy and just going to copy and paste the exchange. Here it is:
Okay...it was MY senior trip, and some worthy non-seniors got to go to the Texas Renaissance Festival. My oldest friend in the world, Lionel, was with me, and we all started talking and you and I sat with each other on the bus.
Some snooty girls were talking bad about you, maybe because I was dating Rachel and sitting with another girl...I dunno. I quietly informed you as you were digging for something in your bag with your head down where they couldn't see you. You affirmed that you understood the problem. How did you respond? As you sat up, you wiped your mouth and smiled at me...to the shock of the snooty squad. Ah, the conclusions they must've come to...LOL. Later, you exchanged heated comments with a couple of them. The conflict was brief, however.
And you, being the Ren Fest expert, you told me all I should expect from it, including the double-entendres. Did I spell that right? Maybe because it's French the spell check doesn't recognize it. SO ANYWAY...we enter the grounds, and as you're reminding me of the innuendos I will undoubtedly hear (and I got the impression you were impervious to such shenannigans), a girl jumps out into the street and points at you. You gasped and stiffened as she asked, in an obviously fake cockney accent (actually, it wasn't bad), "WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A GOOD TWELVE INCHES??" You promptly turned around and walked briskly away, and she called after you: "OH, COME ON! GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER! I WAS TALKING ABOUT SAUSAGE!!"
She was vending sausage. The Mighty Toff, toppling so quickly. Over festival food. So sad.
We shared a muff (snicker) and pretty much stayed together the whole time. And if I remember correctly, you fell asleep for a short time on my shoulder.Remember now? If you need to correct me on details, or you remember more, let me know!
I responded to him as follows:
You know, Mr. Jagger has it SO dead on: "What a draaaaaaag it is getting old!" I'm so glad you gave me the replay on that, because I guess I'd banked that whole set of memories somewhere WAY back in an old, dusty, super-crazy-locked-tight part of the ole noggin. I was thinking maybe you had me confused with somebody else. I kept thinking that I had only been on a single RenFaire trip, and that was with my SPARK class. DUH! It took a little priming, but the neuropumpthingy FINALLY kicked in, and I remember it now. Not vividly, but clearly enough.
See, if I had the sausage experience today, I'd have volleyed back immediately, probably making a big show with a swift swat to your ass (for dramatic effect, of course) and a comment along the lines of, "Gee, (turning to you as though for confirmation, maybe checking my Swatch nonchalantly) what's it been, hon? Five minutes since we got off the bus?" And THEN I'd have walked off.
Its so peculiar, the way I've always had that sassy, rebellious streak, but I had to kind of try it out, like I was learning to walk or something. Hey, no sweat hinting to the Mouthy Broads that I had to see DAILY that I'd just performed fellatio in a crowded bus on a guy who was very much dating another girl, but somehow snapping back a saucy reply to a total stranger at the flippin' RenFaire was too much of an ego hit!?!? Go figure. Those sausage wenches though, they'll catch you off guard EVERY time!
Ok, maybe growing up isn't all that bad... at least for me, it has removed a lot of concern about other people's opinions of me. In those days, I really wanted not to care, and I tried my best convince everyone that I didn't, but I did, of course. I like to think I put on a relatively good show of indifference, but I was a mess just below the surface. I suppose pretty much everyone was. Because seriously? There's no WAY Coca-Cola shirts would have ever caught on otherwise!
I do indeed recall the post-Faire shoulder-snooze, too. I seem to remember yours being the best I'd had. (Your SHOULDER!) In fact, I don't think I found its equal until about nine years ago, so yours held the records for most inviting/comfy even through my first marriage! How important you must feel now, having had that little tidbit bestowed upon you by "The Mighty Toff." (har har) How wonderfully flattered I am that you called me that... silly as it is. Occasionally, that little insecure Sophomore chick gets a major boost from a seemingly ridiculous detail like that, even if it is twenty years old or thereabouts! So, uh, keep 'em coming if you have any more little gems in there. That's GOOOOOOOOOOD stuff!
I never cease to be blown away by the how weird a thing the human memory can be! I wrote an entry on it about a year ago, and even after a terrible bout of syllaborrhea, I never felt like I'd really quite captured it completely, how two people can have shared an experience and come away with drastically different recollections of the identical events. Too, it's always so curious to me that Event X might be something that remains with me as a waking memory until I reach the grave, whereas the person who shared Event X with me might forget all about it and have to be spoon-fed the details in order to call it back up (witness the above Senior Trip!).
Big, waterlogged, glucose-hogging, protein-dependent, organic computers hanging around up there in our heads, that's what we have, only there's no Microsoft to systematize things all nice and neat with any discernible file structure! Nope, it's all handled behind the scenes. While we dream and when we're busy doing other things, some aspect of ourselves just plugs away, putting this memory in that folder, that folder under super-duper-crazy-double-lockdown-security, and keeping this other memory floating around in the forefront of our minds like a damned mosquito, because it really doesn't make any flippin' sense that we keep THINKING about it! Shit, I need to go see my shrink! (har har har har--- no, really!)
It's seeming more and more, when I talk to people from back in those years, that maybe some part of me has worked REALLY hard to keep as much of my life between the ages of about 14 and 24 stowed neatly away, where not even I can access it readily! I'm positive I don't have any kind of trauma worthy of a Lifetime Movie, no creepy molester guidance counselor uncles or anything like that, but it was a very FULL and very trying decade in all. I guess that's reason enough that some part of me tries to protect me from it. I am really really glad that you and I are corresponding... it is nice to have GOOD things pop back up in my conscious memory about 'dem days. It reminds me how it is that I can be a fairly stable and productive adult, despite all the crap.
Friends is how.
Ok... and now I'm feeling all inspired and stuff, so I'll probably copy and paste at least parts of this and flesh it out for a blog entry. So now you're my Muse too. It just doesn't end, eh? Oh, what WILL the Mouthy Broads say???
Have a restful night, and may it be as comfy as that long ago shoulder nap;)
Turns out, I had in fact gone to the Renaissance Faire with a bunch of other students one year, and that was the trip he was recalling. And after I read through things a bit, it came back, not with crystal clarity, but vividly enough that I am certain it really happened (No "recovered memories" here, thank you very much!)
A quick point, because it is a gorgeous quality this guy has: Note he not only USES spell check, but actually ADMITS to it!!! Can you even believe? Now, if I can manage to get him to get that across to all the CEOs in the world, we're all on the fast track to Utopia, BABY! Simply beautiful!
Anyway, I'm tired as hell now, and so I'm lazy and just going to copy and paste the exchange. Here it is:
Okay...it was MY senior trip, and some worthy non-seniors got to go to the Texas Renaissance Festival. My oldest friend in the world, Lionel, was with me, and we all started talking and you and I sat with each other on the bus.
Some snooty girls were talking bad about you, maybe because I was dating Rachel and sitting with another girl...I dunno. I quietly informed you as you were digging for something in your bag with your head down where they couldn't see you. You affirmed that you understood the problem. How did you respond? As you sat up, you wiped your mouth and smiled at me...to the shock of the snooty squad. Ah, the conclusions they must've come to...LOL. Later, you exchanged heated comments with a couple of them. The conflict was brief, however.
And you, being the Ren Fest expert, you told me all I should expect from it, including the double-entendres. Did I spell that right? Maybe because it's French the spell check doesn't recognize it. SO ANYWAY...we enter the grounds, and as you're reminding me of the innuendos I will undoubtedly hear (and I got the impression you were impervious to such shenannigans), a girl jumps out into the street and points at you. You gasped and stiffened as she asked, in an obviously fake cockney accent (actually, it wasn't bad), "WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A GOOD TWELVE INCHES??" You promptly turned around and walked briskly away, and she called after you: "OH, COME ON! GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER! I WAS TALKING ABOUT SAUSAGE!!"
She was vending sausage. The Mighty Toff, toppling so quickly. Over festival food. So sad.
We shared a muff (snicker) and pretty much stayed together the whole time. And if I remember correctly, you fell asleep for a short time on my shoulder.Remember now? If you need to correct me on details, or you remember more, let me know!
I responded to him as follows:
You know, Mr. Jagger has it SO dead on: "What a draaaaaaag it is getting old!" I'm so glad you gave me the replay on that, because I guess I'd banked that whole set of memories somewhere WAY back in an old, dusty, super-crazy-locked-tight part of the ole noggin. I was thinking maybe you had me confused with somebody else. I kept thinking that I had only been on a single RenFaire trip, and that was with my SPARK class. DUH! It took a little priming, but the neuropumpthingy FINALLY kicked in, and I remember it now. Not vividly, but clearly enough.
See, if I had the sausage experience today, I'd have volleyed back immediately, probably making a big show with a swift swat to your ass (for dramatic effect, of course) and a comment along the lines of, "Gee, (turning to you as though for confirmation, maybe checking my Swatch nonchalantly) what's it been, hon? Five minutes since we got off the bus?" And THEN I'd have walked off.
Its so peculiar, the way I've always had that sassy, rebellious streak, but I had to kind of try it out, like I was learning to walk or something. Hey, no sweat hinting to the Mouthy Broads that I had to see DAILY that I'd just performed fellatio in a crowded bus on a guy who was very much dating another girl, but somehow snapping back a saucy reply to a total stranger at the flippin' RenFaire was too much of an ego hit!?!? Go figure. Those sausage wenches though, they'll catch you off guard EVERY time!
Ok, maybe growing up isn't all that bad... at least for me, it has removed a lot of concern about other people's opinions of me. In those days, I really wanted not to care, and I tried my best convince everyone that I didn't, but I did, of course. I like to think I put on a relatively good show of indifference, but I was a mess just below the surface. I suppose pretty much everyone was. Because seriously? There's no WAY Coca-Cola shirts would have ever caught on otherwise!
I do indeed recall the post-Faire shoulder-snooze, too. I seem to remember yours being the best I'd had. (Your SHOULDER!) In fact, I don't think I found its equal until about nine years ago, so yours held the records for most inviting/comfy even through my first marriage! How important you must feel now, having had that little tidbit bestowed upon you by "The Mighty Toff." (har har) How wonderfully flattered I am that you called me that... silly as it is. Occasionally, that little insecure Sophomore chick gets a major boost from a seemingly ridiculous detail like that, even if it is twenty years old or thereabouts! So, uh, keep 'em coming if you have any more little gems in there. That's GOOOOOOOOOOD stuff!
I never cease to be blown away by the how weird a thing the human memory can be! I wrote an entry on it about a year ago, and even after a terrible bout of syllaborrhea, I never felt like I'd really quite captured it completely, how two people can have shared an experience and come away with drastically different recollections of the identical events. Too, it's always so curious to me that Event X might be something that remains with me as a waking memory until I reach the grave, whereas the person who shared Event X with me might forget all about it and have to be spoon-fed the details in order to call it back up (witness the above Senior Trip!).
Big, waterlogged, glucose-hogging, protein-dependent, organic computers hanging around up there in our heads, that's what we have, only there's no Microsoft to systematize things all nice and neat with any discernible file structure! Nope, it's all handled behind the scenes. While we dream and when we're busy doing other things, some aspect of ourselves just plugs away, putting this memory in that folder, that folder under super-duper-crazy-double-lockdown-security, and keeping this other memory floating around in the forefront of our minds like a damned mosquito, because it really doesn't make any flippin' sense that we keep THINKING about it! Shit, I need to go see my shrink! (har har har har--- no, really!)
It's seeming more and more, when I talk to people from back in those years, that maybe some part of me has worked REALLY hard to keep as much of my life between the ages of about 14 and 24 stowed neatly away, where not even I can access it readily! I'm positive I don't have any kind of trauma worthy of a Lifetime Movie, no creepy molester guidance counselor uncles or anything like that, but it was a very FULL and very trying decade in all. I guess that's reason enough that some part of me tries to protect me from it. I am really really glad that you and I are corresponding... it is nice to have GOOD things pop back up in my conscious memory about 'dem days. It reminds me how it is that I can be a fairly stable and productive adult, despite all the crap.
Friends is how.
Ok... and now I'm feeling all inspired and stuff, so I'll probably copy and paste at least parts of this and flesh it out for a blog entry. So now you're my Muse too. It just doesn't end, eh? Oh, what WILL the Mouthy Broads say???
Have a restful night, and may it be as comfy as that long ago shoulder nap;)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Gentleness in All Things, or Utopia in 7 Pretty Tough Steps
Recently, I was asked by a friend to provide feedback about her behavior toward her spouse. Frankly, I was loathe to do so, because what she does to her partner is nothing short of repeated and prolonged verbal and emotional abuse. Its nauseating to witness, and it's even worse because her partner is apparently so desperate to just have someone love her, that she'll tolerate it, indefinitely as far as I can tell.
It's so funny to me that people ask me these things, as if I'm some expert. I guess I'm at least unusual, because I am currently enjoying the eighth year of marriage to my own personal Knight in Shining Armor, after having been hitched to whatever the opposite of that would be for a full seven years. I call that period of silliness, the seven-year thing, "Husband v1.o." The newer version is FAR superior in every way to the old one! So much so that I can not conceieve of needing to upgrade ever again. In fact, upgrades are built in with him, and I suppose with us both! It's called, "GROWTH." But that's another entry altogether!
I do not regret my first marriage, despite its inherent flaws and failings, and the almost imediately undeniable reality that the two of us were NOT compatible. Actually, I feel fortunate to have had a kind of marital practice run. When the time came for us to go our separate ways, we had no children, no community property... it was as clean so filthy a thing as divorce could possibly have been. That's not to say there weren't fights over a bread machine (he didn't have a clue how to use the damned thing, and no, I'm afraid I'm NOT kidding!), or that we somehow managed to suddenly be civil with each other and part company amicably- we didn't.
What we did, and I am ashamed to say I played at least a 50% part in this, was conduct ourselves with sarcasm and venom and vindictiveness, just as we had the entire time. Threats were made, horrible things flew from our lips. It was gruesome.
I can't even imagine how people get through divorces involving children, beloved pets, or homes. In my estimation, that whole process must be the hardest there is in human existence, second only to losing a child.
So, through the years, what I have discovered are some pretty basic truths. In fact, my current (and FINAL) husband and I did not say vows to each other. Instead, we agreed upon some foundational rules long before lifelong commitment entered our minds as a possibility and those served us so well that we decided to just keep them when the time came to make our union one that the government recognized.
I'm sure the PC Police will be called as soon as I hit the "Publish Post" button on this one, because I have a VERY broad generalization to propose as the closest thing to a "cure" for the diseased state of the institution of Marriage in this country as has ever been suggested. Basically, FOLLOW THE RULES!
It's so funny to me that people ask me these things, as if I'm some expert. I guess I'm at least unusual, because I am currently enjoying the eighth year of marriage to my own personal Knight in Shining Armor, after having been hitched to whatever the opposite of that would be for a full seven years. I call that period of silliness, the seven-year thing, "Husband v1.o." The newer version is FAR superior in every way to the old one! So much so that I can not conceieve of needing to upgrade ever again. In fact, upgrades are built in with him, and I suppose with us both! It's called, "GROWTH." But that's another entry altogether!
I do not regret my first marriage, despite its inherent flaws and failings, and the almost imediately undeniable reality that the two of us were NOT compatible. Actually, I feel fortunate to have had a kind of marital practice run. When the time came for us to go our separate ways, we had no children, no community property... it was as clean so filthy a thing as divorce could possibly have been. That's not to say there weren't fights over a bread machine (he didn't have a clue how to use the damned thing, and no, I'm afraid I'm NOT kidding!), or that we somehow managed to suddenly be civil with each other and part company amicably- we didn't.
What we did, and I am ashamed to say I played at least a 50% part in this, was conduct ourselves with sarcasm and venom and vindictiveness, just as we had the entire time. Threats were made, horrible things flew from our lips. It was gruesome.
I can't even imagine how people get through divorces involving children, beloved pets, or homes. In my estimation, that whole process must be the hardest there is in human existence, second only to losing a child.
So, through the years, what I have discovered are some pretty basic truths. In fact, my current (and FINAL) husband and I did not say vows to each other. Instead, we agreed upon some foundational rules long before lifelong commitment entered our minds as a possibility and those served us so well that we decided to just keep them when the time came to make our union one that the government recognized.
I'm sure the PC Police will be called as soon as I hit the "Publish Post" button on this one, because I have a VERY broad generalization to propose as the closest thing to a "cure" for the diseased state of the institution of Marriage in this country as has ever been suggested. Basically, FOLLOW THE RULES!
Here are those rules:
- I will endeavor always to never intentionally cause you pain or discomfort of any kind, because I love you, and love does not include malice.
- Should I inadvertently cause you pain, which I will know when you inform me of such, I will apologize immediately, sincerely. My pat analogy for this one, which I use with my children, is that when someone steps on your toe, knowing they didn't do it intentionally doesn't do a thing to relieve the pain. Whether or not they did it on purpose, they still owe you an apology.
- If ever I'm not sure what you need in a particular situation, I will give to you everything I can imagine that I would want, were I in your shoes. If that doesn't work for you exactly, you'll know it was a mistake borne of love for you and my sincere wish to help lighten your burdens whenever possible. You will, of course, let me know as soon as you can, how I might better have addressed your needs, and afterward I will do so as you specify to the best of my ability.
- We will present to our children, and to the world around us, as a United Front, indivisible. On the occasions when we disagree in matters of parenting or other relationship topics, we'll go with whomever's approach seems least likely to cause harm to the other people involved, and we'll regroup and discuss in detail as soon as we can do so without conveying a break in our Unity to anyone outside of our marriage. This Unity is what keeps us strong, and to behave in a way that tells others it's not maximally fortified leaves us vulnerable to being played against each other.
- Because I love you, because I chose you, I honor you by placing you at the top of my priority list. Sometimes, this will mean that your progeny are fed or medicated or nurtured first, which you will understand because children don't have the ability or strength yet to delay these things. Together, we'll teach our children to become strong, responsible, empathetic, compassionate human beings who will love to the fullest extent achievable by a human being.
- I believe you. I believe in you. I trust you to be frank and forthcoming with me in all things, so that I may be best prepared to perform the functions of helpmeet, soulmate, wife, caregiver, nurturer, and lover.
- I accept the same from you because I know you love me. I know this because of what you do, not what you say. Love, as we agree on it in this marriage, is defined not by our sentiments and not by our words, but by our actions.
9:59 PM
Monday, October 15, 2007
Yes, Virginia, There IS Life Beyond Myspace!
Difficult as it is for me, I must finally admit something to the world: I am OUT of the techno-loop! Sure, I can fix pretty much any Windows-based computer glitch, owing to my years as a pre-Y2K Help Desker, and when people I know have issues with ANY piece of electronic gadgetry, they marvel at the "magic" I perform after having them do the whole Dogbert's Tech Support maneuver: Shut up and reboot. But, alas, it's all a ruse. I discovered this today. Allow me to explain. (Or don't. It's MY blog, so do as you please and I'll ramble until my hands don't want to talk any longer. HAH!)
See, for just over a year now, I've been skulking about on myspace, desperately trying to avoid all the befriending and bsing, and instead, just writing. I know lots of folks who Myspace, but mostly they're, well, single for starters. Or married and looking anyway. Or they have a business or social or both reason to use Myspace for kind of a free faniste or advertising medium, or some such thing. Too, many of those folks (none of MY friends, mind you, all 8 of them) are, hmmm, how to put this kindly.... morons. Nimrods. You get it. Certainly loveable, entertaining and occasionally learned, even, but just not LIKE me. Hmph.
It's all been so very High School again over there, me doing my thing, grooving in my little niche, and somehow knowing that the number of views and profile visits and all that other nonsense I get pales in comparison to EVERYONE else's, and that despite being a super-groovy cool mama, popularity is STILL not my thing. So, I puttered and putzed along, writing when I felt the need, knowing no one gave a crap, but not knowing that there were other ways to achieve what I needed. Enter Blogger.com!
I feel like SUCH the moron myself now, having stumbled upon this lovely place of thought, and writing for its own sake, not just as a way to let all your classmates know what you're wearing to the freakin' prom! AAAAAAAAck! So. Here I am. I suppose what I'll do is quit about the otherspace, and make an introduction or something. That seems appropriate right about now, yes?
Hullo, I'm Pati. Ms. Cakes, if you're Nasty. Actually, I can't claim credit for that last bit... my dearest spouse came up with it almost a decade ago when we were dating. I suppose I've been waiting to use it all this time, so lucky you for reading it! Yes, I can see just how enthralled your are, and who could blame you. I'm just a great big enthrall-o-matic, I am. I should be a superhero. Or not.
I don't know how to really define myself, so here are some things I do, have done recently, and a few details about my life. I guess they'll have to do as a Ms. Cakes Primer. Hell, it's late, I'm sleepy, and I seriously should be in bed. Quality isn't my thing tonight.
I am: Married, In my mid-thirties, A mother to two boys, A Jew (who grew up Catholic), An awful housekeeper who never quits trying (altogether), A fab cook, Loyal to a fault, Sitting shiva in my own weird way, and lots of others that don't come to me right now.
I have: Recently (one week ago, 10/9/07) had my "uterine contents" removed via D&C, after discovering that the extremely unexpected but very much wanted embryo we inadvertently produced had ceased living and appeared intent on staying right where it was indefinitely. Lived in Hawaii AND Southern California. Been married before, for 7 years, to someone who was completely wrong for me, and managed to grow in spite of it all. Not spoken to my brother since April 17, 2003. And again, more and more and so forth.
I like/believe/wish/want/hope for, etc.--- hell, if you really care to know those things, read and see for yourself. I'll copy over some recent entries first, and then see how that works. If the formatting and such aren't terribly cumbersome, I'll go ahead and pull over the entire year's worth of stuff. Who knows, it could be fun!
So, cheers! And thanks for reading.
Ms. Cakes
See, for just over a year now, I've been skulking about on myspace, desperately trying to avoid all the befriending and bsing, and instead, just writing. I know lots of folks who Myspace, but mostly they're, well, single for starters. Or married and looking anyway. Or they have a business or social or both reason to use Myspace for kind of a free faniste or advertising medium, or some such thing. Too, many of those folks (none of MY friends, mind you, all 8 of them) are, hmmm, how to put this kindly.... morons. Nimrods. You get it. Certainly loveable, entertaining and occasionally learned, even, but just not LIKE me. Hmph.
It's all been so very High School again over there, me doing my thing, grooving in my little niche, and somehow knowing that the number of views and profile visits and all that other nonsense I get pales in comparison to EVERYONE else's, and that despite being a super-groovy cool mama, popularity is STILL not my thing. So, I puttered and putzed along, writing when I felt the need, knowing no one gave a crap, but not knowing that there were other ways to achieve what I needed. Enter Blogger.com!
I feel like SUCH the moron myself now, having stumbled upon this lovely place of thought, and writing for its own sake, not just as a way to let all your classmates know what you're wearing to the freakin' prom! AAAAAAAAck! So. Here I am. I suppose what I'll do is quit about the otherspace, and make an introduction or something. That seems appropriate right about now, yes?
Hullo, I'm Pati. Ms. Cakes, if you're Nasty. Actually, I can't claim credit for that last bit... my dearest spouse came up with it almost a decade ago when we were dating. I suppose I've been waiting to use it all this time, so lucky you for reading it! Yes, I can see just how enthralled your are, and who could blame you. I'm just a great big enthrall-o-matic, I am. I should be a superhero. Or not.
I don't know how to really define myself, so here are some things I do, have done recently, and a few details about my life. I guess they'll have to do as a Ms. Cakes Primer. Hell, it's late, I'm sleepy, and I seriously should be in bed. Quality isn't my thing tonight.
I am: Married, In my mid-thirties, A mother to two boys, A Jew (who grew up Catholic), An awful housekeeper who never quits trying (altogether), A fab cook, Loyal to a fault, Sitting shiva in my own weird way, and lots of others that don't come to me right now.
I have: Recently (one week ago, 10/9/07) had my "uterine contents" removed via D&C, after discovering that the extremely unexpected but very much wanted embryo we inadvertently produced had ceased living and appeared intent on staying right where it was indefinitely. Lived in Hawaii AND Southern California. Been married before, for 7 years, to someone who was completely wrong for me, and managed to grow in spite of it all. Not spoken to my brother since April 17, 2003. And again, more and more and so forth.
I like/believe/wish/want/hope for, etc.--- hell, if you really care to know those things, read and see for yourself. I'll copy over some recent entries first, and then see how that works. If the formatting and such aren't terribly cumbersome, I'll go ahead and pull over the entire year's worth of stuff. Who knows, it could be fun!
So, cheers! And thanks for reading.
Ms. Cakes
Friday, October 12, 2007
Threat, Delivered.
First, please forgive any errors I make here in spelling, grammar, punctuation, or just sense. If you know me, you know this MUST be the result of impairment of some sort on my part. Despite the new pic[Note: the photo referenced is a close-up of a peach Xanax tablet, .5mg] I am not presently, and do not anticipate ever becoming addicted to the precious substance shown here. It's just an homage. I'll explain below.
Sunday night, after two weeks of worry and fretting over my every breath and step, I started bleeding for real. I didn't have to rush to the hospital this time, or even call the doc, to know what had happened. I simply lay in my husband's arms in our bed and cried. Somehow, I slept, and when morning came we got our boys to school and ourselves to the ultrasound appointment we'd made two weeks prior. The one that was supposed to provide our first glimpse of the teeny little blip that is an embryonic heartbeat. The same heartbeat we'd seen already on two separate earlier occasions because of previous episodes of bleeding. The one we knew would not be there on Monday. And indeed, it was not. No blip. No blink. No flicker. Just.... stillness.
Apparently, ultrasound techs are running about 30/70 when it comes to having souls at Woman's in Baton Rouge, but at least this one's total deadpan demeanor and complete lack of even the basest of human reaction didn't come as a surprise to us. We'd seen it before. It did piss me off quite a bit, however, that I had to make my own fucking diagnosis.
Uh, hello? HEY! We didn't come here expecting a heartbeat. I don't SEE a heartbeat. While we understand and accept that you, Ms. Tech, aren't able to make any actual diagnosis, it would be quite helpful, since you do this every freaking day of your LIFE, if you would do us the kindness of telling us what you see. Actually, it went a little more like this:
ME to my husband: There's no flicker. I don't see a heartbeat.
ME to tech: That's the fetal pole, right? And the yolk sack to the left?
Tech: Yes.
ME: And there's not a heartbeat visible, is there?
Tech: [Said nothing. Didn't even blink. No eye contact with either of us. No apparent interest in anything on the screen six inches from her face. Just stared emptily through the fucking monitor.]
ME: Um, hello? I asked if you see anything? On the screen? I don't see a heartbeat. We don't expect one, but can you confirm please?
Tech: (apparently awakening from some transcendent state) Hm? Oh. I'm going to measure the fetal pole. (proceeds thusly)
ME: (after several beats and no info from Tech) Ok, so what measurement did you get?
Tech: I get 6weeks 6 days.
ME: (Now thoroughly OVER this bitch and her fucking disengagement) So, then we have a dead baby, because I'm 7 wks 4 days, and we've seen embryonic cardiac activity on the previous two sonograms, right? You still haven't said whether or not you see cardiac activity! Do you or not? It's not a hard question. We should KNOW.
Tech: (removing invasive probe, casting eyes downward, but still affecting no emotion or change in demeanor whatsoever, not even a lowering of the volume or change in the tone of her voice) No, I don't see anything. (Now getting up from her seat in one fluid motion, somehow managing to turn her back to us without ever making so much a nanosecond's worth of eye contact.) I'm going to call your doctor right now.
So, at least then we had a bit of privacy to cry together. My dearest was his usual Knight in Shining Armor self, and just got a bit teary while he wrapped his arms around me, kept me from falling off the damned table from the shake of my sobs, and stood with me, rock solid, my own personal Everest. He carefully, slowly, as if he were moving amongst wild beasts (and let's be honest here, what better metaphor is there in the world for a grieving mother?), he handed me my clothes, put my shoes onto my feet for me (again to keep me from toppling off the table, and now I think of it, those fuckwads are SO lucky he was there, lest I sue the shit out of them for having the damned tables too high in the first fucking place!), kissed away my tears until I worried he might drown in them.... and then whipped around, never letting me go, when the dumb callous fucking bitch knocked on the door and said "Ready?" in a voice so perky Martha Stewart would have been wowed, and bellowed a "NO" so fierce I'm certain it penetrated every wall and caused momentary disruptions of the screens of every sonograph that was running at that moment within at least a two-mile-radius of us.
When I was ready, when I could breathe without hitching, I made sure it was ok with him that we not wait for "nature to take its course." I wanted to get about the business of closure as expeditiously as possible, and there was no way to know when, or IF, my body would finally figure out it was no longer pregnant with a live embryo, thus triggering the process of expulsion. I wanted a D&C, the sooner the better, but if he wasn't in agreement, I needed us to figure it out before we left. He agreed and trusted whatever I deemed to be the best for my own psyche and physiology.
So, I donned my "movie-star sunglasses," (my elder son calls them that. Think Audrey Hepburn.), knowing from experience that the absolute LAST thing in the world any pregnant woman wants to see is a woman who has just discovered she is not pregnant even though she should be, taking comfort somehow in my ability to at least do that much to control the world around me, to at least make that effort, ineffective as it may or may not have been, to shield all those ripe, smiling women from the ugliness of our grief... and my darling stayed ever at my side, tightly bound to me, shielding my body and my mind and my soul from any and all outside interference.
We exited the ultrasound area, walked the twenty feet or so to the elevators, and ascended to the next floor, where the receptionist asked our name, and without even having to inquire as to which doctor I was there to see, immediately directed us back to the correct office. I waited all of five minutes, still all Hollywood in my dark glasses and tearstreaked face, before being ushered into an exam room. For once, no one told me to remove even a stitch of clothing. And we didn't wait long to see the doctor. But pretty much, that's ALL they got right.
Doc started to go through our "options," as though such a thing were even fucking possible, much less necessary (for us), and I cut him short and said yes, get me on the schedule for the D&C ASAP, and no, I don't want to wait a goddamned week to "confirm the results of the ultrasound!" What, are there THAT many people in the world who are totally unable to accept reality? Can people not see that conspicuous absence that signals. No. Pulse.
I don't know what kind of sad, out-of-touch-and-living-on-empty-dreams folks generally make the rounds at that office, but as far as I and We and everyone I know sees it, NO PULSE=DEAD. End of story. Nothing to confirm. Just dead. And Dead deserves a bit of fucking respect, like moving the fuck on with it and letting Dead just be Dead.... not in some weird "missed abortion" limbo that could continue for weeks or months. FUCK!
We got to go then to the nurses' station, where we sat in a mercifully hidden little alcove (ok, they got THAT part right too) and filled out the reams of paperwork for the surgery and anesthesia and so forth to come. I tried my best, and was mostly pretty successful, at neither screaming nor sobbing, but at one point, I couldn't figure out what to write in the blank that followed the word "Name."
I forced myself to pause. I let the tears flow for a moment, then cocked my head toward the closest nurse, and in my calmest, most coherent voice, knowing full well I'd certainly require chemical assistance in order to navigate the unfamiliar waters ahead of me, tried to ask for a prescription for Lexapro or something like it, but I only got as far as, "Um, would it be possible, can I please, may I have a prescription for something to..." and the nurse, God bless her and all of her family and her parents for having her [and holy crap, I just realized that her name is Tracy, and that the nurses who attended the births of BOTH our sons, both of whom were wonderful and fabulous in their own unique ways were ALSO named Tracy, not that it matters in the least, except that it does because it matters to me right now this second as I write this] didn't wait for me to struggle any longer, didn't force so much as another heartbeat from me, before suggesting, "Xanax?"
I was in shock, I suppose, only mildly so, but even then I was somewhat taken aback. I stammered a reply, "Uh, oh, um, ok. Xanax would actually be most adequate." Seriously, I really said that. I was taken over by a grieving Mary Poppins for that brief moment I guess. Weird shit.
Let's see.. then came the fog. Godsent, blessedly thick, cool fog. Fog dense enough to permit me to sleep at any and every moment I thought I might like to do so for the next three days. Fog that was light enough for me to breathe effortlessly, despite the fact that Gravity had siezed hold of me with a vengeance so strong my limbs seemed made of lead and I felt sure it would wrend my very soul right out of my body.
My Fog, a luminous, life-sustaining plasma shroud, enveloped me on Monday morning as we left the doctor's office, hovered in and around me through Tuesday afternoon, but remained ethereal and penetrable enough for me to do things like speak to and hug and kiss my sons (my mother-in-law was there too, stepping in and taking over the role of mothering them so effortlessly that, had I not been drunk with that Fog, I might have wondered if maybe she'd practiced ahead of time) until the moment I was taken in for surgery.
It lightened its grasp on me enough to let me remember that I'd been given not a single image from Monday's ultrasound, and so had no memento to mark the devastating occasion. No tangible evidence of this irrevocable change in our lives. It lifted a bit, allowing me to think, and ask for an ultrasound to be done on Tuesday, BEFORE the D&C, for the sole purpose of getting that keepsake image to put away in a box, along with the pregnancy tests and other ultrasound photos and various other bits and things we've collected as a direct result of this most recent pregnancy.
I can't say for sure what comprised my Fog, but it was certainly NOT just Xanax, because it didn't just touch me. My children got a whiff of it too, and hovered around me close and comforting, somehow aware that I desperately needed to smell and feel them. I have at least one very Catholic aunt who'd undoubtedly insist it wasn't a fog at all, but the gossamer wings of some heavenly army of guardian angels... frankly, that's a bit hokier an explanation that I can buy. But only just.
I think my Fog is like that old nursery rhyme, "What are little girls made of?" Only instead of sugar and spice and so forth, my Fog is maybe one part Xanax, two parts (me and mine) Divine Marital Love and Devotion, and probably two thousand seven hundred thirty-one parts prayer, give or take. In my mind, that is the only recipe that even comes close to making any sense, and if you know me, you know I can taste just about ANYTHING and then go home and recreate a most passable facsimile. It's one of my gifts.
We got our picture. We had an ultrasound tech who was actually in possession of all the 46 choromosomes requisite to be classified as a member of our own species, evidenced by her willingness to speak with us, treat us with kindness and dignity, and also her brief-enough-to-be-professional-but-sweet-enough-to-still-matter saying that she had been in our circumstances before once too. She even went beyond what we expected, and printed our picture on a standard sheet of white paper, off the laser printer, rather than the thermal one, so as to afford some permanence. To our keepsake, at least.
We had wonderful nurses who served as some of the finest examples of the profession I've ever seen. I have VERY exacting standards too, I'll have you know, being as my mother has been an RN for so long that I'd almost certainly give away too close a clue to her age if I told you. She's no easy act to follow, be certain of that!
On the nurse thing, an odd thing happened. The phlebotomy tech came in to get a hemogram, so she needed two tubes of blood. Just before she came in, the nurse told me that another nurse would be in shortly to insert my IV and get my fluids and meds going. Having that whole self-preservation mechanism thing in full force, what with my own set of 46 chromosomes and all, I respectfully requested that the tech please allow the RN to insert the IV catheter, use that to get the blood, and then be on her way while the RN connected tubes and such. Easy right? One needle, two departments happy. By this point, my nurse had returned with a liter of LR spiked with oxytocin, tubing, and so on, so she was actually present when the nimrod phlebotomy tech said, and this is a direct quote, "Well, the nurses don't GIVE IVs all day long, so lots of them ain't as good at hittin' a vein as we are. Plus, it's just two tubes of blood. It's not the end of the world."
My nurse, reserved and pleasant all the while, slipped up a tad bit right then, and actually rolled her eyes as she exited stage left with a quickness. That rolling of the eyes trick is Nurse for, "What the FUCK did you just SAY!?!?!? I'm getting back-up NOW, sista!"
And back-up she got. The sweet and lovely IV nurse practically threw the door open, and proceeded to chew the ass of the phlebotomy tech, but it was the most amazing ass-chewing I think I've ever seen, because she never grimaced, maintained a totally sincere pleasantness to her voice, and smiled the entire time she was explaining to the Underling that yes, she could get the IV into my voluminous vein (thank you for THAT one too, Mom!) and fill the two tubes, both EDTA for no clotting purple-top and a red-top for whole blood just on the off-chance it might be needed, with a quickness.
The phlebotomy tech was surprised at first, I think kind of maybe a little pissed next, but really didn't have time to make all five stages of the on-the-job-grief-process, because before she was done looking pissy/confused, she had two tubes of my blood in her hand, and I a perfectly placed IV catheter in mine. Ok, the scenery sucked, but that itty bit of it was just gorgeous. Funny how that works, there's beautiful moments in even the most horrid circumstances. God is tricky that way, I think. Has a pretty odd sense of humor, but at least He has one!
The rest was pretty lame. Off to anesthesia, down for the count, woke up in pretty much no pain, but they insisted on giving me fentinyl anyway (no complaints here!) and wheeled me back to my room, where my dearest darling doll husband had done the precise naughty things I asked him to do, and in just the right order:
1. He met my gurney at the door that exits into the day surgery unit, approached without asking permission from the confused Central Transport person wheeling my zonked body around, and gingerly and perfectly placed my glasses on my face so I was no longer blind.
2. The moment the nurse left, which she refused to do until she saw me suck, swallow, and not vomit back up a few sips of Coca Cola over ice (you know, one other thing to add to the RIGHT list: Hospital Ice. It's ALWAYS perfect.) AND urinate in the toilet without the aid of David Copperfield, Mr. Cakes produced from his sleeve, no shit, he had a 32oz BK vanilla milkshake, straw already in place, in his sleeve, and brought it to my mouth.
I got probably half of it down before we were molested any further, and at that point, as I have come to realize after numerous times of having black-market-milkshakes delivered to my hospital bed, AMA of course, once they saw I'd gotten that much of it down and that I was entirely too stubborn to even think about letting any of it back up, they just kind of sighed, shook their heads, and didn't bother warning me to go easy. HAH! Score one for ME!
Oh... there was the migraine, which hit about half an hour after the shake. No connection, or none I'm willing to acknowledge at least, but once again, the Mood and Pain Altering Chemical Fairies came out of the freakin' woodwork to provide relief. This time I got a Morphine and Phenergan cocktail, on the upper right quadrant of my tail, in fact. No more headache. No more consciousness either, for an hour or so, but hey, that's why they have all those medical people hanging around in hospitals, right? The headache didn't return, and finally I got to go home.
My discharge (damn, there's that word again, and in association with surgery on female parts, even barely, it just seems so WRONG here) papers insisted I was to stay bedridden for a minimum of 24 hours, and that I was only to get up long enough to relieve myself, and only then with an escort. I, for once, did exactly as I was told. I took not one of the 30 Tylox capsules I got on the same day they gave me the Xanax, because, seriously I had no pain. None. Nada. Zip.
Well, none on the first day. At exactly 24.5 hours after my discharge, I was going stir crazy, so I persuaded my exhausted husband to cart me to the store at the end of the street where my M-I-L lives, where I procured a cart, into which I placed two VERY large ribeye steaks, some cokes, and a pack of pecan spinwheels. Breakfast of champeens, I tell ya! I was then driven back to her place, where I personally broiled the slabs of iron-rich cow to a perfect brown on the outside and RED on the inside, and Mr. Cakes and I set about the work of slurping down every luscious bleeding bit. Aaaaaaahhhhhhh. Oh, Texas Toast too. I forgot that part. Can't have a convenience-store ribeye without convenience-store Texas Toast. And it was gooooooooooooood!
Of course, when I tried to stand up and stow my plate, my legs kind of vetoed the decision, and I found myself inexplicably right back on my butt. No hill, Mr. Cakes grabbed my plate, took it to the sink, and returned with a cool rag for my face. He so totally rocks.
Or at least he did, until we got home, got the kids in bed, and The Night of the Nuclear Meltdown Defcon Five Psycho Wife happened. I can't remember most of what I said, but I do remember the shocking intensity of both the emotions I was feeling and the speed with which they shifted, one to another and then another, a fucking kaleidemoscope, I tell you, and it was NOT PRETTY!
My husband (God love him and God be thanked and praised for bringing this wonderful man into my life who can and DOES tolerate me, willingly even!) informed me that the only reason he didn't file divorce papers on the spot was that I did a startling rendition of Meatwad from ATHF as I lurched/rolled out of our bed and in the general direction of the bathroom, muttering some unintelligible shit about my brother, and it was then he knew for CERTAIN that I was NOT THERE, and that what he was seeing wasn't actually coming from my heart, but rather from a big nasty jumbled up concotion of post-partum hormones, Xanax, Morphine, Fentinyl, Grief, Stress, DIStress, Horror... you get the picture.
Actually, I really hope you don't. And I hope you never ever do. Even if I hate you, I hope you never EVER find yourself in that place. It's cold, and dark, and scary, and there are things there that will give you nightmares if you have the misfortune of looking directly at them. Hell, they'll give you nightmares even if you only see them in your periphery, provided you're not pumped full of psychotropic meds and highly addictive pain medications! To my knowledge, there is no word for that place, because "Hell" is just too antiquated and quaint sounding, and everything else seems contrived. "Bad" is overused, but probably as good as it gets. If "Bad" had a geographical location, that's where I spent a good two hours on Tuesday night. Only when you're IN "Bad," an hour here feels like about six there. Gross. Foul. Awful. And thankfully, over now. For good, I hope.
I'm up and living again. I've taken a few doses of Aleve along the way, but mostly just as a prophylaxis. I accept and have total faith in Nature Working The Way It Does for Good Reason. I know this is neither the end of my life, nor the world. It sucks, and it is sad, and when I went to Wal-Mart today, I kind of teetered on the verge of emotional implosion because I couldn't turn my head without seeing a newborn baby or a cart full of baby bits and supplies, and today that MATTERED. But, Mr. Cakes was there, and we got through the stupid shopping, and came home, and I held my sons, and my sons and my husband held me, and we were a whole and content family, the four of us together.
Turns out, my doctor made not one, but NUMEROUS errors and oversights, several of which may well have been the direct cause of the failure of this pregnancy. Won't know for certain on that until we get back the chromosomal analysis from the embryo. Won't know even then how to proceed... suing the shit out of him has crossed my mind, and I know for certain I'd bank BIG if I did, but ultimately that wouldn't fix anything. Maybe it would make him pay ATTENTION to what his patients tell him about their bodies a little more closely in the future. And maybe that would be enough. Or maybe it wouldn't. I don't know.
I'm tired right now, and I"m going to get some sleep, that old friend with whom I'd lost touch for so very long but whom I've recently rediscovered, thanks also to everyone's Favorite Benzodiazapine.... XANAX!!! OH, and before YOU go calling the men in white coats, know this: of the 60 tablets prescribed to me to be taken 1 or 2 at a time "if needed" (no shit, that's exactly how the script reads), I have actually taken exactly 15. No budding drug problems here, so worry not. This is EXACTLY what that shit is for, and I suspect my next entry will be an Ode to Benzos or some such thing. We'll see.
If you've gotten this far, thank you for listening, and for taking the time to see what's happening in my head and in my life. I appreciate your interest more than you know. Please know that, while I am generally quite the extrovert, I am not an attention-seeking extrovert, and my purpose in writing this has been twofold:
1. Getting it OUT, especially NOW while it's fresh enough that the details haven't evaporated.
2. If you knew I was pregnant, and happened to run into me on the street, you'd likely ask about the pregnancy.
I've actually done that before, and was so mortified when my poor friend informed me that she'd miscarried and therefore had no baby at present for me to inquire after, I vomited at her feet. Trust me, it's so far worse than "awkward," you really do NOT want to be there. So, now we all know, and it's ok to ask about whatever, and it's ok for me to reply or not, depending on how I'm getting by that particular day. Agreed? Good.
Sunday night, after two weeks of worry and fretting over my every breath and step, I started bleeding for real. I didn't have to rush to the hospital this time, or even call the doc, to know what had happened. I simply lay in my husband's arms in our bed and cried. Somehow, I slept, and when morning came we got our boys to school and ourselves to the ultrasound appointment we'd made two weeks prior. The one that was supposed to provide our first glimpse of the teeny little blip that is an embryonic heartbeat. The same heartbeat we'd seen already on two separate earlier occasions because of previous episodes of bleeding. The one we knew would not be there on Monday. And indeed, it was not. No blip. No blink. No flicker. Just.... stillness.
Apparently, ultrasound techs are running about 30/70 when it comes to having souls at Woman's in Baton Rouge, but at least this one's total deadpan demeanor and complete lack of even the basest of human reaction didn't come as a surprise to us. We'd seen it before. It did piss me off quite a bit, however, that I had to make my own fucking diagnosis.
Uh, hello? HEY! We didn't come here expecting a heartbeat. I don't SEE a heartbeat. While we understand and accept that you, Ms. Tech, aren't able to make any actual diagnosis, it would be quite helpful, since you do this every freaking day of your LIFE, if you would do us the kindness of telling us what you see. Actually, it went a little more like this:
ME to my husband: There's no flicker. I don't see a heartbeat.
ME to tech: That's the fetal pole, right? And the yolk sack to the left?
Tech: Yes.
ME: And there's not a heartbeat visible, is there?
Tech: [Said nothing. Didn't even blink. No eye contact with either of us. No apparent interest in anything on the screen six inches from her face. Just stared emptily through the fucking monitor.]
ME: Um, hello? I asked if you see anything? On the screen? I don't see a heartbeat. We don't expect one, but can you confirm please?
Tech: (apparently awakening from some transcendent state) Hm? Oh. I'm going to measure the fetal pole. (proceeds thusly)
ME: (after several beats and no info from Tech) Ok, so what measurement did you get?
Tech: I get 6weeks 6 days.
ME: (Now thoroughly OVER this bitch and her fucking disengagement) So, then we have a dead baby, because I'm 7 wks 4 days, and we've seen embryonic cardiac activity on the previous two sonograms, right? You still haven't said whether or not you see cardiac activity! Do you or not? It's not a hard question. We should KNOW.
Tech: (removing invasive probe, casting eyes downward, but still affecting no emotion or change in demeanor whatsoever, not even a lowering of the volume or change in the tone of her voice) No, I don't see anything. (Now getting up from her seat in one fluid motion, somehow managing to turn her back to us without ever making so much a nanosecond's worth of eye contact.) I'm going to call your doctor right now.
So, at least then we had a bit of privacy to cry together. My dearest was his usual Knight in Shining Armor self, and just got a bit teary while he wrapped his arms around me, kept me from falling off the damned table from the shake of my sobs, and stood with me, rock solid, my own personal Everest. He carefully, slowly, as if he were moving amongst wild beasts (and let's be honest here, what better metaphor is there in the world for a grieving mother?), he handed me my clothes, put my shoes onto my feet for me (again to keep me from toppling off the table, and now I think of it, those fuckwads are SO lucky he was there, lest I sue the shit out of them for having the damned tables too high in the first fucking place!), kissed away my tears until I worried he might drown in them.... and then whipped around, never letting me go, when the dumb callous fucking bitch knocked on the door and said "Ready?" in a voice so perky Martha Stewart would have been wowed, and bellowed a "NO" so fierce I'm certain it penetrated every wall and caused momentary disruptions of the screens of every sonograph that was running at that moment within at least a two-mile-radius of us.
When I was ready, when I could breathe without hitching, I made sure it was ok with him that we not wait for "nature to take its course." I wanted to get about the business of closure as expeditiously as possible, and there was no way to know when, or IF, my body would finally figure out it was no longer pregnant with a live embryo, thus triggering the process of expulsion. I wanted a D&C, the sooner the better, but if he wasn't in agreement, I needed us to figure it out before we left. He agreed and trusted whatever I deemed to be the best for my own psyche and physiology.
So, I donned my "movie-star sunglasses," (my elder son calls them that. Think Audrey Hepburn.), knowing from experience that the absolute LAST thing in the world any pregnant woman wants to see is a woman who has just discovered she is not pregnant even though she should be, taking comfort somehow in my ability to at least do that much to control the world around me, to at least make that effort, ineffective as it may or may not have been, to shield all those ripe, smiling women from the ugliness of our grief... and my darling stayed ever at my side, tightly bound to me, shielding my body and my mind and my soul from any and all outside interference.
We exited the ultrasound area, walked the twenty feet or so to the elevators, and ascended to the next floor, where the receptionist asked our name, and without even having to inquire as to which doctor I was there to see, immediately directed us back to the correct office. I waited all of five minutes, still all Hollywood in my dark glasses and tearstreaked face, before being ushered into an exam room. For once, no one told me to remove even a stitch of clothing. And we didn't wait long to see the doctor. But pretty much, that's ALL they got right.
Doc started to go through our "options," as though such a thing were even fucking possible, much less necessary (for us), and I cut him short and said yes, get me on the schedule for the D&C ASAP, and no, I don't want to wait a goddamned week to "confirm the results of the ultrasound!" What, are there THAT many people in the world who are totally unable to accept reality? Can people not see that conspicuous absence that signals. No. Pulse.
I don't know what kind of sad, out-of-touch-and-living-on-empty-dreams folks generally make the rounds at that office, but as far as I and We and everyone I know sees it, NO PULSE=DEAD. End of story. Nothing to confirm. Just dead. And Dead deserves a bit of fucking respect, like moving the fuck on with it and letting Dead just be Dead.... not in some weird "missed abortion" limbo that could continue for weeks or months. FUCK!
We got to go then to the nurses' station, where we sat in a mercifully hidden little alcove (ok, they got THAT part right too) and filled out the reams of paperwork for the surgery and anesthesia and so forth to come. I tried my best, and was mostly pretty successful, at neither screaming nor sobbing, but at one point, I couldn't figure out what to write in the blank that followed the word "Name."
I forced myself to pause. I let the tears flow for a moment, then cocked my head toward the closest nurse, and in my calmest, most coherent voice, knowing full well I'd certainly require chemical assistance in order to navigate the unfamiliar waters ahead of me, tried to ask for a prescription for Lexapro or something like it, but I only got as far as, "Um, would it be possible, can I please, may I have a prescription for something to..." and the nurse, God bless her and all of her family and her parents for having her [and holy crap, I just realized that her name is Tracy, and that the nurses who attended the births of BOTH our sons, both of whom were wonderful and fabulous in their own unique ways were ALSO named Tracy, not that it matters in the least, except that it does because it matters to me right now this second as I write this] didn't wait for me to struggle any longer, didn't force so much as another heartbeat from me, before suggesting, "Xanax?"
I was in shock, I suppose, only mildly so, but even then I was somewhat taken aback. I stammered a reply, "Uh, oh, um, ok. Xanax would actually be most adequate." Seriously, I really said that. I was taken over by a grieving Mary Poppins for that brief moment I guess. Weird shit.
Let's see.. then came the fog. Godsent, blessedly thick, cool fog. Fog dense enough to permit me to sleep at any and every moment I thought I might like to do so for the next three days. Fog that was light enough for me to breathe effortlessly, despite the fact that Gravity had siezed hold of me with a vengeance so strong my limbs seemed made of lead and I felt sure it would wrend my very soul right out of my body.
My Fog, a luminous, life-sustaining plasma shroud, enveloped me on Monday morning as we left the doctor's office, hovered in and around me through Tuesday afternoon, but remained ethereal and penetrable enough for me to do things like speak to and hug and kiss my sons (my mother-in-law was there too, stepping in and taking over the role of mothering them so effortlessly that, had I not been drunk with that Fog, I might have wondered if maybe she'd practiced ahead of time) until the moment I was taken in for surgery.
It lightened its grasp on me enough to let me remember that I'd been given not a single image from Monday's ultrasound, and so had no memento to mark the devastating occasion. No tangible evidence of this irrevocable change in our lives. It lifted a bit, allowing me to think, and ask for an ultrasound to be done on Tuesday, BEFORE the D&C, for the sole purpose of getting that keepsake image to put away in a box, along with the pregnancy tests and other ultrasound photos and various other bits and things we've collected as a direct result of this most recent pregnancy.
I can't say for sure what comprised my Fog, but it was certainly NOT just Xanax, because it didn't just touch me. My children got a whiff of it too, and hovered around me close and comforting, somehow aware that I desperately needed to smell and feel them. I have at least one very Catholic aunt who'd undoubtedly insist it wasn't a fog at all, but the gossamer wings of some heavenly army of guardian angels... frankly, that's a bit hokier an explanation that I can buy. But only just.
I think my Fog is like that old nursery rhyme, "What are little girls made of?" Only instead of sugar and spice and so forth, my Fog is maybe one part Xanax, two parts (me and mine) Divine Marital Love and Devotion, and probably two thousand seven hundred thirty-one parts prayer, give or take. In my mind, that is the only recipe that even comes close to making any sense, and if you know me, you know I can taste just about ANYTHING and then go home and recreate a most passable facsimile. It's one of my gifts.
We got our picture. We had an ultrasound tech who was actually in possession of all the 46 choromosomes requisite to be classified as a member of our own species, evidenced by her willingness to speak with us, treat us with kindness and dignity, and also her brief-enough-to-be-professional-but-sweet-enough-to-still-matter saying that she had been in our circumstances before once too. She even went beyond what we expected, and printed our picture on a standard sheet of white paper, off the laser printer, rather than the thermal one, so as to afford some permanence. To our keepsake, at least.
We had wonderful nurses who served as some of the finest examples of the profession I've ever seen. I have VERY exacting standards too, I'll have you know, being as my mother has been an RN for so long that I'd almost certainly give away too close a clue to her age if I told you. She's no easy act to follow, be certain of that!
On the nurse thing, an odd thing happened. The phlebotomy tech came in to get a hemogram, so she needed two tubes of blood. Just before she came in, the nurse told me that another nurse would be in shortly to insert my IV and get my fluids and meds going. Having that whole self-preservation mechanism thing in full force, what with my own set of 46 chromosomes and all, I respectfully requested that the tech please allow the RN to insert the IV catheter, use that to get the blood, and then be on her way while the RN connected tubes and such. Easy right? One needle, two departments happy. By this point, my nurse had returned with a liter of LR spiked with oxytocin, tubing, and so on, so she was actually present when the nimrod phlebotomy tech said, and this is a direct quote, "Well, the nurses don't GIVE IVs all day long, so lots of them ain't as good at hittin' a vein as we are. Plus, it's just two tubes of blood. It's not the end of the world."
My nurse, reserved and pleasant all the while, slipped up a tad bit right then, and actually rolled her eyes as she exited stage left with a quickness. That rolling of the eyes trick is Nurse for, "What the FUCK did you just SAY!?!?!? I'm getting back-up NOW, sista!"
And back-up she got. The sweet and lovely IV nurse practically threw the door open, and proceeded to chew the ass of the phlebotomy tech, but it was the most amazing ass-chewing I think I've ever seen, because she never grimaced, maintained a totally sincere pleasantness to her voice, and smiled the entire time she was explaining to the Underling that yes, she could get the IV into my voluminous vein (thank you for THAT one too, Mom!) and fill the two tubes, both EDTA for no clotting purple-top and a red-top for whole blood just on the off-chance it might be needed, with a quickness.
The phlebotomy tech was surprised at first, I think kind of maybe a little pissed next, but really didn't have time to make all five stages of the on-the-job-grief-process, because before she was done looking pissy/confused, she had two tubes of my blood in her hand, and I a perfectly placed IV catheter in mine. Ok, the scenery sucked, but that itty bit of it was just gorgeous. Funny how that works, there's beautiful moments in even the most horrid circumstances. God is tricky that way, I think. Has a pretty odd sense of humor, but at least He has one!
The rest was pretty lame. Off to anesthesia, down for the count, woke up in pretty much no pain, but they insisted on giving me fentinyl anyway (no complaints here!) and wheeled me back to my room, where my dearest darling doll husband had done the precise naughty things I asked him to do, and in just the right order:
1. He met my gurney at the door that exits into the day surgery unit, approached without asking permission from the confused Central Transport person wheeling my zonked body around, and gingerly and perfectly placed my glasses on my face so I was no longer blind.
2. The moment the nurse left, which she refused to do until she saw me suck, swallow, and not vomit back up a few sips of Coca Cola over ice (you know, one other thing to add to the RIGHT list: Hospital Ice. It's ALWAYS perfect.) AND urinate in the toilet without the aid of David Copperfield, Mr. Cakes produced from his sleeve, no shit, he had a 32oz BK vanilla milkshake, straw already in place, in his sleeve, and brought it to my mouth.
I got probably half of it down before we were molested any further, and at that point, as I have come to realize after numerous times of having black-market-milkshakes delivered to my hospital bed, AMA of course, once they saw I'd gotten that much of it down and that I was entirely too stubborn to even think about letting any of it back up, they just kind of sighed, shook their heads, and didn't bother warning me to go easy. HAH! Score one for ME!
Oh... there was the migraine, which hit about half an hour after the shake. No connection, or none I'm willing to acknowledge at least, but once again, the Mood and Pain Altering Chemical Fairies came out of the freakin' woodwork to provide relief. This time I got a Morphine and Phenergan cocktail, on the upper right quadrant of my tail, in fact. No more headache. No more consciousness either, for an hour or so, but hey, that's why they have all those medical people hanging around in hospitals, right? The headache didn't return, and finally I got to go home.
My discharge (damn, there's that word again, and in association with surgery on female parts, even barely, it just seems so WRONG here) papers insisted I was to stay bedridden for a minimum of 24 hours, and that I was only to get up long enough to relieve myself, and only then with an escort. I, for once, did exactly as I was told. I took not one of the 30 Tylox capsules I got on the same day they gave me the Xanax, because, seriously I had no pain. None. Nada. Zip.
Well, none on the first day. At exactly 24.5 hours after my discharge, I was going stir crazy, so I persuaded my exhausted husband to cart me to the store at the end of the street where my M-I-L lives, where I procured a cart, into which I placed two VERY large ribeye steaks, some cokes, and a pack of pecan spinwheels. Breakfast of champeens, I tell ya! I was then driven back to her place, where I personally broiled the slabs of iron-rich cow to a perfect brown on the outside and RED on the inside, and Mr. Cakes and I set about the work of slurping down every luscious bleeding bit. Aaaaaaahhhhhhh. Oh, Texas Toast too. I forgot that part. Can't have a convenience-store ribeye without convenience-store Texas Toast. And it was gooooooooooooood!
Of course, when I tried to stand up and stow my plate, my legs kind of vetoed the decision, and I found myself inexplicably right back on my butt. No hill, Mr. Cakes grabbed my plate, took it to the sink, and returned with a cool rag for my face. He so totally rocks.
Or at least he did, until we got home, got the kids in bed, and The Night of the Nuclear Meltdown Defcon Five Psycho Wife happened. I can't remember most of what I said, but I do remember the shocking intensity of both the emotions I was feeling and the speed with which they shifted, one to another and then another, a fucking kaleidemoscope, I tell you, and it was NOT PRETTY!
My husband (God love him and God be thanked and praised for bringing this wonderful man into my life who can and DOES tolerate me, willingly even!) informed me that the only reason he didn't file divorce papers on the spot was that I did a startling rendition of Meatwad from ATHF as I lurched/rolled out of our bed and in the general direction of the bathroom, muttering some unintelligible shit about my brother, and it was then he knew for CERTAIN that I was NOT THERE, and that what he was seeing wasn't actually coming from my heart, but rather from a big nasty jumbled up concotion of post-partum hormones, Xanax, Morphine, Fentinyl, Grief, Stress, DIStress, Horror... you get the picture.
Actually, I really hope you don't. And I hope you never ever do. Even if I hate you, I hope you never EVER find yourself in that place. It's cold, and dark, and scary, and there are things there that will give you nightmares if you have the misfortune of looking directly at them. Hell, they'll give you nightmares even if you only see them in your periphery, provided you're not pumped full of psychotropic meds and highly addictive pain medications! To my knowledge, there is no word for that place, because "Hell" is just too antiquated and quaint sounding, and everything else seems contrived. "Bad" is overused, but probably as good as it gets. If "Bad" had a geographical location, that's where I spent a good two hours on Tuesday night. Only when you're IN "Bad," an hour here feels like about six there. Gross. Foul. Awful. And thankfully, over now. For good, I hope.
I'm up and living again. I've taken a few doses of Aleve along the way, but mostly just as a prophylaxis. I accept and have total faith in Nature Working The Way It Does for Good Reason. I know this is neither the end of my life, nor the world. It sucks, and it is sad, and when I went to Wal-Mart today, I kind of teetered on the verge of emotional implosion because I couldn't turn my head without seeing a newborn baby or a cart full of baby bits and supplies, and today that MATTERED. But, Mr. Cakes was there, and we got through the stupid shopping, and came home, and I held my sons, and my sons and my husband held me, and we were a whole and content family, the four of us together.
Turns out, my doctor made not one, but NUMEROUS errors and oversights, several of which may well have been the direct cause of the failure of this pregnancy. Won't know for certain on that until we get back the chromosomal analysis from the embryo. Won't know even then how to proceed... suing the shit out of him has crossed my mind, and I know for certain I'd bank BIG if I did, but ultimately that wouldn't fix anything. Maybe it would make him pay ATTENTION to what his patients tell him about their bodies a little more closely in the future. And maybe that would be enough. Or maybe it wouldn't. I don't know.
I'm tired right now, and I"m going to get some sleep, that old friend with whom I'd lost touch for so very long but whom I've recently rediscovered, thanks also to everyone's Favorite Benzodiazapine.... XANAX!!! OH, and before YOU go calling the men in white coats, know this: of the 60 tablets prescribed to me to be taken 1 or 2 at a time "if needed" (no shit, that's exactly how the script reads), I have actually taken exactly 15. No budding drug problems here, so worry not. This is EXACTLY what that shit is for, and I suspect my next entry will be an Ode to Benzos or some such thing. We'll see.
If you've gotten this far, thank you for listening, and for taking the time to see what's happening in my head and in my life. I appreciate your interest more than you know. Please know that, while I am generally quite the extrovert, I am not an attention-seeking extrovert, and my purpose in writing this has been twofold:
1. Getting it OUT, especially NOW while it's fresh enough that the details haven't evaporated.
2. If you knew I was pregnant, and happened to run into me on the street, you'd likely ask about the pregnancy.
I've actually done that before, and was so mortified when my poor friend informed me that she'd miscarried and therefore had no baby at present for me to inquire after, I vomited at her feet. Trust me, it's so far worse than "awkward," you really do NOT want to be there. So, now we all know, and it's ok to ask about whatever, and it's ok for me to reply or not, depending on how I'm getting by that particular day. Agreed? Good.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Blockbuster Boycott
So the other day, I watched a movie with a friend at my house. She rented the flick from Blockbuster, and then left it here for me to watch again if I chose, provided I'd return it.
Well, because the brain atrophy has already begun, I forgot about the damned thing until two weeks later (WHEW on the whole late fees thing!), and then when I fetched it for return, I realized I had NO CLUE which store she'd rented from. No hill though, because the big BB has a catchy "return your movies to ANY LOCATION" policy, right? Well, apparently not. I went to MY location (although I hardly feel justified in calling it that, since I signed up six months ago and was actually retrieving my otherwise unused membership card now) and found a few movies for me and the crew, and tried also to return the one my friend had rented.
Here's what followed:
ME (to store clerk/Manager guy): Hi, I'm not sure which store this came from, but I can return it here, right?
Store clerk/Manager Guy: Well, you can, but it's really best if you don't.
ME: Uh, ok. Is it no longer allowable?
Him: Oh no, it's allowed. It's just best if you take it back to the store it came from.
ME: Um, right, but I don't know which store that is.
Him: Here, let me check for you. Oh, it's the College store [Note that one's on the farthest end of the other side of town from me]. You really would do best to take it back there.
ME: Ummmmm, o k. So I'll also be needing these
Him (Interrupting me mid-sentence): I'll need your ID or your card, please.
ME (continuing with my freaking sentence): ... but I need to pick up my membership cards first.
He then proceeded to stare at me blankly for a few seconds before saying, "Your ID?" in a beligerent tone that told me in no uncertain terms that he was positive I must be retarded.
I sighed, handed him my ID, and then waited for him to scan, verify, check, double-check, and then REMAKE AND LAMINATE my cards, which should have been there waiting for me! After they were spat out of the laminator, he slung them across the counter to me and told me my total, only all he said was, "$18.56." I paid the jerk, took my movies, and left, pissed off even more than I might otherwise have been because of my absolute certainty that he was totally unaware of the numerous Customer Service NO NOs he'd just committed, and also fully ignorant of the fact that I was NOT happy, a state easily recognizable by the ample facial expression and kinesthetic evidence I so generously provided. Niiiiiiiice.
So today, I called the people over at that store, and inquired as to whether or not it was still acceptable to drop movies rented from store X at store Y. I was told again that it was best not to , but at least this time I got a reason. The branches aren't connected to each other, so what goes in at store X may not always get counted for store Y, so my account might be charged incorrectly. Um, so not only are they staffed by discourteous nimrods, but they're also so behind the times that they can't figure out how to put a rudimentary network into place? Not what I'd call confidence-inspiring!
Fuck Blockbuster, and fuck their stupid "Return Your Movies ANYWHERE, as long as you don't care if they actually ever show up on your account as having been returned," policy! I'm on BED REST!
Netflix actually comes to the door.
HMPH!
Well, because the brain atrophy has already begun, I forgot about the damned thing until two weeks later (WHEW on the whole late fees thing!), and then when I fetched it for return, I realized I had NO CLUE which store she'd rented from. No hill though, because the big BB has a catchy "return your movies to ANY LOCATION" policy, right? Well, apparently not. I went to MY location (although I hardly feel justified in calling it that, since I signed up six months ago and was actually retrieving my otherwise unused membership card now) and found a few movies for me and the crew, and tried also to return the one my friend had rented.
Here's what followed:
ME (to store clerk/Manager guy): Hi, I'm not sure which store this came from, but I can return it here, right?
Store clerk/Manager Guy: Well, you can, but it's really best if you don't.
ME: Uh, ok. Is it no longer allowable?
Him: Oh no, it's allowed. It's just best if you take it back to the store it came from.
ME: Um, right, but I don't know which store that is.
Him: Here, let me check for you. Oh, it's the College store [Note that one's on the farthest end of the other side of town from me]. You really would do best to take it back there.
ME: Ummmmm, o k. So I'll also be needing these
Him (Interrupting me mid-sentence): I'll need your ID or your card, please.
ME (continuing with my freaking sentence): ... but I need to pick up my membership cards first.
He then proceeded to stare at me blankly for a few seconds before saying, "Your ID?" in a beligerent tone that told me in no uncertain terms that he was positive I must be retarded.
I sighed, handed him my ID, and then waited for him to scan, verify, check, double-check, and then REMAKE AND LAMINATE my cards, which should have been there waiting for me! After they were spat out of the laminator, he slung them across the counter to me and told me my total, only all he said was, "$18.56." I paid the jerk, took my movies, and left, pissed off even more than I might otherwise have been because of my absolute certainty that he was totally unaware of the numerous Customer Service NO NOs he'd just committed, and also fully ignorant of the fact that I was NOT happy, a state easily recognizable by the ample facial expression and kinesthetic evidence I so generously provided. Niiiiiiiice.
So today, I called the people over at that store, and inquired as to whether or not it was still acceptable to drop movies rented from store X at store Y. I was told again that it was best not to , but at least this time I got a reason. The branches aren't connected to each other, so what goes in at store X may not always get counted for store Y, so my account might be charged incorrectly. Um, so not only are they staffed by discourteous nimrods, but they're also so behind the times that they can't figure out how to put a rudimentary network into place? Not what I'd call confidence-inspiring!
Fuck Blockbuster, and fuck their stupid "Return Your Movies ANYWHERE, as long as you don't care if they actually ever show up on your account as having been returned," policy! I'm on BED REST!
Netflix actually comes to the door.
HMPH!
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