Cancer

A few weeks back, I wrote about my relative callous towards breast cancer awareness at Midwest Parents. About how easy it was to look at pink stuff in the store and buy a pink piece of jewelry or a pink silicone mixing bowl and feel good about myself even though I hadn't done anything to really become more "aware" of breast cancer. Or to help people who are suffering. Or to stop and think at all.

My sister-in-law goes in for a second biopsy today. First biopsy showed breast cancer. I'm not even sure why they're doing a second instead of just starting treatment immediately. She's 45.

She's always been the one who worked like a horse, the one who took care of everyone else, the one who told her sisters they were whiners when they felt ill. She's the one who never gave up. From what I hear, she's scared for the first time in her life.

And I'm scared. It started when I was about 35 or so. My friends, my young friends, started getting cancer. Cervical, breast, colon, lung, you name it. In their thirties. What is going on? When did it become the case that everyone gets cancer? I used to think the question about getting married for life was whether the relationship would last; today I'm wondering what the chances are that neither person will battle cancer. And maybe lose.

I know I'm late to the game on this one. Bubblewench wrote last year about her husband getting testicular cancer. And suddenly she questioned whether they really were sure about never wanting kids. I'm sure there are others out there that I'm not even remembering right now. Even when I wrote that post a few weeks ago about not being touched by breast cancer, a flood of people started filling my mind:

- a cousin, 70, just lost his four-year battle the week before I wrote that post
- a good friend's husband, 38, just had surgery for colon cancer that metastasised to his lung. They have an 8-year-old daughter. Chemo starts again this week.
- Grace's grandmother, 60-something, had breast cancer when she was in her early 40s. So has every other woman in her family (her mother, three aunts, one niece). One didn't make it. Now she has stage 4 lung cancer that's metastasised to her brain.
- A distant family member, early 30s, just had a double mastectomy because her mother died of breast cancer and she learned she had the same marker on her DNA.
- Another distant family member (my sister's mother-in-law) has been on death's door for about a year due to some unusual strain of cancer attacking her vital organs.

And now my sister-in-law who I just stayed with for a month. The one who teased me because I was so sick and had to go to the ER.

I don't think it's that I'm unaware; it's that I'm desensitized.

Our lousy house

The mystery of my health prevails. I was still having some symptoms up until yesterday. But today I seem to be back to my normal self. Just in time for our next big adventure.

The cat.

My dear, sweet, terminally ill cat.

Who always lives inside and yet somehow contracted heartworms. Maybe. Or maybe she just developed the antibodies and the worms never got a chance to reproduce. The story goes that she has antibodies and the vet insists that we have to have the aforementioned feline cardiac ultrasound to confirm or deny that she has heartworms. (But if she has them, there's nothing we can do about it. So, what's the point of the ultrasound?)

Which leads me to my next big mystery. How our cat, who always stays inside and never is in contact with other animals, managed to contract LICE while we were away for a month to Brazil. She's in the house, with no other animals, and has someone coming to check on her each day. When we come home, there are clumps of cat fur and little, tiny, grain-of-salt-looking white balls on every horizontal surface. We noticed yesterday that if you give it a day, you also get some black stuff. And that the black stuff moves.

FUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK.

I've never had to deal with lice, whether the human or cat variety, before. Stella's birthday party is tomorrow afternoon. Children are coming to my house. And we can assume that there are little tiny bugs on every single textile in the house.

Let the de-lousing begin. Every bed, every couch, every sheet, every rug, every carpet, every surface, ugh. At least the house will be spanking clean for the party tomorrow, right?

Can someone out there please tell me whether I have to shampoo the cat? Because everything I've read seems to indicate that I do.

One of you out there will say, why don't you just take the cat to the vet and ask your questions there? Mostly because our vet costs a fortune. We take her there because she freaks out around other animals and this vet only treats cats. So we accept that it will be about $100 to walk in the door. But here's the ironic part: the only place I can think that the cat has been in contact with other animals in the last 2-3 months was at the vet's office! I wanna call them and tell them they need to pay for all my delousing paraphernalia plus give me our next visit free.

I think I'm never taking my cat to the vet again. All they do is tell me she's getting more ill and that I need to have really expensive tests done that we can't afford. And the trip to the office makes her freak out and that makes the heart condition worse. And now, she seems to have contracted lice at the office. What is the point?

Grace has to vacuum her room, sort all the laundry and then fold the clean laundry when it comes out of the dryer. Stella has to steer clear of lousy areas of the house. I have to go to the pet store and get lots of shampoo and powder and anything else I need to deal with this issue. And then keep sweeping, vacuuming, laundering, bleaching, and on and on. As for coping with this, I need to keep my head firmly attached to my shoulders. And I will visit my therapist this afternoon.

I'm not going to ask "what next?" ever again.

I figured we needed some lightweight banter from Gracie before I jumped into what fresh hell has broken forth here in the wintery southern hemisphere this past week. Grace is a breath of fresh air, no?

Let's see, where to begin? First, a shout out to my good friend Little Miss Sunshine State. She and I are currently competing in a "who's on the worse run of bad luck" contest. If you'd like to enter, you'd better come up with something more exciting than what we've got. She's so much better than I am, though; she actually knows how to serve up fresh hot hell and make it sound pleasant and serene.

Roseola. That's what Stella's three-day fever of 103-104 was. It was followed by a nice, good, two days of rash. And then she was fine. My husband was just about over his week-long cold at that point, when it became clear that Grace and I had caught it. He went to the pharmacy and bought extra tissues and cold medicine. Then it got a little nutty.

Sunday was Stella's baptism. It was lots of fun, very nice. Hours of preparation and hours at the church. Lots of picture taking. Lots of smiles. Stella looked marvelous. But somewhere in the midst of my adrenalin, I knew something was not right. I felt tired, weak. By the afternoon, every time I ate or drank something, I felt nauseous.

(I know what you're thinking: she's pregnant again. Well, no, no such luck. That explanation would be oh, so simple.)

By Monday, I was thinking I should fast. Clearly something was up and I just needed to give my body a chance to purge itself and then start over. By Monday night, my body started involuntarily purging my digestive tract. On Tuesday morning, I decided not to eat anything and stuck with a few glasses of warm water. Some apple tea. Then about mid afternoon, a banana and cinnamon tea. Still, something was not quite right. I fell asleep.

Fast forward to that evening. I know something is very wrong. I'm having very bad abdominal cramping. No one is home with me and Stella, so I nurse her at 7p, lay her down in her crib, and pray she falls asleep. And she did. And then I lay on the couch, moaning, trying to visualize a focal object as I breathe through pain. Trying to imagine myself wrapped in a protective cocoon and relax my muscles. Trying to stop whatever is happening.

At 9p, Grace came home. I told her to be quiet so Stella wouldn't wake up. I couldn't stand up for more than a few seconds without feeling faint. My brother-in-law (who gave Grace a ride home) asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said, no, there's no need. And really, at that point, I believed that.

Really.

The truth of the situation is, I have been trying to stay out of the hospital for twelve months straight. It's a modest goal, don't you think? It's been at least five years since I was able to do that. Every time I think things are wrapped up nicely and that I'm healthy and can go about my merry way, WHAM! Something hits me upside the head and there I am again.

This week, on Tuesday night, it was that around 10p I broke out in tiny little red bumps all over the top of my thighs. I took benadryl. It kept spreading, up my torso and around to my back. My sister-in-law came home (an RN no less), took one look at my legs and asked, "what is that?!?!" I guessed maybe allergies. My husband came home a few minutes later. The look on his face said it all. I took a second dose of benadryl and a shower. Then I laid down to rest. Still, stomach cramps, body rejecting everything in my GI tract, and hives spreading everywhere, from the tip of my head to the bottom of my feet.

By midnight, I told my husband to take me to emergency. By the time we got there, I couldn't walk anymore. By the time I had been triaged, I couldn't sit up anymore. It's the only time in my life I can remember thinking, 'Don't let me die right now.'

Three hours later, and lots of injections and blood tests later, the news came: I've got some infection.

The last time this happened to me was November 2009, while I was on antibiotics because there was some uterine infection of leftover placenta. After I saw my allergist, I was left with the same thing I had before: this isn't something from the outside that's causing this reaction, it's on the inside. My body has some infection and it doesn't know what to do, so it does everything it can to get rid of it. The problem is, it's killing me while it's trying to get rid of the infection.

But, what's the infection?

The last piece of evidence came by Wednesday morning. Those horrible stomach cramps? Period. Way too early. WAY too early. By this point I realized, I gotta call my reproductive endocrinologist and find out what's going on inside my body. The office scheduled an appointment for me the morning after we return home.

I'm hoping for the best. Next week Grace is having her wisdom teeth removed. I have to sort things out with the insurance adjuster as per our car accident of exactly four weeks ago. I need to plan Stella's first birthday party, taking place less than two weeks from today. I'd like to take some time to go to the pool with the girls, maybe trim boxwoods in the back and transplant some to the front yard.

But I've got a sick sinking feeling, somehow I've got to be ready to accept that I may have to schedule a surgery for myself in there.

Sorting out the symptoms

I called our US pediatrician on Thursday afternoon. They told me the following: we don't worry about a fever in an infant unless (a) it goes over 105 degrees F and/or (b) it lasts for over 24 hours and is not accompanied with other symptoms. If it goes over 105, go to emergency; if it lasts over 24 hours without breaking at all and there are no other symptoms, go see a doctor.

The fever started Wednesday night. After taking tylenol and ibuprofen nonstop, Stella still had not broken a fever under 103 by Saturday morning. We decided to take the baby to see a pediatrician at a local private hospital through their emergency services. After seeing that doctor, there were blood and urine tests ordered, an adjustment of dosing of medicine due to her weight, and a conclusion that she was fighting some infection, most likely roseola or a South American strain of rotavirus. Within 12 hours, she broke her fever and now she is mostly herself again.

Here's the part that made me unexpectedly reflective and calm.

Remember, exactly three years ago our family was in the same city and I was pregnant. Or not. Well, that I was miscarrying was confirmed during our visit. The visit was a whirlwind of doctor visits, exams, international phone calls to my ob/gyn, and a tragic loss of the pregnancy, and me feeling like I had left a dead child behind when we returned to the US. In the end, our little family had a common experience that brought us together; it gave us a way to understand each other differently...and better.

Yesterday as we were driving to the private hospital, I remembered that this was exactly the same place my husband and I went to when a doctor showed us clearly on a sonogram image that I was hemorrhaging. Before my husband could the bill, I quickly walked out of the office and spontaneously burst into tears in the hallway.

Yesterday, after our visit with the pediatrician, we went to the public hospital to have lab work done. I knew this hospital. It is where my sister-in-law works as a nurse. As we parked and walked in, my mind was flooded with the memories of the images of being there three years ago. I had an exam with a doctor who wanted to do a D&C immediately. I was numb. I came to Brazil with good news of a coming child and the three short weeks later, I was facing a surgical procedure due to a spontaneous abortion. Again, I left holding my husband's hand, filled with sadness.

And yet...

Where was Grace during all this?

At home, with her aunts and cousins, mostly being sheltered from the impending bad news. I don't have any idea what it would be like to be her in that situation. I would be remiss to not say that Grace is remarkably mature and flexible in unusual situations. Once she understands what is going on, she often surprises me in her ability to adjust and cope with difficulty. When she finally did find out what had happened that summer three years ago, she responded with sensitivity and empathy. And with her own way of coping with things.

Yesterday as we were all in the car driving to the hospital, when my husband and I were discussing whether or not this was the hospital we had visited when I was miscarrying, Grace was in the back seat talking with Stella in her car seat. I overheard her saying something like, we were all here this summer but it wasn't time yet for you to be born. We had to wait for you. And now you're here.

My heart melted with love. For both of my daughters. Instead of continuing my downward spiral of worry about how much more could go bad with Stella, I became grateful that I had her. And that I had Grace. And that we were all there. And that no one was dying. Because that's what happened the last time we were all there together.

What next?

We've been in Brazil for 10 days now. It's a good break. We get to let go of connections and no one expects us to reply immediately. There's still this mystique associated with international travel (outside Europe, at least) that communication is difficult. In reality, it's an illusion we choose to uphold because it gives us a break from our regular life.

Stella turned 11 months old yesterday.

This morning, at 5a, she woke up crying. This is weird for Stella; she almost always sleeps through the night. As soon as we picked her up out of her crib, we realized she had a fever. We took off her pajamas and put her in a short-sleeved onesie. Then we gave her tylenol (don't worry, the generic kind; we know about the recall). Then I nursed her and hoped she went back to sleep. She slept for another two hours and then was up again. I tried to comfort myself by deciding that this readily apparent illness explained her lack of appetite yesterday.

It's almost lunchtime now and she's slept on and off, nursed on and off, and her fever hasn't broken yet. She still doesn't want to eat real food.

How worried would you be?

It's not so much worry that's getting to me; it's the seemingly never-ending string of inconvenient things happening. Three weeks ago, the baby had hand-foot-mouth disease. Not fun at all. She broke out in hives everywhere, including a lovely patch of red sores on the back of her throat. It was only once Stella was correctly diagnosed that we realized Grace had also had the virus a week earlier. Poor kid took Benadryl for days for no good reason.

Before that it was a bizarre episode of damage to the front door of our house because a candidate for state congress had left a slick, colored flyer in the door jamb over a weekend while we were gone out of town. One night and one rainstorm later, the flyer had nicely adhered to the door paint and upon removal, took the paint right off the door. The candidate, understandably, took measures to have the situation rectified. But the work is still not finished.

Before that it was a roller coaster ride about what to do with the cat while we were out of town. She's at high risk for congestive heart failure, as per her veterinarian visit in May. It wasn't until I found myself on the phone with a feline cardiologist that I realized, this is messed up. Our family is leaving for a month; what is the likelihood that the cat will not survive this length of time? No one could tell me without a feline cardiac ultrasound. The veterinarian finally told me I should put the cat in the care of someone who would be calm in case of an emergency. I calmly hung up the phone and cried a bit by myself.

And then just three days before we left on our trip to Brazil, 4:15p on a Friday, car accident. We were the middle car in a three-car rear-ending collision. It wouldn't have been bad except our car is a compact and the other two cars were a minivan and an SUV. Did I mention everyone was in the car? Including Stella in her car seat? Brand new car seat, now rendered worthless because it was in a car collision. So I found myself not just trying to find a body shop on Friday afternoon, but also a vendor where I could buy a new car seat asap. The body shop stayed open for us to drop the car off and told us it wouldn't be a problem to leave it there for a month. The insurance adjuster said he was sure it would all be fine. I keep having the sick feeling the car is totaled.

Lordy.

Back to the feverish sleepy baby. As a mom, I've always been a believer in letting the kid sweat it out. The fever is doing its work killing the bug. Provided it stays within normal limits, it's not hurting the kid at all. But now that it's happening to Stella for the first time, I'm having flashbacks to being with Grace in Russia when she was about the same age as Stella is now, when she first showed signs of motion sickness and abdominal migraines. I felt just a tad helpless. Granted, I'm in a much better situation now. I'm older and more experienced, I can actually communicate in the language of the country I'm in, and, oh yeah, my husband is a national of the country. Needless to say, the situation is better. But still, today I find myself not so confident in letting the fever run its natural course.

On the positive side, it's the middle of winter here and the highs are in the mid-70s. And everyone in our family got their flu vaccinations. I think I'm trying to find the balance in the whole thing. Life, that is.

It's a pity Freud and I never met.

I didn't sleep well last night. It could have been due to the summer solstice and that I woke up much too early. It could be that I have WAY too much on my mind because we're leaving for Brazil in a week and won't be back until August. But after hearing me relate the narrative of my most memorable dream of last night, my husband thinks I didn't sleep well because I'm taking on the pains of my daughters.

I was in college again. It was parents' weekend and as usual, everything was in disarray. There was some amorphous something on my mind that I needed to do, like some assignment for a class, but I was obliged to visit with family. Then suddenly I found myself at the dentist for my scheduled appointment to have my wisdom teeth extracted. I could feel the dread in my stomach at the procedure. I confirmed for the staff that I hadn't eaten anything since the night before. Then they did anesthesia, and waited, and I waited, and they left the room, and I waited some more...

After a couple of hours, I asked them what the hold up was. They told me the dentist had decided not to removed the teeth. See, I had already had them extracted when I was 14 and I had 11 more sets of wisdom teeth. If they kept taking them out, new ones would only keep coming in. Rather than put me through all this, they told me it was better to just keep the current set of wisdom teeth and catch up with my parents for the end of the weekend festivities.

Which was having pulled pork at the dining hall and then kissing them goodbye as they left for the airport.

Back to real life.

Am I spending time thinking about Grace's future? Like, what she will do once she graduates from high school? Ya, ya, ya. Mostly emphatically, yes. I try to let go, but really it's on my mind a lot. Apparently. I'm sure she knows this and that makes it even worse because I'm sure she thinks about it anyhow and the idea that she knows that I think about it puts a little too much emphasis the whole situation. Get it?

Grace also has an appointment to meet with an oral surgeon in two days, on Wednesday morning. Her wisdom teeth have already broken through and her dentist said act on this now before pain sets in. So we scheduled a consult this week, we'll leave for Brazil for a month, and then as soon as we get back, she'll most likely have surgery.

Surgery? That's a big deal. It's bad enough when it's you, but your kid? She's never had surgery of any kind before. I'm not sure how to breathe through this experience.

And then there's Stella who's also breaking teeth. Since she cut her first bottom two teeth three months ago, they just keep erupting. Her typical routine goes something like: cry, rub, chew, bite, get medicated, fall asleep, repeat. She's got six teeth in now. And in one week we're facing our first air travel with her. Nine hours on a red-eye flight to Brazil. A week from today. Imagine how the other 200 passengers will cope with cry, rub, chew, bite, get medicated, fall asleep, repeat. Oh, I'm sure they will notice her big, beautiful eyes and her precious little smile. Really. Did I include the bit about how I'm sure she'll get excruciating ear pain during this flight as well?

This past week I've started noticing yoga centers in town. I think I need to spend some time doing deep breathing today. After I go to the bank to pick up new debit cards and to the mall to pay a credit card bill and to the library to drop Grace off.

How blogging can save your grandmother's life: A true story

The idea of traveling south to see family for Grace's mid-winter break didn't seem so out of the ordinary. We thought about it, tried on a few sample itineraries for size, and finally decided upon the vacation we had been waiting for. Our little family of four in our little Honda Civic, driving the over 1000 miles south to my grandma's house. The weather would be getting better the farther south we went. We really weren't looking to be entertained by some spectacular spectacle, just get a chance to get away from it all.

Little Miss Sunshine State and I are facebook friends. Since we're bloggy friends too, that makes us about as connected as two people who have never met each other could be. I mentioned the trip to her on facebook. She replied immediately, CAN WE MEET? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!!

She lives a mere 70 miles or so from our southernmost destination. I told her, I would love to meet up with her. It would be GREAT! Yeah, I had a little bit of that feeling of, 'what am I doing meeting up with someone I know only through the words on my electronic screen?' And then there's the whole anonymity of my blog, you know, the one my mother doesn't know about? My mother, who's facebook friends with me merely so she can cyberstalk me in order to speculate every single thing I'm up to? How would I do this? How could I meet up with Little Miss Sunshine State, with the girls, while visiting family, and make sure everything went off without a hitch?

My therapist told me not to worry about things so much, about how they would work out. My husband told me, 'we've got a lot going on during this trip. Are you sure you want to throw in one more person you want to see in 9 total days?' We already had five days of driving in the trips and four different stops. Indeed, it seemed busy. Ok, then. I told Little Miss Sunshine State, 'we'd see.'

Grandma broke her hip a couple weeks before our scheduled departure. After surgery to replace the broken hip, she spent 10 days in ICU. That gave us enough reason to cut out the Alabama leg of the trip to see extended family. It would have been a lot of run-around and, though we would have enjoyed visiting the homestead, it was a better idea to visit with grandma while she was (somewhat) immobile. Fine then, five days in Ocala visiting with Grandma and my parents, my parents who had come up 300 miles from Fort Lauderdale to be with her while she recovered. My little family would enjoy the break. The girls could visit with grandparents and great-grandma, Grace could indulge in long walks and sleeping in. My husband and I could do the same and my husband could even go to the public library for free time reading. All in all, it sounded like a perfect vacation.

In the back of my mind, Little Miss Sunshine State.

By the time we arrived, Grandma had been discharged from the hospital and entered into a nursing/rehab facility. She lives on her own, so she couldn't just go home and become more mobile. It turned out to be perfect. The girls wouldn't have been able to visit with her at all if she had been in the hospital, flu epidemic and all. At the rehab center, we could make ourselves at home while a nursing and therapy staff helped grandma with all her medical needs. Things seemed perfect.

Tuesday, Wednesday. Little Miss Sunshine State and I are exchanging messages while I'm pirating internet off some unsuspecting neighbor in my grandma's neighborhood. I've got her cell phone number but I haven't gotten up the nerve (due to emotions and logistics) to call her. Finally, I decide to just do it.

Voicemail. I leave her a message to call back.

And call back she does. It's like talking to an old friend! Well, an old friend if I had grown up in Cape Cod, that is. She's got vowels I can't even recognize, like Cape COAWD. That's one vowel, not two as a southerner would do it (Cape Caw-uhd!). And it just so happens that the day we talked on the phone was the day that killer whale at Sea World killed a trainer. That seemed like a crazy story to be happening right when we get to talk for the first time. I mean, killer whale killing someone at a water entertainment park? This led us to alligator shows in Florida and snake trainers sapping the venom out of their fangs in front of an audience.

While we're talking my mother comes in and asks, "Are you talking to someone I know?" Little Miss Sunshine State tells me, "Say you're talking to someone you've never met in your life who very well could be a serial killer." I realize this woman is a good, good, woman.

OK, but the point is, we decided to meet up. At the mall. In Ocala, Florida on Friday afternoon. Really. We met at the mall. (gah, I am lame.) I figured it would give us girls a break from the rest of the family and that my little family could visit Grandma that evening.

Friday morning comes and I get everyone ready. Everyone has their requisite serving of grits and eggs, along with orange juice and then I clean up the dishes with Grace's help. Grace reluctantly changes out out of a tank top with holes in it and puts on a purple top from American Eagle instead. She plays stupid with my mom on who we're going to meet. "Some friend of mom's, I'm not sure." Very good, my young child. I have taught you well. I pile the whole family in the car and drop my husband off at the library. He told me to have fun with my mystery friend. And then we girls cut back across town to the mall.

A little bit later, after guiding Little Miss Sunshine State to the mall via cell phone directions, she finds us at Kirkland's. Thank goodness, because Grace had just said it smelled awful in there from too many scented candles.

We visited, we talked, we walked, we ate, we laughed. I heard all about her new training at work. We talked about the kids. We even judged a few outfits Grace had picked out at a local Brazilian shop there. (btw, LMSS, not even in Brazil could she have gotten away with those picks!) And then, the time for us to part came too quickly. She needed to get home and we needed to visit my Grandma before the day got too late. We reluctantly parted with hugs and smiles and said we'd have to do it again before too much time passed.

Back to Grandma. We arrived expecting the time to pass too quickly. It was the last time we'd get to visit with her before beginning the long trek home the next morning. It was getting late, almost dinner time for her (5p), but we wanted to visit even if just for a few minutes. My parents hadn't been able to come over that day due to other details that had to be taken care of before they left two days later. The day before she had been a little tired because she had left the rehab center for an appointment with her surgeon. Good news, but she was exhausted. Before we arrived that Friday afternoon, we had heard she didn't do physical therapy that day at all. When we arrived, she was asleep in bed.

The rest of the family slipped quietly out so as not to disturb her. I sat with her a few minutes before she woke up. She was having difficulty breathing and very tired. She wanted to sit up in her wheelchair.

Within a few minutes, it was clear that something was not right. She told me so and asked me to call the nurse and get her to listen. It took some urging. One nurse didn't think there was any cause for alarm. Grace came back and stood next to grandma. She held her head next to her chest, supporting her. I quickly slipped out into the hallway and called my dad. He said he'd come up in about 10 minutes.

One nurse took two minutes finding her pulse. Her heart rate was slowing. She was having trouble staying awake.

The end of the story? About 7p, she was transported to the hospital via ambulance because her heart rate was dropping far too low. By midnight, she had been stabilized and was in ICU. Dangerous interaction between drugs, her cardiologist said. Through the night via phone calls from my parents at the hospital, it became clear: if we had not been at the rehab center when we were, she would not have made it to the hospital. Had she not made it to the hospital, she would not have survived the night.

Had I not visited with Little Miss Sunshine State on Friday midday, I would have never visited my Grandma so late in the evening.

Follow the logic?

Meeting fellow bloggers can save your grandmother's life. No lie.

What? What happened to coffee hour?!??!!?

I may have mentioned in the past that my husband is from Brazil, in South America, you know, where coffee beans come from? Where they speak Portuguese and the word meaning breakfast (café da manhã) literally translates to "morning coffee"? Yeah. Coffee is a big part of our life. Not in a get-the-biggest-vat-of-the-poison-you-can-and-chug-like-an-addict way, but more like a stop-and-make-time-for-each-other kind of way. I think it started back at our first date. I asked him to go to breakfast. He asked what time. I suggested 10a. He was trying to decide if that would work because he knew he couldn't wake up too early on Saturday, but he also knew that once he woke up he wouldn't be able to go very long without coffee. And he couldn't very well wake up, eat breakfast and have coffee, and then meet me for breakfast. The end of the story is that 10a worked perfectly, we parted ways about 4p and now here we are: married coffee people.

For us, coffee is essential at breakfast and in the afternoon. Sometimes we even have a third coffee after dinner with dessert.

Last week my husband had his teeth whitened by the dentist. They look great. But there's one big drawback: he can't have coffee anymore. It stains his teeth. And what's the point of having the dentist whiten your teeth if you're just going to stain them again?

No problem. He substituted warm milk and added a few tablespoons of coffee or cocoa. Cocoa beans also come from South America, afterall. And we carried on like nothing had changed.

Then we went to the pediatrician with Stella yesterday. She's having some strange symptoms with her digestion. You know, I really don't like reading about gross bodily functions when other people write it, so I'll spare you the details and trust that I've given you enough information. Anyways, we decide that the likely culprit is an infantile sensitivity to lactose. She's had nothing but breastmilk since she was born, though. There's no lactose in breastmilk, so where's the sensitivity coming into play? Oh, in my diet, that's where. It's possible that because I'm intaking milk-based products, that's causing her some trouble. The suggestion by the pediatrician was for me to cut all dairy out of my diet for a week and see what happens.

All dairy? ALL of it? Do you know what that covers? That's right: the milk I put in my several cups of coffee throughout the day. See, I'm really a latte kind of a girl. I don't drink coffee black. Ever. Nevertheless, it was give up the milk in the coffee, give up the coffee altogether, or let the kid continue to have her ever-so-pleasant symptoms. Alright then, black coffee it is.

This morning we sat down for coffee. Gone was the lovely milky white coffee in our cups. Also gone was our signature omelet (milk & cheese & butter). Instead we had coffee-like beverages and fried eggs. And toast. It was not the same. By the end of breakfast, I just looked at the remaining half cup of sweet black stuff in my bug and twisted my nose. Ick.

So the way I see it, we can substitute our coffee with mimosas and port wine (did you know that's from Portugal?) and hope for the best.

Almost Christmas

I am notoriously difficult to buy gifts for. People are never sure what I need, what I will like, or what will be exactly the right present. My mother usually buys me a bunch of stuff that she thinks I need. (I'm starting to realize this gift-giving trend of hers is feeding my fashion emergency.) This year when my mother called to complain about my lack of telling her what I wanted, I told her that it would be so easy. I'm one of those people who walks into the stores at Christmas time and falls apart at how many cute little things there are that you could put around the house. It seems like I never have enough to decorate to my heart's content. So I told her to just go to the store, pick out some really fun decorations, and then send them along.

A few days later, I received a package in the mail. Inside was a reused box that was light and packed full. I opened it up anxiously. Inside I found two throw pillows, both red with an angel covering the front, edged with frilly old-fashioned lace.


My mother included a short note explaining that the pillows had been made by a woman in our church while I was growing up, Mrs. Martin. Since I had been close to Mrs. Martin as a child, my mother thought I would like to have the pillows. She even offered to take the lace off if I thought it was too much for my taste.

As I looked closely at the stitching on angels, I remembered that Mrs. Martin had taught me to do the same on a yellow potholder I made when I was seven. I struggled to keep each stitch the same length, wishing I could make my stitches as uniform as hers were. The stitching she had done on the pillows was just as precise as I remember it being so long ago. If I took a quick look at the pillows without knowing where they had come from, I probably would have missed the huge amount of work put into the task. At one time, all that Mrs. Martin held in her hands was some raw fabric printed with angels and spools of thread. What she produced out of those materials was truly beautiful. And the process by which it became the pillows I held in front of me was a labor of selfless love.


I was very grateful to receive the pillows. I wanted to keep the lace exactly as Mrs. Martin had sewn it there. I felt like when she made them so many years ago, maybe she thought of me a few times. Maybe. Maybe she had a sense that I would get them some day.

I'm trying to remember that each act I commit has long lasting effects that even I cannot imagine. Long after I am gone, maybe someone will be blessed by something I did. Of course, it's possible that I could have the opposite effect on someone by being selfish. That's a sombering idea that makes me want to make the most of every moment of every day.

Lately I've been 'cranky,' as my family members would put it. Sure, I could give fair explanations for why. A surgery, some lingering pain, and a reminder that the holidays always makes depression worse for me. Still, when I am able to see past my own needs, I want to give back selflessly. Especially to my family. To my daughters and my husband.

Long after I am gone, I will be lucky if my great-grandchildren even know what my name was. They definitely won't know anything that afflicted me like surgeries or depression or just too hectic of a life. But maybe, maybe if there are some loving, generous, giving things I can do in my lifetime, those same great-grandchildren might benefit without even knowing it was me who made it possible. Or even who I was.

Merry Christmas, all. Make every moment matter. Peace.

Back in the saddle again

Well, hm. Here I am. It's been awhile, hasn't it? My lengthy absence requires a few cursory notes and then I'll be on to the business at hand: blogging for the day.

Grace's foray into the world of blogging has been a trip for me, as it has been for all of you, I see! She is an honest and forthright person, with me and with the blogging community, so I think that makes her an exceptional writer within the venue. For instance, I told her she needed to moderate her comments and she did so by checking the site throughout the day. Then I asked her if she wanted to have comments forwarded to her email address so she wouldn't have to check the site so often. Her response? "Oh God, NO! I don't want all that mail in my inbox!" I'm guessing she doesn't want to friend any of you on facebook either. But you can always try....

And another thing about Grace. Try as I may, I cannot bring myself to call her Gracie outside of the context of our home. Yes, everyone calls her Gracie. EVERYONE. It's rather classy, I think. But I just can't call her Gracie in written form. So, she is Gracie, yes, but I as her mom will continue to call her Grace. You all out there can call her whatever you like.

Sunday is the second blogoversary of Comparative Childhood. That's something cool. I'm finding it kind of hard to believe that I've been doing this so long already. (Maybe that explains the almost 2 month leave of absence I'm just now coming off. Just an idea...) I'm going to have to talk to Grace about what we should do now that this is "OUR" blog.

Sunday is also the day we will be celebrating our family Christmas. Grace is leaving on Monday evening to visit with her father for the holidays. She's currently trying to negotiate an early return on December 30th so that she can host a New Year's Eve party at our house on the 31st. But that requires a bunch of teenagers to be at my house on New Year's Eve. And of course since it's New Year's Eve, they'll be around until midnight. And then later too, of course. And then there's the question: will their parents be willing to pick them up at 1 or 2a New Year's Day? Of course not. So we'll be having a sleepover? Oh lordy, yes, it seems like we may. However, neither Grace nor I have run this by her stepdad yet and gotten a green light...

But back to the point: family Christmas on Sunday. We'll be having honey glazed ham, because I'll be damned if I'm going to make ANOTHER turkey, and for three people, no less. Grace is convinced this will make our Christmas less than traditional. I feel like telling her to go get rifle, go out to the woods and shoot us a wild goose with some shot. Traditional, my foot. YOU'LL HAVE HAM AND YOU'LL LIKE IT.

More importantly, I'll be scheduling posts for the next couple days and probably relying upon Grace to moderate comments. Because (get ready)...

I'm having surgery tomorrow.

No really, I am.

I was in denial for awhile, there. I still am, actually. I'm still not fully grasping that I really am going back to the hospital to have my fourth surgery in 18 months. No matter, it will happen whether I'm accepting it or not. Something is going awry in my uterus. It looks like it's most likely "retained product of conception," as my doctor put it. And just so I can head you all off at the pass, no, "retained product of conception" does NOT refer to Stella. I've had some infection going on since she was born and after three rounds of antibiotics, it was clear that a little more investigation was in order. Whatever it is they can see on a scope doesn't appear to have any "depth" to it, so they assume it's a piece of membrane or placenta left over. Strange, I thought, since I had a cesarean (they usually do a pretty thorough job of 'getting it all out') and since the site of the muck is not anywhere close to the site of the placenta. But still, my surgeon hopes it comes out easily.

So there you go. I'll be at the hospital most of the day tomorrow. I'm having a spinal rather than general anesthesia, so hopefully this will lead to a shorter time in recovery before we come home. I've been pumping milk for Stella just in case I have get something in me during surgery that she can't have. And one more hopefully...hopefully I'll feel good enough to enjoy pizza and movie tomorrow night because did you hear that Domino's Pizza reworked their recipe and they are testing out the new kind in our region exclusively before launching it nationally?

Alright, then, now I seem to have gotten back on track. I'll put up some more lovely musings shortly. I have missed you all sorely. It's good to be back.

"As for where I've been" and other details to tie you over...

Yes, I'm here. Whoa, we've had quite a couple weeks here in my little corner of the world.

Yes, Ginger the Cat's birthday party is still coming. But much like Grace's birthday this year, I'm finding the rest of life getting in the way of throwing a proper party. Thank goodness the cat doesn't know or care. As for the rest of you who DO care...it'll be up in the next few days. If you still want to wish Ginger happy birthday from your own beast, send me your greetings via email asap.

Yes, I have been writing. If you are dying to read something from me, head over to Midwest Parents. I'm posting there all week. And hey, there's swine flu and Veteran's Day and discussion of the horrible mother-daughter communication we all know and love and even a recipe for Orange Cranberry Muffins. No lie. Check it out.

The trouble with psychiatric evaluation

I think I have hit a wall and I'm not sure I can ever get around it. I had to be linguist so that I wouldn't be able to answer simple questions...

Every so often, before I see my therapist, I have to fill out a battery of questions about how I feel, how my sleep is, do I feel sad or anxious, and a bunch of other stuff she would care about while treating me. The answers required are always on some sort of a Likert scale, like this:

In the past 2 weeks, have you been able to see the funny side of things?

• As much as I ever could
• Not quite so much now
• Definitely not so much now
• Not at all

Sounds easy enough, right? Well, here's where I hit a wall:

Try to characterize your mood in the last two weeks:
"I was always worrying about something."

• never
• very rarely
• rarely
• sometimes
• often
• very often
• almost constantly

How am I supposed to answer that if I was worried a couple times on a few days? What does it mean to say "I was always worrying about something sometimes" ?!?!???!!!?

Sheesh.

And just for kicks, here's my favorite question that I get to answer:

Have you felt peaceful and calm?

• all of the time
• most of the time
• a good bit of the time
• some of the time
• a little of the time
• none of the time

Have YOU felt peaceful and calm during the last two weeks? I feel like if I answer "all of the time" that I should walk into my therapist's office and say, "I'm cured! I'm outta here!"

Update on simple sugars

I just opened my laptop for the morning to check email and facebook. Within five minutes, two glaringly obvious news stories came across the screen and seemed to be screaming at me. Since I'm working away from the simple carbs and sugars, get a load of this:

Found at Yahoo, The Tragedy of Krispy Kreme - all about how the popular doughnut chain rose in financial success and then crashed just as quickly.

Published at NPR's website and broadcast this morning on Morning Edition, Soda Tax Could Shake Up Industry - all about how sugary sodas create havoc for a person's health because of the huge doses of sugar and contributing to obesity.

Now I feel really guilty and lazy just giving in to this weakness. I'm going to have to break this fix. Today, wheat toast with a side of strawberries and bananas instead of cinnamon toast.

I thank you in advance for your support in this trying time.



***UPDATE AS OF 11:15 AM***

And then the first lady gives this address about eating more vegetables and limiting the take out fast food:



What is it, a mass healthy-lifestyle conspiracy against me?

*****UPDATE AS OF 12:45 PM*****

My husband kindly left an article in my path for me to peruse today:


That's right. "20 Things You Didn't Know About Sugar." Found on the last page of this month's Discover magazine.

When I first looked at the article, #7 jumped out at me: "Can you imagine eating 16 sugar cubes at one sitting? You probably have. That's a little less than what is contained in a 20-ounce bottle of cola." The irony of the rhetorical question at the start is that I think it's intended to evoke to immediate answer "no," followed by the revelation that drinking a bottle of cola is the equivalent of doing so; in my case, I probably have literally eaten 16 sugar cubes at one sitting. And it sounded really tempting as I read it.

My husband has no idea about any of my postings on the topic of my diet. So much for my belief that no one else is noticing my lack of propriety in my dining selections.

ADD in our lives

It's been quite awhile since I said anything about ADD. Would you all believe me if I told you that's because it's not something that we deal with anymore? I didn't think so.

Grey at Second Verse has posted some entries lately that have hit so close to my heart. Her son has ADHD and they are struggling with finding a medication that will help him deal with the behavioral symptoms of the disorder. What's really hitting me about her writing is the raw emotions, the frustration and the helplessness, that she expresses as a mother. Like me, she writes that she feels as if educators don't understand that the behavior problems her son is having in school are a direct result of his ADHD and something he cannot just will into changing. The links to two of her most poignant posts are here and here.

As I have read Grey's words these last couple weeks, I felt as if I was reading my own words.

My journey as the parent of a child with ADD has been a difficult one. Not especially difficult, just difficult. In other words, being the parent of a child with AD(H)D is difficult. The disorder is not physically visible for all to see so that the child's challenges are understood. Rather, the symptoms of AD(H)D look like a typical bad kid. In my deepest moments of despair, I have wished that my daughter had a different disability, one that evoked more compassion and understanding from her educators, teachers, girl scout troop leaders, ballet instructors, babysitters, music teachers, family and friends, and on and on the list goes. With AD(H)D, I as a parent have heard a lifetime's worth of pejorative adjectives describing my daughter and more patronizing pep talks from others than I can count. If this is how I as the parent feels, imagine what the child hears and how she feels.

Serial Mommy published an essay by Emily Pearl Kingsley this past June, an essay about what it feels like to parent a child with a disability. When I read it, I felt like my feelings had been captured perfectly. Check out the link when you have time.

This school year is going well. Yes, Grace still deals with ADD. It's with her every day. Her friends comment all the time that she is the energetic and hyper one. But she's doing much better with her studies (all As and Bs since last March) and she's much better at coping with symptoms and advocating for herself now. By conversing with her teachers and guidance counselors, her pediatrician and other professionals, she has become much more aware of who she is and how she can accomplish everything she wants to -- with ADD. In the last six months, I discovered that two of Grace's closest childhood friends also have been diagnosed and that their respective mothers have gone through the same roller coaster ride I have. By no coincidence, the mothers are two of my closest friends. One of the things I wanted to accomplish by starting this blog was to find people who could support me and advise me on the struggle I had in parenting Grace. Thank goodness I found some.

A dietary consideration

I don't have the greatest sense of nutrition. I know what I should eat and what's good for me, but I have the worst cravings around. Fried food, fatty desserts, cheese sausage (love the cheese and sausage), and sweet treats. I really can't resist it. If I go out to eat, the only chance that veggies will show up on my plate is if I'm at a vegetarian restaurant.

But there's a catch. If my intake is being directly passed on to someone, I tend to be a little more careful. When I'm pregnant, I make sure to get enough calcium and eat 5-6 fruits and vegetables a day. I eat fish, not too much and not too little (you need to Omega-3, but can't overdo it on the mercury). Fat is ok, because little people in utero need fat. Sugar is ok too, as long as you don't make it your whole meal and aren't hungry for foods with essential nutrients.

Some of you astute readers out there are remembering something important. See, pregnancy isn't the only time when what I eat is passed directly on to someone else. One of you is bound to bring it up, so I'll just get it out there in the open: Heather, didn't you mention way back when you were pregnant that you were going to nurse Stella exclusively for a year?

Why, yes. Yes, I did say that.

Indeed, Stella's had nothing but mommy milk since she came out of my womb.

Well then, it's relevant to consider my diet, yes. What exactly am I putting into my body to help Stella grow strong? Er, um, well. I've got a slight problem, ladies and gentlemen.

Lately I've noticed something odd going on with my appetite. At first I thought it was just my old friend, my addiction to Coca-Cola, rearing its ugly head. No matter, passing caffeine to a baby is no big deal. But then I started craving coke all the time. Like, right after I finish one can, I start longing for another. Then it occurred to me, this isn't just a caffeine addiction. This is something worse. I'll wake up and for breakfast I make a piece of cinnamon toast on white bread and a second piece of plain toast with grape jelly. (I've never eaten white bread before.) Feeling guilty, I might make some cooked apples, doused in sugar and cinnamon. The tiny powdered doughnuts that my husband leaves out for Grace to eat after swim practice? They look irresistible. I down the whole lot of them before noon. The candy bowl full of Skittles was emptied in a day or two. A pack of Juicy Fruit with 15 pieces would be gone in one day.

Notice the trend? Simple carbs. Sugars. I can't get enough of them.

If I stopped and ate a deep fried something with some protein, it actually would be good. At least I'd be getting protein with my fat. But as it is, I stare into the fridge, I see the ham and cheese, and then I close the door and eat a pound of pretzels.

I've never had this happen before. What's going on? Do any of you have any ideas? I can't imagine this is filling my milk with the right nutrients, even when I'm taking a prenatal vitamin every day. And of course, it's ok for me and I don't gain weight as long as I'm making the milk, but sooner or later I'm going to stop. And then what happens? It can't be good.

I trust my doctors now

Last Friday morning Stella had her two month old appointment with her pediatrician. Both my husband and I attended the appointment. We're obsessive parents of a newborn like that. She hasn't had to see her doctor since she was two weeks old and satisfied the medical team that she was gaining weight like a proper baby should. Well, then. On to being a typical baby.

Two months includes such highlights as a weight and growth check, discussion over feeding, pooping, sleeping, and crying, and scheduled vaccinations. Here are the highlights.

• 'Member my tiny little newborn, the one that was 4 weeks early and not even 6 pounds when she left the hospital? She's a chunky and chubby one now, well above average weight and height for her actual age (not adjusted for premature birth). That's good.
• She got three shots and an oral vaccination (for rotavirus). She did very well, crying for a few seconds, being easily comforted, and then settling down for the rest of the day. As far as my opinion on vaccination schedules in the United States, I am a strong proponent. Why? Because my kids are international gals, traveling the globe several times over. If you live in a small town in America and you believe that you will never leave the country and your kids will never come in contact with someone else from another country, then you're probably safe with them not getting vaccines. However, the diseases that children are vaccinated against do still exist in the world, many of them still here in the United States. I want to make sure my child doesn't get them or spread them.
• She appears to be a typical two month old baby with respect to sleep schedule. Great. I'll keep my addiction to caffeine up, thank you very much. Because no more than 3 straight hours of sleep since she was born is really taking a toll on me and my migraines.

The pediatrician asked what position she sleeps in. On her back? On her side? On her stomach? And where? In her crib? In a bassinet? In bed with us? For those of you who have had a newborn, you know where this is going. SIDS, or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Babies who sleep on their stomachs and/or in bed with their parents, for reasons that are still unknown, are are a much higher risk of being victims of SIDS.

We swaddled Stella like mad from the moment she came out of my belly until she was about six weeks old. Two blankets, in fact. We called her our little burrito. Once she was swaddled, we laid her square on her back until she stirred and awoke, either from hunger or from the need of a diaper change. It worked pretty well. But all that changed when she was six weeks old. She would have no more of it, screaming until she was free from the blankets. So we'd lay her on her back in the crib without the blanket, her limbs flying about. As you can imagine, she didn't sleep very well. Neither did we. Within 48 hours, I decided to start laying her to rest on her stomach.

I told my husband all the info about SIDS. Despite this, we concurred on the decision. We also said we'd check with the doctor when Stella had her two month check up.

So, we told the pediatrician. We told her that Stella is sleeping on her belly. And she told us, stop doing it. You're putting your child at risk for SIDS.

She wasn't all doom and gloom; she's actually a really good doctor who listens well. She's sympathetic and encouraging towards the sleep-deprived parents of a newborn trying to get the baby to sleep. But really, she was pretty clear about not letting Stella sleep on her stomach until she's at least six months old.

I came home and my mind started running. How much at risk is Stella, really? I mean, these sorts of tragedies are surely the result of something more than just putting your baby on their stomach. We're far too attentive to our baby to possibly be at real risk for SIDS. Right? And doesn't SIDS affect newborn babies a lot more rampantly than babies who are "out of the woods"? Even if no one's ever showed that result, I'm sure there's something to it. I thought, as soon as I get Stella down for her next nap, I'll go online and find out some more facts.

And then...I stopped myself. What the heck? My baby's PEDIATRICIAN tells me something about how to take care of my baby, and I second guess her? What is the point of taking the baby to the doctor if I'm not going to trust what she tells me? I DID, after all, choose this pediatrician for BOTH of my daughters after MUCH THOUGHT AND CONSIDERATION. Why did I bother going to all that trouble if I don't trust the doctor in the end?

Stella was falling asleep on my shoulder. I carefully brought her to her crib and laid her on her back. Then I put a blanket over her belly and legs and firmly tucked it under her body to make sure it wouldn't get tangled up over her face. And then I resolved not to second guess people when they are telling me what's best for me.

And yet, it happened again

Grace was away for the weekend. She spent it with her father and his family.

Her younger sister, her father's daughter, turned three years old last Tuesday. Grace spent that evening with her father's family to celebrate. Then this weekend her father and stepmother decided to travel north, 150 miles, to her stepmother's parent's home to celebrate again. They left on Saturday morning around 10a and returned Sunday by 8p.

When Grace came in the front door last night and said hello, it was apparent she was sick. Not only did her voice sound like a frog's, she was coughing and then said her nose was stuffed up.

Over the weekend, she had taken cough drops from Friday night until she came home and she took an allergy medicine (given to her by her stepmother) on Sunday morning. Then she rode home in the car for 3 hours in a t-shirt and short shorts...when the temperatures were dropping and well into the low 50s already.

Once I had assessed the situation, I gave her a cough suppressant and a mild decongestant. Then I told her if she felt sick in the middle of the night to come tell me so she could take more medicine. This morning at 5a when she woke up for swim practice, she asked for more medicine. I told her that if she felt sick when it wore off to call me from school and that I would come get her. At 11a, she called from school. I went to school immediately and picked her up. She came home, put on her pajamas, and got in bed. She's sick.

The last four times Grace has been sick, this has occurred immediately upon her return from her father's house. In fact, I can't remember the last time she fell ill while being at home. Neither can she. In longer than the past two years, since she started eighth grade, I can't remember a time she was sick and missed school or anything else due to illness when she was home with me. But I can remember many times she missed school in that time period. Each one of these times immediately followed a visit with her father.

I spent the entire hour I met with my therapist this afternoon unloading all my frustration about this. Now that I am finished with that, I have only one question left. What is her father doing in the 48 hours she spends with him that gets her so sick so fast? I mean, this is a kid who never gets sick in any other situation. My God, how oblivious do you have to be as an adult in order for a teenager to get sick so often when she is in your care?

For those of you who (rightfully) give me the following advice every time I broach this issue, I talked with Grace last night about how she can take care of herself. I told her that since she is the only person looking out for her health when she visits with her father, she needs to start paying attention when I teach her about monitoring her own symptoms and about over-the-counter medicines. And I told her that whenever she feels sick, she should call me and ask me what she should do. The last thing I told her was to try and figure out what the factor is that causes her to get sick when she visits with her father (some ideas: not wearing warm enough apparel? not eating well? not getting enough sleep? sleeping on the floor? inhaling second-hand smoke nonstop?)

I wish the courts would mandate that non-custodial parents parent during visitation, not just visit. Maybe they should rename visitation 'parenting time.' Just an idea.

Marriage, Part 3: About that health care debate...

I can't figure out who these people are who say they are happy with their health care coverage plan. I don't know anyone who is happy with theirs. Mine is fine, my health care needs are met, but my access to it is completely contingent upon my husband's full-time employment. It seems like a very precarious position to be in, that your family's health care coverage would evaporate instantly if one person were unable to report to work full-time. Yes, I know, COBRA. Do you have any idea how much electing to continue health insurance through COBRA costs for an individual or a family? And I would likely not be eligible because my pre-existing conditions are plentiful. Neither would my daughter Grace for the same reasons.

While thinking about this, I started remembering how many people I've talked to who made the decision to marry when they did because they needed the health care benefits their partner could make available to them. I know that when I got married four years ago, the timing of our wedding coincided very closely with the date that my health coverage would cease. In the last month I've heard from two friends who did the same.

Now, I don't want to make it sound like I got married for the health care plan. I didn't. But it was a nice perk. And it was definitely a factor in thinking that planning a wedding 12 weeks would be better than giving myself more time.

So now that I've been hearing from friends around me that we all share this in common, I'm starting to think this is more prevalent of a situation than I originally thought. So I ask of all of you out there this question: how many people, yourself included, do you know that got married at a certain point because they were in need of an affordable health care plan?

The beginning of Stella

Yesterday Stella turned one month old. I haven't said much about her. So here's a tidbit. As usual, it's really about me.

Lately I've been telling stories to Stella as she is nursing or is falling asleep. I started with telling her about the day she was born. That was when she was two weeks old. It was inspired by my neighbor who came over to visit a few days earlier with her two kids, 8 and 6. As we visited, she asked how I was and how Stella was at birth. Her kids chimed in and asked their mother, 'how much did I weigh, momma?" and "what was it you said the first time you heard me cry, momma?" It was clear that each one of them had heard the story of their birth over and over.

Then I moved to telling Stella how much her daddy loved her. I told her about how much we wanted to have a baby and how long we waited and how, the entire time I was pregnant, we were careful, and a little nervous that something would go wrong, and a tad scared that she would have a problem or not be healthy and that we worked so hard to make sure she was healthy and happy and safe.

And then I realized, part of the story goes back to when my husband and I first started seeing each other. He told me he wanted to have children. Like, in week two of dating. And I said something like, I don't believe you, or, you needed to explain what it is exactly about children that you want. It was only after much time had passed that he told me how much my response revealed about me. He told me I was seeing him as just a typical man and that I assigned all the stereotypical values and perspectives to him without ever even probing to see if those were valid assumptions.

See, I had accidentally gotten pregnant with Grace by my first long-term boyfriend. I thought he was great. I was in love, as they say. I thought, nothing can stop us now. We'll get married and be together forever. We can survive. It was like that country song by Trisha Yearwood, "She's in Love With The Boy."



God, when I hear that song on the radio it makes me sick to my stomach. I wish I could grab every young girl who's fantasizing while listening to that song and shake her up and say, 'for the LOVE OF GOD and all things holy, LISTEN to your father for half a second and don't even THINK about marrying that boy some day!" As you all know, things did not work out with my boyfriend in the way I envisioned. Yeah, once Grace was born, he thought she was cute and all. And he played with her. On some days he got inspired and planned a whole day of fun with her. But...

Parenting is hard work. It's not all fun and games. He didn't like the hard parts. So he got to do all the fun stuff and I ended up with the rotten stuff like changing diapers and giving time outs and staying home while he went out (with who?) and working on homework. At the tail end of our relationship, he would want to have fun with me alone and would get angry if I didn't find a sitter at short notice, saying it was like I didn't even like being with him (well, truth be told...). I haven't even touched whether my job or career was as important as his; suffice it to say, mine was a needed source of income, his was the one that mattered. When push came to shove, I needed to work, and I was the one who needed to figure out childcare and everything else. After we divorced, it was clear who was the "fun" parent and who was the "disciplinarian." I made up my mind then and there, I'm never having kids with anyone again.

I admit, it was a completely sexist decision. I actually always wanted to have a big family with lots of kids. Four sounded perfect to me. Sure, a lot of work, but if there's two people who love each other, two people who are really invested in a family and committed to making it work, then a big family can be joyful even though it is a bit hectic. But through the course of my first marriage, I decided that men are not prepared as people to take on the commitment of parenting in the way that I envisioned they could. They wanted to have a healthy sized progeny in order to ensure that they passed on their genes and their name. I wanted my kids to have a father who was involved in their lives, one who would love being with them as much as I did. One who felt like they were a part of him, not just an extension of his life. By the time I was separating from Grace's father, I had had enough of it. I wanted Grace to have an awesome dad and she didn't. I had tried to make a family work, it didn't work, and now I was 30 and didn't want to try and fail again. And so I let the dream that I wanted, the dream of the big, happy family, die.

Enter my husband-to-be and his comment during our nascent romance. He wanted to have children. I had been divorced long enough to know it wasn't easy to rebuild a family, that is, to create a stepfamily. In fact, it was a hard thing to do. And I already had a daughter who was nine and I was starting a 5-year PhD program within months. There would be a big age gap between my only child and her next sibling. Was it possible to build a family?

After two years of feeling each other out and making sure this was the 'real thing,' we got married. See, along the way to marriage, my husband convinced me through the ways he treated me and cared for me that he valued me as an equal in our relationship. I also saw how he cared for Grace, Grace, who wasn't making forming a parent-child relationship between the two of them easy. Once we made the decision to get married, we immediately started thinking about another child. But within two months of our wedding, we were seeing a reproductive endocrinologist at the infertility clinic because me, I had some bad symptoms and some bad family medical history. It took a little more than four years and a whole lot of medical treatment for me until we held our baby Stella in our arms.

I tried to tell Stella the abbreviated version of the story a few days ago. It wasn't easy. I don't think it ever will be. But I did manage to tell her that we were very, very happy to finally have her in our lives. I hope that I can explain the story to her in a way that she can understand while she is young so that she can grow up knowing that her parents longed for her more than she can imagine.

Facing your demons: Part 1

Grace is leaving this evening to spend the weekend with her father.

Since the last time she saw him, I've gotten a double-whammy of What-I-Never-Would-Have-Expected. It has created such a shake up in my perspective, it's taken me a month to write anything about it here.

Here goes.

The last time Grace saw her father was Saturday, July 25th. I begrudgingly listened to her earlier in that week when she told me he had called and wanted to have her at his house for that weekend. See, our family hadn't had a weekend together since long before Memorial Day. After the weekend requested by Grace's father, all hell would break loose and we wouldn't get another weekend as a family for quite some time. My mother was coming in town, and then a baby shower, and then the week of the baby being born (count 'em, 9 medical appointments that week, not including the actual cesarean delivery itself), and then baby, and then aftermath....

I just wanted one uninterrupted weekend for our family. And Grace's father called to tell Grace he wanted to have her come to his house that weekend. Because it was his mother's birthday on Saturday.

AAAAAAArrrrrrrrgggggggggg.......

It didn't help the situation that I deeply despise the grandmother, my ex-mother-in-law.

I found myself telling Grace that the whole situation frustrated me. I mean, sure, it was her grandmother's birthday, but we also hadn't gotten any family time together. My father-in-law had just died days before and my husband wasn't even back from Brazil yet. Grace had been at her father's house for four weeks and just come home only one week before. Yeah, sure, she's supposed to see her father every other weekend and that Saturday would be two weeks since she came home, but shouldn't I get four weeks of uninterrupted summer vacation time too? (Never mind that, indeed, Grace had come home for a weekend during her four weeks with her father and had also spent two other days at home because she wanted to.) I mean, really, this whole thing came down to whether Grace's father or I could convince the other that our family time was more important than the other's.

And so it came about that I talked on the phone with Grace's father about the weekend in question. I can't remember who placed the call. I listened to him. I heard what he had to say about how important is was to his mother for her to have Grace at her birthday celebration. I listened to how they hadn't really made any plans yet for the birthday.

I told him how important the weekend was for our family. I didn't tell him about my father-in-law dying and my husband going to Brazil. I just didn't want to go into it.

The last I had heard about my ex-mother-in-law was that she was lecturing Grace about how it was about time for me to give up my grudges. The context of such a bold suggestion from this woman? She asked Grace whether Stella would be friends with Grace's other siblings, her father's children. Grace immediately recognized the awkwardness of the question and told her grandmother it would probably never happen. She explained to her grandmother something like, 'my parents are very different from each other, you know? They wouldn't exactly hang out together or get their kids together to play.' And then the comment came. Her grandmother told her enough time had passed and I should just get over my grudges.

I heard this story the same week my father-in-law fell ill. I thought, why on earth should I spend any time worrying about family of MY EX-HUSBAND when the family of MY HUSBAND are suffering? Why is she trying to tell my daughter that I am a spiteful, vindictive, vengeful ex-wife? I wrote a long letter of retort to this ex-in-law in my journal then threw the journal entry into the trash.

During the telephone conversation with my ex-husband about Grace going to visit him that weekend, he asked if Grace could just come out for dinner with them to celebrate his mother's birthday. I sighed, thinking, I can't believe we're going to have our family weekend interrupted so that woman can have a birthday party.

And then my ex-husband told me, she has lung cancer.

I couldn't say anything.

He went on explaining, you know how she is, she's sentimental and she's thinking this may be the last birthday she'll celebrate and...

I didn't hear much else of what he had to say.

My mind was racing. Lung cancer? What's the survival rate of that? She's not a smoker, but everyone she's ever lived with was, so secondhand smoke...and she's already survived breast cancer 20 years earlier...

I told Grace's father, of course, dinner, Saturday, what time will you pick her up and get her home?




I faced a situation I have thrown in people's faces for years as a hypothetical one. Whenever someone gets completely worked up over some menace in their life, I say, "What are you gonna do when this person is dead?" The idea of my comment is, is it really the person who's getting you all worked up, or is it just nice to be able to bitch about something? If it's the person, then their death will be a welcome relief. But many times, the bitching continues long after the menace is gone. At that time, I think it becomes relevant to ask, what is the real source of your demon?

I faced my own demon. The demon I had created. This woman wasn't worth me getting worked up over. Sure, she'd done things in my distant past that were hurtful and rude, but she's not part of my life anymore. I'd seen her maybe two or three times in the past year. Less times than that in the previous five years. What kind of an effect could she really have on me? And now, now she's dying.

Truthfully. She's dying. I was suddenly relieved I had thrown the letter I had written to her in the trash rather than addressing it and mailing it to her. I found myself asking, should I attend the funeral of this woman, even as difficult as that would be for me?





And that's not the end of the story of Grace's dinner with her father's family on the night of Saturday, July 25th...