screaming on the inside
details later
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Jonah's Birth Story
On August 21, 2008, I was (I thought) 39 weeks and 3 days pregnant, huge, and waddling my way around the house. My Braxton-Hicks contractions were getting longer and more intense, and, in the hopes that I'd be going into labor soon, I had Jeremy take Matthew to the petting zoo at the county fair so that I could do some housework. I actually wanted to go to the fair with them, but my hips hurt when I took more than five steps in any direction, and I had a nightmare vision of my water breaking on the midway, traffic being terrible, and being forced to deliver in the first-aid tent. Funny, the things a pregnant woman's mind can conjure.
By 6:03 pm, the Braxton-Hicks were starting to feel like the real thing, so I started timing them. I was so ready to finally meet my little Jonah! At my last appointment, they'd suggested that I pick a birthday for him, since I was running the risk of needing an induction - I was only three cm dilated, not effaced at all, and Jonah hadn't dropped, not really. I remembered how painful Pitocin-aided contractions were (I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip for five hours with Matthew) and was eager to avoid that. So, since the appointment on Tuesday, I'd climbed up and down my basement stairs a minimum of sixteen times a day, had eaten a huge can of pineapple chunks, and had even attempted massaging that acupressure point on my ankle. So it was in desperation that I decided to get dinner for Jeremy, Matthew, and myself via the drive-thru at Wendy's. (If that last statement doesn't make sense, go back through my blog and read Matthew's birth story.)
I made it home with our food, with no trouble except a little disappointment. However, I noticed around nine pm that my contractions had settled into a regular pattern. I started re-doing all the housework I'd done over the past week, went up and down the basement stairs a few more times, and went up to the grocery store for milk for Matthew, since we were running low. By the time I got back from the store (a 2 minute drive from my house), my contractions were seven-eight minutes apart. I decided to take a shower. If it was false labor, the shower would make them stop and I wouldn't end up going to the hospital and embarrassing myself.
When I got out of the shower, the contractions had indeed slowed down and lessened in intensity. I felt like crying. Instead, I took a Tylenol PM and went to bed. I couldn't get comfortable - my hips were killing me, and I kept thinking about getting up and finding some uncleaned corner of the bathtub to scrub. Jonah was squirming inside me, and whatever he was doing, it certainly felt like he was trying to use his fingernails to dig his way to freedom. I finally fell asleep around two am . . . .
. . . . And woke up at 4:41 with the first real contraction. I immediately got up, went into the bathroom, dropped the lid on the toilet, and sat there, cell phone in hand, waiting for the next two. They came at 4:51 and 5:03. Okay. Not bad. Then the next three hit at 5:10, 5:17, and 5:24, respectively. The pain in my hips centered and strengthened. I hoped that that meant that he was engaging in the birth canal. Remembering my labor experience with Matthew, and everything I'd read over the course of both pregnancies, I started pacing the living room, stopping to squat each time a contraction hit, then recording the time. In between, I made a pot of coffee. By the time the alarm went off at 7:30, the contractions were 5-6 minutes apart. Jeremy seemed to be sleeping through the beeping, and I didn't want the alarm to wake Matthew up, so I went into the bedroom, shut it off, shook Jeremy, and said, "We're having a baby today."
Once Jeremy was up, I used my cell phone to call my parents - my dad had agreed to stay with Matthew while I was in labor, and my mom wanted to be there through the labor and delivery - while Jeremy used the land line to try to call Chef John and let him know he wouldn't be in to work for a while. I was able to get in touch with my parents fairly easily - they'd been waiting for a call like that for a few weeks. Chef was a challenge though. Jeremy told his roommate, and finally was able to get through to Chef down at City Park around 8:30. Chef's roomie had already called him, though, so he knew what was going on.
My parents arrived at 8:45 am. I called my doctor's office and told them what was going on. They asked me to come into the office instead of heading to the ER. I ran down my pre-written copy of Matthew's schedule with Dad, asked Mom to follow us in her car, gave Matthew several kisses and hugs, passed the keys to Jeremy, and we were off.
Mom told me she had to run to the grocery store to get Dad some root beer, and that she'd meet up with us. So, Jeremy dropped me off at the front door of Burns Clinic. I waited for him while he parked the van, and we went in together.
Dr. Wilder, my regular doctor, was on vacation, so I ended up seeing Dr. Wilcox. The nurse escorted Jeremy and I to one of his exam rooms. I removed my grey lounge shorts and undies, covered my laps with the giant paper drape, and began praying that this was it. Although Jonah wasn't technically due for three more days, the fact that they'd predicted his birth weight to be around 7 lbs had me scared. Matthew had weighed just under 6 lbs, and it had still taken me 22 hours to have him. Would I be able to birth Jonah too?
Dr. Wilcox finally came in. I told him how frequent the contractions were, and that I had super-intense pelvic pressure. He gave me a quick internal exam and told me that I was 75% effaced, dilated to a 4, and that they were going to send me up to labor and delivery. However, despite my belly looking like he had, Jonah still hadn't dropped past -1 station. I wasn't too concerned - Matthew had been at 0 station when my water broke with him.
My labor room was 179. They got me settled into bed, and Jeremy went downstairs to meet Mom and have a smoke. While he was gone, Dr. Wilcox and my nurse, Sarah, came in, hooked me up to the monitors, and broke my water. I looked at the clock when I felt the first gush of amniotic fluid - 9:50 am. I wondered if things would happen as quickly this time as they did for my sister - she gave birth to Jessica within an hour of having her water broken.
It didn't go that quickly.
The contractions were more intense than I remembered. And for some reason, it felt like Jonah was headbutting me in between contractions.
While they were still about 45 seconds long and 4 minutes apart, Travis stopped by with his girlfriend Robin. They were on their way to Marquette to take her back to school, so it was nice of Trav to stop in. They visited for a little while. I told Travis that I was having my tubes tied after Jonah was born, and he made a sad face and said "No, you can't! You're my nephew factory!"
Jeremy's dad, Big Al, and his younger brother, Little Al, arrived shortly after. They arrived in the middle of another internal exam. I'd dilated to 7 and was fully effaced, but Jonah was still hanging out in the same position he'd been in when I was admitted. Sarah decided to put me in the jacuzzi to see if that helped. She was getting concerned, especially when I told her that I really felt like I needed to push.
The contractions kept getting longer, stronger, and closer. I remembered how much the whirlpool bath had helped with Matthew, and I was anxious for the tub to finish filling; at this point I was writhing in pain and moaning my way through each contraction.
Jeremy came in and sat next to the tub once I lowered myself into the water. It hurt so badly to sit. I couldn't find a position that hurt less than any other. I gave it about 15-20 minutes, and nearly cried when I realized it wasn't going to help.
Back when I'd hit 5 cm, I'd asked about getting a walking epidural, and had been told that I couldn't have it until "labor was steadily progressing," because of the risk that it could cause labor to stall. Now, as I got out of the tub with Jeremy's assistance, dried off, and re-dressed myself, I wondered exactly what they had meant by "steadily progressing." My new fear was that they would let me labor for too long, that I'd miss my window, and that I'd end up delivering with no pain relief, the way that I'd birthed Matthew. At this point, I was exhausted and just wanted the pain to stop.
I got back to my bed. They hooked me up to Pitocin and a regular IV. Time ceased to have meaning. My body thrashed around on its own and I heard strange noises coming from my mouth. Jeremy tells me that at one point, I was making a sound like Matthew's jargoning. There was no break. Each contraction hit at least 150 on the monitor, coming every 90 seconds and lasting a full 60 seconds, the kind that indicate the end of transition and the readiness to push, and in the 30 seconds between the end of one and beginning of the next, I could feel Jonah headbutting me.
Sarah came and gave me a shot of Stadol. It didn't help. I wanted an epidural, morphine, ibuprofen, Tylenol, Midol, anything. Barring drugs, all I wanted was to push. She checked me again after saying that the way I was laboring, I should be at a 9 or 10 and ready to go. Nope. Still at a 7 - bad. Jonah still hadn't dropped any further - very bad. I'd stalled, despite what my body was doing.
Sarah went back over my chart, and paused in the middle of reading one of the pages. She asked, "How much did your older son weigh at birth?" I managed to gasp out that he'd weighed 5 lbs, 15.9 oz.
"And they had to use the vacuum extractor on him?"
"Yeah, cord . . . around . . . leg . . . bungee-jumped for hours," I gasped out.
Sarah shook her head. "I'm going to go check on your epidural. I'll be right back."
She returned five minutes later with Dr. Wilcox in tow. He told me that it was up to me, that I could keep on the way I was going and hope that labor began progressing again, or that - and that he recommended - I could consent to a C-section. I agreed to the C-section.
Everything blurs again here, a little. I remember signing consent forms. I remember Sarah coming in to prep me for surgery as much as possible. I remember begging Mom to bring Matthew up to the hospital to see me as soon as I got out of surgery, and crying because I missed him already. I remember being terrified about the surgery - I'd never really contemplated the possibility of a c-section once I'd hit 30 weeks and it had become obvious that my low-lying placenta had moved up - and at the same time, feeling a vast sense of relief that an end to this pain, so much worse than the pain of my previous delivery, was in sight. I remember thrashing around more. At some point, I contorted the wrong way and severely strained a couple muscles in my lower back. I remember Sarah telling me that they were setting up the OR for me, but that the anesthesiologist was held up somehow.
And then, finally, two new people entered the room. They moved me from the bed to a gurney, which, oddly enough, was more comfortable than the bed had been. I told them so, and they laughed and said that they were used to hearing the opposite. They wheeled me through the OR doors, pausing to let Dr. Wilcox run by, and parked my gurney in a dimly-lit area, then pulled a set of curtains around it.
Someone brought Jeremy a set of surgical cover-ups (hat and gown) and a hat for me. Although I was allowed to keep my glasses, they made me remove my nose ring. I heard people talking and the moans of another woman in labor. Sarah came in and gave me a shot which was supposed to stop my contractions. I think it was her who explained that there was an emergency patient who had to go before me. I was reassured that Dr. Wilcox was quick though, and that once the surgery had begun, the baby would be delivered in fifteen minutes. I laid there and waited. For some reason, the shot she'd given me didn't work.
Finally, they came for me. One more internal exam - still stuck at 7 cm, Jonah still in his original position - and they explained what was going to happen. They were going to take me in by myself, finish prepping me for surgery, and then bring Jeremy in. I told Jeremy "I love you" as they wheeled me away.
The OR was large and brightly-lit. After the near dark they'd had me in for an hour, the lights made me wince a little. They transferred me from the gurney to the table, which was even more comfortable. I had to lean forward as far as I could so that they could administer my epidural. While they were doing it, they explained why they'd made me wait for it for so long.
As I mentioned earlier, I'd requested an epidural. They had intended to do an intrathecal, aka a "walking epidural" - a much lower dose of medication that's delivered through an IV continually. It allows use of the legs, and allows you to retain some sensation of pain and enough abdominal muscular control to push. However, with me needing a cesarean, they were going to have to do a regular epidural. Sarah had inserted a Foley catheter when she prepped me for surgery, so that all that was left to do was numb me, hang the curtain, add iodine, and begin.
I leaned forward and asked how much the epidural would hurt. The anesthesiologist told me it wouldn't hurt at all. He gave me three injections of a local anesthetic first. It felt like someone had sprayed my back with hot cooking oil, then it turned ice-cold almost immediately. I didn't even feel pressure from the actual epidural, I just noticed that all of a sudden, my toes and the top half of my feet were completely numb. The sensation spread rapidly. The only basis of comparison I can come up with is that it's similar to the Novocaine you get from the dentist, only instead of my mouth, it went from just under my breasts all the way to the ends of my toes. I couldn't feel anything. It felt so good to be numb that I wanted to cry from relief, but didn't. I did thank the anesthesiologist several times, though. He asked me to tell him if I felt any tingling in my toes. I remember saying, "No, I don't feel anything, and it feels so good. If I didn't have a boyfriend I'd make out with you right now."
By 6:03 pm, the Braxton-Hicks were starting to feel like the real thing, so I started timing them. I was so ready to finally meet my little Jonah! At my last appointment, they'd suggested that I pick a birthday for him, since I was running the risk of needing an induction - I was only three cm dilated, not effaced at all, and Jonah hadn't dropped, not really. I remembered how painful Pitocin-aided contractions were (I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip for five hours with Matthew) and was eager to avoid that. So, since the appointment on Tuesday, I'd climbed up and down my basement stairs a minimum of sixteen times a day, had eaten a huge can of pineapple chunks, and had even attempted massaging that acupressure point on my ankle. So it was in desperation that I decided to get dinner for Jeremy, Matthew, and myself via the drive-thru at Wendy's. (If that last statement doesn't make sense, go back through my blog and read Matthew's birth story.)
I made it home with our food, with no trouble except a little disappointment. However, I noticed around nine pm that my contractions had settled into a regular pattern. I started re-doing all the housework I'd done over the past week, went up and down the basement stairs a few more times, and went up to the grocery store for milk for Matthew, since we were running low. By the time I got back from the store (a 2 minute drive from my house), my contractions were seven-eight minutes apart. I decided to take a shower. If it was false labor, the shower would make them stop and I wouldn't end up going to the hospital and embarrassing myself.
When I got out of the shower, the contractions had indeed slowed down and lessened in intensity. I felt like crying. Instead, I took a Tylenol PM and went to bed. I couldn't get comfortable - my hips were killing me, and I kept thinking about getting up and finding some uncleaned corner of the bathtub to scrub. Jonah was squirming inside me, and whatever he was doing, it certainly felt like he was trying to use his fingernails to dig his way to freedom. I finally fell asleep around two am . . . .
. . . . And woke up at 4:41 with the first real contraction. I immediately got up, went into the bathroom, dropped the lid on the toilet, and sat there, cell phone in hand, waiting for the next two. They came at 4:51 and 5:03. Okay. Not bad. Then the next three hit at 5:10, 5:17, and 5:24, respectively. The pain in my hips centered and strengthened. I hoped that that meant that he was engaging in the birth canal. Remembering my labor experience with Matthew, and everything I'd read over the course of both pregnancies, I started pacing the living room, stopping to squat each time a contraction hit, then recording the time. In between, I made a pot of coffee. By the time the alarm went off at 7:30, the contractions were 5-6 minutes apart. Jeremy seemed to be sleeping through the beeping, and I didn't want the alarm to wake Matthew up, so I went into the bedroom, shut it off, shook Jeremy, and said, "We're having a baby today."
Once Jeremy was up, I used my cell phone to call my parents - my dad had agreed to stay with Matthew while I was in labor, and my mom wanted to be there through the labor and delivery - while Jeremy used the land line to try to call Chef John and let him know he wouldn't be in to work for a while. I was able to get in touch with my parents fairly easily - they'd been waiting for a call like that for a few weeks. Chef was a challenge though. Jeremy told his roommate, and finally was able to get through to Chef down at City Park around 8:30. Chef's roomie had already called him, though, so he knew what was going on.
My parents arrived at 8:45 am. I called my doctor's office and told them what was going on. They asked me to come into the office instead of heading to the ER. I ran down my pre-written copy of Matthew's schedule with Dad, asked Mom to follow us in her car, gave Matthew several kisses and hugs, passed the keys to Jeremy, and we were off.
Mom told me she had to run to the grocery store to get Dad some root beer, and that she'd meet up with us. So, Jeremy dropped me off at the front door of Burns Clinic. I waited for him while he parked the van, and we went in together.
Dr. Wilder, my regular doctor, was on vacation, so I ended up seeing Dr. Wilcox. The nurse escorted Jeremy and I to one of his exam rooms. I removed my grey lounge shorts and undies, covered my laps with the giant paper drape, and began praying that this was it. Although Jonah wasn't technically due for three more days, the fact that they'd predicted his birth weight to be around 7 lbs had me scared. Matthew had weighed just under 6 lbs, and it had still taken me 22 hours to have him. Would I be able to birth Jonah too?
Dr. Wilcox finally came in. I told him how frequent the contractions were, and that I had super-intense pelvic pressure. He gave me a quick internal exam and told me that I was 75% effaced, dilated to a 4, and that they were going to send me up to labor and delivery. However, despite my belly looking like he had, Jonah still hadn't dropped past -1 station. I wasn't too concerned - Matthew had been at 0 station when my water broke with him.
My labor room was 179. They got me settled into bed, and Jeremy went downstairs to meet Mom and have a smoke. While he was gone, Dr. Wilcox and my nurse, Sarah, came in, hooked me up to the monitors, and broke my water. I looked at the clock when I felt the first gush of amniotic fluid - 9:50 am. I wondered if things would happen as quickly this time as they did for my sister - she gave birth to Jessica within an hour of having her water broken.
It didn't go that quickly.
The contractions were more intense than I remembered. And for some reason, it felt like Jonah was headbutting me in between contractions.
While they were still about 45 seconds long and 4 minutes apart, Travis stopped by with his girlfriend Robin. They were on their way to Marquette to take her back to school, so it was nice of Trav to stop in. They visited for a little while. I told Travis that I was having my tubes tied after Jonah was born, and he made a sad face and said "No, you can't! You're my nephew factory!"
Jeremy's dad, Big Al, and his younger brother, Little Al, arrived shortly after. They arrived in the middle of another internal exam. I'd dilated to 7 and was fully effaced, but Jonah was still hanging out in the same position he'd been in when I was admitted. Sarah decided to put me in the jacuzzi to see if that helped. She was getting concerned, especially when I told her that I really felt like I needed to push.
The contractions kept getting longer, stronger, and closer. I remembered how much the whirlpool bath had helped with Matthew, and I was anxious for the tub to finish filling; at this point I was writhing in pain and moaning my way through each contraction.
Jeremy came in and sat next to the tub once I lowered myself into the water. It hurt so badly to sit. I couldn't find a position that hurt less than any other. I gave it about 15-20 minutes, and nearly cried when I realized it wasn't going to help.
Back when I'd hit 5 cm, I'd asked about getting a walking epidural, and had been told that I couldn't have it until "labor was steadily progressing," because of the risk that it could cause labor to stall. Now, as I got out of the tub with Jeremy's assistance, dried off, and re-dressed myself, I wondered exactly what they had meant by "steadily progressing." My new fear was that they would let me labor for too long, that I'd miss my window, and that I'd end up delivering with no pain relief, the way that I'd birthed Matthew. At this point, I was exhausted and just wanted the pain to stop.
I got back to my bed. They hooked me up to Pitocin and a regular IV. Time ceased to have meaning. My body thrashed around on its own and I heard strange noises coming from my mouth. Jeremy tells me that at one point, I was making a sound like Matthew's jargoning. There was no break. Each contraction hit at least 150 on the monitor, coming every 90 seconds and lasting a full 60 seconds, the kind that indicate the end of transition and the readiness to push, and in the 30 seconds between the end of one and beginning of the next, I could feel Jonah headbutting me.
Sarah came and gave me a shot of Stadol. It didn't help. I wanted an epidural, morphine, ibuprofen, Tylenol, Midol, anything. Barring drugs, all I wanted was to push. She checked me again after saying that the way I was laboring, I should be at a 9 or 10 and ready to go. Nope. Still at a 7 - bad. Jonah still hadn't dropped any further - very bad. I'd stalled, despite what my body was doing.
Sarah went back over my chart, and paused in the middle of reading one of the pages. She asked, "How much did your older son weigh at birth?" I managed to gasp out that he'd weighed 5 lbs, 15.9 oz.
"And they had to use the vacuum extractor on him?"
"Yeah, cord . . . around . . . leg . . . bungee-jumped for hours," I gasped out.
Sarah shook her head. "I'm going to go check on your epidural. I'll be right back."
She returned five minutes later with Dr. Wilcox in tow. He told me that it was up to me, that I could keep on the way I was going and hope that labor began progressing again, or that - and that he recommended - I could consent to a C-section. I agreed to the C-section.
Everything blurs again here, a little. I remember signing consent forms. I remember Sarah coming in to prep me for surgery as much as possible. I remember begging Mom to bring Matthew up to the hospital to see me as soon as I got out of surgery, and crying because I missed him already. I remember being terrified about the surgery - I'd never really contemplated the possibility of a c-section once I'd hit 30 weeks and it had become obvious that my low-lying placenta had moved up - and at the same time, feeling a vast sense of relief that an end to this pain, so much worse than the pain of my previous delivery, was in sight. I remember thrashing around more. At some point, I contorted the wrong way and severely strained a couple muscles in my lower back. I remember Sarah telling me that they were setting up the OR for me, but that the anesthesiologist was held up somehow.
And then, finally, two new people entered the room. They moved me from the bed to a gurney, which, oddly enough, was more comfortable than the bed had been. I told them so, and they laughed and said that they were used to hearing the opposite. They wheeled me through the OR doors, pausing to let Dr. Wilcox run by, and parked my gurney in a dimly-lit area, then pulled a set of curtains around it.
Someone brought Jeremy a set of surgical cover-ups (hat and gown) and a hat for me. Although I was allowed to keep my glasses, they made me remove my nose ring. I heard people talking and the moans of another woman in labor. Sarah came in and gave me a shot which was supposed to stop my contractions. I think it was her who explained that there was an emergency patient who had to go before me. I was reassured that Dr. Wilcox was quick though, and that once the surgery had begun, the baby would be delivered in fifteen minutes. I laid there and waited. For some reason, the shot she'd given me didn't work.
Finally, they came for me. One more internal exam - still stuck at 7 cm, Jonah still in his original position - and they explained what was going to happen. They were going to take me in by myself, finish prepping me for surgery, and then bring Jeremy in. I told Jeremy "I love you" as they wheeled me away.
The OR was large and brightly-lit. After the near dark they'd had me in for an hour, the lights made me wince a little. They transferred me from the gurney to the table, which was even more comfortable. I had to lean forward as far as I could so that they could administer my epidural. While they were doing it, they explained why they'd made me wait for it for so long.
As I mentioned earlier, I'd requested an epidural. They had intended to do an intrathecal, aka a "walking epidural" - a much lower dose of medication that's delivered through an IV continually. It allows use of the legs, and allows you to retain some sensation of pain and enough abdominal muscular control to push. However, with me needing a cesarean, they were going to have to do a regular epidural. Sarah had inserted a Foley catheter when she prepped me for surgery, so that all that was left to do was numb me, hang the curtain, add iodine, and begin.
I leaned forward and asked how much the epidural would hurt. The anesthesiologist told me it wouldn't hurt at all. He gave me three injections of a local anesthetic first. It felt like someone had sprayed my back with hot cooking oil, then it turned ice-cold almost immediately. I didn't even feel pressure from the actual epidural, I just noticed that all of a sudden, my toes and the top half of my feet were completely numb. The sensation spread rapidly. The only basis of comparison I can come up with is that it's similar to the Novocaine you get from the dentist, only instead of my mouth, it went from just under my breasts all the way to the ends of my toes. I couldn't feel anything. It felt so good to be numb that I wanted to cry from relief, but didn't. I did thank the anesthesiologist several times, though. He asked me to tell him if I felt any tingling in my toes. I remember saying, "No, I don't feel anything, and it feels so good. If I didn't have a boyfriend I'd make out with you right now."
Then, I got dizzy. They'd given me a hefty dose of fentanyl in the epi, and between that and the exhaustion of two hours of sleep followed by nearly fifteen hours of labor, I was fighting the urge to nod off like crazy.
Before they'd taken me to the OR, in an effort to distract me, my mom had said, "When you get the epidural, no matter what, don't try to wiggle your toes. You won't be able to, and you'll panic." Now, as they helped me lay back on the table and placed the prongs of the oxygen tube in my nose, that statement popped into my head. Me being me, I had to try it, and of course, Mom was right. I didn't panic, though. I was so full of relief and fentanyl that I actually giggled a little.
I heard a door open and craned my head around as far as I could, accidentally dislodging my oxygen tube. They'd just let Jeremy in. I forgot momentarily that the arm with my IV was restrained and started to reach for him. They'd hung the curtain already, which was a relief. As desperate as I was to finally see Jonah, I was equally desperate to avoid seeing him "extracted." I scratched at one of the electrode stickers attached to my chest and watched Jeremy sit next to my head. I was starting to feel pretty panicky. This was a c-section, this was what I'd been hoping and trying and praying to avoid, this was what I'd never really seriously considered a possibility, this was MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY - but, as soon as my eyes met Jeremy's over his mask, my fear drained away. Jeremy has always had a calming effect on me, and this was no exception.
Dr. Wilcox got on the other side of the curtain and did something to my belly, asking if I could feel it. I felt motion in my breasts and back, but that was all, and I told him so. That was his cue to begin.
It was surreal, lying on my back, staring up at the lights, and hearing the conversation coming from the other side of the curtain, something about all the young guys coming to NMH to work as doctors, or something along those lines. Things remained in focus unless I moved my head, and then everything would blur. I felt my torso being jerked and tugged about, and I tried my best to let the 1/3 of my upper body still under my control remain limp. I felt someone - I don't know who - either lie on (or lean over and restrain) my chest, just under my breasts. They told Jeremy, after a few minutes, to look if he wanted to see Jonah's birth. He did. He says that it was weird, that it didn't look like my body because of all the iodine surrounding the incision site. He also says that, thanks to seeing surgeries on TV and all that iodine, that it was actually less traumatic for him to watch Jonah's birth than it was to watch Matthew's. As he watched, they lifted Jonah's head out first. He was in the proper head-down position, but from the look of his head molding, he had only been able to get a little bit of his head engaged, which probably explains the sensation of headbutting I'd been feeling. They moved him to the side and extracted one shoulder and arm. Then, he got snagged, so they had to move him all the way over to the other side to free his other arm and shoulder. After that, they lifted the rest of his body clear of mine, and Jonah Lee Gatica was born to the outside world. It was exactly 8:00 pm, August 22, 2008. At some point while birthing him, Dr. Wilcox said, "Yeah, that wasn't going to happen."
They cut the cord themselves, rather than letting Jeremy do it. I saw the back of the nurse as she carried Jonah to the sink to clean him up, get his weight and measurements, and do his Apgars. I had a sudden wild urge to throw myself off the table and drag myself over there so I could see my son, since they hadn't let me see him yet. Instead, I asked questions.
To Jeremy: "Does he look like Matthew?"
Jeremy: "Yes."
To Dr. Wilcox: "Is he big?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Yes. There's no way he was coming out any other way." Pause. "I'd say he's close to eight pounds."
Me: "Eight pounds?!?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Maybe not eight pounds exactly, but close."
Nurse who had my son: "Seven pounds, five ounces."
And then, I remembered. Jeremy had the digital camera in his pocket. I asked him to go take a picture and bring it back so that I could see Jonah. He did, and then went back and took a few more pictures.
Once Jonah was cleaned up and measured and had his Apgar score (he ended up getting a 9 both times), they dressed him, swaddled him, and handed him to Jeremy to show me. The anesthesiologist took the camera from Jeremy and snapped two pictures of the three of us. After that, they sent Jeremy and Jonah to recovery to wait for me, since they still had to do my tubal ligation and close me back up. It was somewhere around this point when they informed me that they had miscalculated my due date. The placenta was severely degraded - there was barely anything left of it. Dr. Wilcox estimated from looking at it, and at Jonah, that I should have been due August 5'th, not August 25'th. I was too tired to care at that point. It all hit me so hard right then.
Before they'd taken me to the OR, in an effort to distract me, my mom had said, "When you get the epidural, no matter what, don't try to wiggle your toes. You won't be able to, and you'll panic." Now, as they helped me lay back on the table and placed the prongs of the oxygen tube in my nose, that statement popped into my head. Me being me, I had to try it, and of course, Mom was right. I didn't panic, though. I was so full of relief and fentanyl that I actually giggled a little.
I heard a door open and craned my head around as far as I could, accidentally dislodging my oxygen tube. They'd just let Jeremy in. I forgot momentarily that the arm with my IV was restrained and started to reach for him. They'd hung the curtain already, which was a relief. As desperate as I was to finally see Jonah, I was equally desperate to avoid seeing him "extracted." I scratched at one of the electrode stickers attached to my chest and watched Jeremy sit next to my head. I was starting to feel pretty panicky. This was a c-section, this was what I'd been hoping and trying and praying to avoid, this was what I'd never really seriously considered a possibility, this was MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY - but, as soon as my eyes met Jeremy's over his mask, my fear drained away. Jeremy has always had a calming effect on me, and this was no exception.
Dr. Wilcox got on the other side of the curtain and did something to my belly, asking if I could feel it. I felt motion in my breasts and back, but that was all, and I told him so. That was his cue to begin.
It was surreal, lying on my back, staring up at the lights, and hearing the conversation coming from the other side of the curtain, something about all the young guys coming to NMH to work as doctors, or something along those lines. Things remained in focus unless I moved my head, and then everything would blur. I felt my torso being jerked and tugged about, and I tried my best to let the 1/3 of my upper body still under my control remain limp. I felt someone - I don't know who - either lie on (or lean over and restrain) my chest, just under my breasts. They told Jeremy, after a few minutes, to look if he wanted to see Jonah's birth. He did. He says that it was weird, that it didn't look like my body because of all the iodine surrounding the incision site. He also says that, thanks to seeing surgeries on TV and all that iodine, that it was actually less traumatic for him to watch Jonah's birth than it was to watch Matthew's. As he watched, they lifted Jonah's head out first. He was in the proper head-down position, but from the look of his head molding, he had only been able to get a little bit of his head engaged, which probably explains the sensation of headbutting I'd been feeling. They moved him to the side and extracted one shoulder and arm. Then, he got snagged, so they had to move him all the way over to the other side to free his other arm and shoulder. After that, they lifted the rest of his body clear of mine, and Jonah Lee Gatica was born to the outside world. It was exactly 8:00 pm, August 22, 2008. At some point while birthing him, Dr. Wilcox said, "Yeah, that wasn't going to happen."
They cut the cord themselves, rather than letting Jeremy do it. I saw the back of the nurse as she carried Jonah to the sink to clean him up, get his weight and measurements, and do his Apgars. I had a sudden wild urge to throw myself off the table and drag myself over there so I could see my son, since they hadn't let me see him yet. Instead, I asked questions.
To Jeremy: "Does he look like Matthew?"
Jeremy: "Yes."
To Dr. Wilcox: "Is he big?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Yes. There's no way he was coming out any other way." Pause. "I'd say he's close to eight pounds."
Me: "Eight pounds?!?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Maybe not eight pounds exactly, but close."
Nurse who had my son: "Seven pounds, five ounces."
And then, I remembered. Jeremy had the digital camera in his pocket. I asked him to go take a picture and bring it back so that I could see Jonah. He did, and then went back and took a few more pictures.
Once Jonah was cleaned up and measured and had his Apgar score (he ended up getting a 9 both times), they dressed him, swaddled him, and handed him to Jeremy to show me. The anesthesiologist took the camera from Jeremy and snapped two pictures of the three of us. After that, they sent Jeremy and Jonah to recovery to wait for me, since they still had to do my tubal ligation and close me back up. It was somewhere around this point when they informed me that they had miscalculated my due date. The placenta was severely degraded - there was barely anything left of it. Dr. Wilcox estimated from looking at it, and at Jonah, that I should have been due August 5'th, not August 25'th. I was too tired to care at that point. It all hit me so hard right then.
I know I nodded out momentarily a couple times, but still, it went fairly fast. Dr. Wilcox apologized for having made me labor for so long, and I just flopped my free hand at them - my throat was sore from yelling, and my mouth was dry and sticky. Two nurses lifted my limp body back onto a gurney and rolled me to recovery, which turned out to be the dark area where I'd awaited surgery.
Sarah had gone home for the night, and my new nurse's name was Christine. She brought me several thick warm blankets, which made me thankful - I was getting chilled for some reason. She explained to me that they had to keep me there until the epidural started to wear off, and that that would take about an hour. I asked her if I could breastfeed Jonah, and she helped me out. He nursed and nursed, and when he was full, he snuggled his chubby little cheek into my breast and fell asleep. I laid there and cuddled him until I was able to wiggle my toes and flex my upper thighs. At that point, they took me to a regular room. I got a big glass of ice water, hugs and kisses from Mom and Jeremy, Big Al and Little Al, and more painkillers in my IV. Finally, I was able to fall asleep. And when I did, I dreamed about taking my little Jonah home.
Sarah had gone home for the night, and my new nurse's name was Christine. She brought me several thick warm blankets, which made me thankful - I was getting chilled for some reason. She explained to me that they had to keep me there until the epidural started to wear off, and that that would take about an hour. I asked her if I could breastfeed Jonah, and she helped me out. He nursed and nursed, and when he was full, he snuggled his chubby little cheek into my breast and fell asleep. I laid there and cuddled him until I was able to wiggle my toes and flex my upper thighs. At that point, they took me to a regular room. I got a big glass of ice water, hugs and kisses from Mom and Jeremy, Big Al and Little Al, and more painkillers in my IV. Finally, I was able to fall asleep. And when I did, I dreamed about taking my little Jonah home.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Long Awaited Job Entry
Wow, I haven't updated in a few weeks. I'm so sorry!
I've been pretty busy trying to find my balance again. It seems like I spend a lot of time doing just that, but then the past three years have been admittedly crazy. Although I'm more stable now (emotionally at least) than I ever have been before, there have been sea changes in my life since 2007 and the advent of Matteo. One major one was when I quit City Park and got laid off from the shop, and began my eleven-month run as a stay-home mom (and more or less a miserable failure at it). And then, finally, I went back to work.
I'm cooking. Again. Finally. I had my first day of work at the Sage (part of the Odawa Casino Resort) on July 14'th. I'm full-time, but seasonal, which means there's a strong chance I'll be laid off in September, unless they decide to figure out a way to keep me. However, with any luck, I can either transfer to a different job within the company, and return to the Sage next spring, or else accept the lay-off and return next spring.
I love my job. It's been a while since I could say that whole-heartedly. I'm the gar-mo (garde-manger), which basically means I do salads, some apps, and desserts when I have the time. Here's our menu. The grilled pizza is my personal favorite, sans olives.
I can't say enough good things about working there. It's just as much pressure as working the line at City Park, but pressure of a different sort. City Park is great at what they do, don't get me wrong, but the Sage is a whole different thing. City Park is far more casual than the Sage, for one thing. Sage is gourmet. Sage is fancy plating, frisee with charred tomato vinaigrette, beef so tender that you can literally fork-cut it, supremed oranges to accompany the sauteed crab cakes...anyway..... So there's more pressure to make the plates look good. There's the pressure of being the new kid, of course. And the fact that there's a security camera blatantly jutting from the ceiling right in front of my station. Whether it's focused on me or not, I have no way of knowing (it's in a dark glass dome). Not that I'm camera-shy, lol, I just pretend I'm doing a demo on Food TV half the time. The other half of the time, I forget it's there.
My co-workers are pretty cool too.
I've already dropped a few pounds - to get to the employee doors for the kitchen, I have to basically walk across the entire casino, then up three flights of stairs. The employee bathroom is at the foot of those stairs. So, lots of exercise there. That's a good thing though, I was getting pudgy again.
I've learned so much already too in the two weeks I've been there. Like, how to supreme an orange, how to clean a head of frisee, the fact that pumpkin seeds are a far superior add-in to brittle than peanuts or almonds, what a banana financier is, and a new technique for slicing tomatoes. The fact that I'm getting to fill in some of the gaps in my culinary knowledge is priceless to me. And the Sage will look great on my resume.
In other news....
I had to get a new phone and number the other day. AT&T is a company comprised of brigands and douchebags. So I switched over to Boost Mobile. My phone's a little odd, but I'm so glad Jeremy got it for me. I was really hating not being able to text anyone. It's a Motorola Clutch. My only problem with it is the early '90's style graphics and display, and the fact that it doesn't deliver about 25% of my incoming text messages. But, now that I'm with Boost, I'll be able to get either the Motorola i1 (Android phone) or a Blackberry Curve once we're caught up on bills. I'm torn between the two. I'd love to try out the Android technology, but I've heard some great things about Crackberries too, so we'll see.
The kids are finally starting to adjust to Mommy working again. Matthew gets a big kick out of going to pick up Diddy on the days he babysits. He'll get himself 3/4 dressed (I have to help him get his shirt over his head sometimes, and occasionally his pull-up will get snagged in his waistband), then grab my wrist, lead me to the door, and say "Trip? Go? Car? Dribing? Get Diddys?" I love it. I also am so happy that Diddy's been babysitting for me. For one thing, day care is prohibitively expensive. For another, I don't really trust daycares. I trust Diddy. He's good with the boys, and they love him. Plus he isn't going to freak out if they decide to strip down to their pull-ups, or if I haven't had a chance to run the vacuum. I'm so lucky to have him.
I still have to try to figure out a balance between work and housework. Hopefully, now that I'm used to going to work again, I'll be able to do that this week. I do the majority of the cleaning around here, and as much of a wimp as it makes me sound, the 40+ hours a week at the Sage, plus all those damn stairs, has had me fairly wiped out. I think I'm going to try to draw myself up a chore chart - a few things a day - and try to do that. I miss how clean my place on Clarion was. Of course, that was before I had two kids under the age of 4, but still. Fingers crossed I can find that balance, lol.
Man, it feels so good to be making money again!
That's all I've got for tonight. I'll try to get a picture of myself in my work uniform tomorrow, and I'll post it.
I've been pretty busy trying to find my balance again. It seems like I spend a lot of time doing just that, but then the past three years have been admittedly crazy. Although I'm more stable now (emotionally at least) than I ever have been before, there have been sea changes in my life since 2007 and the advent of Matteo. One major one was when I quit City Park and got laid off from the shop, and began my eleven-month run as a stay-home mom (and more or less a miserable failure at it). And then, finally, I went back to work.
I'm cooking. Again. Finally. I had my first day of work at the Sage (part of the Odawa Casino Resort) on July 14'th. I'm full-time, but seasonal, which means there's a strong chance I'll be laid off in September, unless they decide to figure out a way to keep me. However, with any luck, I can either transfer to a different job within the company, and return to the Sage next spring, or else accept the lay-off and return next spring.
I love my job. It's been a while since I could say that whole-heartedly. I'm the gar-mo (garde-manger), which basically means I do salads, some apps, and desserts when I have the time. Here's our menu. The grilled pizza is my personal favorite, sans olives.
I can't say enough good things about working there. It's just as much pressure as working the line at City Park, but pressure of a different sort. City Park is great at what they do, don't get me wrong, but the Sage is a whole different thing. City Park is far more casual than the Sage, for one thing. Sage is gourmet. Sage is fancy plating, frisee with charred tomato vinaigrette, beef so tender that you can literally fork-cut it, supremed oranges to accompany the sauteed crab cakes...anyway..... So there's more pressure to make the plates look good. There's the pressure of being the new kid, of course. And the fact that there's a security camera blatantly jutting from the ceiling right in front of my station. Whether it's focused on me or not, I have no way of knowing (it's in a dark glass dome). Not that I'm camera-shy, lol, I just pretend I'm doing a demo on Food TV half the time. The other half of the time, I forget it's there.
My co-workers are pretty cool too.
I've already dropped a few pounds - to get to the employee doors for the kitchen, I have to basically walk across the entire casino, then up three flights of stairs. The employee bathroom is at the foot of those stairs. So, lots of exercise there. That's a good thing though, I was getting pudgy again.
I've learned so much already too in the two weeks I've been there. Like, how to supreme an orange, how to clean a head of frisee, the fact that pumpkin seeds are a far superior add-in to brittle than peanuts or almonds, what a banana financier is, and a new technique for slicing tomatoes. The fact that I'm getting to fill in some of the gaps in my culinary knowledge is priceless to me. And the Sage will look great on my resume.
In other news....
I had to get a new phone and number the other day. AT&T is a company comprised of brigands and douchebags. So I switched over to Boost Mobile. My phone's a little odd, but I'm so glad Jeremy got it for me. I was really hating not being able to text anyone. It's a Motorola Clutch. My only problem with it is the early '90's style graphics and display, and the fact that it doesn't deliver about 25% of my incoming text messages. But, now that I'm with Boost, I'll be able to get either the Motorola i1 (Android phone) or a Blackberry Curve once we're caught up on bills. I'm torn between the two. I'd love to try out the Android technology, but I've heard some great things about Crackberries too, so we'll see.
The kids are finally starting to adjust to Mommy working again. Matthew gets a big kick out of going to pick up Diddy on the days he babysits. He'll get himself 3/4 dressed (I have to help him get his shirt over his head sometimes, and occasionally his pull-up will get snagged in his waistband), then grab my wrist, lead me to the door, and say "Trip? Go? Car? Dribing? Get Diddys?" I love it. I also am so happy that Diddy's been babysitting for me. For one thing, day care is prohibitively expensive. For another, I don't really trust daycares. I trust Diddy. He's good with the boys, and they love him. Plus he isn't going to freak out if they decide to strip down to their pull-ups, or if I haven't had a chance to run the vacuum. I'm so lucky to have him.
I still have to try to figure out a balance between work and housework. Hopefully, now that I'm used to going to work again, I'll be able to do that this week. I do the majority of the cleaning around here, and as much of a wimp as it makes me sound, the 40+ hours a week at the Sage, plus all those damn stairs, has had me fairly wiped out. I think I'm going to try to draw myself up a chore chart - a few things a day - and try to do that. I miss how clean my place on Clarion was. Of course, that was before I had two kids under the age of 4, but still. Fingers crossed I can find that balance, lol.
Man, it feels so good to be making money again!
That's all I've got for tonight. I'll try to get a picture of myself in my work uniform tomorrow, and I'll post it.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Updates
Jonah's healing nicely.
We're past the Neosporin-on-a-gauze-pad phase. We ended up picking up a tube of the Neosporin plus pain relief. That stuff is amazing. If I get this job at the casino, I'm picking up a tube to keep in my knife roll for minor burns. Now we're into the Vaseline-on-a-gauze-pad phase, for the next couple of days.
It doesn't seem to be causing Jonah much pain, except for when he's running and does the splits on accident, or right around bedtime when he's been active all day. Nothing a dose of Tylenol can't fix. It looks to be healing up quite well too. The stitches are dissolving, and most of the redness is gone. His peep doesn't have the "collar" on it that every other circumcised penis that I've seen has, but that's just a cosmetic thing, and perhaps it'll form. If not, I don't really care. The important thing is that it's been mended.
I haven't heard from the casino yet, but it's a holiday weekend. Hopefully I'll know by Wednesday.
I'm still without a street-legal vehicle, so tonight, I got to walk down to Family Video to return a movie of Diddy's that I'd forgotten to take back, then up to the store to get Jonah more Tylenol - the store in question being WalMart. I hate going there, and if I'd had a bit more energy I would have gone to Meijer's, but I just couldn't do it. My legs were seizing up, my back was screaming at me, and I was cursing the state laws that require tags to be renewed every year. All total, I had nearly a 7 mile hike tonight. I had to take a long hot shower to get my muscles to relax enough to bend forward. But, Jonah got his Tylenol, and that's all that matters.
I've been browsing online for a new vehicle. If I get this job, I'd like to start trying to sock away $15 per paycheck toward a down payment. The van's got over 207,000 miles on it, and while it still runs fairly reliably, I'd like to have something a little newer, especially for Flint trips. I'll probably go through Tailored Enterprises again - the whole parking ticket fiasco really did a number on my credit.
My phone's still shut off. Another reason I hope I get the job.
For anyone thinking about making a donation to the blog, as a wonderful girl did recently, I'm having paypal issues. I can accept donations through Jeremy's paypal, however, so leave me a comment with your email, and I'll send you his paypal address.
That's about all I've got tonight. I'm exhausted.
We're past the Neosporin-on-a-gauze-pad phase. We ended up picking up a tube of the Neosporin plus pain relief. That stuff is amazing. If I get this job at the casino, I'm picking up a tube to keep in my knife roll for minor burns. Now we're into the Vaseline-on-a-gauze-pad phase, for the next couple of days.
It doesn't seem to be causing Jonah much pain, except for when he's running and does the splits on accident, or right around bedtime when he's been active all day. Nothing a dose of Tylenol can't fix. It looks to be healing up quite well too. The stitches are dissolving, and most of the redness is gone. His peep doesn't have the "collar" on it that every other circumcised penis that I've seen has, but that's just a cosmetic thing, and perhaps it'll form. If not, I don't really care. The important thing is that it's been mended.
I haven't heard from the casino yet, but it's a holiday weekend. Hopefully I'll know by Wednesday.
I'm still without a street-legal vehicle, so tonight, I got to walk down to Family Video to return a movie of Diddy's that I'd forgotten to take back, then up to the store to get Jonah more Tylenol - the store in question being WalMart. I hate going there, and if I'd had a bit more energy I would have gone to Meijer's, but I just couldn't do it. My legs were seizing up, my back was screaming at me, and I was cursing the state laws that require tags to be renewed every year. All total, I had nearly a 7 mile hike tonight. I had to take a long hot shower to get my muscles to relax enough to bend forward. But, Jonah got his Tylenol, and that's all that matters.
I've been browsing online for a new vehicle. If I get this job, I'd like to start trying to sock away $15 per paycheck toward a down payment. The van's got over 207,000 miles on it, and while it still runs fairly reliably, I'd like to have something a little newer, especially for Flint trips. I'll probably go through Tailored Enterprises again - the whole parking ticket fiasco really did a number on my credit.
My phone's still shut off. Another reason I hope I get the job.
For anyone thinking about making a donation to the blog, as a wonderful girl did recently, I'm having paypal issues. I can accept donations through Jeremy's paypal, however, so leave me a comment with your email, and I'll send you his paypal address.
That's about all I've got tonight. I'm exhausted.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Jonah's Surgery
...was today.
We got to the hospital shortly before 8:00 am and checked in with ambulatory surgery. They had told us to go ahead and bring him in in his pj's, since it was fairly early in the morning, but to bring a change of comfy clothes along to take him home in. So he wore his red fleece footie pajamas with the black dog-bone print there, and I packed his Harley-Davidson hoodie and some baggy khaki shorts for the trip home.
We hung out in the waiting room and read books to Jonah and played with him till around 9:15, when a nurse came and got us. She took us to a corridor with gurneys surrounded by hanging sheets and had us wait there for a few minutes. She came back, did his height, weight, blood pressure, and pulse, and had us confirm his name, date of birth, and told us to describe in our own words what procedure he was having done. For some reason, my choice of the phrase "he's here to have his botched circumcision repaired" seemed to strike her as amusing.
We waited there for a few more minutes, and then they took us to the pre-op room, where they did his blood pressure and pulse again and reviewed his medical history. She went to check and see what time he was supposed to start surgery. She came back at 9:29 and said that the OR was booked for Jonah at 9:30, so it should be any time now. We changed him into a fresh diaper and his hospital johnny and waited. She came back again to let us know that they were running about fifteen or twenty minutes behind on that operating room.
Twenty-one minutes later, the anesthesiologist came in. He introduced himself (I forget his name), and explained his part of the procedure to us. He was going to have the nurse-anesthesiologist come in and give Jonah a dose of a mild tranquilizer first, just to relax him before taking him away from us. Once he was in the OR, they'd use a gas through a mask, rather than subject him to an injection. He would be on an IV throughout the procedure, as well as on forced air. They would have both the anesthesiologist and the nurse-anesthesiologist there, as well as the surgeon and the surgical nurse, there at all times throughout the procedure. After it was done, there would be two nurses with him, one of them having swaddled him in a warm blanket, at all times until we were allowed into post-op once he came out from under the drugs. He would not be waking up on a gurney or bed, but rather, in the arms of one of the nurses. This is done for two different reasons. One is that some children come out of the haze wild and trying to thrash all over the place, and having them swaddled and held prevents them falling and injuring themselves, thus reducing the hospital's liability. The other reason, and the one I prefer, is that it's a little less traumatic, especially for a cuddly little guy like Jonah, to wake up warm and in someone's arms than lying in a strange bed under fluorescent lights with strangers staring at you.
He left, and the nurse-anesthesiologist came in and gave Jonah an oral dose of a pink liquid - Versed, the tranquilizer. She explained more of how the procedure would go - that we would have to leave post-op and go back to the waiting room until they came for us, that Dr. Topley (the surgeon) would come give us a report as soon as Jonah's procedure was over, that we wouldn't be allowed in to see him in post-op until he woke up (which really bugged me - I would think it would be better for him to wake up in MY arms or his father's as opposed to a stranger's, but then, I'm not a medical professional), and that the procedure should take 30 to 40 minutes.
The Versed started kicking in. Jonah was already tired - he was at that point well-overdue for his morning nap - and his eyes started crossing and rolling back in his head. The anesthesiologist came back in, saw that it was working, put the sides up on the gurney, and started to wheel Jonah out. Jonah stretched his arms up to him, and opened and closed his hands rapidly - Jonah-sign for "pick me up, hug me, love me." The anesthesiologist looked to us for permission, and when we nodded, he cuddled him right up into his arms and carried him away. The nurses came back for the gurney.
Jeremy and I went to the waiting room. We took Jonah's pj's out to the car, had a super-rapid cigarette - they'd had us give our cell number just in case we weren't in the waiting room and they needed us - and then ran back inside. We stopped in at the gift shop for Jeremy to get a snack, then hustled back to the waiting room.
My mom, being the totally awesome mom that she is, not only was at our house watching Matthew, but had loaned us her car to take to the hospital, since the van's tags are expired, we have no car insurance, and no money to get either at the moment. I texted her to tell her what was going on, and to see how Matthew was doing. I drank a couple cups of lousy hospital coffee - there's a Roast n Toast at Burns Clinic, but that's at the other end of the hospital complex and I didn't want to go that far away just to satisfy a caffeine jones. I read a Northern Express, a Women's Day, and a Vanity Fair. Then I stared at the TV - the Today show was on, I think, followed by Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? And we waited. And we waited.
An hour later, Dr. Topley called us back to the consult room. He told us that everything was fine. It had taken longer than expected because of the number and level of adhesions. Jonah had quite a serious case of phimosis. He gave us the after-care instructions and told us he wanted to see Jonah again in 3-4 weeks for a check-up. My brain had locked onto the words "number, level, adhesions." I said, "So, we had to do this then." It was a stupid statement, totally brainless; I knew it had to get done. I'd done research. We'd known it was necessary since Jonah was five days old. I think what I was looking for was reassurance that the pain that my son was going to suffer was needed, wasn't cosmetic but medically required. And Dr. Topley knew that that's why I'd said that. He said "yes. It had to be done. He was completely bound up." He reassured us that Jonah would be just fine, and that we'd be able to see him as soon as he started waking up.
We sat back down. I called Mom to give her the update. She told me that Matthew had been an angel - he always is for other people, lol - and that he'd been speaking 3/4 English and 1/4 Matthew speak all morning, and a lot of both. We hung up. I sat back down by Jeremy and reviewed the aftercare instructions in my head - which were identical to the newborn circ care. I made a list in my head of the stuff we'd need to get.
Finally - about fifteen to twenty minutes later, the nurse came for us. We had to stop at the restroom so I could pee - too much hospital coffee hit at the exact worst moment - and then we followed the signs to get to post-op. We could hear Jonah screaming. We got in the room.
His eyes were going in two different directions, but his howls were rage more than pain. His hand with the IV needle was strapped to some sort of stabilizer and wrapped in an Ace bandage. It was making him furious. He kept trying to claw at it. The nurse immediately handed him off to us - Jonah wanted me (mommy's boy) - and I started rocking him and whispering to him. He thrashed and roared and screamed and sobbed, and I couldn't help it, I started crying too. Worst thing to do, I think - I really didn't want him picking up on any negative emotions from me and feeding off them - but I couldn't help it. I'd been running on adrenaline, coffee, and steel will since Monday, and it all came down at once, at the sound of my baby in panic and distress. He clawed the needle out. They had to call a second nurse. He shook his hand and flung it, then bent and tried to claw off the hospital bracelets on his ankle. They turned the lights down and left us alone with him for a minute. I tried to get my crying under control - hell, I'm choking up now writing about it - while they were gone. The pre-op nurse came back with some apple juice in a cup with a straw. Jonah's tears and yells immediately ceased and he lunged for the cup with both hands. He sucked it dry, then thrust it back at her and started crying again. She stood there for a minute, until we told her he was still thirsty and wanted more apple juice. She said she'd just bring the container to pour into the cup, and then she'd let us get him calmed down for fifteen minutes or so before discharging us.
Jonah sucked down the second round of apple juice in about 90 seconds. I refilled the cup with water, which he immediately drained. I felt even more terrible for him - he hadn't been allowed any water since 5:00 am, and no food since 11:55 pm. Since he'd fallen asleep around 1:30, he hadn't had either since 11:55 pm the previous night. It was 1:20 pm. He must have been starving. To make it just a little more worse, he had gas from the air, and from his dinner the night before (beef stroganoff). He went back and forth between Jeremy and I for a while, then finally settled back into his drug-induced haze. We got him out of the johnny, peeled the electrode-things from his chest, and got him dressed. She came back and had us sign some stuff, and we were free to leave.
We stopped off at the Dollar Tree to pick up gauze pads, Vaseline, Neosporin, decongestants for me, and children's Tylenol for Jonah. They had everything but the Tylenol, so that necessitated another stop, this one at the grocery store by our house. And then, finally, at 1:45 pm, we had Jonah home.
The technical name for what was wrong with him is "incomplete circumcision" and "phimosis." Basically, it's as I described in my previous entry. Not enough skin was taken off, and his foreskin became too tight. Had we not had the procedure done, he would have developed difficulty with urination and with erections. He had already started showing the erection difficulty - little boys tend to get hard when they're having their diapers changed and when they're being bathed, it just happens. Jonah would get about halfway there, then make a grimacing face.
In uncircumcised boys, phimosis usually develops at the age of 2 and lasts until they are 12. Jonah's started developing between the age of 1-2 weeks. In other words, not good.
According to Dr. Topley, the phimosis went for nearly the entire length of his penis. In other words, had we not had this done, once he'd gotten past puberty, he would most likely have been unable to achieve an erection at all. (This is my inference from what he said and from my research.) Also, phimosis is linked to penile ulcers and, strangely enough, to diabetes.
It had to be done.
I have to keep telling myself this.
It had to be done.
I tell myself this through every agonizing diaper and dressing change. Urination makes him scream. Changing the dressing results in ten to fifteen minutes of heart-rending sobs. The fact that he has a cold on top of this all does not help in the slightest.
For the next two days, we have to coat a piece of gauze in Neosporin and wrap it around his penis. After that, Vaseline for a few more days. He has dissolving stitches (THANK GOD, I can't imagine trying to take him in to get regular ones removed). No immersion baths for a week. I'm going to have to try to get some dry shampoo for him, I think. I can't just wash his head over the sink - he won't stay still for it, he splashes water every chance he gets, and there's just too much risk for injury there. He has his re-check in 3-4 weeks. He gets two children's Tylenol meltaway tablets every four hours for the pain. (The proper dosage - he weighs 29 lbs.)
The next two to four days are going to be hell for my baby.
But it had to be done.
I just have to keep telling myself that.
And thank God and every deity there is from every possible pantheon that he won't remember it.
pre-op.
pre-op
post-op. Pretty groggy
post-op again. Enjoying his apple juice
We got to the hospital shortly before 8:00 am and checked in with ambulatory surgery. They had told us to go ahead and bring him in in his pj's, since it was fairly early in the morning, but to bring a change of comfy clothes along to take him home in. So he wore his red fleece footie pajamas with the black dog-bone print there, and I packed his Harley-Davidson hoodie and some baggy khaki shorts for the trip home.
We hung out in the waiting room and read books to Jonah and played with him till around 9:15, when a nurse came and got us. She took us to a corridor with gurneys surrounded by hanging sheets and had us wait there for a few minutes. She came back, did his height, weight, blood pressure, and pulse, and had us confirm his name, date of birth, and told us to describe in our own words what procedure he was having done. For some reason, my choice of the phrase "he's here to have his botched circumcision repaired" seemed to strike her as amusing.
We waited there for a few more minutes, and then they took us to the pre-op room, where they did his blood pressure and pulse again and reviewed his medical history. She went to check and see what time he was supposed to start surgery. She came back at 9:29 and said that the OR was booked for Jonah at 9:30, so it should be any time now. We changed him into a fresh diaper and his hospital johnny and waited. She came back again to let us know that they were running about fifteen or twenty minutes behind on that operating room.
Twenty-one minutes later, the anesthesiologist came in. He introduced himself (I forget his name), and explained his part of the procedure to us. He was going to have the nurse-anesthesiologist come in and give Jonah a dose of a mild tranquilizer first, just to relax him before taking him away from us. Once he was in the OR, they'd use a gas through a mask, rather than subject him to an injection. He would be on an IV throughout the procedure, as well as on forced air. They would have both the anesthesiologist and the nurse-anesthesiologist there, as well as the surgeon and the surgical nurse, there at all times throughout the procedure. After it was done, there would be two nurses with him, one of them having swaddled him in a warm blanket, at all times until we were allowed into post-op once he came out from under the drugs. He would not be waking up on a gurney or bed, but rather, in the arms of one of the nurses. This is done for two different reasons. One is that some children come out of the haze wild and trying to thrash all over the place, and having them swaddled and held prevents them falling and injuring themselves, thus reducing the hospital's liability. The other reason, and the one I prefer, is that it's a little less traumatic, especially for a cuddly little guy like Jonah, to wake up warm and in someone's arms than lying in a strange bed under fluorescent lights with strangers staring at you.
He left, and the nurse-anesthesiologist came in and gave Jonah an oral dose of a pink liquid - Versed, the tranquilizer. She explained more of how the procedure would go - that we would have to leave post-op and go back to the waiting room until they came for us, that Dr. Topley (the surgeon) would come give us a report as soon as Jonah's procedure was over, that we wouldn't be allowed in to see him in post-op until he woke up (which really bugged me - I would think it would be better for him to wake up in MY arms or his father's as opposed to a stranger's, but then, I'm not a medical professional), and that the procedure should take 30 to 40 minutes.
The Versed started kicking in. Jonah was already tired - he was at that point well-overdue for his morning nap - and his eyes started crossing and rolling back in his head. The anesthesiologist came back in, saw that it was working, put the sides up on the gurney, and started to wheel Jonah out. Jonah stretched his arms up to him, and opened and closed his hands rapidly - Jonah-sign for "pick me up, hug me, love me." The anesthesiologist looked to us for permission, and when we nodded, he cuddled him right up into his arms and carried him away. The nurses came back for the gurney.
Jeremy and I went to the waiting room. We took Jonah's pj's out to the car, had a super-rapid cigarette - they'd had us give our cell number just in case we weren't in the waiting room and they needed us - and then ran back inside. We stopped in at the gift shop for Jeremy to get a snack, then hustled back to the waiting room.
My mom, being the totally awesome mom that she is, not only was at our house watching Matthew, but had loaned us her car to take to the hospital, since the van's tags are expired, we have no car insurance, and no money to get either at the moment. I texted her to tell her what was going on, and to see how Matthew was doing. I drank a couple cups of lousy hospital coffee - there's a Roast n Toast at Burns Clinic, but that's at the other end of the hospital complex and I didn't want to go that far away just to satisfy a caffeine jones. I read a Northern Express, a Women's Day, and a Vanity Fair. Then I stared at the TV - the Today show was on, I think, followed by Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? And we waited. And we waited.
An hour later, Dr. Topley called us back to the consult room. He told us that everything was fine. It had taken longer than expected because of the number and level of adhesions. Jonah had quite a serious case of phimosis. He gave us the after-care instructions and told us he wanted to see Jonah again in 3-4 weeks for a check-up. My brain had locked onto the words "number, level, adhesions." I said, "So, we had to do this then." It was a stupid statement, totally brainless; I knew it had to get done. I'd done research. We'd known it was necessary since Jonah was five days old. I think what I was looking for was reassurance that the pain that my son was going to suffer was needed, wasn't cosmetic but medically required. And Dr. Topley knew that that's why I'd said that. He said "yes. It had to be done. He was completely bound up." He reassured us that Jonah would be just fine, and that we'd be able to see him as soon as he started waking up.
We sat back down. I called Mom to give her the update. She told me that Matthew had been an angel - he always is for other people, lol - and that he'd been speaking 3/4 English and 1/4 Matthew speak all morning, and a lot of both. We hung up. I sat back down by Jeremy and reviewed the aftercare instructions in my head - which were identical to the newborn circ care. I made a list in my head of the stuff we'd need to get.
Finally - about fifteen to twenty minutes later, the nurse came for us. We had to stop at the restroom so I could pee - too much hospital coffee hit at the exact worst moment - and then we followed the signs to get to post-op. We could hear Jonah screaming. We got in the room.
His eyes were going in two different directions, but his howls were rage more than pain. His hand with the IV needle was strapped to some sort of stabilizer and wrapped in an Ace bandage. It was making him furious. He kept trying to claw at it. The nurse immediately handed him off to us - Jonah wanted me (mommy's boy) - and I started rocking him and whispering to him. He thrashed and roared and screamed and sobbed, and I couldn't help it, I started crying too. Worst thing to do, I think - I really didn't want him picking up on any negative emotions from me and feeding off them - but I couldn't help it. I'd been running on adrenaline, coffee, and steel will since Monday, and it all came down at once, at the sound of my baby in panic and distress. He clawed the needle out. They had to call a second nurse. He shook his hand and flung it, then bent and tried to claw off the hospital bracelets on his ankle. They turned the lights down and left us alone with him for a minute. I tried to get my crying under control - hell, I'm choking up now writing about it - while they were gone. The pre-op nurse came back with some apple juice in a cup with a straw. Jonah's tears and yells immediately ceased and he lunged for the cup with both hands. He sucked it dry, then thrust it back at her and started crying again. She stood there for a minute, until we told her he was still thirsty and wanted more apple juice. She said she'd just bring the container to pour into the cup, and then she'd let us get him calmed down for fifteen minutes or so before discharging us.
Jonah sucked down the second round of apple juice in about 90 seconds. I refilled the cup with water, which he immediately drained. I felt even more terrible for him - he hadn't been allowed any water since 5:00 am, and no food since 11:55 pm. Since he'd fallen asleep around 1:30, he hadn't had either since 11:55 pm the previous night. It was 1:20 pm. He must have been starving. To make it just a little more worse, he had gas from the air, and from his dinner the night before (beef stroganoff). He went back and forth between Jeremy and I for a while, then finally settled back into his drug-induced haze. We got him out of the johnny, peeled the electrode-things from his chest, and got him dressed. She came back and had us sign some stuff, and we were free to leave.
We stopped off at the Dollar Tree to pick up gauze pads, Vaseline, Neosporin, decongestants for me, and children's Tylenol for Jonah. They had everything but the Tylenol, so that necessitated another stop, this one at the grocery store by our house. And then, finally, at 1:45 pm, we had Jonah home.
The technical name for what was wrong with him is "incomplete circumcision" and "phimosis." Basically, it's as I described in my previous entry. Not enough skin was taken off, and his foreskin became too tight. Had we not had the procedure done, he would have developed difficulty with urination and with erections. He had already started showing the erection difficulty - little boys tend to get hard when they're having their diapers changed and when they're being bathed, it just happens. Jonah would get about halfway there, then make a grimacing face.
In uncircumcised boys, phimosis usually develops at the age of 2 and lasts until they are 12. Jonah's started developing between the age of 1-2 weeks. In other words, not good.
According to Dr. Topley, the phimosis went for nearly the entire length of his penis. In other words, had we not had this done, once he'd gotten past puberty, he would most likely have been unable to achieve an erection at all. (This is my inference from what he said and from my research.) Also, phimosis is linked to penile ulcers and, strangely enough, to diabetes.
It had to be done.
I have to keep telling myself this.
It had to be done.
I tell myself this through every agonizing diaper and dressing change. Urination makes him scream. Changing the dressing results in ten to fifteen minutes of heart-rending sobs. The fact that he has a cold on top of this all does not help in the slightest.
For the next two days, we have to coat a piece of gauze in Neosporin and wrap it around his penis. After that, Vaseline for a few more days. He has dissolving stitches (THANK GOD, I can't imagine trying to take him in to get regular ones removed). No immersion baths for a week. I'm going to have to try to get some dry shampoo for him, I think. I can't just wash his head over the sink - he won't stay still for it, he splashes water every chance he gets, and there's just too much risk for injury there. He has his re-check in 3-4 weeks. He gets two children's Tylenol meltaway tablets every four hours for the pain. (The proper dosage - he weighs 29 lbs.)
The next two to four days are going to be hell for my baby.
But it had to be done.
I just have to keep telling myself that.
And thank God and every deity there is from every possible pantheon that he won't remember it.
pre-op.
pre-op
post-op. Pretty groggy
post-op again. Enjoying his apple juice
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Jonah
This is going to be a tough week for my little guy.
On Wednesday, I have to call the Ambulatory Surgery department at the hospital to find out a time. At some point on Thursday, most likely early in the morning, Jeremy and I will take Jonah to the hospital with his favorite toy and his favorite blanket. They will escort Jeremy and I into a special waiting room and wheel Jonah away. He will be put under a general anesthetic, to make him go to sleep completely. Once it kicks in, Dr. Topley, the pediatric urologist, will finally fix the botched job that the substitute pediatrician did circumcising him when he was two days old.
The surgery will take approximately a half-hour. After it's done, they will take Jonah to recovery, where Jeremy and I will be allowed to be with him. We will stay there for an hour before we are allowed to take him home.
This is something that is necessary. Sadly, Dr. McGeath had the day off when Jonah was circumcised, and the pediatrician who was covering for him did a horrible job. She took off the wrong amount of skin - not enough to make it look like she'd done anything at all. Not enough to prevent further issues. It's starting to form penile adhesions. Too much longer and his foreskin will begin to grow shut over his glans. It has to be done. Had she taken any less, we could have let it go, and let him decide when he was older if he wanted to be re-circumcised or not.
We noticed, the first time we changed the dressing on it, that it didn't look like he'd been circumcised at all. Considering that we were charged for the procedure, we were mildly irritated over the fact. Once we were able to take the dressing off for good, we noticed that it looked like it was going to start binding.
We scheduled Jonah's two-week well-baby appointment. Dr. McGeath wasn't available for us to see that day, so we were forced to see the other physician in his practice, Dr. Decker. Again, we weren't happy over this - Dr. McGeath had been our pediatrician since the day after Matthew was born. He is a phenomenal doctor - very patient, loves children, respects parents and their opinions. He was more than willing to work with us and our requests to have Matthew on a delayed immunization schedule (as recommended by Jeremy's sister Lisa - the evidence linking vaccinations to autism may be anecdotal, but when the anecdotes are from your own family, they tend to hit a little closer to home. Matthew and Jonah both get all their vaccines, we just waited to start giving them to them until they were four months old, rather than at birth.), and takes great delight in the way we encourage our boys to be adventurous eaters - he's told me that he's even used us (without naming us, of course) as examples to other parents in his practice. He's never made us feel stupid or inferior, even when I've asked questions like "I had a severe allergic reaction to the DTP vaccine when I was a baby. What are the odds my boys are allergic?"
So we had to see the other physician, whom I will refer to as Dr. Ick. Dr. Ick ignored any input Jeremy tried to give. When I mentioned that we wanted to defer Jonah's vaccines till he was four months old like we did with Matthew, she proceeded to attempt to give me - again, ignoring Jeremy - a stern lecture about how there could be no possible link between vaccines and autism, and implied that I was a fool to consider it. When she pulled down Jonah's diaper to check and see how his circumcision was healing, I mentioned that it didn't look right, and asked about having it redone, due to the possibility of penile adhesions. She proceeded to define penile adhesions for me - even though I was fed up with her enough at this point to interrupt and tell her that I knew what they were (to which she responded by ignoring me and talking over top of me), and that a re-do wasn't necessary, all I had to do was force the skin back. Then she demonstrated. She made my two week old infant scream in pain. Then he started bleeding. I saw red. I lost it. Jeremy may have had to hold me back, I don't remember. I grayed out completely for a moment. She hurt my child, deliberately. What's more, according to the AAP, you are NOT supposed to forcibly retract the foreskin on an infant, as it can cause...ding ding ding, you guessed it, bleeding.
We both left that day in a state of rage. We stopped off at the receptionist's office to set up Jonah's one-month well-baby. We specifically requested Dr. McGeath. The receptionist nodded and set up the appointment. I took Jonah in for it, and they, yet again, shunted us over to Dr. Ick. I had had to take Jonah by myself - I think Jeremy stayed home with Matthew that day. I answered her questions as coldly and simply as I could, and when she attempted to force his foreskin back again, I snapped "Please refrain from making his penis bleed again!" She mentioned that she was sending the nurse in to give him *whatever* shot she thought he needed, and I stated that he was NOT going to be vaccinated until he was four months old. She left, and I left right behind her, thinking that perhaps she'd try to send the nurse in with the prepared injection anyway, and try to bill us for the wasted medicine. I stopped off at the reception desk to set up his two-month appointment, and mentioned that we did NOT want our children seeing anyone but Dr. McGeath. The receptionist gave me a cold glare and said "Dr. McGeath is no longer treating Medicaid patients. All children with Medicaid are to see Dr. Ick, or no one else." I was stunned. I scheduled the appointment, took, my son, and left.
The rage started to hit about halfway home. I had to pull over at 7/11 and have a smoke. My hands were shaking too badly to drive, I was so angry. I got home and vented to Jeremy.
Matthew had his 18-month checkup a week before Jonah's two-month appointment. Jeremy and I both went this time. We waited to see if we were going to be passed off to Dr. Ick again. Nope, we were lucky enough to see Dr. McGeath. Once the nurse came and left, and Dr. McGeath came in, he examined Matthew, gave his usual complimentary report about how well Matthew was growing and developing, and then asked us if we had any questions. This was Jeremy's cue. He's much better at staying cool, calm, collected, and rational than I am - I either get cold and blunt or red-hot-angry and spew profanity. Jeremy simply stated that he couldn't understand why Dr. McGeath would see one of our children, a Medicaid patient, and not the other one, and that if we couldn't have them both see him, then we'd find another practice where we wouldn't be discriminated against based on the fact that our children were Medicaid babies.
Dr. McGeath looked floored. He asked us to tell him exactly what happened. We did. I described the receptionist who had - twice - passed us off to Dr. Ick. I even mentioned that we DID NOT like her, that we didn't agree with her tactics, that she had been rude to Jeremy and had manhandled Jonah in a potentially dangerous manner, and that, in short, we much preferred him, if we were able to have both our children see him.
He hastened to explain that there had been a mix-up, of course he'd see Jonah, he'd been wondering why he hadn't seen him yet, and then excused himself momentarily. I heard his footsteps go down the hall like the tread of Doom, and snickered in mean-spirited glee at my hope that he would ream the receptionist out. When he came back, he told us that he'd switched Jonah's next appointment so that he would be seeing him, not Dr. Ick, and that he would always see our boys. We were satisfied.
When we left, we stopped at the receptionist's desk to set up Matthew's two-year well-baby. I couldn't resist, I had to do it. I said, "And we'd prefer to see Dr. McGeath again." The receptionist mean-mugged me, and I replied with my best angelic, beatific smile. Heh heh heh.
So Jonah finally got to see Dr. McGeath. Dr. McGeath took one look at his poor peep, and said that of course it could be redone, that it SHOULD be redone, but that we'd have to wait till he was a year old, as he'd need general anesthesia, and it would be too dangerous to do so before then.
At Jonah's one year well-baby, Dr. McGeath said that he was calling over to P-town Urology to make the referral. He warned us that there was a possibility that they wouldn't be able to do the surgery up here, that we may need to take him downstate. He followed that up by asking us if there was a downstate hospital that we preferred. We said that Hurley Hospital, down in Flint, would be good - plenty of family to stay with down there, easy babysitting for Matthew while surgery was going on - and he said that if NMH wasn't able to do it, he would personally call Hurley to make the referral. Have I mentioned how much I love Dr. McGeath?
Petoskey Urology called me a few hours after we got home. (This was a Friday.) They set the appoinment up for early Monday morning.
We took Jonah in on Monday. Filled out the preliminary paperwork. And then...the receptionist calls us up to tell us that Jonah's Medicaid has been cancelled. From 3 pm Friday to 10 am Monday, they'd terminated his coverage. Something about income limits.
It took twelve applications and nine months, but we finally got him covered again. We took Jonah in for his 18 month appointment, two months late, and we got the urology appointment re-scheduled. Dr. Topley examined him, said they could do it up here, and gave us a general idea of how long it would take.
And so, my baby boy is going in for surgery on Thursday.
I know it needs to be done. We had a hell of a fight getting to the point where we could have it done. It's medically necessary. And yet, I'm a little scared. General anesthesia is frightening enough when it's being done on an adult. This is my 22 month old son.
NMH has a great pediatric department, and a great ICU. I'm not overly concerned about malpractice. What has me scared is more on a visceral level.
I know my baby boy, my little Jonah Lee. He's a chubby, happy, affectionate and loving little guy. Everyone is his best friend, the first time they meet him. He tries to hug strangers. He loves everyone. He flirts and cuddles. When he gives hugs and kisses, which is often, he will pat your back as he holds you. He'd be perfectly content to be carried on my hip all day long, just so that he could hug me and kiss me with ease. He's a chatterbox, a cuddly love. But, despite the fact that he is so friendly, he is, deep down (and on the surface) a mama's boy to the max. Perhaps it's because I went two and a half weeks overdue with him. Perhaps it's the fact that they had to resort to surgical intervention so that he could be born. Perhaps it's the fact that I had to carry him more than I had to carry Matthew. Jonah was colicky, and Matthew wasn't, and one of the very few things that would give him comfort was for me to hold him and walk the room. Jonah never got into the "daddy nap" the way Matthew did. Also, Matthew was at the phase where he was fairly new to walking, and wanting to poke eyes and pull hair, and Jonah was only safe from Matthew's typical toddler exploration in my arms. Whatever the case may be, Jonah has always been "my" boy, the mama's boy, the balance to Matthew's obvious and life-long preference for Daddy over Mommy.
What scares me is the thought of my little snuggle-butt waking up and becoming terrified of strange men over him and no mommy in sight. It terrifies the control freak and primal mother in me that they will not allow me to stand by his bed or even in the same room as him while they operate. And the fact that I am the instrument to the pain he will most surely suffer as he recovers, necessary or no, breaks my heart into a million tiny shards.
So my Jonah will be having surgery. And yes, it is necessary, and yes, I am happy that it is finally going to be done. But am I happy about it in general? No. I would love to catch the pediatrician that botched the original job. I'd love to beat the holy shit out of her for being the cause of this (although I probably wouldn't, when it comes down to it - Mommy in jail for assault would be much more painful for both my boys than Mommy not allowed in the OR). I'd love to make her sit and listen while I unleashed a torrent of invective against her that would make a harpy blush, that would make her ears bleed and her knees buckle under the assault of my righteous wrath. I would love to have her license to mutilate little boys revoked permanently. But instead, I will pack the flannel blanket that my mother made for Jonah when he was born. I will pack the stuffed baby snowman that Jonah appropriated from Matthew's collection, that he calls "bahbah." I will make sure that Jonah doesn't eat or drink after 11:59 pm Wednesday night. I will kiss Matthew goodbye, take Jonah to the hospital, sign him in, and wait in agony until he is returned to me. I will take him home after his time in recovery is done. I will keep him dosed with children's Tylenol and Motrin. And every time I give him a dose, I will curse the name of the substitute physician who made this ordeal necessary.
Is it a kind and forgiving thing to do? No. Is is a sign that I am a big person? No. But I am a mother. My child will be in pain. And rather than blame myself, turn the guilt inward as I typically do, I will lay the fault for his hurt at her doorstep, and may she carry that burden, unwillingly or no, till the day she dies.
Because, above all else that I am, daughter, sister, friend, lover, cook, writer, smoker, ally, liberal - I am a mother.
On Wednesday, I have to call the Ambulatory Surgery department at the hospital to find out a time. At some point on Thursday, most likely early in the morning, Jeremy and I will take Jonah to the hospital with his favorite toy and his favorite blanket. They will escort Jeremy and I into a special waiting room and wheel Jonah away. He will be put under a general anesthetic, to make him go to sleep completely. Once it kicks in, Dr. Topley, the pediatric urologist, will finally fix the botched job that the substitute pediatrician did circumcising him when he was two days old.
The surgery will take approximately a half-hour. After it's done, they will take Jonah to recovery, where Jeremy and I will be allowed to be with him. We will stay there for an hour before we are allowed to take him home.
This is something that is necessary. Sadly, Dr. McGeath had the day off when Jonah was circumcised, and the pediatrician who was covering for him did a horrible job. She took off the wrong amount of skin - not enough to make it look like she'd done anything at all. Not enough to prevent further issues. It's starting to form penile adhesions. Too much longer and his foreskin will begin to grow shut over his glans. It has to be done. Had she taken any less, we could have let it go, and let him decide when he was older if he wanted to be re-circumcised or not.
We noticed, the first time we changed the dressing on it, that it didn't look like he'd been circumcised at all. Considering that we were charged for the procedure, we were mildly irritated over the fact. Once we were able to take the dressing off for good, we noticed that it looked like it was going to start binding.
We scheduled Jonah's two-week well-baby appointment. Dr. McGeath wasn't available for us to see that day, so we were forced to see the other physician in his practice, Dr. Decker. Again, we weren't happy over this - Dr. McGeath had been our pediatrician since the day after Matthew was born. He is a phenomenal doctor - very patient, loves children, respects parents and their opinions. He was more than willing to work with us and our requests to have Matthew on a delayed immunization schedule (as recommended by Jeremy's sister Lisa - the evidence linking vaccinations to autism may be anecdotal, but when the anecdotes are from your own family, they tend to hit a little closer to home. Matthew and Jonah both get all their vaccines, we just waited to start giving them to them until they were four months old, rather than at birth.), and takes great delight in the way we encourage our boys to be adventurous eaters - he's told me that he's even used us (without naming us, of course) as examples to other parents in his practice. He's never made us feel stupid or inferior, even when I've asked questions like "I had a severe allergic reaction to the DTP vaccine when I was a baby. What are the odds my boys are allergic?"
So we had to see the other physician, whom I will refer to as Dr. Ick. Dr. Ick ignored any input Jeremy tried to give. When I mentioned that we wanted to defer Jonah's vaccines till he was four months old like we did with Matthew, she proceeded to attempt to give me - again, ignoring Jeremy - a stern lecture about how there could be no possible link between vaccines and autism, and implied that I was a fool to consider it. When she pulled down Jonah's diaper to check and see how his circumcision was healing, I mentioned that it didn't look right, and asked about having it redone, due to the possibility of penile adhesions. She proceeded to define penile adhesions for me - even though I was fed up with her enough at this point to interrupt and tell her that I knew what they were (to which she responded by ignoring me and talking over top of me), and that a re-do wasn't necessary, all I had to do was force the skin back. Then she demonstrated. She made my two week old infant scream in pain. Then he started bleeding. I saw red. I lost it. Jeremy may have had to hold me back, I don't remember. I grayed out completely for a moment. She hurt my child, deliberately. What's more, according to the AAP, you are NOT supposed to forcibly retract the foreskin on an infant, as it can cause...ding ding ding, you guessed it, bleeding.
We both left that day in a state of rage. We stopped off at the receptionist's office to set up Jonah's one-month well-baby. We specifically requested Dr. McGeath. The receptionist nodded and set up the appointment. I took Jonah in for it, and they, yet again, shunted us over to Dr. Ick. I had had to take Jonah by myself - I think Jeremy stayed home with Matthew that day. I answered her questions as coldly and simply as I could, and when she attempted to force his foreskin back again, I snapped "Please refrain from making his penis bleed again!" She mentioned that she was sending the nurse in to give him *whatever* shot she thought he needed, and I stated that he was NOT going to be vaccinated until he was four months old. She left, and I left right behind her, thinking that perhaps she'd try to send the nurse in with the prepared injection anyway, and try to bill us for the wasted medicine. I stopped off at the reception desk to set up his two-month appointment, and mentioned that we did NOT want our children seeing anyone but Dr. McGeath. The receptionist gave me a cold glare and said "Dr. McGeath is no longer treating Medicaid patients. All children with Medicaid are to see Dr. Ick, or no one else." I was stunned. I scheduled the appointment, took, my son, and left.
The rage started to hit about halfway home. I had to pull over at 7/11 and have a smoke. My hands were shaking too badly to drive, I was so angry. I got home and vented to Jeremy.
Matthew had his 18-month checkup a week before Jonah's two-month appointment. Jeremy and I both went this time. We waited to see if we were going to be passed off to Dr. Ick again. Nope, we were lucky enough to see Dr. McGeath. Once the nurse came and left, and Dr. McGeath came in, he examined Matthew, gave his usual complimentary report about how well Matthew was growing and developing, and then asked us if we had any questions. This was Jeremy's cue. He's much better at staying cool, calm, collected, and rational than I am - I either get cold and blunt or red-hot-angry and spew profanity. Jeremy simply stated that he couldn't understand why Dr. McGeath would see one of our children, a Medicaid patient, and not the other one, and that if we couldn't have them both see him, then we'd find another practice where we wouldn't be discriminated against based on the fact that our children were Medicaid babies.
Dr. McGeath looked floored. He asked us to tell him exactly what happened. We did. I described the receptionist who had - twice - passed us off to Dr. Ick. I even mentioned that we DID NOT like her, that we didn't agree with her tactics, that she had been rude to Jeremy and had manhandled Jonah in a potentially dangerous manner, and that, in short, we much preferred him, if we were able to have both our children see him.
He hastened to explain that there had been a mix-up, of course he'd see Jonah, he'd been wondering why he hadn't seen him yet, and then excused himself momentarily. I heard his footsteps go down the hall like the tread of Doom, and snickered in mean-spirited glee at my hope that he would ream the receptionist out. When he came back, he told us that he'd switched Jonah's next appointment so that he would be seeing him, not Dr. Ick, and that he would always see our boys. We were satisfied.
When we left, we stopped at the receptionist's desk to set up Matthew's two-year well-baby. I couldn't resist, I had to do it. I said, "And we'd prefer to see Dr. McGeath again." The receptionist mean-mugged me, and I replied with my best angelic, beatific smile. Heh heh heh.
So Jonah finally got to see Dr. McGeath. Dr. McGeath took one look at his poor peep, and said that of course it could be redone, that it SHOULD be redone, but that we'd have to wait till he was a year old, as he'd need general anesthesia, and it would be too dangerous to do so before then.
At Jonah's one year well-baby, Dr. McGeath said that he was calling over to P-town Urology to make the referral. He warned us that there was a possibility that they wouldn't be able to do the surgery up here, that we may need to take him downstate. He followed that up by asking us if there was a downstate hospital that we preferred. We said that Hurley Hospital, down in Flint, would be good - plenty of family to stay with down there, easy babysitting for Matthew while surgery was going on - and he said that if NMH wasn't able to do it, he would personally call Hurley to make the referral. Have I mentioned how much I love Dr. McGeath?
Petoskey Urology called me a few hours after we got home. (This was a Friday.) They set the appoinment up for early Monday morning.
We took Jonah in on Monday. Filled out the preliminary paperwork. And then...the receptionist calls us up to tell us that Jonah's Medicaid has been cancelled. From 3 pm Friday to 10 am Monday, they'd terminated his coverage. Something about income limits.
It took twelve applications and nine months, but we finally got him covered again. We took Jonah in for his 18 month appointment, two months late, and we got the urology appointment re-scheduled. Dr. Topley examined him, said they could do it up here, and gave us a general idea of how long it would take.
And so, my baby boy is going in for surgery on Thursday.
I know it needs to be done. We had a hell of a fight getting to the point where we could have it done. It's medically necessary. And yet, I'm a little scared. General anesthesia is frightening enough when it's being done on an adult. This is my 22 month old son.
NMH has a great pediatric department, and a great ICU. I'm not overly concerned about malpractice. What has me scared is more on a visceral level.
I know my baby boy, my little Jonah Lee. He's a chubby, happy, affectionate and loving little guy. Everyone is his best friend, the first time they meet him. He tries to hug strangers. He loves everyone. He flirts and cuddles. When he gives hugs and kisses, which is often, he will pat your back as he holds you. He'd be perfectly content to be carried on my hip all day long, just so that he could hug me and kiss me with ease. He's a chatterbox, a cuddly love. But, despite the fact that he is so friendly, he is, deep down (and on the surface) a mama's boy to the max. Perhaps it's because I went two and a half weeks overdue with him. Perhaps it's the fact that they had to resort to surgical intervention so that he could be born. Perhaps it's the fact that I had to carry him more than I had to carry Matthew. Jonah was colicky, and Matthew wasn't, and one of the very few things that would give him comfort was for me to hold him and walk the room. Jonah never got into the "daddy nap" the way Matthew did. Also, Matthew was at the phase where he was fairly new to walking, and wanting to poke eyes and pull hair, and Jonah was only safe from Matthew's typical toddler exploration in my arms. Whatever the case may be, Jonah has always been "my" boy, the mama's boy, the balance to Matthew's obvious and life-long preference for Daddy over Mommy.
What scares me is the thought of my little snuggle-butt waking up and becoming terrified of strange men over him and no mommy in sight. It terrifies the control freak and primal mother in me that they will not allow me to stand by his bed or even in the same room as him while they operate. And the fact that I am the instrument to the pain he will most surely suffer as he recovers, necessary or no, breaks my heart into a million tiny shards.
So my Jonah will be having surgery. And yes, it is necessary, and yes, I am happy that it is finally going to be done. But am I happy about it in general? No. I would love to catch the pediatrician that botched the original job. I'd love to beat the holy shit out of her for being the cause of this (although I probably wouldn't, when it comes down to it - Mommy in jail for assault would be much more painful for both my boys than Mommy not allowed in the OR). I'd love to make her sit and listen while I unleashed a torrent of invective against her that would make a harpy blush, that would make her ears bleed and her knees buckle under the assault of my righteous wrath. I would love to have her license to mutilate little boys revoked permanently. But instead, I will pack the flannel blanket that my mother made for Jonah when he was born. I will pack the stuffed baby snowman that Jonah appropriated from Matthew's collection, that he calls "bahbah." I will make sure that Jonah doesn't eat or drink after 11:59 pm Wednesday night. I will kiss Matthew goodbye, take Jonah to the hospital, sign him in, and wait in agony until he is returned to me. I will take him home after his time in recovery is done. I will keep him dosed with children's Tylenol and Motrin. And every time I give him a dose, I will curse the name of the substitute physician who made this ordeal necessary.
Is it a kind and forgiving thing to do? No. Is is a sign that I am a big person? No. But I am a mother. My child will be in pain. And rather than blame myself, turn the guilt inward as I typically do, I will lay the fault for his hurt at her doorstep, and may she carry that burden, unwillingly or no, till the day she dies.
Because, above all else that I am, daughter, sister, friend, lover, cook, writer, smoker, ally, liberal - I am a mother.
My favorite pics from Mat and Betina's wedding
me and the happy couple
the beautiful bride
After the Weddings
So here I sit, in my home, on my porch steps with a tall cool glass of water, my cigarettes next to me and my netbook on my lap. I've swapped my dress and my wedge sandals for a tanktop and cutoffs, and peeled off most of my jewelry, although I've yet to wash the makeup from my face.
Today was indeed a day of love. Jeremy and I loaded our boys in the van and headed for Traverse City today to see two of my best friends, Mat and Betina, be joined in wedded bliss, an event four years and a couple tragedies in the making. Their love for each other is so strong it would put titanium to shame. They've been down hard paths, both of them, but it's served to strengthen the depth of their feeling for each other, I think. They glowed with it. They shone with a radiance that hurt my eyes, in a good way. Their wedding was small, and the fact that we were privileged enough to be there made my heart swell nearly to the bursting point.
We left immediately after their ceremony and drove to Elk Pointe Beach, to watch my sister and her then-fiance, now-husband get married. The traffic was crazy, and we were a few minutes late, but we made it, tired sticky toddler and hyper sticky pre-schooler in tow, in time to see the last half of the ceremony. My niece, my sister's daughter, stood up with the bride and groom, and was equally as beautiful as my sister the bride. Again, the love shone out over all in attendance like a blessing, a benediction. We had to leave the reception early - I was getting a headache from the heat and the driving, and from the stale air that the fan forced into our van - but I posted what would have been my toast on my blog here. Hopefully Jeni gets to read it.
And now, I'm at home and comfortable, and my mind's been going over what I was so lucky to have witnessed today. Two entirely different ceremonies, both in participants and in style - my sister's was a rather larger, more formal affair - and yet so similar in the love that glowed from the eyes of the two newly wedded couples.
Recently, I signed on with the marriage boycott group at this site. I did this as a matter of choice - until marriage becomes legal for a couple, regardless of their sexuality, in all fifty states, it will never be an option for me. My adopted brother is gay, as is one of my dear friends, so this is a matter that is very close to my heart.
While I was on that site, I read about the marriage alternatives. There are a few: simply staying single, living together without marriage, or commitment ceremonies, which can be anything from a marriage without the legal paperwork to a big party to celebrate your couplehood.
Jeremy and I have been living together for four years now. He moved in with me about two or three weeks after we became a couple. Some might view that as rushing, but to make a long story short and sweet, we were spending every night together anyway, he was behind on the rent for his place, and it just made more sense for him to go ahead and move in with me, rather than keep paying an outrageous sum of money for what had basically turned into a five-room storage unit. The other, less practical and more emotional reason that I asked him to move in with me was simple: Despite the fact that we worked together five days a week and got drunk together six nights a week, I missed him when he wasn't around. I couldn't sleep without him lying next to me. A week into the relationship, I couldn't picture my life without him.
We have two kids together, two wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, happy, active, loving little boys. We've been through more than our share of hard times, and we've had our good times too. He nursed me through recovery from a hard labor and delivery with Matthew, and through the recovery from my C-section with Jonah and my tubal ligation. He held me as I cried when I found out my grandma had passed away. I held him as he cried when his uncle Bob died. We held each other when Corey passed on. He was by my side, holding my hand as I pushed Matthew into this world, and when the surgeon lifted Jonah out of my womb.
While it is an intrinsic and undeniable part of my nature to question everything, I have never questioned his love for me, or mine for him. I am positive that we will be together for the rest of our lives.
And yet, for some reason, although the thought of marriage fills me with cold dread, and though I've signed on with the boycott, the thought of a commitment ceremony has me intrigued. In fact, it's something I'd like to do.
Why?
While I'm not jealous of Mat and Betina or Jeni and Andrew - I feel nothing but joy for them - I want a little bit of that joy that they had today for myself. While I know that Jeremy and I will be together for a very very long time - the rest of our lives, I think - I want to promise that to him in front of our family and friends.
My dad's asked me a few times why we don't get married. His mom has said the same. Neither one of us believe that it's necessary, but it seems to me a commitment ceremony would be a nice compromise.
My marriage to the ex was a joke. It was a rushed affair at the courthouse - I wore an old blue sundress and yellow work boots, for God's sake, and I knew going into it that it wouldn't last. There was a part of my brain screaming "run!" the entire time, and yet, I didn't. I couldn't. He did an excellent job of separating me from my family, my friends, everyone that could have talked me out of it. He kept the gas in the car too low for me to go to my parents' house to tell them - perhaps because he knew they'd talk me out of it. Who knows? It's all water under the bridge now, another sordid scuzzy memory I keep locked in my deep dark past that I do my best not to remember.
I guess, what I want, is to erase that memory. To replace it with something bright and beautiful. I want to walk towards Jeremy in a dress, with that joy on my face, and tell him in front of our loved ones that I'll stay with him until he doesn't want me any more.
Not a marriage, no. For one thing, divorces are nasty, messy affairs, and should there come a time when he decides he doesn't want to be with me any more, I want him to be able to step out of my life as easily as he entered it, with no court involvement and no monetary cost.
Just a simple announcement of the love we've grown together over the past four years, and the love we'll keep growing till we're old and gray. To erase the bad memory and replace it with a good one, with the man I've loved since I was young, skinny, and immortal, and that I still love.
Of course, that's just what I want. I mentioned it to him once, about a year ago. He never replied to me with his thoughts on the matter, and so I take that as my answer that it's simply something he's not interested in. Maybe it's too close to an actual wedding for him - I don't know. Maybe he's simply not interested. Like I said, I don't know. And I don't have the nerve to bring it up to him again. I don't know that I ever will. I dropped a comment about it today without thinking - that if we ever did have a commitment ceremony, that I'd want Betina to stand up with me.
Again, no response.
So I'll take that for his answer, that it's a no. Which is fine. I wouldn't want to push him into doing something he didn't want to, and something we couldn't afford to do anyway. It's a silly thought, I suppose - I'm still looking for a job, and we're having a hard enough time paying for our bills anyway. But I'll save the thought, I guess, for daydream material.
After all, a girl can dream, right? And while mine may not be the standard dream of white dress and tux, a last name swapped out for a new one, the carried-across-the-threshold and the white picket fence and all that, well, then, I've never been the standard sort of girl either.
Today was indeed a day of love. Jeremy and I loaded our boys in the van and headed for Traverse City today to see two of my best friends, Mat and Betina, be joined in wedded bliss, an event four years and a couple tragedies in the making. Their love for each other is so strong it would put titanium to shame. They've been down hard paths, both of them, but it's served to strengthen the depth of their feeling for each other, I think. They glowed with it. They shone with a radiance that hurt my eyes, in a good way. Their wedding was small, and the fact that we were privileged enough to be there made my heart swell nearly to the bursting point.
We left immediately after their ceremony and drove to Elk Pointe Beach, to watch my sister and her then-fiance, now-husband get married. The traffic was crazy, and we were a few minutes late, but we made it, tired sticky toddler and hyper sticky pre-schooler in tow, in time to see the last half of the ceremony. My niece, my sister's daughter, stood up with the bride and groom, and was equally as beautiful as my sister the bride. Again, the love shone out over all in attendance like a blessing, a benediction. We had to leave the reception early - I was getting a headache from the heat and the driving, and from the stale air that the fan forced into our van - but I posted what would have been my toast on my blog here. Hopefully Jeni gets to read it.
And now, I'm at home and comfortable, and my mind's been going over what I was so lucky to have witnessed today. Two entirely different ceremonies, both in participants and in style - my sister's was a rather larger, more formal affair - and yet so similar in the love that glowed from the eyes of the two newly wedded couples.
Recently, I signed on with the marriage boycott group at this site. I did this as a matter of choice - until marriage becomes legal for a couple, regardless of their sexuality, in all fifty states, it will never be an option for me. My adopted brother is gay, as is one of my dear friends, so this is a matter that is very close to my heart.
While I was on that site, I read about the marriage alternatives. There are a few: simply staying single, living together without marriage, or commitment ceremonies, which can be anything from a marriage without the legal paperwork to a big party to celebrate your couplehood.
Jeremy and I have been living together for four years now. He moved in with me about two or three weeks after we became a couple. Some might view that as rushing, but to make a long story short and sweet, we were spending every night together anyway, he was behind on the rent for his place, and it just made more sense for him to go ahead and move in with me, rather than keep paying an outrageous sum of money for what had basically turned into a five-room storage unit. The other, less practical and more emotional reason that I asked him to move in with me was simple: Despite the fact that we worked together five days a week and got drunk together six nights a week, I missed him when he wasn't around. I couldn't sleep without him lying next to me. A week into the relationship, I couldn't picture my life without him.
We have two kids together, two wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, happy, active, loving little boys. We've been through more than our share of hard times, and we've had our good times too. He nursed me through recovery from a hard labor and delivery with Matthew, and through the recovery from my C-section with Jonah and my tubal ligation. He held me as I cried when I found out my grandma had passed away. I held him as he cried when his uncle Bob died. We held each other when Corey passed on. He was by my side, holding my hand as I pushed Matthew into this world, and when the surgeon lifted Jonah out of my womb.
While it is an intrinsic and undeniable part of my nature to question everything, I have never questioned his love for me, or mine for him. I am positive that we will be together for the rest of our lives.
And yet, for some reason, although the thought of marriage fills me with cold dread, and though I've signed on with the boycott, the thought of a commitment ceremony has me intrigued. In fact, it's something I'd like to do.
Why?
While I'm not jealous of Mat and Betina or Jeni and Andrew - I feel nothing but joy for them - I want a little bit of that joy that they had today for myself. While I know that Jeremy and I will be together for a very very long time - the rest of our lives, I think - I want to promise that to him in front of our family and friends.
My dad's asked me a few times why we don't get married. His mom has said the same. Neither one of us believe that it's necessary, but it seems to me a commitment ceremony would be a nice compromise.
My marriage to the ex was a joke. It was a rushed affair at the courthouse - I wore an old blue sundress and yellow work boots, for God's sake, and I knew going into it that it wouldn't last. There was a part of my brain screaming "run!" the entire time, and yet, I didn't. I couldn't. He did an excellent job of separating me from my family, my friends, everyone that could have talked me out of it. He kept the gas in the car too low for me to go to my parents' house to tell them - perhaps because he knew they'd talk me out of it. Who knows? It's all water under the bridge now, another sordid scuzzy memory I keep locked in my deep dark past that I do my best not to remember.
I guess, what I want, is to erase that memory. To replace it with something bright and beautiful. I want to walk towards Jeremy in a dress, with that joy on my face, and tell him in front of our loved ones that I'll stay with him until he doesn't want me any more.
Not a marriage, no. For one thing, divorces are nasty, messy affairs, and should there come a time when he decides he doesn't want to be with me any more, I want him to be able to step out of my life as easily as he entered it, with no court involvement and no monetary cost.
Just a simple announcement of the love we've grown together over the past four years, and the love we'll keep growing till we're old and gray. To erase the bad memory and replace it with a good one, with the man I've loved since I was young, skinny, and immortal, and that I still love.
Of course, that's just what I want. I mentioned it to him once, about a year ago. He never replied to me with his thoughts on the matter, and so I take that as my answer that it's simply something he's not interested in. Maybe it's too close to an actual wedding for him - I don't know. Maybe he's simply not interested. Like I said, I don't know. And I don't have the nerve to bring it up to him again. I don't know that I ever will. I dropped a comment about it today without thinking - that if we ever did have a commitment ceremony, that I'd want Betina to stand up with me.
Again, no response.
So I'll take that for his answer, that it's a no. Which is fine. I wouldn't want to push him into doing something he didn't want to, and something we couldn't afford to do anyway. It's a silly thought, I suppose - I'm still looking for a job, and we're having a hard enough time paying for our bills anyway. But I'll save the thought, I guess, for daydream material.
After all, a girl can dream, right? And while mine may not be the standard dream of white dress and tux, a last name swapped out for a new one, the carried-across-the-threshold and the white picket fence and all that, well, then, I've never been the standard sort of girl either.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Toast
Sis, this is the toast I would have given if we'd been able to stay longer.
For those of you who don't know me, I'm Jeni's older sister Megan. For those of you who do, everything I'm about to say will be old news, so my apologies for boring you.
Jeni is younger than me by 19 months. That means I'm not old enough to remember the day she was born, or even what life was like before she made her early entrance into this world. She's a part of my earliest memories.
Like all sisters, we've had our fights and our fallings-out over the years. We've swapped clothes, make-up tips, and so on. She got me my nose piercing for one birthday. I designed her tattoo as a belated Mother's Day gift after Jessie-bug was born. We've had late night talks till we laughed in giddiness from sleep deprivation. We've had fights till we both cried. We've seen each other through bad boyfriends and good boyfriends, through the joys and trials of raising our children. We've swapped notes, music, and recipes. In short, we are sisters.
Jeni, do you remember what you said shortly after I began dating Jeremy? You said, "I'm not surprised. When you brought him over to meet me and Jessica, I just knew you two would end up together."
Well, I didn't get to meet Andrew before you guys started dating. I have a hard time remembering when I met him, to be honest - your relationship with him seemed so easy, so organic, that it seems to my frazzled mind that you two have always been together. I know that that's horrible of me - that I can't remember the first time I met your husband - but to be honest, you two seem to work so well together that it's hard for me to picture you apart.
When I learned that he'd popped the question, after the excitement died down, my reaction was identical to yours upon learning that Jeremy and I were a couple: I wasn't surprised.
You two complement each other. You fit together so perfectly. You're a beautiful couple, and the love you share with each other and your daughter is tangible.
Dear sister, you know me, you know my cynicism all too well. But looking at you and Andrew, and the way you look at each other, it all seems to melt away. You are beautiful, Andrew is beautiful, and when I see you together, it's magnified until it nearly hurts my eyes to see.
I love you both. I'm not psychic, but I've seen your future, and I know that, while you may have your ups and downs like any married couple does, that you will have a happy and blessed future.
Congratulations, baby sis. I love you. And welcome to the family, Andrew.
For those of you who don't know me, I'm Jeni's older sister Megan. For those of you who do, everything I'm about to say will be old news, so my apologies for boring you.
Jeni is younger than me by 19 months. That means I'm not old enough to remember the day she was born, or even what life was like before she made her early entrance into this world. She's a part of my earliest memories.
Like all sisters, we've had our fights and our fallings-out over the years. We've swapped clothes, make-up tips, and so on. She got me my nose piercing for one birthday. I designed her tattoo as a belated Mother's Day gift after Jessie-bug was born. We've had late night talks till we laughed in giddiness from sleep deprivation. We've had fights till we both cried. We've seen each other through bad boyfriends and good boyfriends, through the joys and trials of raising our children. We've swapped notes, music, and recipes. In short, we are sisters.
Jeni, do you remember what you said shortly after I began dating Jeremy? You said, "I'm not surprised. When you brought him over to meet me and Jessica, I just knew you two would end up together."
Well, I didn't get to meet Andrew before you guys started dating. I have a hard time remembering when I met him, to be honest - your relationship with him seemed so easy, so organic, that it seems to my frazzled mind that you two have always been together. I know that that's horrible of me - that I can't remember the first time I met your husband - but to be honest, you two seem to work so well together that it's hard for me to picture you apart.
When I learned that he'd popped the question, after the excitement died down, my reaction was identical to yours upon learning that Jeremy and I were a couple: I wasn't surprised.
You two complement each other. You fit together so perfectly. You're a beautiful couple, and the love you share with each other and your daughter is tangible.
Dear sister, you know me, you know my cynicism all too well. But looking at you and Andrew, and the way you look at each other, it all seems to melt away. You are beautiful, Andrew is beautiful, and when I see you together, it's magnified until it nearly hurts my eyes to see.
I love you both. I'm not psychic, but I've seen your future, and I know that, while you may have your ups and downs like any married couple does, that you will have a happy and blessed future.
Congratulations, baby sis. I love you. And welcome to the family, Andrew.
My Friends
Dear Mat and Betina,
I felt so blessed and honored to be invited to your special day today. When I said I wouldn't have missed it for the world, I truly meant it. I would have gotten a sitter somehow for the kids and hitch-hiked down there, if that's what it had taken.
Today was beautiful. It was love. You both glowed with it.
I remember the beginning months of your relationship, the bloom of new romance fresh on you both, as it was for Jeremy and I. Betina, I sometimes wonder if that was another thing that brought us closer together, being two women in love, surrounded by our men and our men-friends.
Every relationship goes through its ups and downs. Yours has had more trials and tribulations thrown at it than most; it's a hallmark of the depth of your devotion to each other that you found each other, lost each other, then found each other again. You've each had a hard path you've walked, both in your time together, and in your time apart. I view this as a blessing - that long, hard road brought you back to each other.
I wanted to cry throughout your ceremony. The way you looked at each other, the emotion in your voices, the way that warmth seemed to spread like a golden glow over everyone attending when you, Betina, arrived and started your slow walk toward your husband. Magic like that can't be found anywhere else.
I feel blessed that I was there to witness your special day, and I feel blessed that I was there to witness the start of your relationships. You two are two of my best friends, and I know that while there may be some minor ups and downs in the course of your married life together, that the Creator has nothing in store for you but an ever-deepening love and joy, as your little family grows.
I love you both.
love,
Megan
I felt so blessed and honored to be invited to your special day today. When I said I wouldn't have missed it for the world, I truly meant it. I would have gotten a sitter somehow for the kids and hitch-hiked down there, if that's what it had taken.
Today was beautiful. It was love. You both glowed with it.
I remember the beginning months of your relationship, the bloom of new romance fresh on you both, as it was for Jeremy and I. Betina, I sometimes wonder if that was another thing that brought us closer together, being two women in love, surrounded by our men and our men-friends.
Every relationship goes through its ups and downs. Yours has had more trials and tribulations thrown at it than most; it's a hallmark of the depth of your devotion to each other that you found each other, lost each other, then found each other again. You've each had a hard path you've walked, both in your time together, and in your time apart. I view this as a blessing - that long, hard road brought you back to each other.
I wanted to cry throughout your ceremony. The way you looked at each other, the emotion in your voices, the way that warmth seemed to spread like a golden glow over everyone attending when you, Betina, arrived and started your slow walk toward your husband. Magic like that can't be found anywhere else.
I feel blessed that I was there to witness your special day, and I feel blessed that I was there to witness the start of your relationships. You two are two of my best friends, and I know that while there may be some minor ups and downs in the course of your married life together, that the Creator has nothing in store for you but an ever-deepening love and joy, as your little family grows.
I love you both.
love,
Megan
Thursday, June 24, 2010
No Motivation
I wanted to post an update tonight, but words seem to be failing me. I'm tired and feeling supremely burned out, and more than a little apathetic for some reason. Maybe it's the job-hunt. I've never had this much trouble finding employment before. I've applied for three different jobs at Meijer's, a couple other places...tomorrow I'm going to go down and fill out an app at the Italian restaurant a few blocks away. And one at Garfield's, and one at Southwoods.
I need a job, before I completely forget how to work.
I need a job, before I completely forget how to work.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Face It
You don't know me.
You see me pushing my cart through the grocery store, with one of my sons in the cart's seat, and all you see is someone who doesn't look old enough to have a child. You see the too-short, too-dark hair, the nose ring and multiple earrings, possibly one or more of the tattoos. You see a child too dark-complected to be anything but multi-racial. You see the absence of a wedding ring or an engagement ring on my finger.
You don't see who I am. You don't see who we are.
We live on the border here, my cohorts and I. We cook your fancy restaurant food, serve your drinks, clean your houses, pump your gas, mow your lawn. We struggle through the winters in a town designed for summer people. We live without health insurance, 401K's, the new car every few years, the home and summer home, the prep schools for our children.
We were lucky if we got to go to college. Most of us either had to quit high school to go to work, started working while we were in high school, or immediately thereafter. Our lack of higher education is not a lack of motivation - it's a lack of opportunity. It is not a lack of intelligence - we have families to feed.
We don't have the platinum cards in our wallet, the cocktail rings. When we drink, we drink hard, and we laugh harder, not knowing when we'll be able to afford the next outing. We do nothing half-heartedly. Love, live, mourn, cry, we feel it all full-tilt.
We sleep on secondhand mattresses under thrift-store sheets, and our sex goes unaided by the pharmaceuticals the doctors prescribe the wealthy.
We're the Medicaid mothers, the fathers that work two jobs to put food on the table and diapers on their babies. We're a class of our own. The working destitute. The ones who struggle to make the best lives for their children that they can.
Your summer getaway rests squarely on our shoulders. I see your sneer, your attempts to freeze me with your cold looks of disdain from under your teased and borrowed-blonde hair. You try to envelop me in a cloud of scorn rivaled only by your reek of coconut tanning oil and trust-fund money.
Be warned. It takes fire in the spirit to survive the way we do, and the flames from these hazel eyes will melt any icy hauteur you aim at me in a cloud of greenish-brown steam.
We have that fire. The passion it takes, the way we take every snub and dirty look and condescending sneer thrown our way. It fuels our rage and scorn. It gives us stories to tell at the pub after we've finished taking your money. We walk home after a long day of work with a satisfaction you'll never know, the glow of a pittance earned and maybe a drink or two. We smoke our low-class cigarettes and mock you, behind your backs and to your faces. While we might depend on your business to pay our bills, we also hold you hostage. If you were to succeed in driving out the ruffians, the hooligans, those tattooed unwed parents you hold in such low regard, your vacation paradise would vanish. You need us more than we need you, and so we come out ahead.
Do I expect you to see this? No. Does it bother me? Occasionally, for my children's sake, rather than my own. But, here's the thing.
I have that passion. The fire that burns inside me will not be checked or abated. It may consume me in the end. But it gives me the will and the nerve and the courage I need to live my life the way I live it, on my own terms. I'll bend it to my own whims and be taken and accepted for who I am. Pity me, mock me, revile me. Tell me I'm going to hell for whatever petty stupid reason you concoct in your stuffed-shirt brain. I could care less. I have the light of friendship, family, love. The people who care for me do so for me, not for my assets, and that's something you'll never know.
And that's why, dear heinous bitches in the grocery store, I answer your sweeping glares of contempt with my glance of condescension and pity. You'll never be me. You'll never have the life experience, the golden memories, or the hard-knock wisdom I've spent the last 28 years battling to attain. You'll never have the fight or the fire that I have. You'll never have spirit, just a pale imitation. I have everything you've tried to replace with possessions and monetary wealth, and I'm not going anywhere.
You know what? I feel sorry for you.
You see me pushing my cart through the grocery store, with one of my sons in the cart's seat, and all you see is someone who doesn't look old enough to have a child. You see the too-short, too-dark hair, the nose ring and multiple earrings, possibly one or more of the tattoos. You see a child too dark-complected to be anything but multi-racial. You see the absence of a wedding ring or an engagement ring on my finger.
You don't see who I am. You don't see who we are.
We live on the border here, my cohorts and I. We cook your fancy restaurant food, serve your drinks, clean your houses, pump your gas, mow your lawn. We struggle through the winters in a town designed for summer people. We live without health insurance, 401K's, the new car every few years, the home and summer home, the prep schools for our children.
We were lucky if we got to go to college. Most of us either had to quit high school to go to work, started working while we were in high school, or immediately thereafter. Our lack of higher education is not a lack of motivation - it's a lack of opportunity. It is not a lack of intelligence - we have families to feed.
We don't have the platinum cards in our wallet, the cocktail rings. When we drink, we drink hard, and we laugh harder, not knowing when we'll be able to afford the next outing. We do nothing half-heartedly. Love, live, mourn, cry, we feel it all full-tilt.
We sleep on secondhand mattresses under thrift-store sheets, and our sex goes unaided by the pharmaceuticals the doctors prescribe the wealthy.
We're the Medicaid mothers, the fathers that work two jobs to put food on the table and diapers on their babies. We're a class of our own. The working destitute. The ones who struggle to make the best lives for their children that they can.
Your summer getaway rests squarely on our shoulders. I see your sneer, your attempts to freeze me with your cold looks of disdain from under your teased and borrowed-blonde hair. You try to envelop me in a cloud of scorn rivaled only by your reek of coconut tanning oil and trust-fund money.
Be warned. It takes fire in the spirit to survive the way we do, and the flames from these hazel eyes will melt any icy hauteur you aim at me in a cloud of greenish-brown steam.
We have that fire. The passion it takes, the way we take every snub and dirty look and condescending sneer thrown our way. It fuels our rage and scorn. It gives us stories to tell at the pub after we've finished taking your money. We walk home after a long day of work with a satisfaction you'll never know, the glow of a pittance earned and maybe a drink or two. We smoke our low-class cigarettes and mock you, behind your backs and to your faces. While we might depend on your business to pay our bills, we also hold you hostage. If you were to succeed in driving out the ruffians, the hooligans, those tattooed unwed parents you hold in such low regard, your vacation paradise would vanish. You need us more than we need you, and so we come out ahead.
Do I expect you to see this? No. Does it bother me? Occasionally, for my children's sake, rather than my own. But, here's the thing.
I have that passion. The fire that burns inside me will not be checked or abated. It may consume me in the end. But it gives me the will and the nerve and the courage I need to live my life the way I live it, on my own terms. I'll bend it to my own whims and be taken and accepted for who I am. Pity me, mock me, revile me. Tell me I'm going to hell for whatever petty stupid reason you concoct in your stuffed-shirt brain. I could care less. I have the light of friendship, family, love. The people who care for me do so for me, not for my assets, and that's something you'll never know.
And that's why, dear heinous bitches in the grocery store, I answer your sweeping glares of contempt with my glance of condescension and pity. You'll never be me. You'll never have the life experience, the golden memories, or the hard-knock wisdom I've spent the last 28 years battling to attain. You'll never have the fight or the fire that I have. You'll never have spirit, just a pale imitation. I have everything you've tried to replace with possessions and monetary wealth, and I'm not going anywhere.
You know what? I feel sorry for you.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Been a Minute
I know I haven't updated in a while. I'm truly sorry. Sometimes life just gets away from you.
I'm starting to wonder if I need to go see the doctor. (This may be TMI, but it's my blog, so oh well, lol.)
Since my C-section and tubal ligation, I've been having some period-related issues. I get really combative - more so than usual - for the week before. When it starts, the cramps are much more intense. It's like someone using a jagged piece of glass to cut through the surgery scar, slowly, over and over again, for four days. My left leg goes numb. My back aches where the epidural needle went in. My right hip throbs and sends pain shooting down through my leg into my toes. About the only thing that remains the same is the hormone-related migraine. Beyond the efforts of Midol or Pamprin. I can't take ibuprofen; when I was in eighth grade, I broke my elbow, the ER doctor prescribed me Motrin 800 (take one every four hours), and considering that in 8'th grade I was 4'10" and 100 lbs, you can understand the effect that had on my stomach. Ever since, I haven't been able to take ibuprofen without vomiting. Aleve and aspirin have the same effect.
I have PlanFirst through the state. That covers any birth-control medication (which I do not react well to at all - I tend to gain 30-40 lbs and have incredible mood swings), and a yearly exam. I'm overdue for the exam, so I'm thinking that after Jonah's had his surgery and recovered, I'll see about calling Dr. Wilder and scheduling an appointment - after I check to see exactly what's covered. I just want to know if this is normal following a cesarean, and if so, how long can I expect it to last.
In other news....
My new dress for the weddings came in the mail today. I'm in love. It's beautiful. It's purple and yellow, with a tattoo-style screenprint on the front and back. Spaghetti-strap, knee-length, lace trim. I'm in love.
I quit at the shop. The boss still owes me money from last September. I'd had enough. So now, I'm temporarily unemployed, and really hoping I can make a couple bucks off this blog while I file job apps around town. I put three in today. The one I'm really hoping for is cake decorating. It would be nice to add to my resume. And it looks fun. Plus it's a union job, and comes with benefits and a nice discount. To facilitate the interview process, I finally bid goodbye to my multicolored hair, and went with a nice blue-black. I'll post pictures later.
I have a few good rants saved up, but I'm turning them over in my head before I post them. Watch for them next week.
I'm truly looking forward to seeing my friends Mat and Betina, and my sister Jen and her fiance exchange vows next week.
Matthew's down in Flint till Sunday, having a visit with his Shamma. I miss him greatly, but I know he's having fun. Jonah seems to be enjoying having his parents all to himself too, but he keeps looking for Matthew and saying "bubba? bubba?" He bullies the hell out of Matthew, but he idolizes his big brother too. In turn, Matthew gets very upset if anyone but him bothers Jonah. He's told me I'm "bad mumma" when I put Jonah in timeout for biting, for example. I know they'll have some epic battles, but I hope the love remains.
That's all I've got for tonight.
I'm starting to wonder if I need to go see the doctor. (This may be TMI, but it's my blog, so oh well, lol.)
Since my C-section and tubal ligation, I've been having some period-related issues. I get really combative - more so than usual - for the week before. When it starts, the cramps are much more intense. It's like someone using a jagged piece of glass to cut through the surgery scar, slowly, over and over again, for four days. My left leg goes numb. My back aches where the epidural needle went in. My right hip throbs and sends pain shooting down through my leg into my toes. About the only thing that remains the same is the hormone-related migraine. Beyond the efforts of Midol or Pamprin. I can't take ibuprofen; when I was in eighth grade, I broke my elbow, the ER doctor prescribed me Motrin 800 (take one every four hours), and considering that in 8'th grade I was 4'10" and 100 lbs, you can understand the effect that had on my stomach. Ever since, I haven't been able to take ibuprofen without vomiting. Aleve and aspirin have the same effect.
I have PlanFirst through the state. That covers any birth-control medication (which I do not react well to at all - I tend to gain 30-40 lbs and have incredible mood swings), and a yearly exam. I'm overdue for the exam, so I'm thinking that after Jonah's had his surgery and recovered, I'll see about calling Dr. Wilder and scheduling an appointment - after I check to see exactly what's covered. I just want to know if this is normal following a cesarean, and if so, how long can I expect it to last.
In other news....
My new dress for the weddings came in the mail today. I'm in love. It's beautiful. It's purple and yellow, with a tattoo-style screenprint on the front and back. Spaghetti-strap, knee-length, lace trim. I'm in love.
I quit at the shop. The boss still owes me money from last September. I'd had enough. So now, I'm temporarily unemployed, and really hoping I can make a couple bucks off this blog while I file job apps around town. I put three in today. The one I'm really hoping for is cake decorating. It would be nice to add to my resume. And it looks fun. Plus it's a union job, and comes with benefits and a nice discount. To facilitate the interview process, I finally bid goodbye to my multicolored hair, and went with a nice blue-black. I'll post pictures later.
I have a few good rants saved up, but I'm turning them over in my head before I post them. Watch for them next week.
I'm truly looking forward to seeing my friends Mat and Betina, and my sister Jen and her fiance exchange vows next week.
Matthew's down in Flint till Sunday, having a visit with his Shamma. I miss him greatly, but I know he's having fun. Jonah seems to be enjoying having his parents all to himself too, but he keeps looking for Matthew and saying "bubba? bubba?" He bullies the hell out of Matthew, but he idolizes his big brother too. In turn, Matthew gets very upset if anyone but him bothers Jonah. He's told me I'm "bad mumma" when I put Jonah in timeout for biting, for example. I know they'll have some epic battles, but I hope the love remains.
That's all I've got for tonight.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Money
I hate it. It's a tool used by those who have it to keep those who don't down. It divides the masses, the social classes. It's the root of evil, divides family and friends, rules the world.
That being said, it's necessary in this world. Fair work expects fair pay in return. However, fair pay is hard to come by, so you accept what you're making and learn to budget. You figure out how to feed a family of four on $30 a month. You learn to juggle bills, to live without your phone for a few days a month because you're late paying on it and it gets shut off. You figure out that freezerburned vanilla ice cream actually tastes pretty decent in a hot cup of coffee, if you run out of sugar and powdered generic creamer. You scrimp and you juggle and you balance, dependent on getting the money for your work on time. If it doesn't come in, it throws off the whole precarious balance and it all comes crashing down.
What's the value of a dollar? I could take it and buy Matthew and Jonah each an apple and a banana at Meijer's from the Healthy Snacks stand. I could get a cold Faygo Orange. I could slide it into the donation jar at Tom and Dick's Convenience Store for whatever local cause they're fundraising for this week. I could get an order of fries from Wendy's. I could buy a Bug Juice or a piece of string cheese for the kids.
Five dollars gets me an eighth of a tank of gas, enough for Jeremy to get back and forth to work for two days. Six dollars for a pack of smokes. Eleven dollars and fifty cents buys the ingredients for cheesy baked potato soup and a loaf of bread, which feeds us for three or four days. Twenty bucks for jeans. Five bucks for makeup to hide the fact that I've been up late with the kids before I go submit the latest round of applications. A dollar and twenty-nine cents to get a large coffee from the gas station to help keep me going. Ten dollars in wasted gas between Thursday and yesterday, going down to the shop to pick up my pay, only to see that it's closed and locked, then going over to the owner's house, seeing his car parked, and knocking on his door, only for it to go unanswered.
Five hundred fifty dollars for the week of twelve to fourteen hour long days I put in helping to move the store from its old location to the new one. Subtract $250 for the laptop computer I took in trade, and $90 in merchandise for Christmas presents, and for a pair of shoes for me since my old ones had holes in them.
So what's left owed to me? $260.
$260 could buy Matthew his string cheese and bananas, could turn my phone back on, could renew the tags on my van. It could pay off a couple of the parking tickets accumulated this winter when we literally had no money to feed the meter. It could pay for Jeremy and I to have dinner at a fast food restaurant for my birthday and our anniversary. It could get Jeremy the new shoes he needs desperately. It could buy food and litter for his cats. It could get all sorts of treats for the kids.
$260 for time lost with my children, for days spent at the store by myself, waiting to see if anyone showed up to help, moving heavy boxes and crates and pouring my heart and soul into a venture that was never mine at all, something I believed in and wanted to succeed, only to find out that I was being laid off for lack of business, due to the way this tourist town operates. $260 could buy a few bottles of Tylenol for my aching back, that's messed up from doing manual labor for the whole of my working career. $260 would pay for me to go to the doctor and get my migraine prescriptions renewed. It would cover the cost of gas for us to go downstate if need be for Jonah's upcoming surgery. $260 may sound like a drop in the bucket, but when you're living in that shadowland of paycheck to paycheck, it's a windfall.
If you're reading this, and you're the one responsible, I hope you feel about as big as an ant. It takes a big person to keep a family hanging, waiting for money that will probably never come. You can't tell me you're just as broke as we are - you're a single person, you've got a fairly new vehicle, you're keeping gas in it so you can drive around and do what you need to. You can't sit there and claim friendship with your mouth and not mean it with your heart - it doesn't work that way. And if you truly felt it in your heart, things wouldn't have gotten to this point. You come over here. You look me in the eyes, look my man and my kids in the eyes, and explain to them why you drop off the face of the earth on payday.
That being said, it's necessary in this world. Fair work expects fair pay in return. However, fair pay is hard to come by, so you accept what you're making and learn to budget. You figure out how to feed a family of four on $30 a month. You learn to juggle bills, to live without your phone for a few days a month because you're late paying on it and it gets shut off. You figure out that freezerburned vanilla ice cream actually tastes pretty decent in a hot cup of coffee, if you run out of sugar and powdered generic creamer. You scrimp and you juggle and you balance, dependent on getting the money for your work on time. If it doesn't come in, it throws off the whole precarious balance and it all comes crashing down.
What's the value of a dollar? I could take it and buy Matthew and Jonah each an apple and a banana at Meijer's from the Healthy Snacks stand. I could get a cold Faygo Orange. I could slide it into the donation jar at Tom and Dick's Convenience Store for whatever local cause they're fundraising for this week. I could get an order of fries from Wendy's. I could buy a Bug Juice or a piece of string cheese for the kids.
Five dollars gets me an eighth of a tank of gas, enough for Jeremy to get back and forth to work for two days. Six dollars for a pack of smokes. Eleven dollars and fifty cents buys the ingredients for cheesy baked potato soup and a loaf of bread, which feeds us for three or four days. Twenty bucks for jeans. Five bucks for makeup to hide the fact that I've been up late with the kids before I go submit the latest round of applications. A dollar and twenty-nine cents to get a large coffee from the gas station to help keep me going. Ten dollars in wasted gas between Thursday and yesterday, going down to the shop to pick up my pay, only to see that it's closed and locked, then going over to the owner's house, seeing his car parked, and knocking on his door, only for it to go unanswered.
Five hundred fifty dollars for the week of twelve to fourteen hour long days I put in helping to move the store from its old location to the new one. Subtract $250 for the laptop computer I took in trade, and $90 in merchandise for Christmas presents, and for a pair of shoes for me since my old ones had holes in them.
So what's left owed to me? $260.
$260 could buy Matthew his string cheese and bananas, could turn my phone back on, could renew the tags on my van. It could pay off a couple of the parking tickets accumulated this winter when we literally had no money to feed the meter. It could pay for Jeremy and I to have dinner at a fast food restaurant for my birthday and our anniversary. It could get Jeremy the new shoes he needs desperately. It could buy food and litter for his cats. It could get all sorts of treats for the kids.
$260 for time lost with my children, for days spent at the store by myself, waiting to see if anyone showed up to help, moving heavy boxes and crates and pouring my heart and soul into a venture that was never mine at all, something I believed in and wanted to succeed, only to find out that I was being laid off for lack of business, due to the way this tourist town operates. $260 could buy a few bottles of Tylenol for my aching back, that's messed up from doing manual labor for the whole of my working career. $260 would pay for me to go to the doctor and get my migraine prescriptions renewed. It would cover the cost of gas for us to go downstate if need be for Jonah's upcoming surgery. $260 may sound like a drop in the bucket, but when you're living in that shadowland of paycheck to paycheck, it's a windfall.
If you're reading this, and you're the one responsible, I hope you feel about as big as an ant. It takes a big person to keep a family hanging, waiting for money that will probably never come. You can't tell me you're just as broke as we are - you're a single person, you've got a fairly new vehicle, you're keeping gas in it so you can drive around and do what you need to. You can't sit there and claim friendship with your mouth and not mean it with your heart - it doesn't work that way. And if you truly felt it in your heart, things wouldn't have gotten to this point. You come over here. You look me in the eyes, look my man and my kids in the eyes, and explain to them why you drop off the face of the earth on payday.
Letter
I've known you nearly my whole life.
The years have seen us through so many ups and downs, fights and silences, and moments where we nearly seemed to have some sort of telepathic bond. We've shared friends and coffees, clothes, late nights, heartaches over boys who were never worth it in the first place. For what it's worth, I love you.
I know I give you grief sometimes. It's part of our bond, I think - you've broken my heart on numerous occasions. Yet somehow, the scars left behind always seem to heal up fainter and faster than the other scars it bears.
In the large family I've come to have through friendships, relationships, life or death moments, and childbirth, you've been there in it all along. There have been times when I wanted to shake you silly, but I know that at the same time, you were wanting to do the same to me.
We are strong, independent. We were given wings to fly where so many others were cursed - or blessed - to remain grounded. There are those in the gutter who see only the gutter. There are those who see the stars. And there are those like us who burn with some sort of inner fire so fierce that we are often mistaken for the stars themselves. We streak through the atmosphere of this small town, our pasts and tracks behind us clear for all to see, and legendary in some places. We know who we are, and we make our own way for ourselves and for our children.
There are times when I wished I could give you some of the strength, the refusal to back down, the fearlessness and confidence that I have in overabundance. Dear person, I give them to you now. Own them. Make them yours. You have the same flame within your spirit that I do. Allow it to burn bright. Stoke your fire, let it burn till it blinds those who would cause you grief.
Know that you are my family.
Know that I've got your back, no matter what.
Know that if you lack the strength to fight the battles necessary, that you can draw on mine.
Know that I love you.
Know that you are right.
The years have seen us through so many ups and downs, fights and silences, and moments where we nearly seemed to have some sort of telepathic bond. We've shared friends and coffees, clothes, late nights, heartaches over boys who were never worth it in the first place. For what it's worth, I love you.
I know I give you grief sometimes. It's part of our bond, I think - you've broken my heart on numerous occasions. Yet somehow, the scars left behind always seem to heal up fainter and faster than the other scars it bears.
In the large family I've come to have through friendships, relationships, life or death moments, and childbirth, you've been there in it all along. There have been times when I wanted to shake you silly, but I know that at the same time, you were wanting to do the same to me.
We are strong, independent. We were given wings to fly where so many others were cursed - or blessed - to remain grounded. There are those in the gutter who see only the gutter. There are those who see the stars. And there are those like us who burn with some sort of inner fire so fierce that we are often mistaken for the stars themselves. We streak through the atmosphere of this small town, our pasts and tracks behind us clear for all to see, and legendary in some places. We know who we are, and we make our own way for ourselves and for our children.
There are times when I wished I could give you some of the strength, the refusal to back down, the fearlessness and confidence that I have in overabundance. Dear person, I give them to you now. Own them. Make them yours. You have the same flame within your spirit that I do. Allow it to burn bright. Stoke your fire, let it burn till it blinds those who would cause you grief.
Know that you are my family.
Know that I've got your back, no matter what.
Know that if you lack the strength to fight the battles necessary, that you can draw on mine.
Know that I love you.
Know that you are right.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
No Title To Speak Of
Just a few quick notes.
As you can see, I've added a PayPal button. If you're reading this and you enjoy it, and you can afford it, feel free to donate whatever amount of money you can/will. We all know that money's tight these days. However, despite my constant level of "brokeitude," I am going to donate one dollar for every five that I make to Indy Great Pyrenees Rescue. Great Pyrenees are my favorite breed of dogs, and I believe in their mission. I'm a dog lover. Everyone who knows me knows that.
If you have children, if you don't have children, if you live alone or with your partner, you couldn't ask for a better dog than a Great Pyrenees. I grew up blessed enough and lucky enough to have had two of them in my life, Blizzard and Buck. They are noble, loving, protective of their family, dignified...the list goes on. Pyrenees are the only breed of dog I would trust around my children. My son Matthew is very excitable and loves dogs. The Pyrenees is the only breed I feel would be able to stand up to his fierce hugs and kisses and reciprocate. I cannot say enough good things about them.
Too many people see a Pyrenees puppy and adopt because they are cute little white balls of fur. They do not research the breed like they should. They are LARGE dogs. They bark. They shed. They are as stubborn as they are intelligent. And so, these marvelous canines get dumped, get abandoned, and end up in a "shelter" that euthanizes them.
Secondly, if you have a Google account, whether for Blogger, Gmail, or YouTube, and you're a regular reader, you can use Google Connect to follow my blog that way. Then it'll show up on your My Google page. Just a thought.
And if you're one of the "haters," well, I'm not gonna laugh in your face, because that wouldn't be mature. But.....
go ahead and kiss it, there's plenty there to go around.
Mad love,
Megan
As you can see, I've added a PayPal button. If you're reading this and you enjoy it, and you can afford it, feel free to donate whatever amount of money you can/will. We all know that money's tight these days. However, despite my constant level of "brokeitude," I am going to donate one dollar for every five that I make to Indy Great Pyrenees Rescue. Great Pyrenees are my favorite breed of dogs, and I believe in their mission. I'm a dog lover. Everyone who knows me knows that.
If you have children, if you don't have children, if you live alone or with your partner, you couldn't ask for a better dog than a Great Pyrenees. I grew up blessed enough and lucky enough to have had two of them in my life, Blizzard and Buck. They are noble, loving, protective of their family, dignified...the list goes on. Pyrenees are the only breed of dog I would trust around my children. My son Matthew is very excitable and loves dogs. The Pyrenees is the only breed I feel would be able to stand up to his fierce hugs and kisses and reciprocate. I cannot say enough good things about them.
Too many people see a Pyrenees puppy and adopt because they are cute little white balls of fur. They do not research the breed like they should. They are LARGE dogs. They bark. They shed. They are as stubborn as they are intelligent. And so, these marvelous canines get dumped, get abandoned, and end up in a "shelter" that euthanizes them.
Secondly, if you have a Google account, whether for Blogger, Gmail, or YouTube, and you're a regular reader, you can use Google Connect to follow my blog that way. Then it'll show up on your My Google page. Just a thought.
And if you're one of the "haters," well, I'm not gonna laugh in your face, because that wouldn't be mature. But.....
go ahead and kiss it, there's plenty there to go around.
Mad love,
Megan
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