Today is National Cancer Survivors' Day. Perhaps Little Warrior could celebrate this already, hopefully she's been cancer-free since her surgery.
But, we just don't know.
Maybe next year we'll be celebrating this. I'll bake a cake.
We still haven't received the results of her CT scan back yet.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
"The Girl Can Fry Fish"
The Husband went out Friday on his yearly overnight fishing trip with his buddy, Nice Guy. And if you think this wife missed the opportunity to crack "Brokeback Mountain" jokes, you are sorely mistaken.
Caught enough fish to feed three adults and three children, heavily supplemented with sweet tater fries and (groan with me) fried dill pickles. We only fry about twice a year, so when we do, we fry everything in sight. Wait, where's the dog?
Growing up, I had tons of fresh fish, and never any purchased fish, since Daddy was, and is, a fisherman. Once The Husband married into the family, Daddy taught him the proper way to clean a fish, and me, how to cook it. (If it's a dry or fish that can be strong, like sheepshead, be sure and soak it in buttermilk. If it's moist like trout, don't soak it in anything.) Toss it with cornmeal/flour, then fry 'em up at the hottest temp your fryer will go to.
"I saw your wife the other day, uu huh, and she's ugly..."
"Yeah, but she sure can cook!"
Or fry fish.
---
Best Way to Fry Pickles
Get some good, sour dill pickles and cut 'em in chunks. "Hamburger slices" are too thin, so cut them yourself.
Crush yourself some Cap'n Crunch cereal real fine.
Set out three bowls: first, flour. Second, egg. Third, the cereal crumbs.
Dip pickle chunks in flour, then egg, then cereal.
Deep fry real hot.
Enjoy. And ignore any jokes about trailer trash.
Caught enough fish to feed three adults and three children, heavily supplemented with sweet tater fries and (groan with me) fried dill pickles. We only fry about twice a year, so when we do, we fry everything in sight. Wait, where's the dog?
Growing up, I had tons of fresh fish, and never any purchased fish, since Daddy was, and is, a fisherman. Once The Husband married into the family, Daddy taught him the proper way to clean a fish, and me, how to cook it. (If it's a dry or fish that can be strong, like sheepshead, be sure and soak it in buttermilk. If it's moist like trout, don't soak it in anything.) Toss it with cornmeal/flour, then fry 'em up at the hottest temp your fryer will go to.
"I saw your wife the other day, uu huh, and she's ugly..."
"Yeah, but she sure can cook!"
Or fry fish.
---
Best Way to Fry Pickles
Get some good, sour dill pickles and cut 'em in chunks. "Hamburger slices" are too thin, so cut them yourself.
Crush yourself some Cap'n Crunch cereal real fine.
Set out three bowls: first, flour. Second, egg. Third, the cereal crumbs.
Dip pickle chunks in flour, then egg, then cereal.
Deep fry real hot.
Enjoy. And ignore any jokes about trailer trash.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Secret Handshake
Had an interesting experience today.
Rather than going downtown to The Big Medical Clinic where Little Warrior gets her care, I was able to just go 10 minutes away to a pedi office, since all she needed was to get blood drawn.
While I was signing in and talking to the receptionist, there was a pharmaceutical salesman standing there. You know the type -- very polished, very manly.
"I couldn't help overhearing," says he. "I have a child being treated at The Big Medical Center, but you can get the blood draws done here?"
Yep, says I, then ask him what his child is being treated for.
He gives me the little wave-off that I know I have given others not in the Childhood Cancer World and says, "Oh, it's this rare thing called rhabdomyosarcoma."
I point to Little Warrior. "Wilms Tumor."
I remember hearing about how Masons supposedly have some secret "sign" they can give each other. It has been mythologized in stories such as how Sam Houston and Santa Anna met up and gave each other "the sign," and thus didn't kill each other.
We had given each other "the sign." As soon as I said "tumor," he knew that we were in the same club. The club that no one wants to join, but once you're in, you're in. So, we began chatting, exchanging when our children were diagnosed, finding out that we knew some of the same doctors (both are categorized as "solid tumors" which affects which doctors you see), etc.
He looked at Little Warrior. And cried. This big ole polished, manly guy. I figured it was because his son was diagnosed more recently than LW. And with a condition considered to be more serious than Wilms. But explained himself. "I can handle it, my son having this. But seeing other kids with it. Your baby ..."
So, we each had insight for the other. Mine was simple -- he now knows that he can get blood draws out by his house, a highly useful bit of info. His was deeper. I have been a bit surprised at the clinic that the other moms (it's almost always mothers, not fathers) weren't friendlier. I'd seen some chat with others, but not with me. I found this odd, since I'm usually the type that complete strangers come up and chat with in the grocery store. I finally figured that maybe it was because they've seen me breastfeeding my baby. Hey, nothing else made sense!
Except this ... perhaps, even for the moms whose children have cancer, seeing a baby with cancer is just a little too much. A little too raw.
I don't know. But I feel a bit more kind about it, so I guess that's all that matters.
Rather than going downtown to The Big Medical Clinic where Little Warrior gets her care, I was able to just go 10 minutes away to a pedi office, since all she needed was to get blood drawn.
While I was signing in and talking to the receptionist, there was a pharmaceutical salesman standing there. You know the type -- very polished, very manly.
"I couldn't help overhearing," says he. "I have a child being treated at The Big Medical Center, but you can get the blood draws done here?"
Yep, says I, then ask him what his child is being treated for.
He gives me the little wave-off that I know I have given others not in the Childhood Cancer World and says, "Oh, it's this rare thing called rhabdomyosarcoma."
I point to Little Warrior. "Wilms Tumor."
I remember hearing about how Masons supposedly have some secret "sign" they can give each other. It has been mythologized in stories such as how Sam Houston and Santa Anna met up and gave each other "the sign," and thus didn't kill each other.
We had given each other "the sign." As soon as I said "tumor," he knew that we were in the same club. The club that no one wants to join, but once you're in, you're in. So, we began chatting, exchanging when our children were diagnosed, finding out that we knew some of the same doctors (both are categorized as "solid tumors" which affects which doctors you see), etc.
He looked at Little Warrior. And cried. This big ole polished, manly guy. I figured it was because his son was diagnosed more recently than LW. And with a condition considered to be more serious than Wilms. But explained himself. "I can handle it, my son having this. But seeing other kids with it. Your baby ..."
So, we each had insight for the other. Mine was simple -- he now knows that he can get blood draws out by his house, a highly useful bit of info. His was deeper. I have been a bit surprised at the clinic that the other moms (it's almost always mothers, not fathers) weren't friendlier. I'd seen some chat with others, but not with me. I found this odd, since I'm usually the type that complete strangers come up and chat with in the grocery store. I finally figured that maybe it was because they've seen me breastfeeding my baby. Hey, nothing else made sense!
Except this ... perhaps, even for the moms whose children have cancer, seeing a baby with cancer is just a little too much. A little too raw.
I don't know. But I feel a bit more kind about it, so I guess that's all that matters.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
I Pick Up My Guitar Again
The fingers of my left hand have their nails clipped down, and are puffy, sore and throbbing.
It feels f-ing great.
I picked up my guitar for the first time since December. After All Of This began, I had neither the time nor inclination to strum.
But, right now, ignorance is bliss. Hopefully, of course, knowledge will be even more bliss. Little Warrior had a ct scan last Thursday and we still don't know the results. So, enjoy the ignorance; you can't hurry them up anyway.
Anyway, I got my reservation certificate for "summer camp" in the mail, along with all my friends receiving theirs. Come July, we might all be hanging out together.
This led me to the aforementioned guitar and the song for all guitar-playing-going-to-camp-loving-sing-alongs-flag-flying-freaks, Rise Up Singing.
Wow. Amazing the depth of meaning to so many songs, once one has gone through another Life Experience. And Little Warrior was singing along with me. And mouthing on the new tuner I received for Christmas and just figured out how to use.
And I played my favorite song in the world. I loved this before All Of This, but now ... well, you know I had tears pouring as I played.
My life flows on in endless song
Above earth's lamentation.
I hear the real, though far off hymn
That hails the new creation
Above the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?
What through the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
What through the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of Heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
It feels f-ing great.
I picked up my guitar for the first time since December. After All Of This began, I had neither the time nor inclination to strum.
But, right now, ignorance is bliss. Hopefully, of course, knowledge will be even more bliss. Little Warrior had a ct scan last Thursday and we still don't know the results. So, enjoy the ignorance; you can't hurry them up anyway.
Anyway, I got my reservation certificate for "summer camp" in the mail, along with all my friends receiving theirs. Come July, we might all be hanging out together.
This led me to the aforementioned guitar and the song for all guitar-playing-going-to-camp-loving-sing-alongs-flag-flying-freaks, Rise Up Singing.
Wow. Amazing the depth of meaning to so many songs, once one has gone through another Life Experience. And Little Warrior was singing along with me. And mouthing on the new tuner I received for Christmas and just figured out how to use.
And I played my favorite song in the world. I loved this before All Of This, but now ... well, you know I had tears pouring as I played.
My life flows on in endless song
Above earth's lamentation.
I hear the real, though far off hymn
That hails the new creation
Above the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?
What through the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
What through the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of Heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
On 'I Love Lucy,' Hair and Maternity Fashion
One of those cheesy things that people say about having kids is that it's so much fun being able to share things with them; see things through new eyes.
Cheesy, but utterly true.
The Boy and I watched the 'I Love Lucy' where she has the baby. "Woodoo!" He was completely cracking up. This past weekend, I introduced him to "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" which he has now identified as his favorite movie of all time. Cult-cha, cult-cha, cult-cha ...
In watching 'Lucy,' I realized something. When I began having babies (1995), we all complained about the "Lucy look" and big smocky-maternity tops with bows at the neck. By the time I had my fourth (2005), that look was out and skin-tight spandex maternity tops were in.
Guess which looks better?
I don't care if you have are one of the 5% of pregnant women who actually only gains weight in your tummy ... the popped-out belly button showing through your shirt is just not attractive. And to the other 95% of us, those tops also show the rolls of back fat that come along with pregnancy. And the pint of Ben & Jerrys every night.
Vive La Lucy!
Has PeaceBang's Beauty Tips for Ministers hit on maternity wear? Hmm, maybe if one is a pregnant minister, one could get away with just wearing a robe for 9 months. Tee-hee.
Seriously ... a little modesty during pregnancy is not a bad thing. Look at the photos of Gwen Stefani on the above mentioned website. Sexy and pretty, but loose and blousy, too.
And hair ... I have to echo PeaceBang's comment about seeing all the lank hair. It's not just me! All of a sudden, it seems like the big trend is "growing it out" hair. Whatever happened to hairdo's? I mean, I'm not talking the Southern woman's "mold it into a football helmet" hair, but you know, hairdos. Even "The Jennifer" was a hairdo.
Now, I will admit to being very fashion-challenged right now. My clothing must be a) nursing accessible, b) nursing-discreetly-able and c) No high heels, because I'm carrying Little Warrior in a sling. I am pleased to say that I have found some nursing clothes that are actually nice, and not in-your-face-I'm-a-Mom. http://expressiva.com/ . Generally, avoid "Motherhood" (the store, not the institution) for nursing apparel.
Not that you have to have nursing apparel. A nice top, raised up from the bottom, will work just fine.
Lastly ... if you're able to be pregnant, or have hair (whether it's lank or not) ... say a little 'thank you' to the universe tonight. Just another day in paradise.
Cheesy, but utterly true.
The Boy and I watched the 'I Love Lucy' where she has the baby. "Woodoo!" He was completely cracking up. This past weekend, I introduced him to "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" which he has now identified as his favorite movie of all time. Cult-cha, cult-cha, cult-cha ...
In watching 'Lucy,' I realized something. When I began having babies (1995), we all complained about the "Lucy look" and big smocky-maternity tops with bows at the neck. By the time I had my fourth (2005), that look was out and skin-tight spandex maternity tops were in.
Guess which looks better?
I don't care if you have are one of the 5% of pregnant women who actually only gains weight in your tummy ... the popped-out belly button showing through your shirt is just not attractive. And to the other 95% of us, those tops also show the rolls of back fat that come along with pregnancy. And the pint of Ben & Jerrys every night.
Vive La Lucy!
Has PeaceBang's Beauty Tips for Ministers hit on maternity wear? Hmm, maybe if one is a pregnant minister, one could get away with just wearing a robe for 9 months. Tee-hee.
Seriously ... a little modesty during pregnancy is not a bad thing. Look at the photos of Gwen Stefani on the above mentioned website. Sexy and pretty, but loose and blousy, too.
And hair ... I have to echo PeaceBang's comment about seeing all the lank hair. It's not just me! All of a sudden, it seems like the big trend is "growing it out" hair. Whatever happened to hairdo's? I mean, I'm not talking the Southern woman's "mold it into a football helmet" hair, but you know, hairdos. Even "The Jennifer" was a hairdo.
Now, I will admit to being very fashion-challenged right now. My clothing must be a) nursing accessible, b) nursing-discreetly-able and c) No high heels, because I'm carrying Little Warrior in a sling. I am pleased to say that I have found some nursing clothes that are actually nice, and not in-your-face-I'm-a-Mom. http://expressiva.com/ . Generally, avoid "Motherhood" (the store, not the institution) for nursing apparel.
Not that you have to have nursing apparel. A nice top, raised up from the bottom, will work just fine.
Lastly ... if you're able to be pregnant, or have hair (whether it's lank or not) ... say a little 'thank you' to the universe tonight. Just another day in paradise.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Happiness Can Be Found in a Cup of Cheerios
20 minutes of pure joy, courtesy of a bowl of dry cereal.
Last night, Little Warrior held a cup of dry cheerios and alternately ate one, fed one to Daddy, fed one to Mama. Between each step, she laughed uproariously. Dad ... ate ... a cheerio!!! Is that the funniest thing in the world, or what??? Mom ate a cheerio! Ohmigod, these people are hilarious!!!
Then, we started with the "mmm's" ... she'd eat a cheerio and say, "Mmmm." We, of course, would repeat it back to her, "Mmmm." Bwahahahah! Look what I can make Mom and Dad do!
Then, of course, The Boy, The Princess and Bo Peep had to come see what all the laughing was about. And they had to be fed cheerios. Even hilarious-er!
Thank you for that moment, Universe.
Last night, Little Warrior held a cup of dry cheerios and alternately ate one, fed one to Daddy, fed one to Mama. Between each step, she laughed uproariously. Dad ... ate ... a cheerio!!! Is that the funniest thing in the world, or what??? Mom ate a cheerio! Ohmigod, these people are hilarious!!!
Then, we started with the "mmm's" ... she'd eat a cheerio and say, "Mmmm." We, of course, would repeat it back to her, "Mmmm." Bwahahahah! Look what I can make Mom and Dad do!
Then, of course, The Boy, The Princess and Bo Peep had to come see what all the laughing was about. And they had to be fed cheerios. Even hilarious-er!
Thank you for that moment, Universe.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Funny Movies
Bravo just finished doing a series on the top 100 Funniest Movies. I, of course, disagreed with many of their choices and was amazed at the shows they left out.
So, my top 10, realizing I'm probably forgetting some great ones:
1. Better Off Dead
2. Amazon Women on the Moon
3. A Christmas Story
4. A Fish Called Wanda
5. A Mighty Wind
6. Harold and Maude
7. Parenthood
8. Monty Python's Holy Grail
9. Home for the Holidays
10. Heathers
So, my top 10, realizing I'm probably forgetting some great ones:
1. Better Off Dead
2. Amazon Women on the Moon
3. A Christmas Story
4. A Fish Called Wanda
5. A Mighty Wind
6. Harold and Maude
7. Parenthood
8. Monty Python's Holy Grail
9. Home for the Holidays
10. Heathers
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Happy Tortilla Soup
Not really in the mood to blog ... Little Warrior got her double-strength, double-scoop of chemo on Thursday, but she is doing great, so I'm just enjoying it. Watching the kids playing outside in the sprinkler and so glad that they can still get so much enjoyment out of something so simple.
Great "recipe" to share, especially if you want to get more veggies in your diet (or your children), but aren't that big a fan of a bowl of steamed vegetables.
Take a lot of vegetables -- last time, I used onions, celery, red bell pepper, green bell pepper, yellow squash, zucchini, broccoli, garlic, and carrots. Whatever combo you like, but be sure to have some kind of squash in it. That helps the texture.
Roast them in the oven til they're releasing their aromas and getting kind of soft.
Toss them in a big pot with chicken or vegetable broth, a couple-or-three corn tortillas, a can or two of tomatoes (fire-roasted, if you can find them), a generous amount of cumin and oregano, and some fresh jalapeno or serrano pepper, seeded and membranes removed.
Cook til everything is soft enough to be pureed. Cool for a while.
Puree in the blender.
That is not as simple as it seems.
Notes on the pureeing: I love my immersion blender, but it's just not going to give you the silky texture that makes this so amazing. So, about a half a blender at a time, puree the soup. Put a towel on the lid. It's going to spatter, just accept it. Pour the pureed soup back in the pan, and either cook it a bit if you want it thicker, or add water if you want it thinner.
To serve: Garnish with some chopped grilled chicken -- or not. Swizzle a little Mexican crema on it, or sour cream diluted with milk. Crumble some Queso Fresca and tortilla chips on top.
Damn, that's good. And I don't even like broccoli.
Great "recipe" to share, especially if you want to get more veggies in your diet (or your children), but aren't that big a fan of a bowl of steamed vegetables.
Take a lot of vegetables -- last time, I used onions, celery, red bell pepper, green bell pepper, yellow squash, zucchini, broccoli, garlic, and carrots. Whatever combo you like, but be sure to have some kind of squash in it. That helps the texture.
Roast them in the oven til they're releasing their aromas and getting kind of soft.
Toss them in a big pot with chicken or vegetable broth, a couple-or-three corn tortillas, a can or two of tomatoes (fire-roasted, if you can find them), a generous amount of cumin and oregano, and some fresh jalapeno or serrano pepper, seeded and membranes removed.
Cook til everything is soft enough to be pureed. Cool for a while.
Puree in the blender.
That is not as simple as it seems.
Notes on the pureeing: I love my immersion blender, but it's just not going to give you the silky texture that makes this so amazing. So, about a half a blender at a time, puree the soup. Put a towel on the lid. It's going to spatter, just accept it. Pour the pureed soup back in the pan, and either cook it a bit if you want it thicker, or add water if you want it thinner.
To serve: Garnish with some chopped grilled chicken -- or not. Swizzle a little Mexican crema on it, or sour cream diluted with milk. Crumble some Queso Fresca and tortilla chips on top.
Damn, that's good. And I don't even like broccoli.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Happy Birthday, Little Warrior
Last year, a few days after LW was born, I wrote up her birth story so I wouldn't forget any of the details. (They do tend to run together, after four.) I offer it here, unedited except for changing the names.
--
It’s been five days since LW was born. A beautiful day, with a full moon.
My labor was induced, under the advice of my doctor, who worried about the gestational diabetes causing problems. Since LW’s older sister Bo Peep was 9 lbs 5 oz, I concurred. And, I’d been expecting that I would be induced much earlier. With my other three, I developed intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy – ICP – and one of the risks is sudden stillbirth. I had a new doctor, and she wanted to go in and get the baby as soon as we knew she would be reasonably ready. But, surprise, surprise – I never developed the ICP, or never even enough to get my prescription for Actigall filled. Being a fourth child myself, I was prepared for the fourth bringing many surprises, but this was definitely unexpected and pleasant.
Before LW was even conceived, The Husband and I talked about inviting a very special lady to be in the delivery room with us. Our children call her “Lala” and she is the children’s third grandmother. No quotation marks around grandmother, if you please. She loves them and spoils us all like crazy. Last semester, when I went to theological school, she was here every Monday to be the “gap care” between when I left and when The Husband came home. She swears it is we who give the favor to her.
So, after clearing it with the other two grandmas, we invited Lala to be there. She never had children of her own, and I wanted her to be able to somewhat experience the magic.
So, the morning of May 24 arrived. The Husband’s mother was already here, so she was home with the other kids to get them off to school, watch Bo Peep, etc. We had to be at the hospital by 5:30 am.
Went in and got hooked up to a little nip of pitocin to start things going. About an hour or two later, my doctor came in and broke my water, which really got things going. I waited a little long to get the epidural, but I got it, and things felt much better. Lala was here by this point, and the three of us were able to talk and gossip and what-have-you. The Husband put on a good high energy cd I had mixed.
About 11:15, my nurse checked me. I was at 6 cm. 10 minutes later, after looking at the rate and strength of the contractions on the readout, she did another check. “She is THERE!” she told the other nurse. They went to get my doctor. She was across the hall, with another patient who was in the process of pushing.
“Okay, we need you to pant like a puppy when you have those contractions so we can wait for your doctor.”
Easier said than done. Pant, pant, pant. Pant, pant … intake breath, try to remember how to pant … Music is playing, “My life goes on in endless song, above earth’s lamentations …” The nurses comment on how great the music is. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! He was a good friend of mine!” One nurse commented that this baby was going to be born singing. The baby was about to be born, plain and simple. “She’s not yet crowning,” said the other nurse, but it was obvious she was coming. They had moved a mirror to where I could see this one born (I never have before). “See, that’s her hair,” they pointed out. “I don’t think I can keep from pushing for much longer,” I told them, a bit desperately. “It’s okay,” I was reassured. “Do what you have to do.” They praised me, saying it was obvious this was my 4th, as a less-experienced Mom would have already had the baby.
“Go tell the other mother to hurry things up, cut to the chase,” I joked weakly to The Husband.
At some point during this, I had said to Lala, who was standing in the corner behind me, “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” “I can’t sit down!” she said excitedly, showing me her trembling hands.
Just in the nick, my doctor came across the hall. Two pushes, and LW was born, and she was, as the nurses said, born singing. Lusty cries came out of her mouth before she was completely out of my body. And for the first time, I got to see it all. She was beautiful, just like a baby doll. Still covered in vernix and connected to her placenta, they placed her on my chest. Instinctively, I pulled up my shirt and put her to my breast. The Husband cut the cord, and before she could do more than mouth at my nipple, they took her over to the bin to do all the Apgars and immediate tests. I looked at her longingly, wanting them to hurry the F up so I could hold my beautiful baby. I think Lala said something about how beautiful she was, but not much more. My beloved friend, normally as verbose as I, was silent, just looking at her newest grandchild. Overwhelmed.
After a bit, they finally handed me my beautiful baby and cleared out to give us an hour or so with her before they took her to the nursery for the rest of the testing and such. I put her to my right breast and she immediately began nursing. Her eyes were closed, and she looked blissful. I imagine I looked blissed out myself. Lala left rather rapidly, a curious thing that I commented on later to The Husband. “Didn’t you see the tears in her eyes?” he asked, smiling. Later, she confirmed that she drove straight home and then cried and cried. She described it as the most incredible experience of her life. Since this is a woman who has a pilot’s license, has been a race car driver and has traveled the world extensively, a high compliment.
I am amazed at how love in theory becomes such profound love immediately upon sight of this new creature. She is beautiful, already trying to pull up her head, and of course, brilliant beyond belief. She has my heart completely. I would do anything for her. She is my daughter.
--
It’s been five days since LW was born. A beautiful day, with a full moon.
My labor was induced, under the advice of my doctor, who worried about the gestational diabetes causing problems. Since LW’s older sister Bo Peep was 9 lbs 5 oz, I concurred. And, I’d been expecting that I would be induced much earlier. With my other three, I developed intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy – ICP – and one of the risks is sudden stillbirth. I had a new doctor, and she wanted to go in and get the baby as soon as we knew she would be reasonably ready. But, surprise, surprise – I never developed the ICP, or never even enough to get my prescription for Actigall filled. Being a fourth child myself, I was prepared for the fourth bringing many surprises, but this was definitely unexpected and pleasant.
Before LW was even conceived, The Husband and I talked about inviting a very special lady to be in the delivery room with us. Our children call her “Lala” and she is the children’s third grandmother. No quotation marks around grandmother, if you please. She loves them and spoils us all like crazy. Last semester, when I went to theological school, she was here every Monday to be the “gap care” between when I left and when The Husband came home. She swears it is we who give the favor to her.
So, after clearing it with the other two grandmas, we invited Lala to be there. She never had children of her own, and I wanted her to be able to somewhat experience the magic.
So, the morning of May 24 arrived. The Husband’s mother was already here, so she was home with the other kids to get them off to school, watch Bo Peep, etc. We had to be at the hospital by 5:30 am.
Went in and got hooked up to a little nip of pitocin to start things going. About an hour or two later, my doctor came in and broke my water, which really got things going. I waited a little long to get the epidural, but I got it, and things felt much better. Lala was here by this point, and the three of us were able to talk and gossip and what-have-you. The Husband put on a good high energy cd I had mixed.
About 11:15, my nurse checked me. I was at 6 cm. 10 minutes later, after looking at the rate and strength of the contractions on the readout, she did another check. “She is THERE!” she told the other nurse. They went to get my doctor. She was across the hall, with another patient who was in the process of pushing.
“Okay, we need you to pant like a puppy when you have those contractions so we can wait for your doctor.”
Easier said than done. Pant, pant, pant. Pant, pant … intake breath, try to remember how to pant … Music is playing, “My life goes on in endless song, above earth’s lamentations …” The nurses comment on how great the music is. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! He was a good friend of mine!” One nurse commented that this baby was going to be born singing. The baby was about to be born, plain and simple. “She’s not yet crowning,” said the other nurse, but it was obvious she was coming. They had moved a mirror to where I could see this one born (I never have before). “See, that’s her hair,” they pointed out. “I don’t think I can keep from pushing for much longer,” I told them, a bit desperately. “It’s okay,” I was reassured. “Do what you have to do.” They praised me, saying it was obvious this was my 4th, as a less-experienced Mom would have already had the baby.
“Go tell the other mother to hurry things up, cut to the chase,” I joked weakly to The Husband.
At some point during this, I had said to Lala, who was standing in the corner behind me, “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” “I can’t sit down!” she said excitedly, showing me her trembling hands.
Just in the nick, my doctor came across the hall. Two pushes, and LW was born, and she was, as the nurses said, born singing. Lusty cries came out of her mouth before she was completely out of my body. And for the first time, I got to see it all. She was beautiful, just like a baby doll. Still covered in vernix and connected to her placenta, they placed her on my chest. Instinctively, I pulled up my shirt and put her to my breast. The Husband cut the cord, and before she could do more than mouth at my nipple, they took her over to the bin to do all the Apgars and immediate tests. I looked at her longingly, wanting them to hurry the F up so I could hold my beautiful baby. I think Lala said something about how beautiful she was, but not much more. My beloved friend, normally as verbose as I, was silent, just looking at her newest grandchild. Overwhelmed.
After a bit, they finally handed me my beautiful baby and cleared out to give us an hour or so with her before they took her to the nursery for the rest of the testing and such. I put her to my right breast and she immediately began nursing. Her eyes were closed, and she looked blissful. I imagine I looked blissed out myself. Lala left rather rapidly, a curious thing that I commented on later to The Husband. “Didn’t you see the tears in her eyes?” he asked, smiling. Later, she confirmed that she drove straight home and then cried and cried. She described it as the most incredible experience of her life. Since this is a woman who has a pilot’s license, has been a race car driver and has traveled the world extensively, a high compliment.
I am amazed at how love in theory becomes such profound love immediately upon sight of this new creature. She is beautiful, already trying to pull up her head, and of course, brilliant beyond belief. She has my heart completely. I would do anything for her. She is my daughter.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
No longer seething ...
... merely annoyed.
And, realizing that my feelings were probably a bit overblown due to other circumstances.
Little Warrior gets her CT scan on Thursday.
It's the first CT she's had since surgery.
Things were so low, low, low, there for a while. I felt helpless and almost hopeless. The pinnacle ... not pinnacle. Opposite of pinnacle, as in "lowest part of the valley." If there's not a word for that, we need one. The opposite-of-pinnacle was when I handed Little Warrior off to the anesthesiologist for her surgery. I was nothing but a giant mound of pain.
And fear. Did I ever know fear before All of This? Did I ever truly know what being scared was?
A few hours after the surgery began, we got some good news. Then, a few hours later, we got more good news.
Since then, it's been good, good, good and great. Little Warrior is crawling, pulling herself up, eating real food, babbling, gaining weight. Acting like a regular baby.
We just sent in our forms to go to a UU family "summer camp." We're making plans for fun.
This CT ... the results of it can change everything.
I don't want to go to that dark place again.
I don't want to have to treasure every single moment, for God's sake. I want to take some things for granted. I want to let her fuss a little when I'm trying to do something and I want to get irritated at her when she's being a pill.
I don't want to be scared.
And, realizing that my feelings were probably a bit overblown due to other circumstances.
Little Warrior gets her CT scan on Thursday.
It's the first CT she's had since surgery.
Things were so low, low, low, there for a while. I felt helpless and almost hopeless. The pinnacle ... not pinnacle. Opposite of pinnacle, as in "lowest part of the valley." If there's not a word for that, we need one. The opposite-of-pinnacle was when I handed Little Warrior off to the anesthesiologist for her surgery. I was nothing but a giant mound of pain.
And fear. Did I ever know fear before All of This? Did I ever truly know what being scared was?
A few hours after the surgery began, we got some good news. Then, a few hours later, we got more good news.
Since then, it's been good, good, good and great. Little Warrior is crawling, pulling herself up, eating real food, babbling, gaining weight. Acting like a regular baby.
We just sent in our forms to go to a UU family "summer camp." We're making plans for fun.
This CT ... the results of it can change everything.
I don't want to go to that dark place again.
I don't want to have to treasure every single moment, for God's sake. I want to take some things for granted. I want to let her fuss a little when I'm trying to do something and I want to get irritated at her when she's being a pill.
I don't want to be scared.
A bit of seething ... I have been plagiarized ...
Grr.
I was doing a bit of web-surfing when I found, to my surprise, that another church has copied the work I did on my own church's website.
Now, if it were just stealing a bit of code, it wouldn't bother me. We all do that. That's part of the joy and being able to hit "view source."
But this ... they actually copied my words. My pages. The way I laid out our site, even our menu bar.
My words.
That's really the part that bothers me. All the rest, I'd just shrug. Imitation and flattery and all that.
But several years ago, I set out to not only set up a kick-ass site, but to write pages that let people know that they were welcome at our church. Not only welcome, but we wanted them. We wanted all the things about them that made them who they are. I worked hard on that. I wanted eloquence and warmth.
I guess I achieved that, since my words were simply cut and pasted into another church's site.
Not only is it a church within my own denomination ... it is also within my own town.
It also happens to be about 3 times the size of our church. So, if you were looking at the websites of the churches in your town, and you found identical stuff on two sites, who would you think cribbed from the other? Of course, the smaller, less funded one, right?
Wrong.
I feel powerless. I feel there's no way I can say anything and not look petty. On top of that, because I'm a ministerial student, at a church without a minister, I'm going to need to make some relationships with the ministers at the other area churches. "Hey, your church ripped off mine" is not conducive to good relationship.
Not feeling flattered.
I was doing a bit of web-surfing when I found, to my surprise, that another church has copied the work I did on my own church's website.
Now, if it were just stealing a bit of code, it wouldn't bother me. We all do that. That's part of the joy and being able to hit "view source."
But this ... they actually copied my words. My pages. The way I laid out our site, even our menu bar.
My words.
That's really the part that bothers me. All the rest, I'd just shrug. Imitation and flattery and all that.
But several years ago, I set out to not only set up a kick-ass site, but to write pages that let people know that they were welcome at our church. Not only welcome, but we wanted them. We wanted all the things about them that made them who they are. I worked hard on that. I wanted eloquence and warmth.
I guess I achieved that, since my words were simply cut and pasted into another church's site.
Not only is it a church within my own denomination ... it is also within my own town.
It also happens to be about 3 times the size of our church. So, if you were looking at the websites of the churches in your town, and you found identical stuff on two sites, who would you think cribbed from the other? Of course, the smaller, less funded one, right?
Wrong.
I feel powerless. I feel there's no way I can say anything and not look petty. On top of that, because I'm a ministerial student, at a church without a minister, I'm going to need to make some relationships with the ministers at the other area churches. "Hey, your church ripped off mine" is not conducive to good relationship.
Not feeling flattered.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Tivo and Tidbits
FYIs ...
Right now, they're running the Murphy Brown cancer shows on Nick at Night. At some ungodly time, like 3 am. I love Tivo. There's one coming up -- maybe tonight -- where Jim buys pot for Murphy. It's actually a *really* sweet episode.
The Husband and I have joked a bit about pot. I've never smoked any -- just wasn't my thing -- and liked the fact that I could tell our kids, hey, I never smoked pot. (And not be a hypocrite or a liar.) But during all this with Little Warrior, I've asked (tongue in cheek), shouldn't I smoke pot then nurse her to help her gain weight?
I haven't actually shared that joke with the doctors. You can never tell what they're going to take seriously.
And hey, I'm dieting anyway. Don't need anything to give me the munchies.
Well, Little Warrior's chemo (100% of Dactinomycin and Vincristine) got moved to tomorrow -- the day before her birthday -- rather than Thursday, the day after her birthday. Bummer. Oh well, that's one of the good things about her being a baby. She doesn't care.
I just discovered the wonderful world of yogurt cheese. With some Jezebel sauce (not diet food, but fat-free at least), can't tell the diff between it and cream cheese. And mixed with some unsweetened chocolate and a bit of sugar, spread on a graham cracker, it takes care of the "I've got to cheat" urge.
Another show I've been tivo'ing is "Pop Show" on VH1C. Ahhh, old friends. Well, that whole thing I reported about losing my cry-baby gene ... fuggedaboutit. Complete meltdown at watching REM's "Everybody Hurts."
When that song came out, my sister was planning her escape from her mentally-abusive husband. She was so depressed, almost suicidal. I put that song on a mix tape and she says she would play it over and over.
Best line in the song: "Take comfort in your friends."
Of which I have many. Dang, who sang the song ... someone, maybe Jimmy Buffett or John Denver, had a song in which he referenced going to see some friends, some of whom he'd never met.
Okay, that's going to drive me crazy.
Right now, they're running the Murphy Brown cancer shows on Nick at Night. At some ungodly time, like 3 am. I love Tivo. There's one coming up -- maybe tonight -- where Jim buys pot for Murphy. It's actually a *really* sweet episode.
The Husband and I have joked a bit about pot. I've never smoked any -- just wasn't my thing -- and liked the fact that I could tell our kids, hey, I never smoked pot. (And not be a hypocrite or a liar.) But during all this with Little Warrior, I've asked (tongue in cheek), shouldn't I smoke pot then nurse her to help her gain weight?
I haven't actually shared that joke with the doctors. You can never tell what they're going to take seriously.
And hey, I'm dieting anyway. Don't need anything to give me the munchies.
Well, Little Warrior's chemo (100% of Dactinomycin and Vincristine) got moved to tomorrow -- the day before her birthday -- rather than Thursday, the day after her birthday. Bummer. Oh well, that's one of the good things about her being a baby. She doesn't care.
I just discovered the wonderful world of yogurt cheese. With some Jezebel sauce (not diet food, but fat-free at least), can't tell the diff between it and cream cheese. And mixed with some unsweetened chocolate and a bit of sugar, spread on a graham cracker, it takes care of the "I've got to cheat" urge.
Another show I've been tivo'ing is "Pop Show" on VH1C. Ahhh, old friends. Well, that whole thing I reported about losing my cry-baby gene ... fuggedaboutit. Complete meltdown at watching REM's "Everybody Hurts."
When that song came out, my sister was planning her escape from her mentally-abusive husband. She was so depressed, almost suicidal. I put that song on a mix tape and she says she would play it over and over.
Best line in the song: "Take comfort in your friends."
Of which I have many. Dang, who sang the song ... someone, maybe Jimmy Buffett or John Denver, had a song in which he referenced going to see some friends, some of whom he'd never met.
Okay, that's going to drive me crazy.
Friday, May 19, 2006
The Grass is Always Browner ...
One thing that's kind of amazing about cancer is how often those fighting it, either themselves or their caregivers, will point to someone else fighting it and say, "Oh, but you have it so much harder." It is sweet, and it shows a lot about the empathy in folks.
I've had friends such as Boobless Brigade Master who are fighting cancer themselves, say something about how they think *I'm* so brave. How amazing is that?
I can understand the sentiment. Those of us who have kids, like BBM, would give anything for our child to never go through anything life-threatening. Once you have a child, it's your big fear.
And, on one hand, I have wished a thousand times that it could be me fighting the cancer, not Little Warrior.
But on the other hand ... since I have sworn to be brutally honest in this blog ... there have also been those times when I've felt a little grateful to not be going through cancer myself.
Horrible!
First, of course, was realizing that I am not the one with cancer. That might sound pretty obvious, but it's not. And apparently that's normal. It's a natural instinct for a mother to "take on" her child's cancer.
Having a baby who was, at the time of diagnosis, 100% breastfed, just magnified that. For those who haven't had that experience, it's a bit peculiar in that you don't always know where the baby ends and you begin. You eat cabbage, Baby gets gas. Baby gets thrush, your breasts break out in a rash. Some research even indicates that your breasts somehow "know" when your baby is sick and your milk changes. (Now, I don't know what my breasts are making of this whole chemo thing. Ha.)
So, occasionally, at the start of this, I had to tell myself, Hey. You're not the one with cancer. Little Warrior is.
And occasionally, I was shocked to find that that was a bit reassuring.
On one hand (I'm running out of hands, here), it's just simple logistics. If I were the one with cancer, we'd have to figure out how to get the baby to take a bottle, since I couldn't nurse her, someone else would have to step in to help with the other three kids, etc.
But on the other hand ... haven't we all had the feeling before? Looking at someone going through a horrible situation and thought, "I'm glad it's not me"?
At the very worst of what we've experienced, there were, God help me, moments when I thought, well, if the worst happens, I will still be here. My other three children will still have their mother.
Of course, the fact that I would still be here ... would have to keep on living ... was also a terrible feeling.
I've had friends such as Boobless Brigade Master who are fighting cancer themselves, say something about how they think *I'm* so brave. How amazing is that?
I can understand the sentiment. Those of us who have kids, like BBM, would give anything for our child to never go through anything life-threatening. Once you have a child, it's your big fear.
And, on one hand, I have wished a thousand times that it could be me fighting the cancer, not Little Warrior.
But on the other hand ... since I have sworn to be brutally honest in this blog ... there have also been those times when I've felt a little grateful to not be going through cancer myself.
Horrible!
First, of course, was realizing that I am not the one with cancer. That might sound pretty obvious, but it's not. And apparently that's normal. It's a natural instinct for a mother to "take on" her child's cancer.
Having a baby who was, at the time of diagnosis, 100% breastfed, just magnified that. For those who haven't had that experience, it's a bit peculiar in that you don't always know where the baby ends and you begin. You eat cabbage, Baby gets gas. Baby gets thrush, your breasts break out in a rash. Some research even indicates that your breasts somehow "know" when your baby is sick and your milk changes. (Now, I don't know what my breasts are making of this whole chemo thing. Ha.)
So, occasionally, at the start of this, I had to tell myself, Hey. You're not the one with cancer. Little Warrior is.
And occasionally, I was shocked to find that that was a bit reassuring.
On one hand (I'm running out of hands, here), it's just simple logistics. If I were the one with cancer, we'd have to figure out how to get the baby to take a bottle, since I couldn't nurse her, someone else would have to step in to help with the other three kids, etc.
But on the other hand ... haven't we all had the feeling before? Looking at someone going through a horrible situation and thought, "I'm glad it's not me"?
At the very worst of what we've experienced, there were, God help me, moments when I thought, well, if the worst happens, I will still be here. My other three children will still have their mother.
Of course, the fact that I would still be here ... would have to keep on living ... was also a terrible feeling.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
"What Cancer Means to Me"
"How has cancer affected you or your loved ones?"
How much time do you have?
There's a lot of cancer in my family. My dad has had "cancer of the chest wall" and more recently, malignant melanoma. But he's been lucky -- it's always been completely treatable with surgery. He's never had chemo nor radiation. All of us have had the "easy" type of skin cancer, necessitating only removal. I had a pre-cancerous tumor removed along with 2/3 of my thyroid. But one grandmother and one grandfather died of cancer. To a certain extent, I always felt I had a bit of a time-bomb inside.
Thanks to all those "made for TV dramas" or "very special episodes" of sitcoms, I had worried about having a child with cancer, the way I think most parents have.
Never, though, had I ever thought of having a baby with cancer. I mean, that's ridiculous, right?
Just 7 months old, Little Warrior had a bit of a bulge in her abdomen. We went to playgroup and I mentioned the appointment we had later that day. "I washed my hair, just in case we have to go to the hospital," I joked about being overdramatic.
Ha-ha on you, Mom. It would be 2 1/2 weeks before we returned home.
But you do what you have to do. "First you cry," as the book says. And you learn about cancer. And you learn about integrating cancer with normal life. You try to make sure your other three children aren't too traumatized. Cancer becomes normal.
The other day, my 10 year old was chatting with me and with a young friend of his, whose mother just had a baby. "Well, The Boy can tell you all about having a baby in the house, he's well-experienced," I said. The Boy got a thoughtful look. "You know, I've kinda forgotten what it's like to have the excitement of a baby. When I think about Little Warrior now, I just think about her cancer."
Oy.
I could write for 10 hours a day, 7 days a week, for the next 20 years and probably not be able to cover how cancer has affected me and my loved ones.
If I were the one going through cancer, assuming I survived, I most certainly would be the kind of person who refers to her cancer as a "gift." Something that makes your priorities more clear, your days sweeter. That's just the kind of person I am.
But this is my child ... my baby. There have been gifts along the way, and I think we should glean whatever wisdom we can from the experience. But I will never, ever, call her cancer a gift. I will never believe that it happened for a reason.
But she is a gift. As are all my children, as is my husband.
A week from today, she will be one year old.
How much time do you have?
There's a lot of cancer in my family. My dad has had "cancer of the chest wall" and more recently, malignant melanoma. But he's been lucky -- it's always been completely treatable with surgery. He's never had chemo nor radiation. All of us have had the "easy" type of skin cancer, necessitating only removal. I had a pre-cancerous tumor removed along with 2/3 of my thyroid. But one grandmother and one grandfather died of cancer. To a certain extent, I always felt I had a bit of a time-bomb inside.
Thanks to all those "made for TV dramas" or "very special episodes" of sitcoms, I had worried about having a child with cancer, the way I think most parents have.
Never, though, had I ever thought of having a baby with cancer. I mean, that's ridiculous, right?
Just 7 months old, Little Warrior had a bit of a bulge in her abdomen. We went to playgroup and I mentioned the appointment we had later that day. "I washed my hair, just in case we have to go to the hospital," I joked about being overdramatic.
Ha-ha on you, Mom. It would be 2 1/2 weeks before we returned home.
But you do what you have to do. "First you cry," as the book says. And you learn about cancer. And you learn about integrating cancer with normal life. You try to make sure your other three children aren't too traumatized. Cancer becomes normal.
The other day, my 10 year old was chatting with me and with a young friend of his, whose mother just had a baby. "Well, The Boy can tell you all about having a baby in the house, he's well-experienced," I said. The Boy got a thoughtful look. "You know, I've kinda forgotten what it's like to have the excitement of a baby. When I think about Little Warrior now, I just think about her cancer."
Oy.
I could write for 10 hours a day, 7 days a week, for the next 20 years and probably not be able to cover how cancer has affected me and my loved ones.
If I were the one going through cancer, assuming I survived, I most certainly would be the kind of person who refers to her cancer as a "gift." Something that makes your priorities more clear, your days sweeter. That's just the kind of person I am.
But this is my child ... my baby. There have been gifts along the way, and I think we should glean whatever wisdom we can from the experience. But I will never, ever, call her cancer a gift. I will never believe that it happened for a reason.
But she is a gift. As are all my children, as is my husband.
A week from today, she will be one year old.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Wed, May 17, LIVESTRONG and BLOG!
Tomorrow is LiveStrong day, sponsored by the Lance Armstrong foundation. I'd like to encourage all of my fellow bloggers to devote a little space in their blog to writing about how cancer has affected them -- if it has. From the site:
"What should you write?
We want to know what LIVESTRONG Day means to you! You can write about how cancer has affected you or your loved ones and what could have improved the experience or made it less traumatic. You can also add your view about health policy issues facing cancer survivors. Ask your friends and families to share their stories too. Each blog will help put a name and face to the more than 10 million cancer survivors in the United States."
I'm interested in reading these. That's been one of the things I've found out on this "journey" -- seems like everyone has a cancer story. Them, their parents, their child, their spouse, their best friend, their mentor ... oh, the list goes on and on. Heck, even Meredith's (Grey's Anatomy) dog had cancer.
Anyone who came of age in the 80's out there?
The Husband and I were discussing The Big Theme we were taught in high school in the 80's. For both of us, it was "Soviet Union, Bad. They do horrible things like track phone calls and spy on their citizens. United States, Good. We don't do that. Apple pie, red/white/blue = good, Big Brother = bad."
And remember all the talk-radio paranoia in the 90's about Big Government and black helicopters and the UN taking over the world?
That's why we are a bit mystified as to the apparent apathy towards reports that our government ... OUR government ... is, in fact, spying on its own citizens. First, the libraries. Then, the call records. Now, the reporters:
I wish Qwest offered local phone service where I live. I'd sign up with them in a second.
And remember all the talk-radio paranoia in the 90's about Big Government and black helicopters and the UN taking over the world?
That's why we are a bit mystified as to the apparent apathy towards reports that our government ... OUR government ... is, in fact, spying on its own citizens. First, the libraries. Then, the call records. Now, the reporters:
"Federal Source to ABC News: We Know Who You're Calling
May 15, 2006 10:33 AM
A senior federal law enforcement official tells ABC News the government is tracking the phone numbers we (Brian Ross and Richard Esposito) call in an effort to root out confidential sources.
"It's time for you to get some new cell phones, quick," the source told us in an in-person conversation."
http://blogs.abcnews.com/theblotter/2006/05/federal_source_.htmlI wish Qwest offered local phone service where I live. I'd sign up with them in a second.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Heart+Kidneys+Body = Person
One of the many thousands of things I've learned through All Of This:
Departmental politics is the same, whether you're a marketing manager, an IT guy, or a doctor.
I know, "duh." But it's one of those things you don't really stop and think about until you're in the big middle of Something Big and trusting everything The Big Doctor tells you, and getting mighty confused because what the Big Oncologist and the Big Surgeon and the Big Cardiologist say ... disagree.
Tomorrow we have the appointment with the Big Cardiologist. Back before her surgery, the oncologist considered putting her on a third type of chemo, doxorubicin, which can be weeeely bad for the heart. So, off for an echo to make sure her heart was up for it.
In that meeting, with the cardiologist, we learned that not only was her heart not up for it, but that she had a Serious Heart Condition, which he claimed had nothing to do with the kidney cancer. Because, you know, we didn't have enough to deal with.
All that may be true, except ... while in the hospital, no cardiologists came around til we threw a fit and demanded them. (The surgery team had notified them of her surgery and asked for their input.) Then, she wasn't scheduled for a post-surgery echocardiogram to see if maybe having a grapefruit and an orange on her kidneys had affected her heart. THEN, I got a call a couple of weeks ago saying that her scheduled appointment in June wouldn't work, so howsabout July?
Does Not Compute.
Well, I managed to get an appointment for May (tomorrow) with the cardiologist, rather than July. She's also getting an echo tomorrow. And our big question will be: okay, does she really have a Serious Heart Condition, or were you overplaying that to make sure the Big Oncologist didn't give her doxorubicin?
Big lesson in all of this ... oncologist only sees cancer. Cardiologist only sees heart. Surgeon only sees stuff to cut out. Apparently some hospitals are now looking to have "Principle Doctors" who will take the role of conductor. Sounds good to me.
Tune in tomorrow for As the Heart Turns ...
Departmental politics is the same, whether you're a marketing manager, an IT guy, or a doctor.
I know, "duh." But it's one of those things you don't really stop and think about until you're in the big middle of Something Big and trusting everything The Big Doctor tells you, and getting mighty confused because what the Big Oncologist and the Big Surgeon and the Big Cardiologist say ... disagree.
Tomorrow we have the appointment with the Big Cardiologist. Back before her surgery, the oncologist considered putting her on a third type of chemo, doxorubicin, which can be weeeely bad for the heart. So, off for an echo to make sure her heart was up for it.
In that meeting, with the cardiologist, we learned that not only was her heart not up for it, but that she had a Serious Heart Condition, which he claimed had nothing to do with the kidney cancer. Because, you know, we didn't have enough to deal with.
All that may be true, except ... while in the hospital, no cardiologists came around til we threw a fit and demanded them. (The surgery team had notified them of her surgery and asked for their input.) Then, she wasn't scheduled for a post-surgery echocardiogram to see if maybe having a grapefruit and an orange on her kidneys had affected her heart. THEN, I got a call a couple of weeks ago saying that her scheduled appointment in June wouldn't work, so howsabout July?
Does Not Compute.
Well, I managed to get an appointment for May (tomorrow) with the cardiologist, rather than July. She's also getting an echo tomorrow. And our big question will be: okay, does she really have a Serious Heart Condition, or were you overplaying that to make sure the Big Oncologist didn't give her doxorubicin?
Big lesson in all of this ... oncologist only sees cancer. Cardiologist only sees heart. Surgeon only sees stuff to cut out. Apparently some hospitals are now looking to have "Principle Doctors" who will take the role of conductor. Sounds good to me.
Tune in tomorrow for As the Heart Turns ...
Not ennui ... and cheap Frappuccino
Ennui is such a good word, but it's not what I'm feeling. But we need a good word, like ennui, for this feeling ... mildly depressed, but you know you don't have a reason for it, so a little guilt mixed in, and you just kind of feel like a bored, bratty kid who goes and picks on their younger sister just for the heck of it. Nyah, nyah, nyah. I'm gonna eat worms.
We need a word for it. It's not depressed, and it's not ennui, and it's not sad, or bored, or lazy, or bratty, though those are all in it, too.
Moving along ...
I love "bizarre" recipes, if they're actually good. Like the Velveeta fudge. Or the tofu pie. Blow me down, they're actually quite good. As opposed to the recipe my Atkins-doing-friends have shared with me for mashed potatoes made with cauliflower.
Now, I happen to actually like cauliflower. I'm roasting some right now for soup. However, mashed cauliflower isn't mashed taters anymore than raw potato is a ripe juicy apple.
But here's a good recipe. It's not exactly like a Frappuccino, but it's pretty darn good, easy, cheap, and less calories than the original. And BIZARRE -- you have to put in a 5 second spray of Pam! But it works, it really does. You have to trust me on this. Go the recipe, and substitute cold coffee (even better, cold double-strength coffee) for the ice water:
http://www.hillbillyhousewife.com/magicmilkshakes.htm
Oh, just TRY it.
We need a word for it. It's not depressed, and it's not ennui, and it's not sad, or bored, or lazy, or bratty, though those are all in it, too.
Moving along ...
I love "bizarre" recipes, if they're actually good. Like the Velveeta fudge. Or the tofu pie. Blow me down, they're actually quite good. As opposed to the recipe my Atkins-doing-friends have shared with me for mashed potatoes made with cauliflower.
Now, I happen to actually like cauliflower. I'm roasting some right now for soup. However, mashed cauliflower isn't mashed taters anymore than raw potato is a ripe juicy apple.
But here's a good recipe. It's not exactly like a Frappuccino, but it's pretty darn good, easy, cheap, and less calories than the original. And BIZARRE -- you have to put in a 5 second spray of Pam! But it works, it really does. You have to trust me on this. Go the recipe, and substitute cold coffee (even better, cold double-strength coffee) for the ice water:
http://www.hillbillyhousewife.com/magicmilkshakes.htm
Oh, just TRY it.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Abortion, science, philosophy and luck
"A WOMAN is pregnant with Britain's first designer baby selected to prevent an inherited cancer, a newspaper in Britain has reported."
Story: http://www.heraldsun.news.com.au/common/story_page/0,5478,19124612%255E663,00.html
The reason why I keep this blog anonymous has less to do with anyone I know finding it and more to do with the fact that it is really important to me that I can be scrupulously honest here. If I knew that anyone who knows me was reading this, I just know myself -- it would affect what I admit to feeling, what I write.
So, let's dive in to being scrupulously honest.
I am pro-choice, at least in the abstract, which is what being "pro-choice" is about. It isn't about being pro-abortion. It's about being willing to say, hey, I don't know everything, so I don't feel that I should be allowed to affect the choice here of other women. It's up to them. Pro-choice.
I am blessed that I have never had to make that choice.
We were prepared to, and had a couple of scares during pregnancies, waiting for tests to come back.
My godmother had a daughter who lived to be 55. She was severely retarded, blind, physically disabled. She lived in a hospital most of her life. My godmother loved her dearly but admitted that had she known ahead of time, knowing what she knows know, she would have terminated the pregnancy. Because of that, The Husband and I had said that if we had to make that choice, we would terminate. We didn't want to bring a soul into the world trapped in such an existence.
Thankfully, we never had that choice.
So, here's the deal ...
Knowing what I know now, if I had known that Little Warrior would be diagnosed with cancer by 7 months, would I have terminated the pregnancy?
Absolutely not. Every day I get with her is a gift. Not to mention, this will hopefully be curable.
But here's the rub:
If I did NOT know what I know now, and I was told that the fetus I was carrying would be diagnosed with cancer at only 7 months, would I have ended the pregnancy?
I just can't answer that. I just don't know. It would have seemed so overwhelming. I just don't know.
Except to say, in this case ... I'm glad I didn't know. Zealots on either side of this debate want us to believe that it's a simple thing. It's murder, it's a clinical procedure, it's a sin, it's a necessary choice.
Truth is, there's nothing simple about it. Nothing simple about the above article, either.
Story: http://www.heraldsun.news.com.au/common/story_page/0,5478,19124612%255E663,00.html
The reason why I keep this blog anonymous has less to do with anyone I know finding it and more to do with the fact that it is really important to me that I can be scrupulously honest here. If I knew that anyone who knows me was reading this, I just know myself -- it would affect what I admit to feeling, what I write.
So, let's dive in to being scrupulously honest.
I am pro-choice, at least in the abstract, which is what being "pro-choice" is about. It isn't about being pro-abortion. It's about being willing to say, hey, I don't know everything, so I don't feel that I should be allowed to affect the choice here of other women. It's up to them. Pro-choice.
I am blessed that I have never had to make that choice.
We were prepared to, and had a couple of scares during pregnancies, waiting for tests to come back.
My godmother had a daughter who lived to be 55. She was severely retarded, blind, physically disabled. She lived in a hospital most of her life. My godmother loved her dearly but admitted that had she known ahead of time, knowing what she knows know, she would have terminated the pregnancy. Because of that, The Husband and I had said that if we had to make that choice, we would terminate. We didn't want to bring a soul into the world trapped in such an existence.
Thankfully, we never had that choice.
So, here's the deal ...
Knowing what I know now, if I had known that Little Warrior would be diagnosed with cancer by 7 months, would I have terminated the pregnancy?
Absolutely not. Every day I get with her is a gift. Not to mention, this will hopefully be curable.
But here's the rub:
If I did NOT know what I know now, and I was told that the fetus I was carrying would be diagnosed with cancer at only 7 months, would I have ended the pregnancy?
I just can't answer that. I just don't know. It would have seemed so overwhelming. I just don't know.
Except to say, in this case ... I'm glad I didn't know. Zealots on either side of this debate want us to believe that it's a simple thing. It's murder, it's a clinical procedure, it's a sin, it's a necessary choice.
Truth is, there's nothing simple about it. Nothing simple about the above article, either.
The Best Mother's Day Ever
Sometime in February, right after Little Warrior was diagnosed, something was said about Mother's Day. I can't even remember the context. The thought of the day instantly made me choke up then. Mother's Day seemed a million months away. Would I have three children celebrating with me, or four? Would I be celebrating, or mourning? I distinctly remember asking The Husband, "What will life be like by Mother's Day?"
Today is Saturday -- Mother's Day hasn't even begun -- and I can already tell you that life on this Mother's Day is incredible.
Today is Saturday -- Mother's Day hasn't even begun -- and I can already tell you that life on this Mother's Day is incredible.
Friday, May 12, 2006
"It is what it is."
There you have it. What "yada, yada, yada" was for the 90's, "It is what it is" IS for the 00's.
Remember the Seinfeld episode about "yada, yada, yada"? Wherein in came out that the phrase was the ultimate cop-out phrase, as it could be used to obscure the truth?
That's what "It is what it is" ... is. Total cop-out phrase. At it's most innocent, it means "I can't change anything about it." Quite often, it's used to mean "I don't have enough information to make a decision, so I'm just going to put my head in the sand for now." Or, "I've done as much as I am willing to do." Or "Yeah, I totally screwed up, but rather than take responsibility, I'm going to act like it happened in a vacuum."
Hate the phrase. I've used it myself. Hate that.
Hey -- it is what it is.
Remember the Seinfeld episode about "yada, yada, yada"? Wherein in came out that the phrase was the ultimate cop-out phrase, as it could be used to obscure the truth?
That's what "It is what it is" ... is. Total cop-out phrase. At it's most innocent, it means "I can't change anything about it." Quite often, it's used to mean "I don't have enough information to make a decision, so I'm just going to put my head in the sand for now." Or, "I've done as much as I am willing to do." Or "Yeah, I totally screwed up, but rather than take responsibility, I'm going to act like it happened in a vacuum."
Hate the phrase. I've used it myself. Hate that.
Hey -- it is what it is.
Blue Jay Bullies
Walked the kids to school, pushing Bo Peep and Little Warrior in the jogging stroller. Not that I ever jog.
Beautiful, cool, not-too-humid morning. After dropping the older two off for their day, the younger two and I went on a long walk, looking at people's yards (The Husband wants me to give him a list of plants I want him to plant for my Mother's Day present). Songbirds just making a beautiful racket. Robins and mockingbirds, mostly.
And the bluejays. Ho-ho. Got back home and there was a squirrel up on one of the pine trees in our front yard. A blue jay began chasing him, furiously. Now, if you've never seen a blue jay chase a squirrel, you have missed a sight. That ole blue jay thinks he's the size of an ostrich, and with all his wing-beating and screeching, the squirrel thinks so, too. Around and around the tree, over and under limbs ... finally, the squirrel ran down the tree, across the yard and hopped another tree.
Probably, the squirrel got close to ole Blue Jay's nest. But you never know. Blue Jays are mean ass birds that love to bully other birds, animals, heck, even small children.
Bo Peep was out of the stroller and got to watch the whole show. She laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen.
And in our family, that's saying something.
Beautiful, cool, not-too-humid morning. After dropping the older two off for their day, the younger two and I went on a long walk, looking at people's yards (The Husband wants me to give him a list of plants I want him to plant for my Mother's Day present). Songbirds just making a beautiful racket. Robins and mockingbirds, mostly.
And the bluejays. Ho-ho. Got back home and there was a squirrel up on one of the pine trees in our front yard. A blue jay began chasing him, furiously. Now, if you've never seen a blue jay chase a squirrel, you have missed a sight. That ole blue jay thinks he's the size of an ostrich, and with all his wing-beating and screeching, the squirrel thinks so, too. Around and around the tree, over and under limbs ... finally, the squirrel ran down the tree, across the yard and hopped another tree.
Probably, the squirrel got close to ole Blue Jay's nest. But you never know. Blue Jays are mean ass birds that love to bully other birds, animals, heck, even small children.
Bo Peep was out of the stroller and got to watch the whole show. She laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen.
And in our family, that's saying something.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Wide-eyed blinking in disbelief
Chris is gone???
Even if you never watch American Idol, you too can participate in the hot water-cooler talk tomorrow. Just repeat the above question.
Even if you never watch American Idol, you too can participate in the hot water-cooler talk tomorrow. Just repeat the above question.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Omphaloskepsis, Third
Huh.
Anyone who's read this blog from the "Before All of This" days, or B.C. (Before Cancer) is probably aware that the one thing I feared most about being a minister was crying. I was a crier. You know how movie stars get botox in their armpits to keep from sweating? I thought it patently unfair that they couldn't botox my tear ducts. Laughing, sad, I cried. Frustrated, I cried. Hallmark commercials, I cried. It was a family joke (in the way that it's not really funny to the person concerned) about what a crybaby I was.
Last Fall, I had two big challenges. I had to give a sermon the Sunday after Hurricane Katrina -- well, the song I had picked out, two months earlier, was Bridge Over Troubled Water. Boo-hoo.
Then, a coupla months later, an older friend of mine died. And I had to do the memorial service.
Tonight, I watched House. In it, a baby died. After being suffocated by his mother, who was insane at the moment. The Husband could barely stand it. Audible sniffs.
For me, no tears. Total detachment.
Huh.
Anyone who's read this blog from the "Before All of This" days, or B.C. (Before Cancer) is probably aware that the one thing I feared most about being a minister was crying. I was a crier. You know how movie stars get botox in their armpits to keep from sweating? I thought it patently unfair that they couldn't botox my tear ducts. Laughing, sad, I cried. Frustrated, I cried. Hallmark commercials, I cried. It was a family joke (in the way that it's not really funny to the person concerned) about what a crybaby I was.
Last Fall, I had two big challenges. I had to give a sermon the Sunday after Hurricane Katrina -- well, the song I had picked out, two months earlier, was Bridge Over Troubled Water. Boo-hoo.
Then, a coupla months later, an older friend of mine died. And I had to do the memorial service.
Tonight, I watched House. In it, a baby died. After being suffocated by his mother, who was insane at the moment. The Husband could barely stand it. Audible sniffs.
For me, no tears. Total detachment.
Huh.
More Omphaloskepsis
Before All of This, I was planning on going back to seminary this next semester.
Now, no way. At best, Little Warrior will be 2 months off treatment. I need a couple of "everything's okay" CT scans to go by.
When All of This began, I had this immediate thought of, "Okay, so I'm never going to go back to seminary. This is going to make me not want to be a minister. " The old "rage against God," thing.
Except that never happened.
I never did rage against God. Instead, this just kind of cemented what I already had percolating in my head ... that God is a concept we can't get our heads around, and God is not responsible for everything that happens. Kind of the Deist thought ... the world was created, and then we were off on our own.
It's not that clear-cut for me. I see so many things that are just too coincidental. Too many things connecting. I see everything as being part of a giant Spider web, one thing connected to the other.
But how do I reconcile that with my firm belief that Little Warrior's cancer did not "happen for a reason"? I cannot believe that anything would be dependent on her suffering and facing death. I do not believe, as a nurse cheerfully told me in the hospital, that this happened to LW "to teach all of us lessons." Perhaps the Christian God was willing to sacrifice his son for mankind; I am not a God, and I am not willing for my child to in any way be a sacrificial lamb. And certainly not so that other people can "learn lessons."
My brain is a Cuisinart right now. No clarity.
But I'm planning on going back to seminary next January. Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.
Now, no way. At best, Little Warrior will be 2 months off treatment. I need a couple of "everything's okay" CT scans to go by.
When All of This began, I had this immediate thought of, "Okay, so I'm never going to go back to seminary. This is going to make me not want to be a minister. " The old "rage against God," thing.
Except that never happened.
I never did rage against God. Instead, this just kind of cemented what I already had percolating in my head ... that God is a concept we can't get our heads around, and God is not responsible for everything that happens. Kind of the Deist thought ... the world was created, and then we were off on our own.
It's not that clear-cut for me. I see so many things that are just too coincidental. Too many things connecting. I see everything as being part of a giant Spider web, one thing connected to the other.
But how do I reconcile that with my firm belief that Little Warrior's cancer did not "happen for a reason"? I cannot believe that anything would be dependent on her suffering and facing death. I do not believe, as a nurse cheerfully told me in the hospital, that this happened to LW "to teach all of us lessons." Perhaps the Christian God was willing to sacrifice his son for mankind; I am not a God, and I am not willing for my child to in any way be a sacrificial lamb. And certainly not so that other people can "learn lessons."
My brain is a Cuisinart right now. No clarity.
But I'm planning on going back to seminary next January. Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.
Omphaloskepsis
This is kind of bizarre.
I've gotten quite comfortable with Major Stress ... life and death stress.
But, inversely, the least little bit of day-to-day stress ... sending emails, contacting a doctor's office for an appointment ... makes my stomach hurt.
I used to eat stress for lunch. Now it's eating me.
Bizarre.
I've gotten quite comfortable with Major Stress ... life and death stress.
But, inversely, the least little bit of day-to-day stress ... sending emails, contacting a doctor's office for an appointment ... makes my stomach hurt.
I used to eat stress for lunch. Now it's eating me.
Bizarre.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Crawling is Over-Rated
Little Warrior can't crawl -- I think that she tried crawling before her surgery and found she couldn't lift her tumor-filled belly off the ground, so she's like a puppy who continues limping on three legs after the fourth has heeled.
She does, however, get wherever she wants to go through a combination of log-rolling and slithering.
I left her quietly playing with toys and stepped into the next room. I soon heard a machine's roar -- LW had slithered over and turned on the Roomba. She was not hurt, but since she had to get on top of the Roomba in order to push the buttons, she was, to say the least, a bit startled.
Later on in the day, after making sure she was far away from the Roomba, I again went into the kitchen. The time, she rolled over to the coffee table and got her head and shoulders wedged in it. Again, she wasn't hurt, but she was highly indignant about the entire situation.
Tomorrow, I'm pulling out her play pen.
She does, however, get wherever she wants to go through a combination of log-rolling and slithering.
I left her quietly playing with toys and stepped into the next room. I soon heard a machine's roar -- LW had slithered over and turned on the Roomba. She was not hurt, but since she had to get on top of the Roomba in order to push the buttons, she was, to say the least, a bit startled.
Later on in the day, after making sure she was far away from the Roomba, I again went into the kitchen. The time, she rolled over to the coffee table and got her head and shoulders wedged in it. Again, she wasn't hurt, but she was highly indignant about the entire situation.
Tomorrow, I'm pulling out her play pen.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Like Riding a Bike
My son, "The Boy," rode a bicycle for the first time today.
He is a bit late in this -- 10 years old -- but it's never been something he was particularly interested in. He received a new, bigger bike for his birthday this week, and at some urging, took it onto our street.
Within 5 minutes, he was riding. No training wheels. No Dad running along behind.
He explained it to me:
"See, before, I was thinking about how I was worried and afraid I'd fall. But I just told myself not to think of that, but to think about how much fun it would be if I could learn to ride it."
It's such a cliche ... but cliches become cliches for a reason.
I learn so much from my children.
He is a bit late in this -- 10 years old -- but it's never been something he was particularly interested in. He received a new, bigger bike for his birthday this week, and at some urging, took it onto our street.
Within 5 minutes, he was riding. No training wheels. No Dad running along behind.
He explained it to me:
"See, before, I was thinking about how I was worried and afraid I'd fall. But I just told myself not to think of that, but to think about how much fun it would be if I could learn to ride it."
It's such a cliche ... but cliches become cliches for a reason.
I learn so much from my children.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Cancer on TV vs. Cancer on reality
Or, reality on cancer.
Watched "Guiding Light" today as I held Little Warrior while she slept off some chemo. Soap operas are not so bad if you have tivo and can watch the entire show in 5 minutes. So, the Queen of the Tear, Reva, is diagnosed with breast cancer. And the results of her biopsy come back within a couple of hours. Yessir, this is tv.
Cancer diagnosis on tv: character is shocked. Character decides to do nothing and hide the cancer from everyone. Eventually, a nurse slips up, the family finds out, and the character is forced into treatment.
Cancer diagnosis on reality: person is shocked. Person calls all the family necessary and explains what's going on. Person seeks opinions on the best doctors and treatment available. Person begins treatment.
My experience and that of my friends, anyway. I'm sure it was different 20 years ago, but c'mon ...
Watched "Guiding Light" today as I held Little Warrior while she slept off some chemo. Soap operas are not so bad if you have tivo and can watch the entire show in 5 minutes. So, the Queen of the Tear, Reva, is diagnosed with breast cancer. And the results of her biopsy come back within a couple of hours. Yessir, this is tv.
Cancer diagnosis on tv: character is shocked. Character decides to do nothing and hide the cancer from everyone. Eventually, a nurse slips up, the family finds out, and the character is forced into treatment.
Cancer diagnosis on reality: person is shocked. Person calls all the family necessary and explains what's going on. Person seeks opinions on the best doctors and treatment available. Person begins treatment.
My experience and that of my friends, anyway. I'm sure it was different 20 years ago, but c'mon ...
Falling in Love Again
I've fallen in love with my parents.
I always thought they were pretty amazing people, but, like most, we had a few issues over the years. Before All of This, they weren't shy with their opinions that I need to lose weight, my children needed more discipline, I was apparently a horrible child and a worse teenager, etc. I harbored opinions that they thought Karen Carpenter would have been such a pretty girl if she could have just lost another 10 pounds, fear was a good tradeoff for empathetic parenting and why the heck couldn't they see that I was their only child to not do drugs, have sex in high school and sneak out of the house?
I'm sorry, what was I talking about?
The time that they spent here, while we were thrust into the Amazing World of Childhood Cancer, had its effect. My mother and I were always daily callers to each other, but now, even Dad is in the party. "Hey, be sure and watch CMT tonight - it's going to be Bruce Springsteen doing 'The Seeger Sessions.'" "Hey, did you read 'Pearls Before Swine' today? We've both had 'friends' like Rat, haven't we?"
It's not like anything in our relationship has changed that much. I always knew that I was loved, and they always knew I loved them.
I guess, now, it's that I know I'm cherished. And they know they're appreciated. Hmm. Maybe that's the whole secret to this parent/child thing. The child wants to feel cherished and the parent wants to feel appreciated.
Okay, now to make my monkeys feel cherished ...
I always thought they were pretty amazing people, but, like most, we had a few issues over the years. Before All of This, they weren't shy with their opinions that I need to lose weight, my children needed more discipline, I was apparently a horrible child and a worse teenager, etc. I harbored opinions that they thought Karen Carpenter would have been such a pretty girl if she could have just lost another 10 pounds, fear was a good tradeoff for empathetic parenting and why the heck couldn't they see that I was their only child to not do drugs, have sex in high school and sneak out of the house?
I'm sorry, what was I talking about?
The time that they spent here, while we were thrust into the Amazing World of Childhood Cancer, had its effect. My mother and I were always daily callers to each other, but now, even Dad is in the party. "Hey, be sure and watch CMT tonight - it's going to be Bruce Springsteen doing 'The Seeger Sessions.'" "Hey, did you read 'Pearls Before Swine' today? We've both had 'friends' like Rat, haven't we?"
It's not like anything in our relationship has changed that much. I always knew that I was loved, and they always knew I loved them.
I guess, now, it's that I know I'm cherished. And they know they're appreciated. Hmm. Maybe that's the whole secret to this parent/child thing. The child wants to feel cherished and the parent wants to feel appreciated.
Okay, now to make my monkeys feel cherished ...
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
10 years ago tonight ...
I was in the emergency room. The baby in my womb had stopped moving. We were close to my due date and he was my first pregnancy. I had called my ob/gyn who instructed us to come to the hospital and get checked out. My parents were at my house because we had planned on having a family dinner. My husband and me, my brother and his wife, my sister and her boyfriend, and my parents. They stayed behind as we left.
In triage, they had me drink some apple juice while they readied the doppler. Babump, babump, babump. Heartbeat. And it sounded fine. They had me stay a little while longer, then released me.
At home, with that news, everyone relaxed. And had dinner. And drank a little bit more than usual. This was the first grandchild in the family. As they left, very late, they called out, "Don't go into labor tonight, we're too tired and drunk!"
Yeah. You can guess.
3:00 am, I woke to feel some strange cramping. And dampness. I got up. No big gush, but definitely water coming out. I woke up The Husband, excited. "My water broke. But I'm going to take a shower. You can go back to sleep if you want." And he did!
He argues that this was because he was sick. He was, but this is a guy who can sleep through the sinking of the Titanic, so I'm not sure it was a causal factor.
I had my shower, called the hospital, he got up and got dressed. We had planned on paging my parents, but the RV park where they'd parked their trailer was on the way to the hospital. They were awakened at 5:00 am by me banging on their window. My dad, bleary-eyed, came to the window and peered out. "We're going to the hospital to have a baby!" I announced.
He and my mom came out. He held me at arms length to look in my face. "This is the happiest I've ever seen you," he said.
A few hours later, when they got to the hospital, I didn't look so happy. A few hours past that, I threw away the whole "natural birth" thing and experienced the wonder and joy that is called "epidural."
When it was time to push, I felt a kinship with all the mothers in the world. At my request, The Husband went out into the hall and asked the two grandmothers if they wanted to see their grandson born. Music was playing, the grandmothers had to keep reminding each other to breathe, the rest of my family was out in the hallway. At 5:06 pm, The Boy was born. He was so beautiful. I had myself prepared for a lizard -- that's what everyone said newborns looked like. But not this one. He looked like a doll baby.
Tomorrow, he turns 10. I can't believe that in the same amount of time it took for him to get from there to here, he'll be 20. It goes so fast.
Tomorrow, his sisters, father and I will creep into his room with his "morning" birthday cake. We will wake him up singing "Happy Birthday." His father and I will tell him how glad we are that he's ours.
He'll go to school. And Little Warrior and I will go to get her first 100% double-dip of chemo. Obladi-oblada. Life goes on.
In triage, they had me drink some apple juice while they readied the doppler. Babump, babump, babump. Heartbeat. And it sounded fine. They had me stay a little while longer, then released me.
At home, with that news, everyone relaxed. And had dinner. And drank a little bit more than usual. This was the first grandchild in the family. As they left, very late, they called out, "Don't go into labor tonight, we're too tired and drunk!"
Yeah. You can guess.
3:00 am, I woke to feel some strange cramping. And dampness. I got up. No big gush, but definitely water coming out. I woke up The Husband, excited. "My water broke. But I'm going to take a shower. You can go back to sleep if you want." And he did!
He argues that this was because he was sick. He was, but this is a guy who can sleep through the sinking of the Titanic, so I'm not sure it was a causal factor.
I had my shower, called the hospital, he got up and got dressed. We had planned on paging my parents, but the RV park where they'd parked their trailer was on the way to the hospital. They were awakened at 5:00 am by me banging on their window. My dad, bleary-eyed, came to the window and peered out. "We're going to the hospital to have a baby!" I announced.
He and my mom came out. He held me at arms length to look in my face. "This is the happiest I've ever seen you," he said.
A few hours later, when they got to the hospital, I didn't look so happy. A few hours past that, I threw away the whole "natural birth" thing and experienced the wonder and joy that is called "epidural."
When it was time to push, I felt a kinship with all the mothers in the world. At my request, The Husband went out into the hall and asked the two grandmothers if they wanted to see their grandson born. Music was playing, the grandmothers had to keep reminding each other to breathe, the rest of my family was out in the hallway. At 5:06 pm, The Boy was born. He was so beautiful. I had myself prepared for a lizard -- that's what everyone said newborns looked like. But not this one. He looked like a doll baby.
Tomorrow, he turns 10. I can't believe that in the same amount of time it took for him to get from there to here, he'll be 20. It goes so fast.
Tomorrow, his sisters, father and I will creep into his room with his "morning" birthday cake. We will wake him up singing "Happy Birthday." His father and I will tell him how glad we are that he's ours.
He'll go to school. And Little Warrior and I will go to get her first 100% double-dip of chemo. Obladi-oblada. Life goes on.
Deaf Does Not Equal Stupid
I'm 2 days late and 2 dollars short, but I just read Happy Feminist's post about disability issues, led by Diary of a Goldfish's urge to blog about disability.
The Husband is 75% deaf, which means with hearing aids, he can function somewhat normally, and without hearing aids, I want to pinch him. (Lizard Eater is not a very patient person. And the only time The Husband doesn't have his hearing aids in is in the middle of the night. When babies cry. The Husband does respond quite quickly to being kicked, however.)
This should not be taken as a wholesale endorsement of kicking the deaf.
My .02 about deafness: do not assume, if someone is hard of hearing, that they are mentally impaired. How does that connection get made, I wonder. I mean, he doesn't exactly have hidden hearing aids. And they're in both ears. And when he can't hear you (for instance, when you are the employee at McDonalds saying, hullo kin I take yer order), he leans in, tilting his good ear toward you.
For some reason, rather than this indicating to the person that he is, indeed, hard of hearing and would like for the person to speak more clearly and/or louder, this indicates to the person, "I am a freakin' idiot. Please treat me as such."
Don't.
The Husband is 75% deaf, which means with hearing aids, he can function somewhat normally, and without hearing aids, I want to pinch him. (Lizard Eater is not a very patient person. And the only time The Husband doesn't have his hearing aids in is in the middle of the night. When babies cry. The Husband does respond quite quickly to being kicked, however.)
This should not be taken as a wholesale endorsement of kicking the deaf.
My .02 about deafness: do not assume, if someone is hard of hearing, that they are mentally impaired. How does that connection get made, I wonder. I mean, he doesn't exactly have hidden hearing aids. And they're in both ears. And when he can't hear you (for instance, when you are the employee at McDonalds saying, hullo kin I take yer order), he leans in, tilting his good ear toward you.
For some reason, rather than this indicating to the person that he is, indeed, hard of hearing and would like for the person to speak more clearly and/or louder, this indicates to the person, "I am a freakin' idiot. Please treat me as such."
Don't.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Here's your laugh for today ...
A bittersweet laugh.
Reading RevChristine's post about losing a family pet made me think of losing one of our cats a couple of years ago. She had to be put to sleep. I tried to explain it to The Princess, who was 5 at the time -- not the euthanasia, just that she had died at the veterinarian and Daddy would be bringing Sally's body home for us to bury. "What made her alive -- her soul -- is gone, so she can't meow or walk around or feel anything anymore. Daddy is just bringing home her body."
The Princess looked up at me sorrowfully, trying to comprehend.
"But not her head?"
Reading RevChristine's post about losing a family pet made me think of losing one of our cats a couple of years ago. She had to be put to sleep. I tried to explain it to The Princess, who was 5 at the time -- not the euthanasia, just that she had died at the veterinarian and Daddy would be bringing Sally's body home for us to bury. "What made her alive -- her soul -- is gone, so she can't meow or walk around or feel anything anymore. Daddy is just bringing home her body."
The Princess looked up at me sorrowfully, trying to comprehend.
"But not her head?"
Blogging About Cancer
Fuggedabout about Kubler-Ross's levels of grief. Nowadays, if you get cancer (or someone you love does), there are the 7 Cancer Levels of Internet:
1) You google like crazy all the terms you hear the doctors say, in an effort to know what's going on. Of course, the main thing you're searching for is what you have, and whether you'll survive it.
2) Because of all that googling, along with the medical sites, you land on some blogs of folks/parents dealing with cancer and read them furiously, going backwards to see how it was diagnosed and fast forwarding to see if the person is still alive.
3) You get on discussion lists with other people who have the kind of cancer you have.
4) If you're a parent, you start a "caringbridge" site or one like it, so that rather than answer the phone all day, you can post the patient's updates there.
5) You start your own personal blog.
6) You begin checking the blogs of a handful of other cancer patients/parents daily. As they do well, you rejoice. When they have a downturn, it is devastating to you.
7) You write about the fact that you read these blogs in your blog.
And here I am.
I just read on another site that May 17 is "Livestrong" day, and part of it involves a request for people to blog about cancer topics most important to them on that day.
For many of us 'doing the battle' right now, every day is Live Strong day. But I like the idea of lots of people picking that day to post about how cancer has affected them. Everyone has a story -- their own cancer scare, a favorite aunt, the neighbor down the street.
Or a really cute baby.
1) You google like crazy all the terms you hear the doctors say, in an effort to know what's going on. Of course, the main thing you're searching for is what you have, and whether you'll survive it.
2) Because of all that googling, along with the medical sites, you land on some blogs of folks/parents dealing with cancer and read them furiously, going backwards to see how it was diagnosed and fast forwarding to see if the person is still alive.
3) You get on discussion lists with other people who have the kind of cancer you have.
4) If you're a parent, you start a "caringbridge" site or one like it, so that rather than answer the phone all day, you can post the patient's updates there.
5) You start your own personal blog.
6) You begin checking the blogs of a handful of other cancer patients/parents daily. As they do well, you rejoice. When they have a downturn, it is devastating to you.
7) You write about the fact that you read these blogs in your blog.
And here I am.
I just read on another site that May 17 is "Livestrong" day, and part of it involves a request for people to blog about cancer topics most important to them on that day.
For many of us 'doing the battle' right now, every day is Live Strong day. But I like the idea of lots of people picking that day to post about how cancer has affected them. Everyone has a story -- their own cancer scare, a favorite aunt, the neighbor down the street.
Or a really cute baby.
Monday, May 01, 2006
What a Difference in a Year
Last year, at this time, I was pregnant. Getting checked every week to see if the inhepatic cholestasis of pregnancy had begun, which I had with my other three. (Ironically, with Little Warrior, it never appeared.) Living in an excruciatingly clean house that was on the market, and in the process of purchasing this house.
I had pictures of the "new house," which is an old house, but new to us. I would look at these pictures, look at photos of the back yard with the 4 story pine trees, and daydream about the day we'd live here.
So here we are. A year later.
This morning, I walked the kids to school and on the way home, fell in love again. With my iPod. Materialism, very bad. But damn, I love that white rectangle. Listened to Pink, Willie Nelson, Black-Eyed Peas, Ray Charles and I dunno who else.
Took a long walk after dropping them off, listening to my tunes, pushing the double stroller with Little Warrior and Bo Peep, enjoying the somewhat cool morning.
Came home and sat out in the backyard, pushing Little Warrior in her swing, keeping up with 'Peep's babbling conversation, listening to a mockingbird, looking up up up at the pine trees.
Here I am.
What a year. Baby has been born, house bought, house sold, new school, new neighbors, vasectomy for The Husband, lots of family around for holidays in the new house, baby diagnosed with cancer, lots of family around for cancer, surgery for the cancer, chemo, The Husband changing job positions ...
The trees are as wonderful as I knew they'd be.
I had pictures of the "new house," which is an old house, but new to us. I would look at these pictures, look at photos of the back yard with the 4 story pine trees, and daydream about the day we'd live here.
So here we are. A year later.
This morning, I walked the kids to school and on the way home, fell in love again. With my iPod. Materialism, very bad. But damn, I love that white rectangle. Listened to Pink, Willie Nelson, Black-Eyed Peas, Ray Charles and I dunno who else.
Took a long walk after dropping them off, listening to my tunes, pushing the double stroller with Little Warrior and Bo Peep, enjoying the somewhat cool morning.
Came home and sat out in the backyard, pushing Little Warrior in her swing, keeping up with 'Peep's babbling conversation, listening to a mockingbird, looking up up up at the pine trees.
Here I am.
What a year. Baby has been born, house bought, house sold, new school, new neighbors, vasectomy for The Husband, lots of family around for holidays in the new house, baby diagnosed with cancer, lots of family around for cancer, surgery for the cancer, chemo, The Husband changing job positions ...
The trees are as wonderful as I knew they'd be.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Little bit of love, little bit of tofu
Today, we went to church for the first time since Little Warrior's diagnosis in January, and the last time for a couple of months, since LW begins "double dose, double scoop" chemo on Thursday.
We walked in, and everyone in the entry/fellowship area turned ... and applauded. And cheered. Forget verklempt, I had tears rolling.
Then, during the welcome at the beginning of the service, our family was specially welcomed. More applause
Then, wholly a coincidence, the first hymn was "Come, Come, Whoever You Are."
Tears rolling freely down my face as The Husband and I looked at each other. This was the song that we sang, often with broken voices, to LW in the hospital, because of the line, "...ours is no caravan of despair ..."
For those who are not Unitarians, the words of this simple song are:
Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving,
Ours is no caravan of despair
Come, yet again, come.
So, time for Joys and Sorrows ... all eyes turned to us. I got up and told everyone first, why the first hymn had me crying, then, I introduced myself and Little Warrior for anyone who didn't know us, explained that she had been diagnosed with cancer in January, and since that day, this congregation had ministered to us in a million ways. Thanked everyone for "cards, casseroles and courage" and everything else they had given us.
A nice Sunday. We couldn't stay long, fear of germs and whatnot, but it was good to return home.
The Bulge ... seems to have gone down a good bit since last night. A few Wilms parents have emailed me to mention several things it could be, that are not dangerous, so I'm feeling better. Thanks to RevChristine for alerting me to the realness of PTS, since I was definitely experiencing it last night. Whooosh ... I was completely back in that fear and mindset that I was in before her surgery.
But today is better. And we see the doctor on Thursday. Not that I'll wait that long if it gets worse, but it seems to be getting better.
Unrelated gift to my blog friends: if you like chocolate pie, you MUST try this recipe. Yes, I know it says tofu. I am not saying that this recipe is good "for a tofu pie." It is the best chocolate pie I've ever had, period. But you must use silken tofu. Perhaps the easiest pie recipe in the world, short of buying one at the store. Anne, get AJ to make you one. I am not a granola head, I am a foodie. And a chocolate freak. If I say it's good, you can trust me.
http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/recipes/recipe/0,,FOOD_9936_14312,00.html
We walked in, and everyone in the entry/fellowship area turned ... and applauded. And cheered. Forget verklempt, I had tears rolling.
Then, during the welcome at the beginning of the service, our family was specially welcomed. More applause
Then, wholly a coincidence, the first hymn was "Come, Come, Whoever You Are."
Tears rolling freely down my face as The Husband and I looked at each other. This was the song that we sang, often with broken voices, to LW in the hospital, because of the line, "...ours is no caravan of despair ..."
For those who are not Unitarians, the words of this simple song are:
Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving,
Ours is no caravan of despair
Come, yet again, come.
So, time for Joys and Sorrows ... all eyes turned to us. I got up and told everyone first, why the first hymn had me crying, then, I introduced myself and Little Warrior for anyone who didn't know us, explained that she had been diagnosed with cancer in January, and since that day, this congregation had ministered to us in a million ways. Thanked everyone for "cards, casseroles and courage" and everything else they had given us.
A nice Sunday. We couldn't stay long, fear of germs and whatnot, but it was good to return home.
The Bulge ... seems to have gone down a good bit since last night. A few Wilms parents have emailed me to mention several things it could be, that are not dangerous, so I'm feeling better. Thanks to RevChristine for alerting me to the realness of PTS, since I was definitely experiencing it last night. Whooosh ... I was completely back in that fear and mindset that I was in before her surgery.
But today is better. And we see the doctor on Thursday. Not that I'll wait that long if it gets worse, but it seems to be getting better.
Unrelated gift to my blog friends: if you like chocolate pie, you MUST try this recipe. Yes, I know it says tofu. I am not saying that this recipe is good "for a tofu pie." It is the best chocolate pie I've ever had, period. But you must use silken tofu. Perhaps the easiest pie recipe in the world, short of buying one at the store. Anne, get AJ to make you one. I am not a granola head, I am a foodie. And a chocolate freak. If I say it's good, you can trust me.
http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/recipes/recipe/0,,FOOD_9936_14312,00.html
Saturday, April 29, 2006
A bulge
So, you're just going along, getting back in the groove of things, occasionally going 20 minutes at a time where you don't think of cancer. And then.
There is a bulge on one side of Little Warrior. Right where the tumor bulge was before.
Now, I'm sure it could be so many things. Maybe what remains of that kidney is putting out lots of fluid. Maybe it's related to her muscles not being healed yet. It's not hard like the tumor was. It's soft.
Maybe this. Maybe that.
I'm scared again.
There is a bulge on one side of Little Warrior. Right where the tumor bulge was before.
Now, I'm sure it could be so many things. Maybe what remains of that kidney is putting out lots of fluid. Maybe it's related to her muscles not being healed yet. It's not hard like the tumor was. It's soft.
Maybe this. Maybe that.
I'm scared again.
Mission-Centered Committee on Ministry
Even though 90% of my brain is consumed with family and cancer, there is a small portion still allocated to my church and helping it to grow both numerically and in effectiveness.
Through this whole cancer-thing, I've learned a lot about ministry, as much of my church has ministered to us. We do not have a minister, full-time or otherwise, not out of choice, but economics. A lot of what a minister would do has been taken care of by our congregation. Friends have come up to the hospital, sat with us for hours, listened, talked, offered hope. They have fulfilled the spirit of Matthew 25:35, as they have fed us, clothed us (diapers for Little Warrior and their own sweatshirts for The Husband and me), given their literal blood, and mailed cards.
Like in many churches, when the subject of a Committee on Ministry has come up, it has usually been in the context of "we need someone to be the go-between with the minister" or "we need someone to deal with this problem person."
No minister now, but problem people ... well, there will always be at least one of those, right?
But I'm mulling over the idea of a Mission-Centered Committee on Ministry and how, not having a minister, we have even more of a need for it. A COM that, much in the way the Supreme Court is all about the constitution, is all about our mission. (We have a really great one.) What a concept, a group of individuals whose responsibility it is to make sure that we are working to fulfill the guidance of our mission.
Hmmm. Muse, muse, muse.
Through this whole cancer-thing, I've learned a lot about ministry, as much of my church has ministered to us. We do not have a minister, full-time or otherwise, not out of choice, but economics. A lot of what a minister would do has been taken care of by our congregation. Friends have come up to the hospital, sat with us for hours, listened, talked, offered hope. They have fulfilled the spirit of Matthew 25:35, as they have fed us, clothed us (diapers for Little Warrior and their own sweatshirts for The Husband and me), given their literal blood, and mailed cards.
Like in many churches, when the subject of a Committee on Ministry has come up, it has usually been in the context of "we need someone to be the go-between with the minister" or "we need someone to deal with this problem person."
No minister now, but problem people ... well, there will always be at least one of those, right?
But I'm mulling over the idea of a Mission-Centered Committee on Ministry and how, not having a minister, we have even more of a need for it. A COM that, much in the way the Supreme Court is all about the constitution, is all about our mission. (We have a really great one.) What a concept, a group of individuals whose responsibility it is to make sure that we are working to fulfill the guidance of our mission.
Hmmm. Muse, muse, muse.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Differing levels of AQ and AQR in males/females
You know about IQ - Intelligence Quotient. You've probably heard about EQ - Emotional Quotient. Now, I present to you -- the AQ.
It's not Adversity Quotient.
It's not Autism Quotient.
It is ... Asshole Quotient.
AQ is a somewhat measurable (completely subjective and all anecdotal) level ascribed to the male of the human species. That number is not as important as the AQ-Requirement level, found in the female of the species.
(I am sure that there is a related corollary switching the genders, my research, however, has been on the above male-female dynamic. No sexism is intended, men and women can be equally good or equally bad.)
With that disclaimer, back to the subject at hand.
Human females have different levels of the AQ-Requirement. It is theorized that everything from genetics to experience can affect these.
Some women have very high AQ-Requirements, or AQRs. They require that a male have a very high AQ in order to view him as a mate-able object. Those males who do not have a high AQ are often characterized by this type of female as "a wonderful friend," or "like a brother."
To the friends of a high AQR female, her choices may appear incomprehensible. "She only likes guys who treat her like shit!" reported one friend of a test subject.
Friends will often question why a seemingly intelligent female will continue to accept the poor behavior of the high AQ male, not understanding that there is a simple x + y dynamic going on. A female with a high AQR is not making a choice between a high AQ male and a low AQ male. Because of her AQR level, she effectively cannot "see" a low AQ male. A low AQ male is essentially, to her radar, not male, e.g. not someone whom she could potentially mate with. She, therefore, is choosing between a high AQ male or no one.
Interestingly, the levels of both a high AQ male and a high AQR female can change. Life experiences can have a dramatic effect on both.
It should be noted however, that the levels will not change simultaneously in a high AQ/AQR couple. This is often the great fallacy in the high AQR female's mind: that by being in a relationship with her, the AQ level in the high AQ male will lower. It will not. Through extensive research, we can report no findings of a situations in which that ever happened. It is only outside of a relationship with the high AQR female that the AQ of the male can be lowered.
Occasionally, the AQR in the female will drop abruptly after being in relationship with a high AQ male. If a male with a very low AQ is in contact with the formerly high AQR female, he has the possibility, at this point, to retrain her instincts, making it impossible for her to view a high AQ male as a potential mate again. And, as seen in the case of the author of the study, she will become fairly intolerant of the situation of other AQR females, not unlike a reformed smoker, drinker, or fundamentalist.
It's not Adversity Quotient.
It's not Autism Quotient.
It is ... Asshole Quotient.
AQ is a somewhat measurable (completely subjective and all anecdotal) level ascribed to the male of the human species. That number is not as important as the AQ-Requirement level, found in the female of the species.
(I am sure that there is a related corollary switching the genders, my research, however, has been on the above male-female dynamic. No sexism is intended, men and women can be equally good or equally bad.)
With that disclaimer, back to the subject at hand.
Human females have different levels of the AQ-Requirement. It is theorized that everything from genetics to experience can affect these.
Some women have very high AQ-Requirements, or AQRs. They require that a male have a very high AQ in order to view him as a mate-able object. Those males who do not have a high AQ are often characterized by this type of female as "a wonderful friend," or "like a brother."
To the friends of a high AQR female, her choices may appear incomprehensible. "She only likes guys who treat her like shit!" reported one friend of a test subject.
Friends will often question why a seemingly intelligent female will continue to accept the poor behavior of the high AQ male, not understanding that there is a simple x + y dynamic going on. A female with a high AQR is not making a choice between a high AQ male and a low AQ male. Because of her AQR level, she effectively cannot "see" a low AQ male. A low AQ male is essentially, to her radar, not male, e.g. not someone whom she could potentially mate with. She, therefore, is choosing between a high AQ male or no one.
Interestingly, the levels of both a high AQ male and a high AQR female can change. Life experiences can have a dramatic effect on both.
It should be noted however, that the levels will not change simultaneously in a high AQ/AQR couple. This is often the great fallacy in the high AQR female's mind: that by being in a relationship with her, the AQ level in the high AQ male will lower. It will not. Through extensive research, we can report no findings of a situations in which that ever happened. It is only outside of a relationship with the high AQR female that the AQ of the male can be lowered.
Occasionally, the AQR in the female will drop abruptly after being in relationship with a high AQ male. If a male with a very low AQ is in contact with the formerly high AQR female, he has the possibility, at this point, to retrain her instincts, making it impossible for her to view a high AQ male as a potential mate again. And, as seen in the case of the author of the study, she will become fairly intolerant of the situation of other AQR females, not unlike a reformed smoker, drinker, or fundamentalist.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Little Warrior in Camouflage
Little Warrior is scheduled for a CT scan on May 25, the day after her first birthday.
I feel on the verge of bursting into tears.
There is no logical reason for this. The CT scan is a normal step, and hopefully it will give us good news. No cancer to be seen.
But just the thought that it could show something scary ...
Do cancer parents get PTSD? I suddenly have a vision of myself in the supermarket ... I walk past the lobster tank and the sound from it is so like the ubiquitous fish tanks they have all through the hospital that suddenly ...
I AM IN THE JUNGLE!!! RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT!!! We see Lizard Eater, covered in camo clothes and makeup, running through the Vietnam brush, Little Warrior (in camo makeup and a camo onesie) strapped to her chest, Rambo-style.
CHEMO-CALYPSE NOW. Coming soon to a theatre near you.
I feel on the verge of bursting into tears.
There is no logical reason for this. The CT scan is a normal step, and hopefully it will give us good news. No cancer to be seen.
But just the thought that it could show something scary ...
Do cancer parents get PTSD? I suddenly have a vision of myself in the supermarket ... I walk past the lobster tank and the sound from it is so like the ubiquitous fish tanks they have all through the hospital that suddenly ...
I AM IN THE JUNGLE!!!
CHEMO-CALYPSE NOW. Coming soon to a theatre near you.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Movies to Watch Again and Again ...
Okay, copying Happy Feminist and Cuumbaya, I'm making my own "movies I'd see again and again." As Cuumbaya pointed out, not necessarily the best movies.
For my list, that point is self-evident.
1. Better Off Dead: let others of my generation wax rhapsodic over Pretty In Pink or Breakfast Club, I'll toss my vote to this underrated, over-the-top John Cusack flick. Really, who hasn't had the experience of going through a breakup and every song on the radio is a breakup song?
2. Crazy From the Heart: It was made for TNT, I think, back when the commercial cable channels could still get good scripts and good stars. (Now they all go to HBO/Showtime). Stars Christine Lahti and Ruben Blades in a romance between a high school principal and the school janitor in South Texas. Wonderful feel good movie.
3. And speaking of wonderful feel good movies ... Return to Me, with David Duchovny and Minnie Driver. But the real stars of the show are Carroll O'Connor, Robert Loggia and their "old man" friends. It's the happiest movie I know that starts with a heartbreaking death.
4. Crossing Delancey with Amy Irving. Oh, I know that Susan Faludi panned it for being anti-feminist. It's not. It's not about lowering one's standards, it's about learning to value someone for being decent and kind, as opposed to shallow and materially successful. A perfect example of a woman and her AQ. (More on the AQ in another post.)
5. Simply Irresistible with Sarah Michelle Gellar. Oh God, I know, I know. There is nothing socially or intellectually good in this movie. But it's a cute movie about someone becoming a magical chef, something I can't resist.
Actually, that leads me into the whole genre of "Food Movies." Is there a single one I don't like? Hmm. Not that I can think of. Ones I enjoy, in order of pleasure:
1. Like Water for Chocolate
2. Big Night
3. Soul Food
4. What's for Dinner?
Never have seen Tom Jones (the movie, not the singer.) Yeah, I know, they say I should for the food scene.
Oh wait, there is a food movie I didn't like. 9 1/2 weeks. Ha.
For my list, that point is self-evident.
1. Better Off Dead: let others of my generation wax rhapsodic over Pretty In Pink or Breakfast Club, I'll toss my vote to this underrated, over-the-top John Cusack flick. Really, who hasn't had the experience of going through a breakup and every song on the radio is a breakup song?
2. Crazy From the Heart: It was made for TNT, I think, back when the commercial cable channels could still get good scripts and good stars. (Now they all go to HBO/Showtime). Stars Christine Lahti and Ruben Blades in a romance between a high school principal and the school janitor in South Texas. Wonderful feel good movie.
3. And speaking of wonderful feel good movies ... Return to Me, with David Duchovny and Minnie Driver. But the real stars of the show are Carroll O'Connor, Robert Loggia and their "old man" friends. It's the happiest movie I know that starts with a heartbreaking death.
4. Crossing Delancey with Amy Irving. Oh, I know that Susan Faludi panned it for being anti-feminist. It's not. It's not about lowering one's standards, it's about learning to value someone for being decent and kind, as opposed to shallow and materially successful. A perfect example of a woman and her AQ. (More on the AQ in another post.)
5. Simply Irresistible with Sarah Michelle Gellar. Oh God, I know, I know. There is nothing socially or intellectually good in this movie. But it's a cute movie about someone becoming a magical chef, something I can't resist.
Actually, that leads me into the whole genre of "Food Movies." Is there a single one I don't like? Hmm. Not that I can think of. Ones I enjoy, in order of pleasure:
1. Like Water for Chocolate
2. Big Night
3. Soul Food
4. What's for Dinner?
Never have seen Tom Jones (the movie, not the singer.) Yeah, I know, they say I should for the food scene.
Oh wait, there is a food movie I didn't like. 9 1/2 weeks. Ha.
Feminism Causes Rape
It's not enough that feminism is the cause of everything from the breakdown of American society to teens killing each other, now, feminism "may be partly to blame" for rape, according to Naomi Riley in an article for the Wall Street Journal titled, "Ladies, You Should Know Better."
Thankfully, there are writers like Jennifer Pozner who are taking the time to point out crazy things like um, facts. http://www.womensenews.org/article.cfm/dyn/aid/2718/context/archive
Thankfully, there are writers like Jennifer Pozner who are taking the time to point out crazy things like um, facts. http://www.womensenews.org/article.cfm/dyn/aid/2718/context/archive
Monday, April 24, 2006
Power of Prayer? Or Not ...
I've had some time to think about prayer, here lately. I've kinda gone through the Berlitz course of personal philosophy and theology.
So, any conclusions?
I've had so many people who have prayed for us, and for Little Warrior. Literally, people around the world, since I have a former minister in Australia and a former brother-in-law in Prague adding their prayers to the mix. It felt good, all that focus and attention on Little Warrior.
Do I feel that the prayers are what saved her?
No.
Do I feel a metaphysical God saved her?
No.
Even as I type this, I feel a twinge of superstition. Am I calling for the forces of God to descend upon us, to disprove my belief? Will Little Warrior pay the price for my lack of faith?
I do not believe that. I cannot believe that. At the end of the day, I am a Universalist, not only in terms of universal salvation after death, but also universal salvation during life. If the force I call "God" is going to save one person from death, then that God would save every person from death. S/he doesn't.
I cannot reconcile the idea that the Force would be so capricious that it would only help those who receive prayers.
My father was supposed to be in artillery in the Korean War. Right before he was to be shipped over, he and my mother got in a car accident. Because of that, he wound up stateside, teaching in the Army Corps of Engineers.
His mama told him, "I knew you wouldn't have to go to Korea. It was because of my prayers."
This angered him so. "What about the boys whose mothers didn't pray? God didn't think they were worth it?"
The flip side of all this is just plain nasty. If prayer keeps one person alive, then when a child dies, that means that we didn't pray enough? Huh???
And then there's the science.
A few years ago, there was that famous study that "proved" that prayer actually heals people, even people who don't know they were being prayed for. Well, that study has been thoroughly refuted. Bad reporting, bad science, fake, fake, fake.
More recently, there was a study that proved it doesn't heal, and the people who knew they were being prayed for did worse. I'm not sure what to think about that, alyhough the "I didn't know I was so bad off you had to pray for me," thing has some logic.
So, do I think that there is no power in prayer?
Absolutely not.
I think there is tremendous power in prayer.
"But, but, but??? How can you say that, with what you wrote above????"
Here's the equation:
* Person praying for Little Warrior: the time taken to pray gives person the chance to focus on Little Warrior and feel sympathy towards her. This gives the praying person the feeling of doing something rather than being completely helpless (1 point), he lets me know he's praying for her, which gives me a warm feeling of community (1 point), and quite possibly, he then is a little warmer to those around him (1 point). If he is a Believer, then he also feels in contact with his version of The Divine (1 point), a feeling that takes him out of the world of shallow concerns and makes him feel there is a bigger purpose to it all.
* With the warm feeling of community inside me, I feel less alone, less depressed (point already awarded, above). This affects the way I treat all four of my children and my husband (5 points). This, in turn, affects how they interact with others, leading to more points. Then also, when I tell my children that so many people are thinking of us, praying for us, leads to their own feelings of community. More points.
A phrase that has been said or written to me many times is "we're lifting up Little Warrior and your family in prayer."
I LOVE that. Being lifted up in prayer -- doesn't it sound lovely? No directions for us -- none of the "Just remember, with God all things are possible," "Just remember to give it over to God," etc. No advice, no false reassurances. Just documenting what is being done. "We are lifting you up in prayer."
I feel lifted up in prayer.
To me, that is awesome power.
So, any conclusions?
I've had so many people who have prayed for us, and for Little Warrior. Literally, people around the world, since I have a former minister in Australia and a former brother-in-law in Prague adding their prayers to the mix. It felt good, all that focus and attention on Little Warrior.
Do I feel that the prayers are what saved her?
No.
Do I feel a metaphysical God saved her?
No.
Even as I type this, I feel a twinge of superstition. Am I calling for the forces of God to descend upon us, to disprove my belief? Will Little Warrior pay the price for my lack of faith?
I do not believe that. I cannot believe that. At the end of the day, I am a Universalist, not only in terms of universal salvation after death, but also universal salvation during life. If the force I call "God" is going to save one person from death, then that God would save every person from death. S/he doesn't.
I cannot reconcile the idea that the Force would be so capricious that it would only help those who receive prayers.
My father was supposed to be in artillery in the Korean War. Right before he was to be shipped over, he and my mother got in a car accident. Because of that, he wound up stateside, teaching in the Army Corps of Engineers.
His mama told him, "I knew you wouldn't have to go to Korea. It was because of my prayers."
This angered him so. "What about the boys whose mothers didn't pray? God didn't think they were worth it?"
The flip side of all this is just plain nasty. If prayer keeps one person alive, then when a child dies, that means that we didn't pray enough? Huh???
And then there's the science.
A few years ago, there was that famous study that "proved" that prayer actually heals people, even people who don't know they were being prayed for. Well, that study has been thoroughly refuted. Bad reporting, bad science, fake, fake, fake.
More recently, there was a study that proved it doesn't heal, and the people who knew they were being prayed for did worse. I'm not sure what to think about that, alyhough the "I didn't know I was so bad off you had to pray for me," thing has some logic.
So, do I think that there is no power in prayer?
Absolutely not.
I think there is tremendous power in prayer.
"But, but, but??? How can you say that, with what you wrote above????"
Here's the equation:
* Person praying for Little Warrior: the time taken to pray gives person the chance to focus on Little Warrior and feel sympathy towards her. This gives the praying person the feeling of doing something rather than being completely helpless (1 point), he lets me know he's praying for her, which gives me a warm feeling of community (1 point), and quite possibly, he then is a little warmer to those around him (1 point). If he is a Believer, then he also feels in contact with his version of The Divine (1 point), a feeling that takes him out of the world of shallow concerns and makes him feel there is a bigger purpose to it all.
* With the warm feeling of community inside me, I feel less alone, less depressed (point already awarded, above). This affects the way I treat all four of my children and my husband (5 points). This, in turn, affects how they interact with others, leading to more points. Then also, when I tell my children that so many people are thinking of us, praying for us, leads to their own feelings of community. More points.
A phrase that has been said or written to me many times is "we're lifting up Little Warrior and your family in prayer."
I LOVE that. Being lifted up in prayer -- doesn't it sound lovely? No directions for us -- none of the "Just remember, with God all things are possible," "Just remember to give it over to God," etc. No advice, no false reassurances. Just documenting what is being done. "We are lifting you up in prayer."
I feel lifted up in prayer.
To me, that is awesome power.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Green Mountain - Not a Good Sales Technique
Knock, knock.
I go to the door, holding Little Warrior.
"Hi-I'm-from-Green-Mountain-I-want-to-talk-to-you-about-energy-and--"
I'm sorry, (gesturing to baby), my child is seriously ill and now just really isn't a good time.
"No-problem-I-can-come-back-what-day-can-I-put-you-down-for?"
Well, she has cancer, so it'll be a couple of months.
--Sales person flips open his book and eagerly begins explaining how the two biggest killers are heart disease and cancer and it's all because of the company I choose to cool my house. --
I coolly explain to him that in her case, it's because of a mutation of the WT1 Gene, smile with no warmth, and close the door.
I was, actually, considering switching to Green Mountain. Think I want to now?
I go to the door, holding Little Warrior.
"Hi-I'm-from-Green-Mountain-I-want-to-talk-to-you-about-energy-and--"
I'm sorry, (gesturing to baby), my child is seriously ill and now just really isn't a good time.
"No-problem-I-can-come-back-what-day-can-I-put-you-down-for?"
Well, she has cancer, so it'll be a couple of months.
--Sales person flips open his book and eagerly begins explaining how the two biggest killers are heart disease and cancer and it's all because of the company I choose to cool my house. --
I coolly explain to him that in her case, it's because of a mutation of the WT1 Gene, smile with no warmth, and close the door.
I was, actually, considering switching to Green Mountain. Think I want to now?
January 17th, I was still a kid ...
... January 18th, at long last, I grew up.
I just realized this. The Husband and I are watching VH1C's "Class of" show, where they show videos from certain years. We are 80's teens, and getting a kick out of watching songs from that time. They close-caption the show, which is an eye-opening experience for both of us. "I didn't know they actually spell out 'Method of Modern Love,'" sez The Husband. "Wow, 'The Reflex' really doesn't hold up when you read the lyrics. It makes absolutely no sense," sez I.
There is something about listening/watching these songs ... it's like when you get a whiff of something from your childhood like playdough or crayons and are instantly taken back to that time. Sitting here, watching A-ha croon "Take On Me," I can actually feel the way I felt back then. Young.
That's when I realized. I ain't young anymore. I agree with all the folks who say that age is all a state of mind. It is. I'm 36, not even remotely a Crone, but certainly a grown-up. But I never felt like one. I always felt like a kid pretending to be a grown-up. It still amazed me that "they" allowed The Husband and I to live in our house with no adult supervision.
January 17th, I was still that kid.
January 18th, I took Little Warrior to the doctor, a bit apologetic about making a fuss, surely it was just gas ...
... and we got an x-ray ...
... and on the way home, the pediatrician called and said Don't Go Home. It looks like cancer. Go immediately to the ER ...
... 1 1/2 hours of rush-hour traffic to get to the ER, just me and Little Warrior ...
When we got to the ER, I was a grown-up.
I just realized this. The Husband and I are watching VH1C's "Class of" show, where they show videos from certain years. We are 80's teens, and getting a kick out of watching songs from that time. They close-caption the show, which is an eye-opening experience for both of us. "I didn't know they actually spell out 'Method of Modern Love,'" sez The Husband. "Wow, 'The Reflex' really doesn't hold up when you read the lyrics. It makes absolutely no sense," sez I.
There is something about listening/watching these songs ... it's like when you get a whiff of something from your childhood like playdough or crayons and are instantly taken back to that time. Sitting here, watching A-ha croon "Take On Me," I can actually feel the way I felt back then. Young.
That's when I realized. I ain't young anymore. I agree with all the folks who say that age is all a state of mind. It is. I'm 36, not even remotely a Crone, but certainly a grown-up. But I never felt like one. I always felt like a kid pretending to be a grown-up. It still amazed me that "they" allowed The Husband and I to live in our house with no adult supervision.
January 17th, I was still that kid.
January 18th, I took Little Warrior to the doctor, a bit apologetic about making a fuss, surely it was just gas ...
... and we got an x-ray ...
... and on the way home, the pediatrician called and said Don't Go Home. It looks like cancer. Go immediately to the ER ...
... 1 1/2 hours of rush-hour traffic to get to the ER, just me and Little Warrior ...
When we got to the ER, I was a grown-up.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Wheels on the Bus
Yesterday, I got to do "Wheels on the Bus" with Little Warrior.
For those living a child-free existence, this is where you sing the song, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round ..." while bicycling your infant's legs. This is also a good cure for gas (the baby's, not yours), the only problem being that you are right in the line of fire.
I'm sorry, what was I talking about?
Ah, yes, wheels on the bus. Well, Little Warrior and I used to play this game frequently as it was a guaranteed way to make her smile. But, after the diagnosis, we couldn't. Too big a risk of breaking open the tumors.
Yesterday, I realized we could play it again.
There were not two happier people on the entire earth.
For those living a child-free existence, this is where you sing the song, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round ..." while bicycling your infant's legs. This is also a good cure for gas (the baby's, not yours), the only problem being that you are right in the line of fire.
I'm sorry, what was I talking about?
Ah, yes, wheels on the bus. Well, Little Warrior and I used to play this game frequently as it was a guaranteed way to make her smile. But, after the diagnosis, we couldn't. Too big a risk of breaking open the tumors.
Yesterday, I realized we could play it again.
There were not two happier people on the entire earth.
Don't Expect to Find a Paris Cafe in an American Suburb
However, hope springs eternal, doesn't it? So when I got an ad in the mail that a creperie was here in my neighborhood, I had to try it. The Husband brought home a "Greek Imperial Crepe," filled with "Melted Cheddar / Jack Cheese with Lemon Juice and Fresh Spinach in Artichoke Sauce with Walnut."
I took a bite.
It tasted oddly familiar.
Took another bite.
There was something crunchy in it, that wasn't a walnut. I visually examined the specimen. Water chestnut.
Took another bite and realized why it was familiar.
It was a crepe filled with spinach/artichoke dip. The kind you make with mayonnaise and Knorr soup mix. I know it was Knorr soup mix, because I recognized the rehydrated vegetables.
I am in the process of trying to lose weight and save money. To waste both money and calories on this was, to say the least, disappointing.
My point, and I do have one:
This very true story also makes a good metaphor. So often, we get excited about something that's too good to be true. A Paris creperie in the suburbs! Then when we get into it, we say, hmm. This is familiar. And we realize that we're eating the same old schlock found at every employee potluck, just wrapped up in a crepe and microwaved.
Moral of the story? There really isn't one, other than to say, don't be surprised. Match your expectations to a realistic view of the situation.
As for me ... well, I'll still keep trying little hole-in-the-wall places that sound too good to be true. About once every 15 times, I'm rewarded. That's not bad odds, in my book.
Now, please excuse me. I've got to mix up some crepe batter to have for later. See, I do know someone who makes fantastic, authentic crepes. Which is, I guess, another moral.
I took a bite.
It tasted oddly familiar.
Took another bite.
There was something crunchy in it, that wasn't a walnut. I visually examined the specimen. Water chestnut.
Took another bite and realized why it was familiar.
It was a crepe filled with spinach/artichoke dip. The kind you make with mayonnaise and Knorr soup mix. I know it was Knorr soup mix, because I recognized the rehydrated vegetables.
I am in the process of trying to lose weight and save money. To waste both money and calories on this was, to say the least, disappointing.
My point, and I do have one:
This very true story also makes a good metaphor. So often, we get excited about something that's too good to be true. A Paris creperie in the suburbs! Then when we get into it, we say, hmm. This is familiar. And we realize that we're eating the same old schlock found at every employee potluck, just wrapped up in a crepe and microwaved.
Moral of the story? There really isn't one, other than to say, don't be surprised. Match your expectations to a realistic view of the situation.
As for me ... well, I'll still keep trying little hole-in-the-wall places that sound too good to be true. About once every 15 times, I'm rewarded. That's not bad odds, in my book.
Now, please excuse me. I've got to mix up some crepe batter to have for later. See, I do know someone who makes fantastic, authentic crepes. Which is, I guess, another moral.
If Your Friend's Child Goes in the Hospital ...
I have the best friends and they have taught me so much through all this, namely, how to be a friend to someone whose child is seriously ill. So, for others who may be in their situation, here's what you can do to help:
1) If you have a wide community of friends, establish one person as "point person." This will be the person who does the phone calling to the friend, disseminates the information, etc. One of my friends even created a yahoogroup devoted to Little Warrior so that everyone could write back and forth with updates, who was taking casseroles to the family, etc. Doing this not only helps with the parents not having to make 20 phone calls, but hopefully you can also run interference with the not-really-a-friend person who wants to go up to the hospital, or call the parents with her story of her cousin's child who died from something similar, or whatnot.
2) Find out what's being done on the homefront, if there are other kids. Both parents of the sick child want to be at the hospital. If a family member hasn't taken up residence, figure out coverage. Even if there is someone there, take food. Ask everyone for casseroles and such. If the kids go to school, make up a bunch of sandwiches and snacks and bag them up. For non-parent caregivers, getting the kids ready in the morning was a big chore. Take over some easy breakfast stuff, like french toast, that just needs to be heated up.
3) Take them clothes. Doesn't have to be their clothes. My friends brought up some comfy pajamas, tshirts and flannel shirts of their own. There was something really comforting about wearing their clothing. No matter how hot it is outside, take a sweatshirt or jacket. Hospitals are freezing.
4) Take toiletries. Shampoo, soap, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste. If she has long hair, a ponytail holder. If she has short hair, some barrettes. If it's a guy, a baseball cap.
5) Take snacks. You know your friends, so you'll know what they like, but I would point you towards "easily digestible." Those first couple of days, we were so stressed out, didn't want to eat, but had to. My brother brought me a Kashi bar. Normally, a good nutritious snack. But, erg. Grab something like animal crackers.
6) Take stupid magazines. Nothing smart. Really really light things like "People" and maybe even the horrible "Reader's Digest." Those first couple of weeks, as we were going through tests and diagnoses, I tried to read a Newsweek, which is still pretty easy reading. I mean, it's not The Atlantic, let alone The New Yorker. I would read the same sentence over and over again, with it not making sense. Basically, look for something with lots of pictures.
After the initial "freak out" couple of days/if the hospital stay was planned in advance:
1) Gift cards for area restaurants -- especially if they deliver. Gift cards for the cafeteria or snack bar in the the hospital, if they give them. If not, an envelope full of $5 bills.
2) If there's a microwave on the floor that they can use, this opens up a lot of possibilities. Some of those microwave Betty Crocker desserts where all you add is water. Microwave soup or some of those meals that don't need refrigeration.
3) More magazines.
4) YOU. With food. This was the most wonderful thing. My friends would go to a restaurant, pick up food for all of us, and come over. Party in pediatric oncology room 9! If they're in ICU or PCU, you can just hang out together in the waiting room. It will be much appreciated.
My husband and I never felt alone in all this. 'Cuz we've got the best friends in the world.
1) If you have a wide community of friends, establish one person as "point person." This will be the person who does the phone calling to the friend, disseminates the information, etc. One of my friends even created a yahoogroup devoted to Little Warrior so that everyone could write back and forth with updates, who was taking casseroles to the family, etc. Doing this not only helps with the parents not having to make 20 phone calls, but hopefully you can also run interference with the not-really-a-friend person who wants to go up to the hospital, or call the parents with her story of her cousin's child who died from something similar, or whatnot.
2) Find out what's being done on the homefront, if there are other kids. Both parents of the sick child want to be at the hospital. If a family member hasn't taken up residence, figure out coverage. Even if there is someone there, take food. Ask everyone for casseroles and such. If the kids go to school, make up a bunch of sandwiches and snacks and bag them up. For non-parent caregivers, getting the kids ready in the morning was a big chore. Take over some easy breakfast stuff, like french toast, that just needs to be heated up.
3) Take them clothes. Doesn't have to be their clothes. My friends brought up some comfy pajamas, tshirts and flannel shirts of their own. There was something really comforting about wearing their clothing. No matter how hot it is outside, take a sweatshirt or jacket. Hospitals are freezing.
4) Take toiletries. Shampoo, soap, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste. If she has long hair, a ponytail holder. If she has short hair, some barrettes. If it's a guy, a baseball cap.
5) Take snacks. You know your friends, so you'll know what they like, but I would point you towards "easily digestible." Those first couple of days, we were so stressed out, didn't want to eat, but had to. My brother brought me a Kashi bar. Normally, a good nutritious snack. But, erg. Grab something like animal crackers.
6) Take stupid magazines. Nothing smart. Really really light things like "People" and maybe even the horrible "Reader's Digest." Those first couple of weeks, as we were going through tests and diagnoses, I tried to read a Newsweek, which is still pretty easy reading. I mean, it's not The Atlantic, let alone The New Yorker. I would read the same sentence over and over again, with it not making sense. Basically, look for something with lots of pictures.
After the initial "freak out" couple of days/if the hospital stay was planned in advance:
1) Gift cards for area restaurants -- especially if they deliver. Gift cards for the cafeteria or snack bar in the the hospital, if they give them. If not, an envelope full of $5 bills.
2) If there's a microwave on the floor that they can use, this opens up a lot of possibilities. Some of those microwave Betty Crocker desserts where all you add is water. Microwave soup or some of those meals that don't need refrigeration.
3) More magazines.
4) YOU. With food. This was the most wonderful thing. My friends would go to a restaurant, pick up food for all of us, and come over. Party in pediatric oncology room 9! If they're in ICU or PCU, you can just hang out together in the waiting room. It will be much appreciated.
My husband and I never felt alone in all this. 'Cuz we've got the best friends in the world.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Why UU's Should Have Watched Oprah Today
If you have a friend that might have tivoed today's show, get a copy. She took the piece that the NY Times did on "class" as a starting point. She had Robert Reich on -- some of you may have seen him at the Long Beach GA. Great show, touching on how important class distinctions have become. After Hurricane Katrina, I turned to The Husband and said, "Class is about to become the Big Topic. " Katrina illuminated a lot of things for a lot of people.
Could probably write several pages on this, but someone needs to nurse ...
Could probably write several pages on this, but someone needs to nurse ...
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Things That Make Me Rant
Life goes on, and things other than cancer can still get me good and frothy. Namely, watching an episode of Dr. Phil, and getting the news that our church is considering hiring a "lay minister."
Each, completely unrelated to the other.
Someone has presented a proposal that we hire one of our members (non-theologically trained) to be our "lay minister," since we can't afford a full-time real minister. In addition to all kinds of logical, sentient arguments, this just affects me on such a visceral level. It makes my stomach hurt. I think seriously entertaining the idea is going to hurt our church. The idea is to present just the idea of hiring a lay minister to the congregation without attaching a particular candidate to it. Except, we're a medium-sized church -- but a small one, if you know what I mean. Most everyone already knows the person who made the proposal (who also wants the job). So then, it no longer becomes an academic question, but a personal one.
But for the record, out of all the 100 reasons I think it's a bad idea, the number one reason:
It will damage our credibility.
We live in a part of the country where most people don't know what the heck a Unitarian Universalist is. I know, I know ... I've narrowed it down to that tiny part of the US that includes every place but Boston. We struggle to educate people that we are, indeed, a real religion. Just a couple of years ago, in Texas, the state comptroller tried to yank our tax-exempt status away. Calling someone who is not qualified a "minister" -- lay or no -- does not serve us well. It adds to the belief that we are some fly-by-night, make-it-up-as-you-go, anything-goes group of people.
I will save the other 99 reasons for some other day.
Okay, watched Dr. Phil today. (Cut me some slack, it's hard to read while nursing a baby. And watching Andrea Immer when you can't drink is depressing.)
He had on a father, stepmother, and two daughters. Led by the stepmother, the family was claiming that the elder daughter was clinically narcissistic and what could be done about her?
Then the story comes out ... her mother died a few years ago from cancer, 6 months later the stepmother moved in, removing all evidence of the mother, they took the daughter on a "vacation" trip, then dropped her off at a treatment center in Mexico where she stayed for a year and a half, (and that first year they didn't talk to her by phone at all) ... oh, and the center has since been closed by Mexican authorities for rampant abuse. The stepmother said if the elder daughter died tomorrow, she wouldn't shed a tear.
OMFG! To give him credit, Dr. Phil tried to tell these parents that they were wack (not his exact words), but fuggedaboutit. As far as the father is concerned, this girl was born bad, he hasn't done anything wrong, etc. etc.
The reason why this is bothering me so much -- besides the obvious -- is because it so mirrors a situation I found myself in a few years ago. A situation where I quietly showed my disapproval, which was, of course, easily ignored. I still really hold it against myself that I didn't say "What the bleep are you doing???"
In a nutshell: had a friend who was a stepmother. She became convinced that her pre-teen stepdaughter was sociopathic. Not in the "kills animals" way, but in the "can function in society" way.
She completely cut the stepdaughter out of her and her husband's life. (Yes, I blame him even more for not standing up to her and saying, "This is my daughter!")
The final straw was when I went over to their house and there was a big sign posted in their back yard. "R.I.P. Tammy*" (*not her real name). What is that? I asked, appalled. "She's dead to us," my friend explained. At my horrified look, she earnestly said, "No, no, it has to be this way."
NO. My mother had to bury a dead child. I have been fighting with every breath of my body to keep a child alive. You, who have a living child, are not allowed to proclaim her to be dead.
Bless my parents. What was beat into us (metaphorically) was "I love you. I'll always love you. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I will always love you. There is nothing you can do to make me stop loving you."
And believe me, my siblings and I tried! ;)
Each, completely unrelated to the other.
Someone has presented a proposal that we hire one of our members (non-theologically trained) to be our "lay minister," since we can't afford a full-time real minister. In addition to all kinds of logical, sentient arguments, this just affects me on such a visceral level. It makes my stomach hurt. I think seriously entertaining the idea is going to hurt our church. The idea is to present just the idea of hiring a lay minister to the congregation without attaching a particular candidate to it. Except, we're a medium-sized church -- but a small one, if you know what I mean. Most everyone already knows the person who made the proposal (who also wants the job). So then, it no longer becomes an academic question, but a personal one.
But for the record, out of all the 100 reasons I think it's a bad idea, the number one reason:
It will damage our credibility.
We live in a part of the country where most people don't know what the heck a Unitarian Universalist is. I know, I know ... I've narrowed it down to that tiny part of the US that includes every place but Boston. We struggle to educate people that we are, indeed, a real religion. Just a couple of years ago, in Texas, the state comptroller tried to yank our tax-exempt status away. Calling someone who is not qualified a "minister" -- lay or no -- does not serve us well. It adds to the belief that we are some fly-by-night, make-it-up-as-you-go, anything-goes group of people.
I will save the other 99 reasons for some other day.
Okay, watched Dr. Phil today. (Cut me some slack, it's hard to read while nursing a baby. And watching Andrea Immer when you can't drink is depressing.)
He had on a father, stepmother, and two daughters. Led by the stepmother, the family was claiming that the elder daughter was clinically narcissistic and what could be done about her?
Then the story comes out ... her mother died a few years ago from cancer, 6 months later the stepmother moved in, removing all evidence of the mother, they took the daughter on a "vacation" trip, then dropped her off at a treatment center in Mexico where she stayed for a year and a half, (and that first year they didn't talk to her by phone at all) ... oh, and the center has since been closed by Mexican authorities for rampant abuse. The stepmother said if the elder daughter died tomorrow, she wouldn't shed a tear.
OMFG! To give him credit, Dr. Phil tried to tell these parents that they were wack (not his exact words), but fuggedaboutit. As far as the father is concerned, this girl was born bad, he hasn't done anything wrong, etc. etc.
The reason why this is bothering me so much -- besides the obvious -- is because it so mirrors a situation I found myself in a few years ago. A situation where I quietly showed my disapproval, which was, of course, easily ignored. I still really hold it against myself that I didn't say "What the bleep are you doing???"
In a nutshell: had a friend who was a stepmother. She became convinced that her pre-teen stepdaughter was sociopathic. Not in the "kills animals" way, but in the "can function in society" way.
She completely cut the stepdaughter out of her and her husband's life. (Yes, I blame him even more for not standing up to her and saying, "This is my daughter!")
The final straw was when I went over to their house and there was a big sign posted in their back yard. "R.I.P. Tammy*" (*not her real name). What is that? I asked, appalled. "She's dead to us," my friend explained. At my horrified look, she earnestly said, "No, no, it has to be this way."
NO. My mother had to bury a dead child. I have been fighting with every breath of my body to keep a child alive. You, who have a living child, are not allowed to proclaim her to be dead.
Bless my parents. What was beat into us (metaphorically) was "I love you. I'll always love you. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I will always love you. There is nothing you can do to make me stop loving you."
And believe me, my siblings and I tried! ;)
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Re-entering Life
I am finding it hard to re-enter regular life.
Odd. The one thing that I have missed so much is regular life. My friends, my church, my denomination -- but now that it looks like I'll have the opportunity to do so in a couple of months, I'm having a hard time looking forward to it.
Odd, odd, odd.
Some of it is already beckoning. I've been the webmaster for my church's site for a long time, and now, at long last, I have people qualified to help me. And they're willing to let me be top dog, while they do the grunt work. But I just have the urge to say, "Take it over, do with it what you want. I don't want to be involved."
Our church's district has a summer program that's a blast. Imagine summer camp for families. I have personally persuaded at least 4 families to become participants. In the middle of this, I didn't think it was possible that we could go this year. Now, it looks like the timing will be right. And my closest friends are going, with their families. I just looked at the information on it, read the workshop descriptions. They sound good. I have no interest in going.
It just seems like everything takes too much effort, too much energy.
Maybe I just need a good night's sleep.
Odd. The one thing that I have missed so much is regular life. My friends, my church, my denomination -- but now that it looks like I'll have the opportunity to do so in a couple of months, I'm having a hard time looking forward to it.
Odd, odd, odd.
Some of it is already beckoning. I've been the webmaster for my church's site for a long time, and now, at long last, I have people qualified to help me. And they're willing to let me be top dog, while they do the grunt work. But I just have the urge to say, "Take it over, do with it what you want. I don't want to be involved."
Our church's district has a summer program that's a blast. Imagine summer camp for families. I have personally persuaded at least 4 families to become participants. In the middle of this, I didn't think it was possible that we could go this year. Now, it looks like the timing will be right. And my closest friends are going, with their families. I just looked at the information on it, read the workshop descriptions. They sound good. I have no interest in going.
It just seems like everything takes too much effort, too much energy.
Maybe I just need a good night's sleep.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Children Under 3 Don't Get Cancer, Do They?
Excuse a bit of a rant.
I'm really getting tired of the phrase "ages 3 and up." Not only is it found in the materials for most childhood-cancer-support organizations, such as Make-a-Wish, Sunshine Kids and all family camps, but it is also found in the treatment centers themselves.
We live in a big city with one of the most famous cancer treatment centers in the world. They will treat childhood cancer ... as long as you're at least 3 years old.
Now, this doesn't bother me too much, because we are at a very good Children's Hospital, and there are some great reasons with going to a Children's Hospital, such as the fact that all of the medical staff are experienced with children -- anesthesiologists, nurses, techs, etc. The television doesn't carry Comedy Central, so I couldn't get my dose of Jon Stewart, but hey, that's pretty understandable, not to mention unimportant.
But just the fact that there is that limit -- a "you must be this tall to go on this ride" sign. Everywhere!
Many of these organizations that plan trips to baseball games and family picnics and whatnot understand that cancer affects the entire family, it affects siblings and parents as well as the patient. But if the patient is under 3, too bad. You need to take care of that yourself.
Here's what it means, having a baby with cancer:
* When you're in the hospital, or the clinic, you can't go down a few floors to grab a sandwich, like you can with a child old enough to a) understand and b) push the call button for the nurse.
* They can't tell you what hurts. So you just have to guess.
* You have to get them sedated for everything, because you can't tell them to lie still. But in order to be sedated, they have to go at least 4 hours with no feeding. Again, not something you can calmly explain to the patient.
* The normal things used to distract a kid while they're getting chemo -- video games, cartoons, promises of stickers afterwards -- don't work.
* In fact, there are no motivators that work -- telling a baby "Try not to gag on your medicine and you'll get a prize!" is useless.
* Sibling issues: they were just getting over the normal "There's a new baby in our house" issues, when WHOMP, now the baby has cancer. And all of the normal "sibling with cancer" issues, plus she can't tell them how she's feeling.
Oh, I could go on and on.
Now, I know that there are benefits to the patient being a baby -- no worries about school, they don't care (or know) if their hair falls out, you can feed them breastmilk to pump up their immunity without getting strange looks -- but dammit, we could use a little of that support, too.
Okay. Done bitchin' for tonight.
Taking a page from Anne:
Gratefuls
1) Little Warrior seems to be getting over her cold/slight fever/vomiting without a trip to the ER ... okay, everyone knock on wood, please.
2) Even without outside help, my kids seem to be doing okay and overall, are pretty wonderful
3) TV was good tonight.
I'm really getting tired of the phrase "ages 3 and up." Not only is it found in the materials for most childhood-cancer-support organizations, such as Make-a-Wish, Sunshine Kids and all family camps, but it is also found in the treatment centers themselves.
We live in a big city with one of the most famous cancer treatment centers in the world. They will treat childhood cancer ... as long as you're at least 3 years old.
Now, this doesn't bother me too much, because we are at a very good Children's Hospital, and there are some great reasons with going to a Children's Hospital, such as the fact that all of the medical staff are experienced with children -- anesthesiologists, nurses, techs, etc. The television doesn't carry Comedy Central, so I couldn't get my dose of Jon Stewart, but hey, that's pretty understandable, not to mention unimportant.
But just the fact that there is that limit -- a "you must be this tall to go on this ride" sign. Everywhere!
Many of these organizations that plan trips to baseball games and family picnics and whatnot understand that cancer affects the entire family, it affects siblings and parents as well as the patient. But if the patient is under 3, too bad. You need to take care of that yourself.
Here's what it means, having a baby with cancer:
* When you're in the hospital, or the clinic, you can't go down a few floors to grab a sandwich, like you can with a child old enough to a) understand and b) push the call button for the nurse.
* They can't tell you what hurts. So you just have to guess.
* You have to get them sedated for everything, because you can't tell them to lie still. But in order to be sedated, they have to go at least 4 hours with no feeding. Again, not something you can calmly explain to the patient.
* The normal things used to distract a kid while they're getting chemo -- video games, cartoons, promises of stickers afterwards -- don't work.
* In fact, there are no motivators that work -- telling a baby "Try not to gag on your medicine and you'll get a prize!" is useless.
* Sibling issues: they were just getting over the normal "There's a new baby in our house" issues, when WHOMP, now the baby has cancer. And all of the normal "sibling with cancer" issues, plus she can't tell them how she's feeling.
Oh, I could go on and on.
Now, I know that there are benefits to the patient being a baby -- no worries about school, they don't care (or know) if their hair falls out, you can feed them breastmilk to pump up their immunity without getting strange looks -- but dammit, we could use a little of that support, too.
Okay. Done bitchin' for tonight.
Taking a page from Anne:
Gratefuls
1) Little Warrior seems to be getting over her cold/slight fever/vomiting without a trip to the ER ... okay, everyone knock on wood, please.
2) Even without outside help, my kids seem to be doing okay and overall, are pretty wonderful
3) TV was good tonight.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Love Song to Bubbe and Pops
My parents are about to leave.
How do I tell them 'goodbye' ... more importantly, how do I tell them 'thank you'?
They live a couple of states away, but they have an RV and do a bit of traveling. After spending Oct-Dec down here with us, they had just returned to their desert home when they got a phone call from yours truly.
"Hi, Daddy. It looks bad. They're talking about it being cancer."
As soon as the ER had ascertained that yes, it was cancer, my parents jumped in their car and drove hell-for-leather to my house to temporarily become parents of our three children, ages 3 - 9, while we spent two weeks at the hospital, immersed in tests and diagnoses.
At ages 75 and 76, it was not their plan to learn the intricacies of getting the schoolkids off in the morning and convincing the 3 year old not to wear a swimsuit when it's 50 degrees out, but they performed admirably.
This was a new thing for all of us. My family is close, but we are all quite independent, parents included. They have their life, we have ours, my siblings have theirs. We get together a few times a year and enjoy it, but other than frequent phone calls, we are not a part of each other's daily existence.
That changed with Little Warrior's diagnosis. As soon as the doctors began their refrain, "It's a marathon, not a sprint," my parents returned to their home just long enough to grab some clothes, their coffeepot and their rv, and returned to my town. They set up camp about 15 minutes away and became, as we quoted from 'Pretty Woman,' our beck-and-call-girls. They dropped kids off at school on rainy days, entertained the 3 year old on chemo days and picked up more pizza in 3 months than they'd probably bought in the previous 3 years.
Every time Mom came over, she kept the laundry going, washing, drying, folding -- she even learned which were the 6 year old's clothes and which were the 3 year old's. (No mean feat since the 6 is small for her age and the 3 is large for hers.)
After doing odd jobs around my house, fixing door knobs and shower heads, my father began a labor of love that lasted several weeks. We moved to this house just a year ago, and inherited a garden that had been neglected at least two years, probably more. Worried about his grandkids running into copperheads, he began clearing away brush and trimming up bushes that could attract their nesting. "You ever read 'The Secret Garden'?" he asked, surprising me as I learned that he had read on of my favorite books back when he was a kid. "Well, I think you've got a secret garden here." And so I did. As he cleared away weeds, neatly trimming and bagging the refuse, he uncovered a treasure trove of plants -- azaleas burst into bloom when the light could reach them, elephant ears appeared, lantana, little white flowers, and other plant life I couldn't identify.
The grandkids got accostumed to 'Bubbe' and 'Pops' being around all the time, so much so that any good behavior they might normally accord them was tossed out the window. They disobeyed, they argued -- in short, they acted with their grandparents as they do with us. And I think they began talking with their grandparents more than they ever had. Pops knows all about the Star Wars movies now, and Bubbe knows (and hates) Polly Pockets. They know that when you can finally get The Princess to do her homework, it'll only take her about 10 minutes. They know that if Bo Peep starts acting naughty, it probably means she needs a cuddle. They know that if The Boy gets argumentative, it means he's tired. And they know that when Little Warrior puts her hands on her head, that's her sign for "grandparents." She only does it for them.
Did they learn anything about their daughter? I don't know. I feel like they knew me pretty well before all of this began. They knew that I can cry unceasingly and still keep doing what I need to do. They certainly knew housekeeping isn't a priority for me, a fact which has only been confirmed during the last three months. And they knew that I can be a mama lion when it comes to my babies. ROAR!
I learned more about them. I learned that they have far more patience than I ever would have credited them with. I always suspected the marshmallow-inside of my gruff father, but I saw it prominently on display every time he looked at Little Warrior, his face showing his desire to scoop her up and take her far away from needles, prodding and poking. I learned that my mother has the ability to steel herself without detaching -- when I had to express out loud my darkest fears, I could see my pain reflected in her eyes ... but her replies were always calm, warm and reasonable. I saw in both of my parents a pride in my husband. He was a boy to them when we got married, now, they saw him as the man of his family.
My father has always used a certain classification for a special kind of person. "Can you send him for the ammunition?" he asks. You're down in the trenches, and the enemy is coming over the hill. If you send your foxhole buddy back for more ammunition, will he return?
There are many people out there who are good people, but you know you couldn't send them for the ammunition. And there are people whom you may not be as close to, but you know that they'd return with it.
I always knew you could send either of my parents for the ammunition, but this was yet more confirmation. I never even had to ask them to come. It was a given. There were no conversations. They were simply here.
It is time for them to return home. Hopefully, the worst is behind us, and now it's just time to finish out the chemo and begin healing. All of us, healing from this. They have a house they need to tend to, friends who have missed them, adventures that still beckon.
Part of me, when I think of their upcoming departure, feels a bit panicky. "What will I do without them???"
If they knew this, they'd be torn, but I think this would be the final sign that it is time for them to go. As parents, they were both very clear on what they knew was their one job with all of us. It was to teach us to fly. Building self-esteem, nurturing us, being friends -- pah. If that happened, fine. But it was never the goal. The goal was teach the baby birds to fly on their own.
If you find a bird with a broken wing, you can fix it, make it a little nest in a shoebox, put a little food near it. But as soon as it begins to move the wing on its own, you need to put in back in the wild. Otherwise, you are making it a pet, and it will not be able to survive on its own.
My wing is on the mend. It will be hard for them to leave Little Warrior, but it is time.
For my parents, love is a verb. They love their children. And they are still parents. I am grown with 4 children, but they are still parenting me. And teaching me to fly.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
How do I tell them 'goodbye' ... more importantly, how do I tell them 'thank you'?
They live a couple of states away, but they have an RV and do a bit of traveling. After spending Oct-Dec down here with us, they had just returned to their desert home when they got a phone call from yours truly.
"Hi, Daddy. It looks bad. They're talking about it being cancer."
As soon as the ER had ascertained that yes, it was cancer, my parents jumped in their car and drove hell-for-leather to my house to temporarily become parents of our three children, ages 3 - 9, while we spent two weeks at the hospital, immersed in tests and diagnoses.
At ages 75 and 76, it was not their plan to learn the intricacies of getting the schoolkids off in the morning and convincing the 3 year old not to wear a swimsuit when it's 50 degrees out, but they performed admirably.
This was a new thing for all of us. My family is close, but we are all quite independent, parents included. They have their life, we have ours, my siblings have theirs. We get together a few times a year and enjoy it, but other than frequent phone calls, we are not a part of each other's daily existence.
That changed with Little Warrior's diagnosis. As soon as the doctors began their refrain, "It's a marathon, not a sprint," my parents returned to their home just long enough to grab some clothes, their coffeepot and their rv, and returned to my town. They set up camp about 15 minutes away and became, as we quoted from 'Pretty Woman,' our beck-and-call-girls. They dropped kids off at school on rainy days, entertained the 3 year old on chemo days and picked up more pizza in 3 months than they'd probably bought in the previous 3 years.
Every time Mom came over, she kept the laundry going, washing, drying, folding -- she even learned which were the 6 year old's clothes and which were the 3 year old's. (No mean feat since the 6 is small for her age and the 3 is large for hers.)
After doing odd jobs around my house, fixing door knobs and shower heads, my father began a labor of love that lasted several weeks. We moved to this house just a year ago, and inherited a garden that had been neglected at least two years, probably more. Worried about his grandkids running into copperheads, he began clearing away brush and trimming up bushes that could attract their nesting. "You ever read 'The Secret Garden'?" he asked, surprising me as I learned that he had read on of my favorite books back when he was a kid. "Well, I think you've got a secret garden here." And so I did. As he cleared away weeds, neatly trimming and bagging the refuse, he uncovered a treasure trove of plants -- azaleas burst into bloom when the light could reach them, elephant ears appeared, lantana, little white flowers, and other plant life I couldn't identify.
The grandkids got accostumed to 'Bubbe' and 'Pops' being around all the time, so much so that any good behavior they might normally accord them was tossed out the window. They disobeyed, they argued -- in short, they acted with their grandparents as they do with us. And I think they began talking with their grandparents more than they ever had. Pops knows all about the Star Wars movies now, and Bubbe knows (and hates) Polly Pockets. They know that when you can finally get The Princess to do her homework, it'll only take her about 10 minutes. They know that if Bo Peep starts acting naughty, it probably means she needs a cuddle. They know that if The Boy gets argumentative, it means he's tired. And they know that when Little Warrior puts her hands on her head, that's her sign for "grandparents." She only does it for them.
Did they learn anything about their daughter? I don't know. I feel like they knew me pretty well before all of this began. They knew that I can cry unceasingly and still keep doing what I need to do. They certainly knew housekeeping isn't a priority for me, a fact which has only been confirmed during the last three months. And they knew that I can be a mama lion when it comes to my babies. ROAR!
I learned more about them. I learned that they have far more patience than I ever would have credited them with. I always suspected the marshmallow-inside of my gruff father, but I saw it prominently on display every time he looked at Little Warrior, his face showing his desire to scoop her up and take her far away from needles, prodding and poking. I learned that my mother has the ability to steel herself without detaching -- when I had to express out loud my darkest fears, I could see my pain reflected in her eyes ... but her replies were always calm, warm and reasonable. I saw in both of my parents a pride in my husband. He was a boy to them when we got married, now, they saw him as the man of his family.
My father has always used a certain classification for a special kind of person. "Can you send him for the ammunition?" he asks. You're down in the trenches, and the enemy is coming over the hill. If you send your foxhole buddy back for more ammunition, will he return?
There are many people out there who are good people, but you know you couldn't send them for the ammunition. And there are people whom you may not be as close to, but you know that they'd return with it.
I always knew you could send either of my parents for the ammunition, but this was yet more confirmation. I never even had to ask them to come. It was a given. There were no conversations. They were simply here.
It is time for them to return home. Hopefully, the worst is behind us, and now it's just time to finish out the chemo and begin healing. All of us, healing from this. They have a house they need to tend to, friends who have missed them, adventures that still beckon.
Part of me, when I think of their upcoming departure, feels a bit panicky. "What will I do without them???"
If they knew this, they'd be torn, but I think this would be the final sign that it is time for them to go. As parents, they were both very clear on what they knew was their one job with all of us. It was to teach us to fly. Building self-esteem, nurturing us, being friends -- pah. If that happened, fine. But it was never the goal. The goal was teach the baby birds to fly on their own.
If you find a bird with a broken wing, you can fix it, make it a little nest in a shoebox, put a little food near it. But as soon as it begins to move the wing on its own, you need to put in back in the wild. Otherwise, you are making it a pet, and it will not be able to survive on its own.
My wing is on the mend. It will be hard for them to leave Little Warrior, but it is time.
For my parents, love is a verb. They love their children. And they are still parents. I am grown with 4 children, but they are still parenting me. And teaching me to fly.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
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